“I don’t know much about football; was there anything wrong with that
tackle—that it should be criticised?”

“It looked all right to me,” said Briggs.

“If there is any question about it, I shall want to talk to my brother—”

“Oh, it was all right,” Windom spoke up. “It was a good, clean, hard
tackle—the right kind. Wes is always down on the enemy, aren’t you,
Wes?”

Westby stood in sullen silence. The next play was started; St. Timothy’s
gained five yards, and in the movement of the crowd Irving and Westby
were separated.

For a few moments Irving’s thoughts were diverted from his brother, and
his joyous excitement was overshadowed by regret. He felt less indignant
with Westby than sorry for him; he knew that the boy had repented of his
hasty and intemperate words. If he would only come up and acknowledge
it—so that he might be forgiven!

Then Irving put Westby out of his mind. St. Timothy’s had kicked;
Ballard had recovered the ball for Harvard on St. Timothy’s forty-yard
line, and then Warren, the quarterback, had made a long pass straight
into Lawrence’s hands; Lawrence started to run; then, just as Chase and
Baldersnaith were bearing down for the tackle, he stopped and hurled the
ball forward and across to Newell, the other Harvard end.

It sailed clear over the heads of the intervening players; Newell had
been signaled to, had got down the field and was ready for it; three St.