Harvard admirers roared from all over the field. The crimson flaunted everywhere.
It looked like a sure touchdown for Harvard. Every Yale spectator held his breath in racking suspense.
Benjamin was flying over the ground. It seemed that his feet scarcely touched the turf.
Where is Yale now? What chance has she to stop the little fellow with wings on his feet?
Three seconds of suspense seemed like three hours of torture. It was awful!
A Yale man was after little Benjamin—was gaining! Could he stop the little fellow in time? It must be a tackle from behind, if at all, and the slightest slip would bring failure.
Behind them came all the others on the run, strung out raggedly.
Benjamin would make it—he was sure to make it. His pursuer could not reach him in time.
Then it seemed that the Yale man had springs in his legs, for he sailed over the ground like a frightened rabbit. He closed in on Benjamin and flung himself headlong at the little fellow.
Down slipped the tackler's hands, down from the hips to the knees, to the ankles. Down went Benjamin with a hard thump, stopped within three yards of Yale's line.