The captain nodded.
The ball was snapped back straight and true to Swanson. The Swede caught it, swung his big leg and crashed out a high booming punt.
At this providential moment a hawker, standing in an aisle in the Tate stands, let loose of his wares in his excitement. And his wares were toy balloons. They floated out upon the field high in the air. In the direct line of Swanson's punt. Harold, dancing under the ball, eyes in the air, suddenly saw six balls when there should have been but one. He blinked, faltered, lunged. The ball, eluding his eyes and his grasp completely, came swooping down and struck him squarely in the head. It bounded to one side and rolled along the ground. Harold, dazed for an instant, was after it like a shot. He scooped it up and tore down the field. Ahead of him was a clear passage! He had gone twenty yards when a whistle blew. It sounded like the referee's whistle—only many times louder. Through Harold's excited and bewildered consciousness flashed the memory of the referee's words, "When I blow this whistle, put the ball down!" and the memory of the official's red, angry face. Promptly Harold stopped his run and threw the ball disgustedly to the ground. He thought he probably
