Followed an anxious moment. Findley crossed the fifteen yards with Dick a scant six feet behind and the Phillipsburg man gaining on the runner at every stride. But to reach Findley the enemy would have to slip around Dick or topple him aside, and Dick knew it. The rest of the pursuers, strung back half the length of the field, were no longer to be reckoned with. There was a thumping of swift feet at Dick’s side and he looked around into the set, intent face of the Phillipsburg player. The latter meant to swing past Dick and then, with a final burst of speed, bring Findley to earth before the goal-line was reached. But Dick had other views. Slowing imperceptibly, he let the enemy run even, as he did so catching a questioning look from a pair of wide, straining eyes. Then he swung quickly to the right, shoulders hunched, and went sprawling over and over on the ground. And with him went the enemy. And staggering, almost falling, Findley, the pigskin clutched tightly now to his stomach, crossed the last white line and sank gratefully to the turf. Somewhere, a great distance away as it seemed to him, there was a subdued roar that sounded like “_Findley! Findley! Findley!_” Minutes later a nervous, anxious youth by name of Trask directed the pointing of a ball in the none too steady fingers of Dick, the latter lying on hip and elbow close to the twenty-yard line. So much depended on that goal that Trask had at first mutinously refused to attempt it and had only consented when convinced that no one else on the team dared even try. Trask was very deliberate and many times Dick’s hands moved this way or that in obedience. Behind Trask the referee knelt on one knee with upraised hand. Then, when Dick thought that in just one more second he would have to yell, there came a firm, quiet “Down!” from Trask, the referee’s hand dropped swiftly earthward, a brown object swung past Dick’s eyes and the ball was gone. Still poised on hip and elbow, Dick’s eyes followed the revolving oval. Very slowly it mounted upward, seemed to wobble uncertainly against the blue sky, veered erratically to the right as though making straight for a post and then began to fall. Dick’s heart sank like a leaden weight. Trask had kicked too short! Then the ball suddenly went upward again as though struck from beneath and a din of cheers and shouts broke the long minutes of silence. “Struck the bar and went over!” someone shouted and Dick’s heart leaped upward again as swiftly as the ball had bounded from the cross-bar. The Phillipsburg players ended their leaping charge and with downcast faces walked past as Dick jumped to his feet. Someone thumped him tremendously on the back and almost sent him sprawling to earth again, and Trask’s voice howled hoarsely: “Got to hold ’em now, Bates! Got to hold ’em, old man! It’s our game if we can hold ’em!” “We’re going to!” answered Dick with a world of confidence in his voice. “We’re going to hold ’em, Trask! It’s our day! Come on!”