was found just three yards from the Roxley goal line.
And then came that awful struggle, where muscle met muscle in a strain that was truly terrific. Roxley was heavier, but its wind was going fast. Brill held at first, then went ahead—an inch—a foot—a yard.
"Hold 'em! Hold 'em!" was the Roxley cry. But it was not to be. The yard became two, and then the leather went over with a rush.
"A touchdown! A touchdown for Brill!"
"Now make it a goal!" was the cry, and a goal it became, the Brill quarter-back doing the kicking.
From that moment on the battle waged with a fury seldom seen on any gridiron. Brill, from almost certain defeat, commenced to scent a victory, and went into the play regardless of physical consequences. Tom had his thumb wrenched and Dick had his ankle skinned, but neither gave heed to the hurts. Indeed, they never noticed them until the game was at an end.
And then came Dick's hour of triumph. How he got the ball from the burly Roxley right guard nobody could exactly tell afterward, but get the ball he did, and rounded two rival players before they knew what was up. Then down the field he sped, with his enemies yelling like
