The ends were again worked by the two half-backs and the distance thrice won.  The purple banners waved ecstatically and the cheers for Erskine thundered out.  Neil was slapping Stone wildly on the knee.

“Hold on,” protested the left end, “try the other.  That one’s a bit lame.”

“Isn’t Pearse a peach?” said Neil.  “Oh, but I wish I was out there!”

“You may get a whack at it yet,” answered Stone.  “There goes a jab at the line.”

“I may,” sighed Neil.  He paused and watched Mason get a yard through the Brown’s left tackle.  “Only, if I don’t, I suppose I won’t get my E.”

“Oh, yes, you will.  The Artmouth game counts, you know.”

“I wasn’t in it.”

“That’s so, you weren’t; I’d forgotten.  But I think you’ll get it, just the—­Good work, Gale!” Paul had made four yards outside of tackle, and it was again Erskine’s first down on the fifty-five-yard line.  The cheers from the north stand were continuous; Neil and Stone were obliged to put their heads together to hear what each other said.

For five minutes longer Erskine’s wonderful good fortune continued, and the ball was at length on Robinson’s twenty-eight yards near the north side-line.  Foster was waving his hand entreatingly toward the seats, begging for a chance to make his signals heard.  From across the field, in the sudden comparative stillness of the north stand, thundered the confident slogan of Robinson.  The brown-stockinged captain and quarter-back was shouting incessantly: 

“Steady now, fellows!  Break through!  Break through!  Smash ’em up!” He ran from one end to the other, thumping each encouragingly on the back, whispering threats and entreaties into their ears.  “Now, then, Robinson, let’s stop ’em right here!”

Foster, red-faced and hoarse, leaned forward, patted Stowell on the thigh, caught the ball, passed it quickly to Mason as that youth plunged for the line, and then threw himself into the breach, pushing, heaving, fighting for every inch that gave under his torn and scuffled shoes.

“Second down; four to gain!”

Robinson was awake now to her danger.  Foster saw the futility of further attempts at the line for the present and called for a run around left end.  The ball went to Pearse, but Bloch for once was ready for him, and, getting by Kendall, nailed the runner prettily four yards back of the line to the triumphant paeans of the south stand.

When the teams had again lined up Foster dropped back as though to try a kick for goal, a somewhat difficult feat considering the angle.  The Robinson captain was alarmed; he was ready to believe that a team who had already sprung one surprise on him was capable of securing goals from any angle whatever; his voice arose in hoarse entreaty: 

“Get through and block this kick, fellows!  Get through!  Get through!”

“Signal!” cried Foster. “44—­18—­23!”