"All ready?" cried the voice of the umpire. "First down."
The whistle blew, the two lines strained opposite each other. Stover knew what the play would be—there was no question of that. Fortunately the last two rushes had carried the play well over to his side—the boundary was only fifteen yards away. Dink had thought out quickly what he would do. He crept in closer than an end usually plays and at the snap of the ball rushed straight into the starting interference before it could gather dangerous momentum. The back, seeing him thus drawn in, instinctively swerved wide around his interference, forced slightly back. Before he could turn forward his own speed and the necessity of distancing Stover and Condit drove him out of bounds for a four-yard loss.
"Second down, nine yards to go!" came the verdict.
"Rather risky going in like that," said Flash Condit, who backed up his side.
"Wanted to force him out of bounds," said Stover.
"Oh—look out for something between tackle and guard now."
"No—they'll try the other side now to get a clean sweep at me," said Stover.
The red-haired half-back disappeared in the opposite side and, well protected, kept his feet for five yards.
"Third down, four to gain."
"Now for a kick," said Stover, as the Andover end came out opposite him. "What the deuce am I going to do to this coot to mix him up. He looks more as though he'd like to tackle me than to get past." He looked over and caught a glance from the Andover quarter. "I wonder. Why not a fake kick? They've sized me up for green. I'll play it carefully."