“Yes, yes, quite,” he replied.  “The boy’s on his last legs.”  Gardiner turned to the line of substitutes behind them.

“Decker!”

The call was taken up by those nearest at hand, and the next instant a short, stockily-built youth was peeling off his crimson sweater.  The referee’s whistle blew, and while the mound of squirming players found their feet again, Gardiner walked toward them, his hand on Decker’s shoulder.

“Play slow and steady your team, Decker,” he counseled.  “Use Young and Fletcher for runs; try them outside of tackle, especially on the right.  Give Gale a chance to hit the line now and then and diversify your plays well.  And, my boy, if you get that ball again, and of course you will, don’t let it go!  Give up your twenty yards if necessary, only hang on to the leather!”

Then he thumped him encouragingly on the back and sped him forward.  Crozier, the deposed quarter-back, was being led off by Professor Beck.  The boy was pale of face and trembling with weariness, and one foot dragged itself after the other limply.  But he was protesting with tears in his eyes against being laid off, and even the hearty cheers for him that thundered from the stand did not comfort him.  Then the game went on, the tide of battle flowing slowly, steadily, toward the Crimson’s goal.

“If only they don’t score again!” said Gardiner.

“That’s the best we can hope for,” said Professor Beck.

“Yes; it’s turned out worse than I expected.”

“Well, you can comfort yourself with the knowledge that they’ve played as plucky a game against odds as I ever expect to see,” answered the other.  “And we won’t say die yet; there’s still”—­he looked at his watch—­there’s still eight minutes.”

“That’s good; I hope Decker will remember what I told him about runs outside right tackle,” muttered Gardiner anxiously.  Then he relighted his pipe and, with stolid face, watched events.

St. Eustace was still hammering Hillton’s line at the wings.  Time and again the Blue’s big full-back plunged through between guard and tackle, now on this side, now on that, and Hillton’s line ever gave back and back, slowly, stubbornly, but surely.

“First down,” cried the referee.  “Five yards to gain.”

The pigskin now lay just midway between Hillton’s ten-and fifteen-yard lines.  Decker, the substitute quarter-back, danced about under the goal-posts.

“Now get through and break it up, fellows!” he shouted.  “Get through!  Get through!”

But the crimson-clad line men were powerless to withstand the terrific plunges of the foe, and back once more they went, and yet again, and the ball was on the six-yard line, placed there by two plunges at right tackle.

“First down!” cried the referee again.

Then Hillton’s cup of sorrow seemed overflowing.  For on the next play the umpire’s whistle shrilled, and half the distance to the goal-line was paced off.  Hillton was penalized for holding, and the ball was on her three yards!