Behind him came the pursuit, but Findley was fleet of foot and only the Phillipsburg quarter, coming fast yet cautiously down on him, caused him concern. The middle of the field was past now and he had gained another yard or two of elbow-room and the pursuers had not gained. Then came the supreme instant. The Phillipsburg quarter sprang with outstretched arms and Findley gave, turning and twisting, across two yards of the precious territory at his right. The quarter’s clutching fingers grasped, held for an instant, and Findley went staggering to one knee. Then he was up again, the quarter was rolling over on his back, legs ludicrously in air, and a great shriek of triumph came across from the Parkinson stand. Findley was safe and bearing in toward the still distant goal, while, behind him, friend and foe pounded in pursuit. Dick had followed Findley through the line, had defeated one eager tackler and had gone sprawling onto the turf. But he had been on his feet again an instant later and, skirting the struggling mass, had kept straight ahead down the field. He knew that he could not hope to reach Findley in time to aid him against the quarter-back. His only chance of helping lay in being well down the field in case the runner got past the enemy quarter. None sought to stop him, for the play had followed the ball, and, while in the ruck of the pursuit friend and enemy went down and were strewn behind, Dick had had the centre of the gridiron to himself, with Findley speeding along well ahead and to the right and the quarter-back cutting across to him. Then had come the runner’s clever escape and now he and Dick were converging on the goal, the latter gaining a little as the white lines went slowly underfoot. Never was the foremost pursuer very far behind, but always, barring an accident, Findley seemed to have sufficient margin to win by. Yet, as the thirty-yard line was left behind, one Phillipsburg player became momentarily more dangerous. He had managed to avoid the Parkinson interferers and had worked himself well into the lead. He was tall and slight and a runner of no mean ability, and Dick, turning his head for a quick glance, read the menace. Findley was tiring slightly and running more slowly, head back, as Dick, edging further to the right, brought himself nearer to the path of the pursuit.