he Sloan players saw the ruse. Only Robertson was between the
swift running end and a score. With grim satisfaction, his face streaked
with perspiration, drawn and weary with the long hard struggle and the
yeoman part he had played in it, Robertson saw that the man with the
ball was the one player on the opposing side who had done most of the
unfair playing in trying to put Robertson out of the game. All of the
bitterness--all of the anger in his heart swelled up and he determined
to overtake the end, prevent the score and tackle the man so viciously
that he would be certain to break an arm or a leg. Robertson dug his
cleats in the spongy turf with a phenomenal burst of speed, rapidly
overtook his man, driving him meanwhile towards the sidelines.

At last the moment came. By making a flying tackle, which would be
illegal but which he hoped the referee would not see, Robertson could
get his man and get him in such fashion that he would have no chance of
escaping injury. Robertson crouched for the spring. A fierce light came
into his eyes. In a flash he saw the end whom he now hated with an
intensity that wiped every thought from his mind except that of revenge,
lying prone on the ground.

But even as he gloated over his revenge, the words of Bill Dawson came
to him, "Hold that man-eating temper of yours." In a lightning-like
conflict, the impulse to injure fought a desperate battle with the
instinct of clean playing. His decision was made in a moment. Instead of
making the vicious flying tackle, he ran all the faster, but the end was
too swift and had too great a lead. Amid the frantically jubilant shouts
of the Bliss rooters and the painful silence of the Sloan supporters the
end went across the line for a touchdown just as time was up.

A gloom pervaded the dressing rooms of the Sloan team after the game.
Robertson was in disgrace. Forgotten was the playing through most of the
game. Forgotten were his desperate tackles that had saved the game more
than once. Forgotten were the long runs and the hard line plunges that
time and again had made first downs for his team. Only the fact that he
had apparently failed in the last minute remained. Only Dawson and
Robertson knew that it was not cowardice, that most detested of all
things in athletics, in life itself, had caused Robertson to refuse to
make that last dangerous, illegal flying tackle.

But in the heart of Robertson there was a strange peace. Being human,
he natur