Nor did Darrin try to dodge this bulky player.  Instead, Dave, as he hurled himself at the opponent, sprang high into the air, as though he had some desperate plan of leaping over the barrier.

Braced on his legs, his two feet solidly planted, this Hanniston man felt ready for any shock that Dave Darrin could bring against him.

But Darrin did not touch him.  On the contrary, the Navy’s hope fell to the ground, just short of the blocking opponent.

Like a flash Dave went between that pair of solidly braced, wide-spread legs.  In a wriggle that looked flash-like to the breathless beholders, Darrin was through.  He had taken desperate chances, when he went down, of being beset, end forced to hold the pigskin where he had fallen.

But now Dave was up and running, and the player who had sought to block him was far in the rear.

The whole Navy force hurled itself around this point, battering down the startled opposition.  With fast-coming breath Dave’s comrades pushed him along breaking down all opposition—­until Dave, with a sudden, wild dash, was over the line for a touchdown.

“Darry did it!  Darry did it!”

For fifteen seconds the uproar was deafening.  The college players looked stunned, while their howlers, over on the visitors’ seats, seemed to shrink within their coats.

“Seven to six!”

“Make it eight!”

Dave Darrin had borne the brunt of battle.  Now his eyes were flashing with excitement.

“I’d like you to try the kick for goal, Darry, but I don’t know,” called Hepson in his ear.  “You may be about used up.”

“Let me have the kick.  I’m not afraid,” Dave half boasted, for now he could think of nothing but victory.

“All right.  Take it,” agreed Hepson.

Dave Darrin did take the kick.  Never had he made a better one.  The ball went straight and true between the goal-posts.

The band-leader held his baton poised, but the Navy spectators broke into such a riot of joy that he let the baton fall inertly.

“What’s the use?” he asked the musicians.

Again the players lined up, with the Navy; score eight to six.

Ten seconds later, the whistle blew, announcing the end of the game.

CHAPTER XII

JOYCE IS BITTEN BY THE TROUBLE BUG

The game was over.  The giant visitors had departed, and the Naval Academy atmosphere appeared to be rarefied.

Most of the members of the brigade were back in Bancroft Hall, and this being late Saturday afternoon, study was over save for those who felt the need of devoting extra time to their books.

Farley, Page and Joyce had dropped into the room occupied by Dave and Dan.

“Hepson was nearly crazy this afternoon,” remarked Joyce, laughing.

“Then he had an easy way of concealing the fact,” Dave replied.  “I call him a cool football captain, with plenty of judgment and patience.”