fully on his own forty-yard line while the Tate men ranged in a single line on either side of him. Having teed the ball to his satisfaction, Childers stepped back. The Tate players, prancing to keep warm and to allay their nervousness, settled down and crouched in their positions.
"All ready, Union State?" called the referee in a silence that would have made a cap pistol sound like Big Bertha.
McCoy, the Union State center, flung up his hand in affirmation.
"All ready, Tate?"
Childers signaled his O. K.
A whistle shrilled. Mike Cavendish, on the bench near Harold Lamb, exhaled voluminously. His annual big moment had arrived.
Childers swung toward the ball, increased his stride, hit it strong and true with his big boot. The Tatians were down the field under the kick like a pack of hounds. Tobey, the Union State halfback, and a fast, rugged runner, too, took the ball on the fly. His interference formed quickly. Broad blue chests ranged thick and fast in front of him. The first Tate tacklers were bowled over. Tobey, running with a peculiar bent-over hitching stride that was desperately hard to fathom, streaked up the field. Then, just in time to
