Boxford fumbled, and again they escaped danger for the moment. But soon the ball had been worried again dangerously near their goal. Twenty-five, twenty, fifteen yards—Tony measured the distance with grim despair. Suddenly, as the Boxford quarter snapped back the ball, something unexpected happened. Signals got twisted,—at any rate, there was a fumble and a scrimmage, and twenty boys were scrambling in a heap, when the attention of the spectators was arrested by the shrill cry of the Boxford quarter, for Tony Deering, with the ball tucked under his arm, had emerged from the mass of players, and was speeding like a frightened deer down the field toward the Boxford goal. The quarter made a desperate effort to intercept him, but Tony dodged as quickly as lightning flashes, and raced on with a clear field. The two teams, recovered, were rushing after him.... One could have heard a whisper from one side of the field to the other so tense was the excitement. The silence was absolute save for the pattering of the swift feet upon the turf.... Then the cheers broke forth, for Tony had planted the ball midway behind the goal posts. For five minutes there was pandemonium on the side lines, restrained for a moment, only to break forth afresh as Clavering kicked the goal. The game was won, for almost immediately after the kick-off, the whistle blew, and the referee called “Time.” [Illustration: TONY DODGED ... AND RACED ON WITH A CLEAR FIELD] CHAPTER XIII THE NIGHT OF THE BONFIRE If Tony had enjoyed the sensation of expanding under appreciation the night before the game, it reached fatigue point the night after. It falls to few boys, even for so short a time, to be the hero of his school; but it is one of the pleasantest experiences that can befall him. It gives the hero a feeling of kinship with the mighty conquerors of the past; a sense, intense if fleeting, of being one with Alexander, with Cæsar, with Napoleon. And though Deering bore his honors modestly, for this once he enjoyed them to the full; with the full-bloodedness of youth, he luxuriated in a sense of satisfaction with the world in general and with himself in particular. He was not ordinarily self-important, but it would have been an inhuman boy who remained indifferent to the incense of praise he received after that Boxford game. To have turned what seemed certain defeat into unexpected victory was a piece of good luck for which he was grateful, as well as he was grateful for the undoubted fact that he could run faster than most boys of his age.