"They’ll never catch that fellow!" cried a man. "There isn’t a man in the county who can run with him!"
Indeed, Rogers was a wonderfully swift runner, and now he was covering ground at a great rate. He laughed inwardly at the thought of the ease with which he would secure a touch-down. Then behind him he heard the thud-thud of flying feet, and he gathered himself for a supreme effort.
The witnesses had been astounded to see a slender youth start after Rogers with great speed, and swiftly gain on the runner.
"It’s Merriwell!" was the cry, for by this time nearly every person on the field had learned the name of the youth who had done such splendid work for Fardale in the first half.
"He can’t run down Rogers!" roared a man.
"He’s doing it!" ejaculated another, in amazement. "Run, Rogers—run!"
Rogers did run, but he could not get away from those thudding footfalls, which came nearer and nearer.
With set teeth and flashing eyes, Dick Merriwell ran down the flying lad with the ball. Drawing close, Dick prepared for the most difficult sort of a tackle. Of a sudden he seemed to shoot his body headlong through the air. His hands fell on Rogers’ hips, slipped to the knees, clung like hooks of iron, and down came the astonished runner on Fardale’s twenty-yard line.
CHAPTER IX.
IN THE LAST DITCH.
The visiting witnesses shrieked till they were hoarse as crows and their faces were almost black.