And the ten-yard line passed, slowly, reluctantly.
"One more," he thought, "one more!"
The great stands were hoarse with shouting; for here ended the game. The
figures on the score-board had changed since the last play, and now
relentlessly proclaimed one minute left!
Nearer and nearer crept the five-yard line, nearer and nearer crept the
pursuing full-back. Then, and at the same instant, the scattered breadth
of lime was gone, and a hand clutched at the canvas jacket of the
Harwell runner. Once more Joel called upon his strength and tried to
draw away, but it was no use. And with the goal line but four yards
distant, stout arms were clasped tightly about his waist.
One--two--three strides he made. The goal line writhed before his dizzy
sight. Relentlessly the clutching grasp fastened tighter and tighter
about him like steel bands, and settled lower and lower until his legs
were clasped and he could move no farther! Despairingly he thrust the
ball out at arms' length and tried to throw himself forward; the
trampled turf rose to meet him....
* * * * *
"The ball is over!" pronounced the referee. It was a nice decision, for
an inch would have made a world of difference; but it has never
been disputed.
Then Dutton leaped into the air, waving his arms, Rutland turned a
somersault, and the west stand arose as one man and went mad with
delight. Hats and cushions soared into air, the great structure shook
and trembled from end to end, and the last few golden rays of the
setting sun glorified the waving, fluttering bank of triumphant crimson!
CHAPTER XXV.
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