Hollister seemed to hesitate and falter. The full back prepared to tackle. His broad back was bent far over, his sturdy legs squared themselves, and, when Bob was almost within his reach, he dove forward.
There was a sudden gasp from the spectators, a breathless hush, and then a thunderous roar of joy, as Hollister leaped high in the air, cleared the hooking arms, stumbled, got his balance again, and ran on, free, the ball still cupped in the curve of his arm.
The momentary pause had served to bring the foremost of the other pursuers almost to Bob’s heels.
And now the plucky end began to feel the effects of his strenuous work. His breath came irregularly, his throat was parching, his legs ached with every bound, but still he never wavered. Behind him sounded the thud of relentless feet. He dared not look back lest he stumble. Every second he expected to feel the clutch of the enemy. Presently he gave up trying to breathe; it was too hard. His head was swimming and his lungs seemed bursting.
Then his wandering faculties rushed back at a bound as he fancied he felt a touch—just the lightest fingering—and, gathering all his remaining strength, he increased his pace for a few steps.
The ten-yard line passed, slowly, reluctantly.
“One more,” he thought. “Only one more!”
The great stands were hoarse with shouting, for here ended the game.
Nearer and nearer crept the five-yard line; nearer and nearer crept the pursuers. Once more Hollister called upon his strength, and tried to draw away, but it was useless. And, with the goal line but four yards distant, stout arms were clasped tightly around his waist.
One—two—three strides he made. The goal line writhed before his dizzy sight. Relentlessly the clutching grasp fastened tighter and tighter about him like bands of steel, and settled lower and lower until his legs were clasped and he could move no farther. Despairingly he thrust the ball out at arm’s length, and tried to throw himself forward; the trampled turf rose to meet him, and then blackness came.