. Pryor ran back to
cover the left of the field. Roy heard the signals called and then saw
the Ferry Hill forwards plunge through in an endeavor to block the kick.
Then the ball was arching up against the darkening sky. For a moment it
was impossible to judge of the direction. Then Roy was running to the
right and back up the field. It was a splendid punt and must have
covered all of fifty yards, for when it settled into Roy's arms he was
near his own thirty-five-yard line.

For once the tuckered Hammond ends were slow in getting down and for a
moment Roy had an open field. With Pryor leading he dashed straight up
the middle of the gridiron. At least he would put the ball back in
Hammond territory. Ten yards, and then Pryor met the first of the enemy.
Roy swerved and dodged the second. Then the foe was thick in front of
him. The Ferry Hill players turned and raced beside him, forming hasty
interference, and for a while he sped on unmolested to the wild shrieks
of the watchers. Then the Hammond left half broke through and dove at
him. Somehow, in what way he could never have told, he escaped that
tackle, but it had forced him toward the side of the field. The
fifty-five-yard line was behind him now. Back of him pounded the feet of
friend and foe alike; ahead of him were the Hammond right half and
quarter, the former almost at hand. Roy edged a bit into the field, for
the side-line was coming dangerously near. Then he feinted, felt the
half-back's clutch on his knee, wrenched himself loose and went
staggering, spinning on. He had recovered in another five yards and was
running swiftly again. He had little fear of being caught from behind,
for he believed himself a match for any runner on the Hammond eleven,
but in front of him was Pool, coming up warily with eager outstretched
hands, striving to drive him out of bounds. Roy cast an anxious glance
toward the goal-line and his heart leaped. Already he was passing the
thirty or twenty-five-yard line and the final white streak looked
encouragingly near. Then he shifted the ball to his right arm and turned
acutely toward the middle of the field. Pool was directly in his path
now as Roy, fighting for breath, sped on straight for the goal. For one
brief instant of time the quarter's eyes burned into his. Then the
decisive moment had come, and Roy, taking a deep breath, gathered
himself. Forward shot the enemy in a splendid diving tackle, clutching
fingers outspread. But the fing