No line can long stand such treatment, and, while the one-hundred-and-fifty-pound Greer still held out, Barnard, the big right-guard, was already showing signs of distress.  St. Eustace’s next play was a small wedge on tackle, and although Barnard threw himself with all his remaining strength into the breach he was tossed aside like a bag of feathers and through went the right and left half-backs, followed by full with the ball, and pushed onward by left-end and quarter.  When down was called the ball was eight yards nearer Hillton’s goal, and Barnard lay still on the ground.

Whipple held up his hand.  Thistelweight—­a youth of some one hundred and forty pounds—­struggled agitatedly with his sweater and bounded into the field, and Barnard, white and weak, was helped limping off.  For awhile St. Eustace fought shy of right-guard, and then again the weight of all the backs was suddenly massed at that point, and, though a yard resulted, the crimson wearers found cause for joy, and a ringing cheer swept over the field.  But Littlefield at left-guard was also weakening, and the tackle beside him was in scarce better plight.  And so, with tandem on tackle, wedge, or guard back, St. Eustace plowed along toward the Hillton goal, and a deep silence held the field save for the squad of blue-decked cheerers on the seats.

Remsen looked at his watch.  “Eighteen minutes to play,” he announced quietly.  Blair nodded.  He made no attempt to disguise his dejection.  Clausen heard, and suddenly turned toward the coach.  He was pale, and Remsen wondered at his excitement.

“Can’t we tie them, sir?” he asked breathlessly.

“I’m afraid not.  And even if we could they’d break loose.”  Clausen paid no heed to the sorry joke.

“But they’ll win, sir!  Isn’t there anything to do?” Remsen stared.  Then he smiled.  “Failing an extraordinary piece of luck, my lad, we’re already beaten.  Our line can’t hold them; we have no one to kick, even should we get a chance, and—­”

“But if Blair was there, sir, or March?”

“It might make a difference.  Hello! there they go through tackle-guard hole again.  Lord, six yards if an inch!” Blair groaned and rolled over in despair.  The whistle sounded, and as the pile of writhing youths dissolved it was seen that Tom Warren was hurt.  Out trotted the rubber.  The players sank exhausted to the ground and lay stretched upon the sward, puffing and panting.  Two minutes went by.  Then Whipple called for Clausen.

“Clausen,” cried Remsen turning, “go in and—­” But Clausen was not to be seen.  “Clausen!” cried a dozen voices.  There was no response, and Browne was taken on instead, and Warren, with an ankle that failed him at every step, struggled off the field.

“What’s become of Clausen?” asked Remsen.  But no one could answer.