Harlowe reached out to tackle.

Fenton came to a quivering stop, just out of reach.  Then, almost instantly, the little left end dashed straight forward again.

But the move had been enough to fool Harlowe.  Of course, he assumed that Fenton would spring to one side.  Harlowe imagined that it would be a dodge to the left, and Harlowe leaped there to tackle his man.

But Fenton, actually going straight ahead, fooled the calculation of his powerful adversary and got past on the clever trick.

Harlowe dashed after his sly opponent.  But Fenton, still almost with his first big breath in his lungs, was running as fast as ever.  A man of Harlowe’s size was no one to send after a greased mosquito like Fenton.

So nothing hindered.  Amid the wildest, noisiest rooting, Fenton stepped it over Hallam’s now undefended goal line, reached down and pressed the pigskin against the earth for a touchdown.

On the grand stand the noise was deafening.  The whistle sounded and the flushed players of both teams came back to range up for the kick from field.  Dave, his cheeks glowing, took the kick.  He sent a clean one that scored one more point for Gridley.

The cheering and the playing of the band still continued when the two elevens again lined up for play during the last five minutes of the game.  The referee was obliged to signal to the leader to stop his musicians.

Forsythe looked hot and weary.  His expectation of an easy victory had come to naught.  Unless he and ten other Hallam boys could work wonders in five minutes.

But they couldn’t and didn’t.  The time keeper brought the game to a close.

“Gridley has handed us six to nothing,” muttered Forsythe, as he led his disheartened fellows from the field.  “That puts us with the other second-rate teams in the state.”

“A great lot of orders you needed, didn’t you?” was Captain Dick Prescott’s happy greeting as Dave met him beyond the side lines.

“You won that game for us, just the same,” retorted Dave.

“I?” demanded Dick, in genuine amazement.

“Yes; you, and no one else.”

“How?”

“You refused to give me a hint.  You threw me down hard, on my own resources.  I saw all those hundreds of people demanding that Gridley win,” retorted Dave.  “What could I do?  I had to make the fellows do something like what they’ve been doing under Dick Prescott, or confess myself a dub.  I couldn’t lean on a word from you, Dick.  So you fairly drove me into planning something that would either carry off the game or make us look like chromos of football players.  You wouldn’t say a word, Prescott, that would take any of the blame on yourself!  So didn’t you force me to win!”

“That’s ingenious, but not convincing,” retorted Dick, as the two chums stepped into dressing quarters.  “To tell you the truth, Dave, I think a good many people now believe that you ought to be the regular captain.”