"Get to it, Columbia!"

Exclamations of dismay, and frantic appeals came from a thousand
throats. Like mad the whole twenty-two players darted for the
yellow spheroid.

There was a mixup, a confused mass of struggling forms, an
indiscriminate whirlwind of waving arms and legs, and then, after
the frantic blowing of the referee's whistle, and when, slowly,
player after player crawled off the heap, Frank emerged, somewhat
bruised and dazed, but with the precious ball tucked under his
arm.

"Oh, good!"

"Fine, old man!"

"Columbia's ball!"

"Frank's got it, all right! That's the stuff. Did you see him
slide right in front of Ross, their husky right guard, and cover
it? Say, this is a little bit of all right--all right!" cried an
enthusiastic follower of Columbia.

It was on Columbia's twenty-five yard line now, rather closer to
the goal than Captain Frank liked, but he resolved to get right
into the play now, and called for the line-up. There was a
whispered conference between Wallace and Allen, and then the
quarter began calling the signal, emphasizing the first number. A
thrill seemed to run through the Clifford players, and when Paul