There was no time to be lost!

McCabe had been especially drilled in trick plays as Coach Phillips imagined if he were used at all it would be toward the end of the game. He now worked the first one, a double pass behind the line, Benz hurling the ball to Gary who shot around left end for fifteen yards.

The great crowd had gone mad by this time! Timekeepers began consulting their watches. Pennington stands entreated their eleven to "Hold 'em" while the Bartlett rooters shrieked, "Touchdown! Touchdown!"

With half a minute left to play McCabe relied on a great trick play to win. The crowd was making such a noise that he had to call his backs in to give them the signals. He repeated these signals twice to make sure that they were understood, despite each precious second of time. The ball was on Pennington's twenty yard line.

The success of the play depended largely upon Judd and Benz, and a complete deception of the opposing line. Benz had been hardly more than a mere figurehead in the last quarter and Pennington would not be expecting him to carry the ball.

McCabe shifted the right side of his line over. The ball was snapped back to Benz. Judd swung out of the line and raced across as interference. Oole filled the gap left by Judd with his body, and—before the Pennington line realized the trick Benz was well on his way toward the goal. The play took nerve, a great amount of nerve, on Benz's part. He forced himself to run swiftly, bearing his weight equally on his injured ankle.

"Catch hold of my belt!" cried Judd, as he lurched ahead of him. "I'll take you through!"

Benz placed his hand on Judd's broad back and strove to keep pace with him. He stumbled dizzily across two chalk marks and was vaguely aware of shaking off some tackler from behind. A few more steps. Everything was getting black! His hand pushed heavily against the lunging Judd, for support. Then, directly in front of Benz, danced the jeering face of Gordon! He felt Judd's body slide away from him—lost sight of Gordon. There was a dark, struggling mound at his feet! He made a desperate jump and cleared it; fell forward upon his knees; crawled a few paces; then pitched over upon his face.

When Benz came to himself the great game was all history. A howling mob was upon the field dancing about a huge bonfire which dispelled the falling darkness. A few of his team-mates surrounded him.

"If it hadn't been for my sprained ankle, fellows," sobbed Benz, "I'd have made that touchdown. I,—I kept up as long as I could but,—but,—"

"What are you talking about, man? You made a touchdown!" yelled a Bartlett enthusiast.

"Me! Made a touchdown?" Benz was recovering fast now.

"Sure! You crawled over the goal line on your knees!"

"Zowie!—and then?"

"Rube kicked goal."

"Great snakes, ... WE WON!"

Benz was too overjoyed and excited to speak.

At last, "Come on, guys, tell me a little more details. This suspense is awful," he begged.

"Well," volunteered McCabe, "It was the prettiest play of the game. You and Rube got away to almost a clear field. You legged it along all right for ten yards, then you commenced to limp. Rube slowed up for you and Knapp struck you from behind. But somehow you shook him off and stumbled on. Gordon came tearing up and dove at you but Judd threw himself between and Gordon hit the ground like a ton of bricks. You jumped over the two of them and staggered on. My, but those were anxious seconds! At the three yard line you fell upon your knees and crawled the rest of the distance while three tacklers were beating it up to get you. Just as you reached the line all three seemed to hit you at once and knocked you forward. Then the whistle blew! When the referee untangled the mess and rolled you upon your back he found you froze to the ball, a foot over the line. Talk about a death grip—they had to pry that old pigskin loose! Say, Benz, after that,—you missed the biggest lot of noise that ever happened!"

"Tell me about Rube," pleaded Benz, "My touchdown only tied the score. His kicked goal won the game!"

"Oh yes," went on McCabe, "You made your touchdown at the right side of the field. Time was allowed for the try at goal. Rube was forced to attempt the goal kick at a frightful angle. The crowd was making such a demonstration, some people even running on the field, that I don't see how he ever did it. I held the ball for him. He took his time, fixed it just so; then stepped back. He was cool as a cucumber. The Pennington bunch glowered at him from between their goal posts. Then when the play came the field got suddenly quiet. Everyone was standing up holding their breath as Rube booted the ball. It sailed up, scraped the goal post, just clearing the bar, and the game was ours! After that, ... skyrockets!"

"Say! Where is Rube now?"

"Heaven knows! A second later the crowd pounced upon him like a tribe of Indians. I thought they'd tear him to pieces. They carried him off with them."

"The lucky stiff!" laughed Benz, but there was no malice in that remark now.

The students bearing Judd faced about in front of the crackling bonfire. Cries of "Speech! Speech!" came from Bartlett rooters.

Judd sat on their shoulders, blinking from the light of the fire and stage-struck at the sea of flickering, ghostly faces in front of him.

"Say something, quick!" whispered McCabe, who stood eyeing the rube, proudly. "I'd give a kingdom to be in your shoes now!"

"You can have my place for nothin'," offered Judd, generously.

The crowd quieted down and waited expectantly. The rube was so well known and such a favorite by this time.

Finally Judd calmed himself enough to face the ordeal. He raised his head and looked out over the crowd.

"Fellows, before I say anythin' more..." he started. But such a flood of laughter and cheering greeted these words that he could get no further.

"Gee!" complimented McCabe, "You've scored a touchdown from kick-off!"

Bob and Cateye came pushing their way through the crowd, supporting a limping Benz between them.

"Rube ...!" started Benz, face beaming. "I ... er ... mean—Judd!"

Bartlett's hero of the hour grinned.

"No you don't Benz ... you mean Rube. You couldn't really call me anything else and I wouldn't want you to. I reckon that name fits me best."

"All right, then!" conceded Benz, cuffing Judd playfully, "Though I claim I'm really the rube for calling you a rube!"

And then Cateye said something about the team's planning to make Judd next year's captain and Bob brought cheers by giving out that he was returning to college next fall.

"Gosh, that does me out of a room-mate," said Judd, suddenly, with a mischievous glance at his brother.

"Not necessarily," spoke up Benz, "What do you say, Rube, to ... er ... bunking with me?"

Benz and Judd—room-mates! This would astound the college.

"I've been known to talk in my sleep," Judd warned, grinning.

"Yell and see if I care!" accepted Benz.

And so, feuds ended, there came to one Judd Billings the tingling realization of what real college spirit meant. It had taken him all this while to get back in step after starting in college on the wrong foot. He had developed so very much in the past few years from a timid, awkward youth at Trumbull High who had fought so hard to live up to his brother Bob's contract—and later, as a Freshman at Bartlett, unused to the ways of the fellows but with his old-time fear conquered. But now Judd knew, happily, that he was one with all the fellows for a cheer was being proposed in honor of "Bartlett's Big Four"—Bob and Cateye and Benz and—Rube! And the ones who were responding to this cheer the loudest were his own team-mates!

THE END