For five minutes chaos reigned upon the east stand.  All previous efforts paled into nothingness beside the outbursts of cheers that followed each other like claps of thunder up and down the long bank of fluttering color.  Upon the other side of the field no rival shouts were heard.  It was useless to try and drown that Niagara of sound.  But here and there crimson flags waved defiantly at the triumphant blue.

The goal was an easy one, though it is probable that it would have been made had it been five times more difficult; for Elton was the acknowledged goal kicker par excellence of the year.  Then back trotted the teams, and as the Harwell Eleven lined up for the kick-off Allardyce at left guard gave place to Murdoch.  The big fellow had given out and had limped white-faced and choking from the field.

The whistle sounded and the ball rose into air, corkscrewing toward the Yates goal.  Down the field under it went the Harwell runners like bolts from a bow, and the Yates half who secured the pigskin was downed where he caught.  The two teams lined up quickly.  Then back, foot by foot, yard by yard, went the struggling Harwell men.  Yet the retreat was less like a rout than before, and Yates was having harder work.  Her players were twice piled up against the Harwell center, and she was at last forced to send a blue-clad youth around the left end, an experiment which netted her twelve yards and which brought the east stand to its feet, yelling like mad.

But here the crimson line at length braced and the ball went to its center on three downs, and the tide turned for a while.  The backs and the right end were hurled, one after another, at the opposing line, and shouts of joy arose from the crimson seats as gain after gain resulted.  Thrice in quick succession Captain Dutton shot through the left end of the blue’s line, the second time for a gain of five yards.

The cheering along the west side of the great field was now continuous, and the leaders, their crimson badges fluttering agitatedly, were waving their arms like tireless semaphores and exciting the supporters of Harwell to greater and greater efforts.  Nearer and nearer to the coveted touch-down crept the crimson line.  With clock-work precision the ball was snapped, the quarter passed, the half leaped forward, the rush line plunged and strove, and then from somewhere a faint “Down!” was cried; and the panting players staggered to their feet, leaving the ball yet nearer to the threatened goal line.  On the blue’s twenty-three yards the whistle shrilled, and a murmur of dismay crept over the Yates seats as it was seen that Captain Ferguson lay motionless on the ground.  But a moment’s rubbing brought him to his feet again.

“He’s not much hurt,” explained the knowing ones.  “He wants to rest a bit.”