ers grasped empty air, for as he left the
ground, Roy, the ball clutched tightly against his breast, leaped upward
and forward, clearing him by a foot!

[Illustration: "Roy ... leaped upward and forward, clearing him by a
foot."]

From there to the goal-line was only a romp, although he had to fight
hard for breath and although the defeated right half-back was close
behind him all the way. Straight between the posts he staggered,
placed the ball on the turf and rolled over on his back beside it.
Somewhere they were cheering madly and nearer at hand people were
shouting. Then, recovering from his momentary giddiness, Roy opened his
eyes, shut them again because someone was slapping a great cold, wet
sponge over his face and then sat up. Someone gave him a hand and he got
on to his feet, swayed a little dizzily and then found himself in the
grip of what at first seemed a bear and afterwards turned out to be Jack
Rogers.

"You remembered your promise, Porter," Jack was saying softly, "and I'll
not forget mine. You're a trump!"

Pryor failed miserably at the try for goal, but who cared? Surely not
Jack Rogers, leading the cheer for his defeated rivals; nor Roy, dodging
his fellows as he tried to steal away to the gymnasium; nor Harry,
waving her brown and white flag and shrieking lustily; least of all the
throng of fellows who, with banners flying and tin horns sounding,
danced madly around the field in the November twilight.

CHAPTER IX

RED HAIR AND WHITE RABBITS

A fellow can't make a touchdown in the last thirty seconds of play, and
so win the game for his school, without affecting his position. No
matter what he was before, after that he's a hero and a saint and a
public benefactor all rolled into one. Roy's case was no exception. He
woke up Saturday morning a rather unimportant and quite unpopular
person. He climbed out of bed Sunday morning to find that,
metaphorically, the world was his! As soon as the bell had rung the
difference was apparent. There was no more dressing in silence, no more
waiting till the others were through for a chance at the wash-room. It
was "Morning, Porter! How are you feeling after it?" "Hello, Mr.
Quarter-back! How'd you sleep?" "Here, Stearns, get out of here and give
Porter a show; he's been waiting hours!" And in the midst of it Chub
came tumbling upstairs half dressed to sit on Roy's bed and delay
matters so that they barely scraped into dining hall between the closing