From that time on Irving trotted up and down the side lines, his heart
twittering with pride and anxiety. After every scrimmage, after every
tackle, he looked apprehensively for a curly light head; he was always
glad when he saw it bob up safely out of a pile. Through all the press
and conflict, he watched for it, followed it—just as, he thought in one
whimsical moment, the French troopers of Macaulay’s poem watched for the
white plume of Navarre.

If he had known even less about the game than he did, he must still have
seen that for Harvard his brother and Ballard, the fullback, were
playing especially well. Ballard, with his hard plunges through the
centre and his long punts, was the chief factor in Harvard’s offensive
game; Lawrence was their ablest player on the defense.

After the first ten minutes St. Timothy’s made hardly an attempt to go
round his end, but devoted their assaults to the centre and other wing
of the line.

If there was one thing for which Collingwood, the best football player
in the School, had achieved a special reputation, it was the fleetness
and dexterity with which he could run the ball back after punts. He was
known as the best man in the back field that St. Timothy’s had had in
years. So when Ballard prepared for his first kick, the spectators
looked on with composure.

It was a fine kick; the ball went spiraling high and far, but
Collingwood was under it as it fell, and Dennison was in front of him to
protect him.

Yet Lawrence, rushing down upon them, was too quick, too clever;