attack with redoubled fury, hurling himself at the faltering High School line for good gains.
With two minutes left and the ball just inside the third white line, High School fought for time, hopeless now of victory and only seeking to stave off defeat. Twice the whistle shrilled while some real or imaginary injury was looked to, and each time North Side raged like so many tigers who had tasted blood.
"One minute and fifty-six seconds," proclaimed the Timer.
"All right now, fellows!" piped Danny. "Over with it! Here's where we score again!"
"Hold them, Scrub!" shouted Nostrand hoarsely, and, "Throw 'em back!" yelled Farrar. "Get down there, Shaw! Play low, fellows! Get under 'em and throw 'em back!"
Then—well, no one ever had a very clear idea of what immediately ensued. All that is known is that somewhere between the North Side center and Wightson the ball went astray and that for the longest four seconds on record it bobbed and trickled about under the feet of fully half the contending players. But after that what happened was just this. Fudge Shaw, who, perhaps, owed his presence at
