As the last man came in and shut the dressing-room door Harris dropped on the bench and groaned out:
"It's all my fault, boys, but we're beaten now. We're all worn out. The next half'll be a regular procession."
"Buck, that's enough."
The boys stared. Mark Alden seldom spoke like that, but he was stern enough now.
"Set won't fumble again, I'll answer for that. Get rubbed down, all of you, and then rest till time is called. This game is young yet."
And loosening his jacket Mark pulled a towel from the rack.
It was evident in the last "half" that Winston was on the defensive. Its players merely tried to keep Blackwood from scoring. They made some pretense of running with the ball for the sake of using up time; but their real work was done by their brilliant full-back, Mellen, whose sure kicks carried the ball far down the field whenever their goal-line was in danger.
These tactics succeeded until a few minutes of time remained. Buck Harris was doing nobly, and had nearly succeeded in getting a touch-down, but the next play gave Winston the ball. The two elevens were lining up for Mellen's inevitable kick, when Barstow, of the Winstons, passed near the Blackwood Captain.
Alden's hair was flying wildly about his face. His cheeks were flushed. He was dark under the eyes and pale about the mouth and forehead. His lips were tightly closed, and his nostrils wide apart. One stocking was half-way down his leg, his canvas jacket was torn in several places, and, in spite of the chill air, perspiration soaked him through and through.