hands raised, was wabbling about, stepping to the right, to the left,
backward, forward; the ends were there in front of him, crouched and
waiting; Collingwood tried to fend them off, but the big tackle rushed
in and upset him, and at the same instant the ball fell into Westby’s
arms—and slipped through them.

One of the ends dropped on the ball, rolled over with it a couple of
times, rolled up on his feet again and was off with it for the St.
Timothy’s goal; he had carried it to the twenty-yard line when
Collingwood pulled him down. St. John’s were streaming down their side
line, shrieking and waving their blue flags; St. Timothy’s stood dazed
and silent.

“Oh, butterfingers!” cried Briggs, stamping his foot.

“Just like Wes—he wouldn’t make a football player in a thousand years!”
exclaimed Windom.

Irving heard the comments; he heard other comments. If St. John’s should
score now! He hoped they wouldn’t; he was sorry enough for Westby. But
St. John’s did score, by a series of furious centre rushes, and their
fullback kicked the goal. And when, fifteen minutes later, the referee
blew his whistle, the game was St. John’s, by that score of six to
nothing.

Irving could understand why some of the St. Timothy’s boys had tears in
their eyes. It was pretty trying even for him to see the triumphant
visitors rush upon the field, toss the members of their team upon their
shoulders, and bear them away exultantly to the athletic house, yelling
and flaunting their flags, while the St. Timothy’s players walked