, who lay back between the goal posts. George saw, and turned
sharply, darting to the right. Suddenly he knew, because of that
over-anxiety of Yale, that he had a touchdown. Only the Yale quarterback
had a chance for the tackle, and he couldn't stop George in that
distance.

Out of the corner of his eye George noticed Goodhue standing to the
right and a little behind. He, too, must have seen the victorious
outcome of the play, and George caught in his attitude again that air of
a unique criminal. They'd hold that fumble against Dicky forever
unless--if Goodhue had the ball the Yale quarter couldn't even get his
hands on him until he had crossed the line.

"Dicky!"

The dejected figure sprang into action. Without weighing his sacrifice,
without letting himself think of the crime of disobeying a signal, of
the risks of a hurried throw or of another fumble, George shot the ball
across, then forged ahead and put the Yale quarterback out of the play,
while Goodhue strolled across the line and set the ball down behind the
goal posts.

As he went back to kick the goal George heard through the crashing
cacophony from the stands Goodhue's uncertain voice:

"Why didn't you make that touchdown yourself? It was yours. You had it.
You had earned it."

"It was the team's," George answered, shortly. "I might have been
spilled. Sure thing for you."

"You precious idiot!" Goodhue whispered.

As George kicked the goal there came to him again, across his pain, that
sensation of being on a road he had not consciously set out to explore.
He wondered why he was so well content.

Eternity ended. With the whistle and the crunching of the horn George
staggered to his feet. Goodhue and another player supported him while
the team clustered for a cheer for Yale. The Princeton stands were a
terrific avalanche descending upon that little group. Green tried to
rescue him, shouting out his condition; but the avalanche wouldn't have
it. It dashed upon him, tossed him shoulder high, while it emitted
crashing noises out of which his name emerged.

Goodhue was up also, and the others. Goodhue was gesturing and talking,
pointing in his direction. Soon Goodhue and the others were down. The
happy holocaust centred its efforts on George. Why? Had Goodhue given
things away about that touchdown? Anyhow, they knew how to reward their
servants, these people.

They carried George on strong shoulders at the head of their careening
procession. His daz