“Keep ‘Baldy’ away,” he muttered.  “I’m all right; but don’t let him get to me.”

Reardon looked at his white face for a second in doubt.  Simson was almost up to them.  He wanted to win, did Reardon, and—­

“All right here,” he cried.

Neil went to his place, Simson retreated, suspicion written all over his face, and the whistle sounded.

Neil met the next attack with his left shoulder fore-most.  And it was Erskine’s ball on Robinson’s fifty-yards.

On the first try around the Brown’s left end Smith took the leather twenty yards, catching Bloch napping.  The north stand was on its feet in an instant.  Cheer after cheer broke forth encouraging the Purple warriors to fight their way across those six remaining white lines and wrest victory from defeat.  But there was no time to struggle over the thirty yards that intervened.  A long run might bring a touch-down if Erskine could again get a back around an end, but two minutes was too short a time for line-bucking; and, besides, Reardon had his orders.

On the side-line the timekeeper was keeping a careful eye upon his stop-watch.

A try by Neil outside of right tackle netted but a yard and left him half fainting on the ground.  Pearse set off for the left end of the line on the next play, but never reached it; the Robinson right tackle got through on to him and stopped him well back of his line.

“Third down,” called the referee, “five to gain!”

The teams were lined up about half-way between the Robinson goal and the south side of the field, the ball just inside the thirty-yard line.  Reardon had been directed to try for a field-goal as soon as he got inside the twenty-five yards.  This was only the thirty yards, and the angle was severe.  There was perhaps one chance in three of making a goal from placement; a drop-kick was out of the question.  Moreover, to make matters more desperate, Neil was injured; just how badly Reardon didn’t know, but the other’s white, drawn face told its own story.  If the attempt failed he would be held to blame by the coaches, if it succeeded he would be praised for good generalship; it was a way coaches had.  His consideration of the problem lasted but a fraction of a minute.  He glanced at Neil and their eyes met.  The quarter-back’s mind was made up on the instant.

“Signal!” he cried. “Steady, fellows; we want this; every one hold hard!”

He trotted back to the thirty-five-yard line and dropped to his knees, directly behind and almost facing center.  Neil took up his position three yards from him and facing the goal.  Pearse and Smith stood guard between him and the line.  The Robinson right half turned and sped back to join the quarter, whose commands to “Get through and stop this kick!” were being shouted lustily from his position near the goal-line.

“Signal!” Reardon repeated.  Graham stooped over the ball.  Neil, pale but with a little smile about his mouth, measured his distance.  Victory depended upon him.  From where Reardon knelt to the goal was nearly forty yards on a straight line and the angle was severe.  If he made it, well and good; if he missed—­He recalled what Mills had told him ere he sent him in: