“Next time,” said Stone sympathetically.  But Neil shook his head.

“I guess there isn’t going to be any ‘next time,’” he said dolefully.  “Time’s nearly up.”

“Not a bit of it; the last ten minutes is longer than all the rest of the game,” answered Stone.  “I wonder who’ll try the goal.”

“We’ve got to have it,” said Neil.  “Surely Devoe can kick an easy one like that!  Why, it’s dead in the center!” Stone shook his head.

“I know, but Bob’s got a bad way of getting nervous times like this.  He knows that if he misses we’ve lost the game, unless we can manage to score again, which isn’t likely; and it’s dollars to doughnuts he doesn’t come anywhere near it!”

Paul staggered up to the bench, Simson carefully wrapping a blanket about him, and the fellows made room for him a little way from where Neil sat.  He stretched his long legs out gingerly because of the aches, sighed contentedly, and looked about him.  His eyes fell on Neil.

“Hello, chum!” he said weakly.  “Haven’t you gone in yet?”

“Not yet,” answered Neil cheerfully.  “How are you feeling?”

“Oh, I’m—­ouch!—­I’m all right; a bit sore here and there.”

“Devoe’s going to kick,” said Stone uneasily.

The ball had been brought out, and now Foster was holding it directly in front of the center of the cross-bar.  The south stand was cheering and singing wildly in a desperate attempt to rattle the Erskine captain.  The latter looked around once, and the Robinson supporters, taking that as a sign of nervousness, redoubled their noise.

“Muckers!” groaned Neil.  Stone grinned.

“Everything goes with them,” he said.

The referee’s hand went down, Devoe stepped forward, the blue-clad line leaped into the field, and the ball sped upward.  As it fell Neil turned to Stone and the two stared at each other in doubt.  From both stands arose a confused roar.  Then their eyes sought the score-board at the west end of the field and they groaned in unison.

“NO GOAL.”

“What beastly luck!” muttered Stone.

Neil was silent.  Mills and Jones were standing near by and looking toward the bench and Neil imagined they were discussing him.  He watched breathlessly, then his heart gave a suffocating leap and he was racing toward the two coaches.

“Warm up, Fletcher.”

That was all, but it was all Neil asked for.  In a twinkling he was trotting along the line, stretching his cramped legs and arms.  As he passed the bench he tried to look unconcerned, but the row of kindly, grinning faces told him that his delight was common property.  Paul silently applauded.

Meanwhile the teams had again faced each other.  Twelve minutes of play remained and the score-board said:  Erskine 5, Opponents 6.  Both elevens had made changes.  For Erskine, Graham, immense of bulk but slow, had replaced Stowell at center, and Reardon was in Foster’s position.  Robinson had put in new men at left tackle, right end, and full-back.  The game went on again.