The goal was a most difficult one, from an angle, and long the full-back studied and directed, until faint groans of derision arose from the impatient east stand and the men behind the goal line moved restively.
"Lacing to you," said Blair quietly.

Story shifted the ball imperceptibly.
"More." The quarter-back obeyed.
"Cock it." Higher went the end toward the goal.
"Not so much." It was lowered carefully, slowly.
"Steady." Blair stepped back, glanced once swiftly at the cross-bar, and stepped forward again.
"Down!" Story's left hand touched the grass, the Yates men surged forward, there was a thud, and-- Upward sped the ball, rising, rising, until it topped the bar, then slowly turning over, over in its quickening descent.

But the nearly silent west stand had broke again into loud cries of triumph, and upon the face of the Scoreboard appeared the momentous word, "GOAL!" Again the ball was put in play, but the half was soon over and the players, snatching their blankets, trotted to the dressing rooms.

And the score-board announced: "Opponents, 6.

Yates, 6." As the little swinging door closed behind him Joel found himself in a seething mass of players, rubbers, and coaches, while a babel of voices, greetings, commands, laughter, and lament, confused him.