Singleton was not given sufficient time, the line being unable to resist Rivermouth’s charge, and his kick was therefore somewhat weak. However, Kent was on hand when Newton captured the ball, and Newton was promptly grassed thirty-eight yards from Fardale’s goal.
Again Rivermouth resumed her battering-ram style of playing, walking into the visitors with a fierceness that seemed irresistible, and steadily the ball advanced toward Fardale’s goal. In vain Fardale tried to stand up before these attacks. Her line seemed to melt and crumble, and gain after gain was made.
It must be confessed that Frank Merriwell was far from easy when he saw this. Captain Nunn appealed to his men when the ball was down less than eleven yards from the goal.
"We must stop it right here!" he said.
But they didn’t. Rivermouth’s next assault gave her full five yards.
"It’s all up with Fardale!" said Zeb Fletcher. "Those chaps are playing horse with us now."
And no one had the heart to contradict him.
With their hearts in their mouths, the Fardale witnesses watched, expecting the next attack of the enemy would mean a touch-down. But Fardale stiffened up enough to stop the foe within two yards of the line.
Then a lucky thing happened—lucky for Fardale. Rivermouth fumbled the next pass, and Brad Buckhart dropped like a load of pig iron upon it, having come through the line in one irresistible surge.
"Whoa-up!" grated the Texan Maverick. "I reckon this here business is getting somewhat monotonous! It’s our turn to do a little hustling, and we’re going to hustle!"