"A fighting chance, yes," said the clear-headed Codfish. "You may be able to hold them, but I don't see how you can score against their defense. Warwick is as good or better than last year. The only way you can beat a strong defense, under these rules that the football fathers have doped out, is to have a drop kicker."
"Well, we haven't got one, so we'll have to get off a forward pass or something tricky, and catch those big guys napping. It all depends on what we can do to-morrow."
The boys turned in early. Frank fell asleep with hopes of a chance at to-morrow's game in his head.
It was a glorious day, and every one far and near turned out to see the test of the School eleven against the strapping boys from Porter. Knowing well the erratic course that the Queen's eleven had been steering, the invaders, who came gayly decked as for a celebration, freely expressed themselves as to the size of the score. They would not consider for a moment that the score might be against them. Nearly all, excepting the most optimistic of the Queen's followers, were shaking in their shoes because a defeat to-day meant disaster a week later. A victory would hearten the team so much, that they might even triumph over the proud and confident eleven up the river.
From the moment of the first clash of the lines the Porter boys showed their superiority. They took the ball and on straight rushes carried it far down the field, only to lose it when they seemed to be sure of scoring. Red-headed Jimmy was everywhere on defense. Half a dozen times the Porter runner with the ball was through the line, but was nailed with deadly precision by this half-back. Dixon also played magnificently. He was playing to hold his place, and although Frank, sitting on the side-lines wrapped up in a blanket, saw his opportunity for a trial disappearing through the brilliant play of Chip, he could not but admire it.
Time after time the Porter School eleven carried the ball half the length of the field. Stone, their full-back, out-punted Wheeler, and their ends covered the long punts with deadly certainty. Porter played harder and harder and made ten yards of ground to one for Queen's, but they were met down around the 25-yard line with so fierce a resistance that they could go no further. Twice they made weak attempts to drop-kick a goal, but each time the trials failed. Once a Queen's end recovered the ball and carried it 70 yards down the field, where he was felled by the Porter tackle, who outran him.
This hammering game went on for three quarters, but, in the fourth quarter, Queen's seemed to gain strength. Twice they stopped the Porter rushes at midfield, and with unsuspected power carried the ball inside the 10-yard line, only to be stopped when success seemed certain. Quickly the minutes flew by. Dixon drove his men with increasing speed in spite of the fact that they were about ready to drop. They responded to the call splendidly. It was the best football they had shown the whole fall, but in spite of their best efforts Porter stood a barrier to the goal line, and the whistle blew with the game a tie, without scoring by either side.
"I was praying that they'd call you in and give you a trial, Frank," said Jimmy that night, "when we were down on their goal line. But, after a conference, Dixon thought he could take it across and Wheeler thought so, too. And they failed. It would have been an easy drop—right in front of the posts. If I had been captain I'd have tried it every time I got inside the 15-yard line, but Horton doesn't think that way."
"Wait till you get to be captain," said the Codfish, "and you'll have them kicking goals all over the field, eh, old speed?"
"Well, I'd be a little freer with them than the Captain is. But it's his team and I'm not grouching. As the fellow in the poem says: