And hold Tom and his chums did.  They had lost the ball on downs, and it was dangerously near their goal mark.  But they were like bulldogs now—­fighting in the last ditch.  A touchdown and a goal would beat them.  It must not be!

There was a short, sharp, quick signal, and one of the Holwell players seemed to take the ball around left end.  But Tom’s sharp eye saw that it was a trick play, and he cried to his mates to beware.  They did not hear him, and nearly all of them rushed to intercept the ball.  Tom, however, swung the other way, and headed for the player who really had the pigskin.

On the latter came with a rush.  He was a big tackle, and Tom was much smaller.  Yet he did not hesitate.

“Look out!” yelled the Holwell player, hoping to intimidate Tom, as he rushed at him.  But Tom was not made of the material that frightens easily.  Gritting his teeth, he braced himself for the tackle.  He fairly hurled himself at the man, through a mist of rain, and he caught him.  Down they went together in a heap, Tom groaning as he felt his left ankle giving way under the strain.

In vain the big tackle tried to get up and struggle on.  Tom held fast; and then it was all over, for the other Elmwood players, seeing their mistake, hurried to Tom’s aid, and a small human mountain piled up on him and the Holwell lad.

“Down!” howled the latter, ceasing his wriggling.  The whistle blew, ending the game, with the ball but a scant foot from Elmwood’s goal line.

“Good boy!” called Captain Denton into Tom’s ear.  “You saved our bacon for us.”

“I’m glad I did,” replied Tom, limping around.

“Are you hurt much?” asked Morse.

“No, only a bit of sprained ankle.  I’ll be all right in a little while, I guess.”

“It was great!  Simply great!” exclaimed Jack a few hours later, when he and Tom and Bert sat in their room, the smell of arnica filling the apartment, coming from Tom’s bandaged ankle.  “You sure played your head off, old man!”

“I know I nearly played my leg off,” agreed Tom, with a wry face.  “I can just step on it, and that’s all.”

“Never mind, we beat ’em,” consoled Bert.  “And you did it, Tom.”

“Nonsense.  It was team work.  Sam played a fair game too.  That helped a lot.  I was afraid of him at first.”

“He didn’t dare do anything,” said Jack.  “I told him I’d have my eye on him.”

They talked over the plays in detail.  Tom was just beginning to feel sleepy when there came a knock on the door.

“Come in,” he called, for it was not yet the hour for lights to be out, and even a professor would find nothing out of the way.  One of the school messengers entered.

“Here’s a note for you, Mr. Fairfield,” he Said.  “A special delivery letter.”

Tom read it quickly.  A change came over his face.

“I’ve got to go out!” he exclaimed, crumpling up the missive.  He reached for his raincoat limping across the room.