Irving, with his heart in his throat, watched Westby; the boy, with both hands raised, was wabbling about, stepping to the right, to the left, backward, forward; the ends were there in front of him, crouched and waiting; Collingwood tried to fend them off, but the big tackle rushed in and upset him, and at the same instant the ball fell into Westby’s arms—­and slipped through them.

One of the ends dropped on the ball, rolled over with it a couple of times, rolled up on his feet again and was off with it for the St. Timothy’s goal; he had carried it to the twenty-yard line when Collingwood pulled him down.  St. John’s were streaming down their side line, shrieking and waving their blue flags; St. Timothy’s stood dazed and silent.

“Oh, butterfingers!” cried Briggs, stamping his foot.

“Just like Wes—­he wouldn’t make a football player in a thousand years!” exclaimed Windom.

Irving heard the comments; he heard other comments.  If St. John’s should score now!  He hoped they wouldn’t; he was sorry enough for Westby.  But St. John’s did score, by a series of furious centre rushes, and their fullback kicked the goal.  And when, fifteen minutes later, the referee blew his whistle, the game was St. John’s, by that score of six to nothing.

Irving could understand why some of the St. Timothy’s boys had tears in their eyes.  It was pretty trying even for him to see the triumphant visitors rush upon the field, toss the members of their team upon their shoulders, and bear them away exultantly to the athletic house, yelling and flaunting their flags, while the St. Timothy’s players walked disconsolately and silently behind them.

It was trying afterwards to stand by and see those blue-bedecked invaders form into long-linked lines and dance their serpentine of victory on St. Timothy’s ground.  It was trying to stand by and watch barge after barge bedecked with blue roll away while the occupants shouted and waved their hats—­and left the field to silence and despair.

But still St. Timothy’s did not abandon the scene of their defeat.  They waited loyally in front of the athletic house to welcome and console their team when it should emerge.  Collingwood led the players out, and the crowd gave them a good one.

Collingwood said, with a smile, though in an unsteady voice, “Much obliged, fellows,” and waved his hand.

Then the crowd dispersed; slowly they all walked away.

That evening, as Irving was about to leave his room to go down to supper, a boy brought him a telegram.  It was from his brother; it said,—­

“We licked them, twelve to six.  Feeling fine.  Lawrence.”

At the table Irving tried not to appear too happy.  He apologized for his state of mind and told the boys the cause; those who, like Carroll, were Harvard sympathizers derived a little cheer from the news, and the others seemed indifferent to it.  Westby was not there.  The training table was vacant, and at the other tables were empty chairs where substitutes on the team had sat.  Mrs. Barclay was entertaining the football players.