"Look out for a fake," cried the Pawling quarter, dancing around in front of the goal posts.
"A forward pass!" cried another of the backs.
But it was neither a fake nor a forward pass.
Armstrong ran quickly to a point ten yards behind his crouching line, coolly measured with his eye the distance from where he stood to the cross-bar, and a moment later, receiving the ball on a long, true pass from Harrington, dropped it to the ground, swung his toe against it as it rose, and sent it spinning directly between the posts.
The kick was as pretty a one as could be desired, and its appreciation was testified to by jubilant yells and the skyward flight of sweaters and blankets along the side-lines.
A kick-off at midfield which Turner ran back 30 yards, a single rush, and the whistle ended the game.
"Why didn't you tell me you could do that?" said Coach Howard giving Armstrong a hearty slap on the back as he trotted over to the side-line to pick up the discarded sweater. "You put that over like a veteran!"
"Didn't have a chance before," said Frank, grinning.
"Guess you didn't. Well, I'll see to it that you get a chance after this." And then, as the throng of grimy players and the spectators straggled off to the cars, "I had pretty nearly come to the conclusion that you were too soft for the game of football."