Rogers dropped back from the line, the ball was snapped, a hole was torn right through Fardale’s center, and the captain of the home team once more sprinted for the cadets’ goal.
As on the previous occasion, Dick Merriwell was passed, and Rogers seemed to have a clear field when one of the interferers blocked the attempt of Bob Singleton to make a tackle.
"He’ll never catch me this time!" breathed Rogers, as he gathered himself and ran as fast as it was possible for him to cover ground.
Never in all his life had he tried harder than at that moment; but, to his untold amazement, he again heard those thudding feet behind him.
Was it possible Merriwell was in close pursuit? Perhaps it might be one of his own team.
Rogers was unable to resist the desire to turn his head and see. He did so, and his heart leaped into his throat, for bearing down upon him was the same Fardale lad who had tackled him and spoiled the success of his previous run.
Then it seemed to dawn on Rogers that behind him was a lad who could outrun him in any kind of a race. However, he kept on, expecting to feel at any moment those gripping hands.
He was not disappointed. Something touched him, clutched his legs, and down he went with a shock that drove the breath from his body—a shock that must have injured him seriously had he not been a trained athlete in excellent condition.
For a second time in that half Dick Merriwell had made a masterly and wonderful running-tackle. For a second time the witnesses roared forth his name.
Of course, Dick’s enemies were disgusted, and none was more disgusted than Zeb Fletcher.