tackier. Harold flew over the white lines. He could see Houghton out of the corner of his eye. He could hear the pounding footsteps of the enemy coming ever closer behind him. Twenty, thirty yards he reeled off, and then the Union State quarterback was in front of him, waiting calculatingly.
"Left!" panted Houghton. And Harold swung obediently. The Union State quarter swung with them. He came at Harold head down, launched into the air. But he never met the man with the ball. Houghton dived in between and sent him sprawling.
Harold was alone in that last fateful twenty yards. He tried to increase his speed, but his legs would not work harder for him. As he crossed the last chalk-mark before the goal line he knew that he would be caught. Three steps further and Tobey, coming with the speed of a deer, dived at him. Harold was swooped down, struggled a foot or two, stopped and thrust the ball as far as possible ahead of him. Four or five Union Staters leaped upon his prostrate form at once.
Then the players of both teams seemed to be piling upon him under the shadow of the goal posts.
Mike Cavendish, who had passed through a lifetime in that mad twenty seconds, hid his red face in his gnarled hands and begged
