Cheers thundered from the stand, the bass drum thumped a pæan of victory, caps and megaphones sailed into the air, and, on the bench, a round-faced youth sat silent in wondering and awed delight. The Secret Play had won!
Two minutes later Nelson Beaton, racing back to the field, kicked the goal that added another point to that glorious 6, and forty seconds after that the final whistle shrilled and George Cotner, snatching the ball from the umpire, raced into the throng with it, dodging the ecstatic youths who, flowing onto the field, were capturing the players and raising them shoulder-high while the band played unheard and a babel of voices proclaimed Clearfield's victory!
Ten minutes later still, when Toby Sears was standing perilously on the railing of the grand-*stand leading the cheers, a hoarse voice demanded "Lovering! We—want—Coach—Lovering!" The demand was multiplied by two hundred voices, and willing emissaries darted away in search of him. But they didn't find him. Dick, a contented smile on his face, was blocks away, chugging home in Eli.
THE END
