The play went on.  With the ball on Hillton’s twenty-yard line a fumble gave it to the home team, and on the first down Browne gathered it in his arms and tried to skirt St. Eustace’s left end, but was thrown with a loss of a yard.  A similar play with Wills as the runner was tried around the other end and netted a yard and a half.  It was the third down and four and a half yards to gain.  Back went the ball to Post and he kicked.  But it was a poor performance, that kick, and only drove the pigskin down the side-line to the forty-yard line, where it bounded in touch.  But it delayed the evil moment of another score for St. Eustace, and the seats cheered.

“Twelve minutes left,” announced Remsen.

Relentless as fate the St. Eustace forwards surged on toward the opposing goal.  Two yards, three yards, one yard, five yards, half a yard, always a gain, never a check, until once more the leather reposed just in front of the Hillton goal and midway between the ten and fifteen-yard line.  Then a plunge through the tackle-guard hole, followed by a tandem on guard, and another five yards was passed.  The cheering from the wearers of the blue was now frantic and continuous.  There was two years of defeat to make up for, and victory was hovering over the azure banner!

“Eight minutes to play,” said Remsen.  “If we can only keep them from scoring again!” Suddenly there was a murmur from the seats, then a cry of surprise from Remsen’s side, then a shout of exultation that gathered and grew as it traveled along the line.  And around the corner of the stand came a youth who strove to lace his torn and tattered canvas jacket as he ran.  Remsen leaped to his feet, dropping his pipe unnoticed, and hastened toward him.  They met and for a moment conversed in whispers.

“It’s Joel March!” cried Blair.  “He’s going to play!” exclaimed a dozen voices.  “But he can’t,” cried a dozen others.  “He’s on probation.”  “He is!  He is!  He’s going on!  He’s going to play!”

And so he was.  Whipple had already seen him, and had sunk to the ground nursing an ankle which had suddenly gone lame.  “Time!” he cried, and obedient to his demand the referee’s whistle piped.  “Give your place to Post, Wills!” he commanded, and then, limping to Joel, he led that youth apart.

“Can you play?” he asked hoarsely.

“Yes.”

“Then get in there at full-back, and, O March, kick us out of this bloody place!  I’ll give you the ball on the next down.  Kick it for all you’re worth.”  He gave Joel a shove.  “All right, Mr. Referee!” The whistle sounded.

Forward charged St. Eustace.  But, gathering encouragement from the knowledge that back of them stood a full who would put them out of danger if the opportunity were given him, Hillton stood fast.

“Second down, five yards to gain!” cried the umpire.