The spectators were settling back in their seats, and the cheering had begun once more.  The north stand had regained its spirit.  After all, the game wasn’t lost until the last whistle blew, and there was no telling what might happen before that.  So the student section cheered and sang, the band heroically strove to make itself heard, and the purple flags tossed and fluttered.  The sun was almost behind the west corner of the stand, and overcoat collars and fur neck-pieces were being snuggled into place.  From the west tiers of seats came the steady tramp-tramp of chilled feet, hinting their owners’ impatience.

The players took their places, silence fell, and the referee’s whistle blew.  Robinson kicked off, and the last half of the battle began.

CHAPTER XXIII

NEIL GOES IN

But what a dismal beginning it was!

Pearse, who had taken Gillam’s place at right half-back, misjudged the long, low kick, just managed to tip the ball with one outstretched hand as it went over his head, and so had to turn and chase it back to the goal-line.  But Mason had seen the danger and was before him.  Seizing the bouncing pigskin, he was able to reach the ten-yard line ere the Robinson right end bore him to earth.  A moment later the ball went to the other side as a penalty for holding, and it was Robinson’s first down on Erskine’s twelve yards.  Neil, watching intently from the bench, groaned loudly.  Stone, beside him, kicked angrily into the turf.

“That settles it,” he muttered glumly.  “Idiots!”

Pearse it was who met that first fierce onslaught of the Brown’s tandem, and he was new to the play; but Mason was behind him, and he was sent crashing into the leader like a ball from the mouth of a cannon.  The tandem stopped; a sudden bedlam of voices from the stands broke forth; there were cries of “Ball!  Ball!” and Witter flung himself through, rolled over a few times, and on the twenty-yard line, with half the Erskine team striving to pull him on and all the Robinson team trying to pull him back, groaned a faint “Down!” Robinson’s tackle had fumbled the pass, and for the moment Erskine’s goal was out of danger.

“Line up!” shouted Ted Foster.  “Signal!”

The men scurried to their places.

“49—­35—­23!”

Back went the ball and Pearse was circling out toward his own left end, Paul interfering.  The north stand leaped to its feet, for it looked for a moment as though the runner was safely away.  But Seider, the Brown’s right half, got him about the knees, and though Pearse struggled and was dragged fully five yards farther, finally brought him down.  Fifteen yards was netted, and the Erskine supporters found cause for loud acclaim.

“Bully tackle, that,” said Neil.  Stone nodded.

“Seems to me we can get around those ends,” he muttered; “especially the left.  I don’t think Bloch is much of a wonder.  There goes Pearse.”