McLeod's foot. It settled in the arms of the First eleven's fullback, twenty-five yards down the field, and that individual came ripping back, tossing the Second's players over like nine-pins, until he had brought the ball back to midfield.

"Peaches, peaches," cried the spectators.

"Line-up, quick," yelled the coach who was acting as coach and referee as well. "You would have gone clear through," he said to the fullback, slapping him on the back as he dodged through behind to take his position at the other end of the line, "if you had used your arm as I told you. Remember it next time."

"Come, now, make it go," barked Dixon, "1—7—33."

There was a quick pass, and Hillard, the left half, had the ball, and with a good interference shot for the right end of the Second's line. The defensive tackle was nicely put out of the play, and the right half cut across and took care of the waiting end. Hillard was quickly past the line and bearing off well to out-distance the defensive half.

"Look at the fool," yelled Wee Willie, "he has left his interference behind him. Morton will nip him. What did I tell you! O, rot, look at that!" Hillard had indeed left his interference, disobeying orders, but he thought he was fast and agile enough to clear the quarterback of the Second team, who was waiting his coming on the 20-yard line, inching over toward the side lines so that the runner would have less ground in which to dodge.

In spite of his plan and his speed, Hillard could not avoid those eager arms of the quarter, and down he went in a whirling tackle. The ball flew from his grasp as he struck the ground, then it bounced crazily around, and finally nestled itself in the arms of Tompkins, the Second's left half who had come across to strengthen his quarter's defense.

Tompkins, seeing his opportunity, was away to the side of the field from which the play had come like the wind, every man Jack of the First eleven having been carried in the direction of Hillard. Before they could bring themselves to a halt, and turn on their tracks, Tompkins had gathered speed. Once a tackle got a hand on him, but he shook it off, and with a clear field carried the ball across the goal line, touched it down behind the posts, and sat there upon it, grinning like a Cheshire cat.

CHAPTER III.JIMMY GETS IN THE GAME.

"Now, they'll get it for fair," observed the Wee One as the coach went striding down the field, following the scattered members of the First eleven who jogged sulkily down to the goal; and get it they did.

"I'm ashamed of you, Hillard," burst out Horton. "You've been playing two years on this team, and you can't hang onto a ball yet. If any one crosses his fingers in front of you, you lose the ball. Go and sit down." Hillard turned and walked slowly toward the side of the field, with head hanging. He was a good back, but had the fatal habit of fumbling. He was so clever at dodging and so fast on his feet, however, that the coach, knowing well his failing, was still tempted to put him in the line-up,—and, besides, he belonged to the powerful Gamma Tau.

"Tucker, you take Hillard's place, and see if we can't do something. Here we are, only three weeks from our last game, and you are playing like a perfectly lovely eleven from the Mount Hope Female Seminary. Think a little about the game, and squeeze that ball, PLEASE."

The coach took the ball from Tompkins, and started up the field, the whole crowd of players straggling along behind him, the First eleven sour in face and heavy in step, the Second grinning broadly.

"There, now," said Horton, putting the ball down at midfield again with a good deal more force than was necessary. "Let's have some football. First eleven's ball. Make it go. You've got to carry it from here, don't kick it, carry it. Make it go," and he jumped out of the way as the two lines crashed together.

"That's something like it. Second down, two yards to go. Some more like that."

"Big Dutton carried it that time," said Patterson to Frank. "That big fellow with the light hair. He's the best plunger on the field, but he's something of a bonehead, and he can't remember the signals. Poor Horton has his own worries with him. There he goes again."

"First down," yelled Horton from the field. "That's going. Squeeze that ball, Dutton. Steady in the line there and keep on side. Wait till the ball is snapped, Burnham. Wait till the ball is snapped—there, what did I tell you?" as Burnham, the right tackle, anticipating the signal, plunged ahead. Little Hopkinson, quarter of the Second, had his hand up and was yelling for the penalty, which he got.

"Now, First team, you've got to make that loss up this time." Harding, the captain, stepped out of his place at guard, in the line, and conferred with Dixon a minute.

"It's going to be a long pass, I'll bet dollars to shoelaces," said the Wee One, as the lines settled down on their toes.

"22—16—34—146," shouted Dixon. There was a quick pass from center, and the quarter, turning half-way round, tucked the ball cleverly in the right half's pocketed arms as he went shooting past him. The half ran straight out, seemingly bent on turning in at the first possible moment. But this little ruse was only to draw the fire of the opponents who came charging at him. Then he stopped dead in his tracks, stepped backwards and threw the ball unerringly to the right end who had edged away out toward the side line at the proper time, entirely unnoticed by the Second backs who had been drawn over. The catch was clearly made, by Campbell, and he was away like a breeze, with no one near him. Hopkinson came up on him hard, a little too hard for safety, and he was easily sidestepped by the fleet-footed end who, though hard pressed, eluded all tackles and carried the ball over. It was a pretty piece of work, and the coach, for once, seemed to be satisfied.

"Now, that's what I call pretty football," exclaimed Frank. "I thought you said this team was no good."

"Well, it isn't," replied Patterson. "Once in a while they can pull a play like that off, but most of the time they make a grand fizzle out of it. They don't seem to have the spirit, somehow. I'll bet they'll flub-dub it yet."

"Good work, good work," said the coach as he took the ball again. "No time for goal-kicking now. First, see what you can do in carrying it through the line. What's the matter, Harper?"

This last remark was directed at the right half on the Second team, who was limping around, having got in the way of one of the First's linemen, and received a bad tumble in open field while chasing Campbell.

"My old ankle," replied Harper, walking around and wincing every time he touched his foot to the ground. "The one I hurt last week."

"Go and sit down. I'll attend to it after practice; loosen your shoe if it hurts. I want someone to take Harper's place," continued Horton, glancing up and down the row of boys sitting on the sideline. "Hey, you Freshman, what's-your-name," indicating Turner, "get in and play this half."

"Who is that going in?" inquired the Wee One, as Jimmy jumped up and ran onto the field. "Looks like a likely kid."

"He's a friend of mine, Jimmy Turner; he's a Freshman."

"He looks as strong as a bull. Does he know the game?"

"No, not very well, but he's crazy about it, and I'll bet he makes good."

Jimmy took his position, and the next instant he was on the bottom of a pile of bodies and arms and legs. Big Dutton had