And then came one of the surprises of football. The people on the stands were holding their breaths in anxiety, each individual almost praying for his particular team. It looked bad for Kentfield, as she was being steadily shoved back, and the time was fast passing. It seemed that she would either be beaten, or that a tie game would result, necessitating another conflict. Haskell gave orders for a fake kick, and so often had he worked that play during the game that Dick's men at once were aware of what was going to happen. Around the end of the line came smashing the Blue Hill full-back who had taken the ball from his left half-back. Right around he came, but Dick was there to tackle him. With all the fierceness and energy of which he was capable the young millionaire sprang at his man. They came down together. The ball rolled from the full-back's arms at his impact with the earth, and like a flash Dick saw his chance. He was up in an instant, had grabbed the leather, tucked it under his arm and was racing down the field toward the goal of his enemies. He had a ninety yard run ahead of him, and the Blue Hill full back was waiting for him with open arms. How he got past Dick never knew, but those watching saw him fiercely bowl over his opponent like a tenpin. Then on and on he sprinted, while a wild riot of yells from the grandstands urged him forward. On and on he ran--on and on. His breath was rasping through his clenched teeth--his legs seemed like sticks of wood, that were somehow actuated by springs which were fast losing their power. "Can I do it?" he gasped. Then he answered himself. "I'm _going to do it_!" He heard the pounding of feet behind him, but he dared not look back. On he kept. Chalk mark after chalk mark passed beneath his vision. At last he ceased to see them. He looked for the goal posts. They seemed miles away, but were gradually coming nearer through a mist. He felt someone touch him from behind. He heard the panting breath of a runner--he felt his jacket scraped by eager fingers, but he kept on. Then, when he had no more breath left; when it was all black before his eyes, he crossed the last line--fairly staggered over it and fell with the ball in the final touchdown--the score that won the game--for the whistle blew as his men and their enemies were running up. Dick had won the championship. CHAPTER XXXI THE TROLLEY STOCK--CONCLUSION The grandstands were trembling and swaying under the foot-stamping, yelling crowd that enthusiastically cheered the victorious Kentfield cadets. Dick felt as if it was all a dream until he found himself half lifted to his feet and felt his comrades clapping him on the back, yelling congratulations in his ears, while a dozen or more were trying to shake his hand at once, for the gridiron had been overwhelmed by a riotous throng of substitutes and spectators as soon as the final whistle blew. "Oh, Dick! Dick!" cried Paul, limping up to his chum.