“He certainly is making good interference for me,” mused our hero.  “Maybe he won’t play me false after all.  But I’m going to be on the watch.”

There was now but the scrub fullback between Tom and the opposite goal line, though it was some distance away.  Most of the leading team lads, streaming and straggling along, were shouting to encourage Tom.

“Go on!  Go on!”

“Touchdown!  Touchdown!”

“Good run, Tom old man!”

Tom was getting into his stride.  Sam was just ahead of him seemingly getting ready to bowl over the scrub fullback, who was racing down the field, eager-eyed, to tackle Tom.

“If Sam disposes of him I will make a touchdown,” mused Tom, and then Sam and the fullback came together.  Sam went down in a heap at the first impact, and the fullback—­who was Henry Everett—­came on, scarcely hindered.

The next moment he tackled Tom and threw him heavily, though Tom kept possession of the ball.

“Down!” gasped Tom, as he felt the weight of his opponent.  The latter arose.

“Got you; didn’t I?” he asked, grinning.

“Yes,” replied Tom, looking to where Sam Heller was leisurely getting to his feet.  Our hero watched his enemy narrowly.  Was it only a fancy, or was it true that Sam had not made half a try to throw off the interference of the fullback?

“You were easy,” laughed the scrub lad.  “I thought I was going to have trouble with you, Sam, but you were easy.”

“Aw, my foot slipped, and I fell, or you wouldn’t have gotten me,” asserted Sam, but to Tom’s ears, somehow, the words did not ring true.

“I believe he deliberately let Everett get me so I wouldn’t have the honor of making a touchdown,” thought our hero.

The players ran up to Tom.

“Good work, old man!” complimented Coach Jackson.

“Some run, Tom,” added the captain.  “Come on now, line up boys, and we’ll walk through ’em!”

“Yes you will—­nit!” jeered the scrub captain.

As Tom was panting from his long run, the other halfback was sent at the line with the ball.  He did not gain much, and then the fullback was allowed to try.  He gained a few feet.

“We’d better kick,” whispered the captain to Sam, who was giving the signals.

“No, keep the ball,” advised the coach.  “I want the boys to have practice in bucking the line.  Let Fairfield try again.  He has his wind back now.”

“All right,” assented Morse, nodding at Sam, who began to give the signal.

Tom stiffened, ready to take the pigskin, and, at the same time he moved up a little nearer Sam, for somehow, he felt that the passing of his enemy might not be just accurate.  And it was well that he did, for the quarterback threw the ball short.

“Look out!” cried the captain, but his warning was not needed, for Tom made a jump and met the pigskin.  With it safely tucked under his arm, he made a jump between guard and tackle in the hole made for him by his players, and completed the gaining of the necessary distance.