l in, in the expectation of another try
through tackle-end hole. As Joel got safely by it is more than likely
that he found added satisfaction in the feat as he recalled that remark
of Dutton's the week before: "What were you doing, you idiot?"

Joel got safely by Dutton, and fooled the sprightly Prince, but very
nearly ran into the arms of Kingdon, who missed his tackle by a bare six
inches. Then the race began. Joel's path lay straight down by the side
line. The field followed him at a distance, and the most he could hope
for was a touch-down near the corner of the field, which would require
a punt-out.

"Ain't that Joel?" cried Mr. March, forgetting his grammar and his
dignity at one and the same moment, and jumping excitedly to his feet.
"Ain't that Joel there running? Hey? They can't catch him. I'll lay Joel
to outrun the whole blame pack of 'em. Every day, sir. Hey? What?"

"I think he's all right, sir, for a touch-down," answered West gayly.
"Hello, there's Blair leaving the bunch. Tally-Ho!"

"I don't care if it's a steam-engine," shouted Mr. March, "he can't--I
don't know but as he's gaining a little, that fellow. Eh?"

"Looks like it," answered West, while Mrs. March, with her hand on her
husband's arm, begged him to sit down and "stop acting so silly."

"Geewhillikins!" cried Mr. March, "Joel's caught! No, he's
not--yet--Eh?--Too bad, too bad. Run, Joel, he's got ye!" Suddenly Mr.
March, who had almost subsided on his seat, jumped again to his feet.

"Here! Stop that, you fellow! Hi!" He turned angrily to Outfield, his
eyes blazing. "What'd he knock him down for? Eh? What's he sitting on my
boy for? Is that fair? Eh?"

West and Mrs. March calmed him down and explained that tackling was
quite within the law, and that he only sat on him to prevent him from
going on again; for Blair had cut short Joel's triumph fifteen yards
from the goal line, and the spectators of the soul-stirring dash down
the field were slowly settling again in their seats. Mr. March was
presently relieved to see Joel arise, shake himself like a dog coming
out of water, and trot back to his position.

Another five minutes, during which the scrub tried desperately to force
the ball over the Varsity's goal line, but without success, and the
match was over, and Briscom was happy; for the Varsity had scored but
once, and that on a fumble by the scrub quarter-back. Joel trotted off
with the teams for a shower and a rub-down, and West co