The Elmwood line wavered. Could it hold?
Tom Fairfield, a mist before his eyes, saw the pigskin rolling toward him. He picked it up on the jump. In another moment Jack Fitch and Joe Rooney, his guard, had torn a hole in the opposing line.
“Come on, Tom!” yelled Jack hoarsely.
And Tom, with lowered head, with the ball held close to his breast, plunged into the line. He hit it hard. It yielded. He went through with a rush, pushed by Jack and Joe. Then, seeing but a single man between himself and the coveted goal, he rushed for it.
All but the opposing full-back had been drawn in at the sight of the fumble, and the chance to secure the ball. Tom rushed at this lone player.
There was a shock. Tom reeled, but managed to retain his footing. He shoved the full-back aside, and ran on.
“Oh, great!” he heard hundreds yell. “Go on! Go on!”
How he ran! It was the opportunity for which he had waited. In spite of Sam Heller it had come to him. Over the white chalk marks Tom scudded, until, with panting breath, with a heart that seemed bursting, and with eyes that scarcely saw, he fell over the last line, and planted the ball between the goal posts, making the winning touchdown. The other players—his own and his opponents—straggled up to the last mark. The whistle blew, ending the game.
“Oh wow!” shrilled hundreds of voices. “Elmwood! Elmwood! Elmwood forever!”
“Tom, you won the game! You won the game!” yelled Jack in his chum’s ear, as Tom got up, holding his foot on the ball. “You won in spite of Sam!”