Dave made the kick.  After going down in that bunch Darrin was not at his best.  Body and nerves were tired.  He failed to kick the goal.

Hardly, however, had the two teams been started in a new line-up when the time keeper did his trick.  The game was over.

That last kick had failed, but who cared?  The score was eleven to two!

Ere the players could escape from the field the Gridley boosters were over on the gridiron.

Dick and Dave were bodily carried to dressing quarters.  Wadleigh, who had shown fine generalship in this stiff game was cheered until the boosters went hoarse.

“Gentlemen,” cried Coach Morton, raising his voice to its fullest carrying power as the dressing quarters filled, “it’s probably too early to brag, but I feel that we’ve got an old-fashioned Gridley eleven this year.”

“Ask Grant!”

“Ask anybody in Tottenville!”

The first yell was sent up by Ripley, the second by another substitute.

All the Gridley members of the team were excited at the close of this game.  Not even their weariness kept down their spirits.

Herr Schimmelpodt didn’t attempt to enter quarters.  He was now too much of a “sport” to attempt that.  But he stood just outside the door, vigorously mopping his shining, wet face.

There were two extra places in the German’s hired car.  Dave, of course, was asked to fill one of these, and Captain Wadleigh was invited to take the fifth seat.

More dejected than ever were Bert Dodge and his chum, Bayliss, as they slouched away from the grounds.  They did not attempt to invade the gridiron and join in the triumphal procession to quarters.

“You can’t seem to down that fellow Prescott,” muttered Bayliss, in disgust.  “Just as you think you’ve got him by the throat you find out that he’s sitting on your chest and pulling your hair.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” growled Dodge sulkily.  “He may have his weak spot, and it may be a very weak spot at that.”

The pair moped along until they reached the garage in which they had left the runabout.

Bayliss was standing near the doorway, while Bert inspected the machinery of the car.

“Pest!  Look out there,” muttered Bayliss, stepping back from the open doorway.

“What is it?” demanded Bert.  “Oh, I see!  Old Schimmelpodt brought the beggar Prescott over here in an auto.  That’s how the fellow managed to get into the game, after all.  Well, what of it all, anyway?”

“That car is running along slowly, and it has a full-sized crowd in it,” muttered Bayliss, going closer to his crony.  “Wadleigh, Prescott and Darrin—–­and maybe the chauffeur is a thick friend of theirs.”

“What on earth are you driving at?” demanded Dodge, glancing up.

“Bert, I don’t believe I’m wholly stuck on the scheme of us driving back to Gridley.  There are too many lonely spots along the road.