“It’s Darrell’s turn,” thought Dick. “He ought to get through for a gain. If we can only keep it up!”
But Darrell was stopped and tackled by Wettinger, who carried him back for a loss of three yards. He tried again, but lost two yards more. Then somebody gave Dick the tip that the half was almost up. It seemed that the game would end in a tie.
A word from Dick. What was going to happen? The cadets were breathless. They stood up and stared in silence. Even the band was still.
“A field-kick!” cried some one.
That was it! Franklin was preparing for it. They saw Dick Merriwell was going to try to kick a goal from the thirty-five-yard line.
“Right through there!” grated Hickman, as the Franklin players crouched and prepared to leap forward like tigers. “Spoil it! spoil it!”
The ball was snapped and passed to Dick, and the enemy slammed into Fardale’s line with the fury of so many famished wolves.
It took nerve to kick that goal, but Dick was cool as an ice-cake in the midst of the excitement. He caught the ball, turned it in his hands so it could be dropped just right, and with those ravenous wolves breaking through and coming down on him he kicked.
Hundreds of necks were craned, hundreds of hearts seemed to stop beating, twice as many eyes watched the flight of the yellow ball. On and on it went, sailing gracefully over the bar, and a noise like breakers on a lee shore rose to heaven as Fardale realized the game was won.