Starting again from near Parkinson’s forty-yard line, the ball went across the centre and back again. Cater was nailed when he attempted a quarter-back run to the left and Brown made four yards in two tries. Keith fell back and punted out of bounds at the twenty-five. No advantage accrued to either team for the next five minutes. Parkinson was set back for holding and Kenwood was twice penalised for off-side. The spectators’ hearts went into their throats when a Kenwood back misjudged a punt, and it looked for an instant as if the Brown was to score. But Norris missed the ball and the Kenwood quarter fell on it eight yards from the goal-line. The Blue promptly punted out of danger. Parkinson failed to gain at the Blue line and made a forward which grounded. She then punted to the enemy’s thirty yards. The half ended with the pigskin in Parkinson territory near the middle of the field and in Kenwood’s possession.
Neither team had shown ability to gain consistently at her opponent’s line. Parkinson had made two first downs and Kenwood one. At punting Kenwood had outdistanced the Brown by some five yards on each kick, but had not gained any advantage by it, since Stearns and Norris were playing the game of their lives. In short, it was still anybody’s game. During half-time the rivals contended with cheers and songs, the contest going to Parkinson by reason of a slight advantage in numbers and the possession of a brass band. It was about the middle of that fifteen-minute intermission that a small youth in the attire of a messenger boy came wandering along the edge of the Kenwood stand. “Mr. Cooke!” he droned. “Message for Mr. Cooke!”
In response a youth in a fuzzy brown overcoat arose from the group on the nearly deserted players’ bench. “All right, kid!” he called. “Here I am! Let’s have it!”
“You Mr. Cooke?” asked the boy suspiciously.
“Yes, A. M. Cooke. Is it for me?”
“Yeah, that’s right: A. M. Cooke. Well, you’re wanted at the telephone.”
“Where is it?” asked Cooke, vaulting the rope into the passage. The boy waved a thumb over his shoulder.
“Out there,” he said vaguely. “I’ll show you.”
Cooke followed, winding his way through the crowd about the entrance. At the gate he spoke to one of the ticket takers. “Let me have a check, will you?” he asked. “I’m coming back.”