guard by Nelson Beaton, Hull, who had taken Chester Cottrell's place, called "39—69—408!" He jumped a step to the right. Beaton went back to kicking distance. Again the signal "39—69—408"
Back sped the ball to the fullback. The lines heaved and swayed. Off dodged the ends, right and left. Beaton trotted to the right, poised the ball. Right half hurled himself against an obtrusive tackle, recovered and sped toward the side line. Then the line broke, the Scrubs came piling through, leaping, panting, arms upstretched. Hull went down under the onset. But Beaton, his gaze on an up-*thrust hand near the goal line, dodged a Scrub forward and hurled the ball straight and true above the melee. Too late the Scrub backs saw the trick. The pigskin flew into right end's arms and that youth romped across the last white mark and sank to his knees between the posts! Number 8 had worked once more!
Dick led Fudge aside later in the dressing-room. "I got that play, Fudge," he said. "Sorry I wasn't in when you came."
"What do you think of it?" demanded Fudge exultantly. "Isn't it a peach, Dick?"
