rew longer and longer. The Maroon-and-Grey, on the
eight yards now, was again demanding surrender.
Clint, with a swollen mouth and a piece of dirty surgeon's plaster
running slantwise above his right eye, panting for breath, bathed in
perspiration, watched his adversary as Carmine yelped his signals again.
Only eight yards to go and four downs to do it in. Clint scented
victory and his nerves grew tense as he waited. Then he was pushing and
wrenching and once more the hole was opened wide and once more Freer,
playing like a wildcat, smashed past him. Clint followed through, met a
Claflin back and sent him staggering aside. Freer, tackled but still
fighting, dragged himself on and on. And then the unexpected happened.
"_Ball!_"
The shout came frantically from somewhere and Clint saw the pigskin,
squeezed from the half-back's arms, bound into air. A blue-sleeved arm
shot toward it, and another, but the ball, bouncing away from an eager
hand, went, turning lazily over and over in its flight, toward the side
line. Clint turned swiftly and pursued, elbowed by others. He shot an
arm out to the left and cleared his path. Cries and pounding footsteps
came to his ears. Away rolled the ball, spurning the five-yard line,
seemingly bent on trickling out of bounds. A blue-jerseyed player tried
to edge past Clint, but the latter swung in front of him. Then he was on
the ball, and up again with it tucked against his stomach, and was
plunging toward the goal line, a scant six yards away! A Claflin man
dived at him and strove to pinion his knees, but with a wrench Clint
tore one leg free and staggered on another stride. Arms clutched him
about the shoulders and it seemed that he was pulling a ton of weight
with him. Then there was a shock, his legs went from under him and he
toppled to earth. But as he fell, and as the last breath in his body
seemed to leave him forever, he pushed the ball away from him at arm's
length and set his fingers about it like so many vises! And that was the
last he knew.
When he opened his eyes he was being sloshed with water from a big,
smelly sponge, and the trainer's little green eyes were above his.
"What is it?" he asked dazedly.
"It's a touchdown, my boy! A touchdown by a bare two inches! And how do
you feel?"
Clint smiled as he closed his eyes again for a moment and became aware
that the sound which had before seemed like the pounding of surf on the
shore was the steady cheering of Brimfi
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