Even if Gridley played a slugging game, it wouldn't bear these Hallam boys down.

As to speed and scientific points, they seem to be our masters.

Whatever we do against them, it must be something seldom heard of on the gridiron something that will be so brand new that they can't get by it." Yet twice in the half that followed Gridley barely escaped having to make a safety to save their goal line.

Each time, however, Dave wriggled out of it.
When there were but seven minutes left neither team had scored.
Gridley now had the ball for snap-back at its own twenty-five-yard line.
The most that home boosters were hoping for now was that Gridley would be able to hold down the game to no score.
Dave had been thinking deeply.

He had just found a chance to mutter orders swiftly.
Fenton, little, wiry and swift, was to-day playing at left end, the position that Dick himself had made famous in the year before.
"Eighteen---three--eleven---seven---nine!" called Tom Reade, crisply.
The first four figures called off the play that Gridley was to make, or to pretend to make.