nt runs by Buller, Jackson, and Evans
took the fight into the enemy's country, and kept it there. It seemed
as if the visitors meant scoring again, when a sudden change occurred in
the state of affairs. It was but three minutes off the calling of time
when Tookey, one of the Scotch quarter-backs, got hold of the ball, and
made a magnificent run, passing right through the opposing forwards and
quarters. He was collared by Evans, but immediately threw the ball
behind him. Dimsdale had followed up the quarter-back and caught the
ball when it was thrown backwards. Now or never! The lad felt that he
would sacrifice anything to pass the three men who stood between him and
the English goal. He passed Evans like the wind before the half-back
could disentangle himself from Tookey. There were but two now to oppose
him. The first was the other English half-back, a broad-shouldered,
powerful fellow, who rushed at him; but Tom, without attempting to avoid
him, lowered his head and drove at him full tilt with such violence that
both men reeled back from the collision. Dimsdale recovered himself
first, however, and got past before the other had time to seize him.
The goal was now not more than twenty yards off, with only one between
Tom and it, though half a dozen more were in close pursuit. The English
back caught him round the waist, while another from behind seized the
collar of his jersey, and the three came heavily to the ground together.
But the deed was done. In the very act of falling he had managed to
kick the ball, which flickered feebly up into the air and just cleared
the English bar. It had scarcely touched the ground upon the other side
when the ringing of the great bell announced the termination of the
match, though its sound was entirely drowned by the tumultuous shouting
of the crowd. A thousand hats were thrown into the air, ten thousand
voices joined in the roar, and meanwhile the cause of all this outcry
was still sitting on the ground, smiling, it is true, but very pale, and
with one of his arms dangling uselessly from his shoulder.

Well, the breaking of a collar-bone is a small price to pay for the
saving of such a match as that. So thought Tom Dimsdale as he made for
the pavilion, with his father keeping off the exultant crowd upon one
side and Jack Garraway upon the other. The doctor butted a path through
the dense half-crazy mob with a vigour which showed that his son's
talents in that directio