make the needful gains. There was much kicking, and the time was rapidly drawing to a close.
"We've got to do it! We've got to do it! We've got to do it!" said the captain over and over again. He begged and pleaded with his men. The coach urged them in all the terms of which he was master.
There were but two minutes more of play, and Randall had the ball. It was within twenty-five yards of the Boxer goal, and one attempt to rush it through guard and tackle had resulted in only a little gain.
It was a critical moment, for on the next few plays depended the championship of the league. Phil was doing some rapid thinking. Sid had just had the ball, and had failed to gain. In fact, the plucky left half-back had not fully recovered from the effects of a fierce tackle.
"They won't expect him to come at them again," thought Phil. "But I wonder if old Sid can do it. I'm going to try him."
The quarter-back was rattling off the signal. Somewhat to his surprise, Sid heard himself called upon for another trial. He almost resented it, for he was very weary, and his ears were buzzing from weakness.
And then he heard that song—the song that always seemed to nerve Randall to a last effort. The Latin words came sweetly over the field from
