superior weight and strength of their time-honored adversaries, they had kept down the score, but had been unable even to threaten the Union State goal line. With the game nearly over, they were becoming resigned to defeat. That is, ten of them were. Good old "Speedy" Lamb, captain and fullback, would never acknowledge that his beloved alma mater was beaten. No, never—not until the last whistle blew.
The only man able to gain against the strong Union State line. Lamb had been virtually the whole Tate team. Encouraging his men, carrying the ball on two out of every three downs that it was in Tate's possession, he had been a firebrand, the fly in the Union State ointment, an inspiration to his fellows, a tower of strength. Even now, his whole body battered and bruised, a crimson-stained bandage around his forehead, he danced behind his crouching linemen, slapping backs, shouting words of cheer. "Hold 'em, you huskies," he cried, "for Good Old Tate."
And well "Speedy" might admonish them, for the ball was but two yards from the Red and White goal posts and Union State's long-delayed touchdown seemed imminent. For an instant a deep silence filled the huge Tate stadium. Then the Union State quarterback barked his signals. The ball passed. A rasp
