“Yes,” admitted the coach.  “Better a new one than that sneak Sam Heller.  I’m glad he’s gone.  Is Tom’s ankle fit for him to play?”

“He says he’ll play, anyhow!”

“Good for him.  Well, I guess we can make a shift.”

The football game was one long to be remembered.  It was played on a cold, crisp day, and a record-breaking crowd was in attendance.  For the first three quarters neither side scored.  There were brilliant runs, sensational kicks and tackles, brilliant passing, and good plays generally, but the teams seemed too evenly matched.

Then came the last quarter.  Foot by foot the ball had been worked to within striking distance of the rival’s goal.

“Now, boys, a touchdown!” cried the captain.

Smith, the new quarterback, gave the signal for Tom to take the pigskin through center, and Tom, with lowered head and fiercely beating heart, leaped forward.  There was a crash as the two lines of players met, and then, struggling forward, tearing himself loose from restraining hands—­pushed, shoved and all but torn apart, Tom forced his way onward.

His vision became black!  His breath was all but gone, and then, with a last mighty heave, he shoved the ball over the last line.

“Touchdown!  Touchdown!”

“Tom Fairfield’s touchdown!”

“Elmwood Hall forever!”

“Three cheers!”

“Three cheers for Tom Fairfield!”

The players and spectators went wild, and the game came to an end a few minutes later, with Tom’s team the champions.

“Well, old man, we did ’em,” said Jack some hours later, when the chums, and as many of their friends as possibly could crowd into the room of our heroes, had gathered there.  “We did ’em.”

“Good and proper,” added Bert.

“How’s the ankle, Tom?” asked the captain anxiously.  “We don’t want to permanently cripple you, for there’ll be more games next year.”

“Oh, I guess I’ll be all right by then,” said Tom, with a smile.  “Jack, pass those sandwiches,” for an impromptu banquet was under way.

“Yes, and don’t hold that mustard for a loss,” added George.

“Pass those pickles up this way for a touchdown,” begged Reddy Burke.

“Well, Tom,” asked Bruce Bennington in a low voice, “are you glad or sorry you didn’t insist on having a row with Sam, right off the bat?”

“Glad,” answered Tom.  “It came out all right anyhow.”

“Sure it did.  He’s gone, and you’re here,” said Bruce.

“A song, boys!  A song!” called Jack Fitch, and a moment later, in spite of the danger of a visit from the proctor, there swelled out the strains of “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow!”

But the proctor did not come.  As he heard the forbidden sounds of gaiety he smiled grimly.

“It Isn’t every day that Elmwood Hall wins a championship,” he remarked to Doctor Meredith.