But Grover had shot his bolt. He fell behind. Only his voice followed Fudge: “Run, Shaw! You’ve got it!” So poor Fudge, his short legs twinkling so fast that they became a mere purplish-yellow blur, ran! And behind him came friend and foe. Midfield now, and still uncaptured! Only fifty yards more! Only! The stand was shouting wildly. From the side lines, where raced shrieking partisans of the visitors, came cries of rage, of encouragement, of despair! One by one the High School interference, hastily formed but effective, performed their duty and fell behind, and now only one of the enemy pursued and only one of the High School players followed. At the forty yards Fudge was gasping painfully for breath. At the thirty he was ready, more than ready to give up. If only, thought Fudge, someone would pull him down! He resented the fact that he was allowed to run his legs off, and held it in for weeks against Danny Shores’ team that they had so easily allowed themselves to be put out of the running! At the twenty-yard line Fudge saw the goal-posts distinctly for the first time and the hope that perhaps, after all, he might reach them without dying first came to him and encouraged him. He never once looked back. He only hoped each moment that hands would seize him and pull him to earth. But Fudge’s hope was idle, for, near the fifteen-yard line, Farrar made a final despairing effort, flung himself in the path of the pursuing North Sider and together they subsided, too weak to move for many moments. And then, with the shouts of the spectators beating on his ears like the sound of distant surf, Fudge, unwilling hero of the contest, fell across the last white line and sank into peaceful coma! CHAPTER XV CORWIN WINS While Fudge, completely exhausted, was being restored to usefulness, Captain Nostrand converted the six points to seven by an easy goal. And before Fudge, assisted by admiring team-mates, had reached the bench the game was over, High School had won, 13 to 6, the North Siders were dejectedly leaving the field and Fudge had leaped into fame! A full eighty-five yards, they called that run, which, allowing for slight exaggeration born of enthusiasm, it was. But Fudge, with becoming modesty, insisted that it hadn’t been a foot over eighty-three! Back in the dressing-room, having recovered breath and presence of mind, Fudge rendered his version of the feat to a respectfully attentive audience. “I saw the fumble and tried to get through, but their center blocked me off and I had to crawl under him. I could almost reach the ball, but not quite; I touched it, I think. Then I dived across for it, knocking a couple of North Siders out of my way, and picked it up right under the nose of that fellow Wightson. My, but he was mad! Then I started down the field, and――――” “What did you stop for?” asked some one puzzledly.