“Your head’s cut, March,” said Wills, as they took up the new position.  Joel nodded.  “Cloud,” he answered briefly.

“Punch him,” answered Wills.  “He’s mad because he made such a bull of his play in the other half.  If he tries tricks with me—­”

“If he does, let him alone, if you want to stay on the team,” said Joel.  “That sort of thing doesn’t help.  Watch your chance and spoil a play of his.  That’s the best way to get even.”

The next ten minutes were spent in desperate attack on the part of the first and an equally desperate defense by the second eleven.  Twenty yards of gain for the former was the result, and the half was nearly up.  On a first down Blair ran back and Joel, whispering “Kick!” to himself, turned and raced farther back from the line.  Then the ball was snapped, there was a crossing of backs, and suddenly, far out around the right end came Cloud with the pigskin tightly clutched, guarded by Post and the left end.  It was an unexpected play, and the second’s halfs saw it too late.  Meach and Wills were shouldered out of the way, and Cloud ran free from his interference and bore down on Joel, looking very big and ugly.

It was Cloud’s opportunity to redeem himself, and with only a green full-back between him and the goal line his chances looked bright indeed.  But he was reckoning without his host.  Joel started gingerly up to meet him.  The field was streaming down on Cloud’s heels, but too far away to be in the running.  Ten yards distant from Joel, Cloud’s right arm stretched out to ward off a tackle, and his face grew ugly.

“Keep off!” he hissed as Joel prepared for a tackle.  But Joel had no mind for keeping off; that cut in his head was aching like everything, and his own advice to Wills occurred to him and made him grin.  Cloud swerved sharply, but he was too heavy to be a good dodger, and with a leap Joel was on him, tackling hard and true about the runner’s hips.  Cloud struggled, made a yard, another, then came to earth with Joel’s head snugly pillowed on his shoulder.  A shout arose from the crowd.  The field came up and Joel scrambled to his feet.  Cloud, his face red with chagrin and anger, leaped to his feet, and stepping toward Joel aimed a vicious blow at his face.  The latter ducked and involuntarily raised his fist; then, ere Greer and some of the others stepped between, turned and walked away.

“That will do, Cloud,” said Remsen in sharp, incisive tones.  “You may leave.”

And with a muttered word of anger Cloud strode from the field, passing through the silent and unsympathetic throng with pale face and black looks.

“First’s ball down here,” cried Greer, and play went on; but Joel had lost his taste for it, and when, a few minutes later, neither side having scored again, time was called, he trotted back to the gymnasium in a depressed mood.

“You did great work,” exclaimed Outfield West, as he joined Joel on the river path.  “That settles Cloud’s chances.  Remsen was laying for him anyhow, you know, and then that ‘slugging!’ Remsen hates dirty playing worse than anything, they say.”