The rival gladiators were facing each other near the centre of the field, though on Rockspur’s territory. It had been sharp work, but nothing of a sensational nature had taken place thus far. Sensations were to follow, however.
Rockspur had discovered that Highland’s centre was strong enough to stop the plays that had been aimed against it, and so the ball was flashed back to Sterndale, who punted beautifully, sending the pigskin into the grasp of Garrison; but the Highland left half was downed almost in his tracks by John Smith, and the referee’s whistle sounded.
Then the referee declared Highland had been off side when this play began, whereupon the visitors suffered a loss of ten yards, and the ball was carried back.
“Smith, you’re a corker!” Sterndale found time to say, and the tall boy who had once been called a hoodoo blushed in confusion.
Thus far the Rockspur boys had played with a savage determination that astonished the Highlanders, who, remembering the last game, counted on an easy victory; and now the home team began an attack that proved positively irresistible.
The ball was given to Scott, and, with it hugged tight, he lowered his head and bowled the terrible Powell over, making four yards. Right on top of this, he made one yard through Hartford and Davis, who were playing strong as left guard and centre.
Sterndale showed his fine white teeth in an approving way, and the signal that followed told his men he would make a try on the right end of the enemy’s line. The ball came flying back to him, and he smashed his magnificent body into Sawyer and Dickens, right guard and right tackle, gaining six yards and setting the entire gathering of spectators to yelling like wild Indians at a war dance.
There was hardly a lull, and now came the first hair-raising play of the game, and Don Scott was in it. Everything indicated that Sterndale rather foolishly contemplated a kick, so Highland braced for that kind of a play. It was a clever piece of strategy to fool the visitors that way, for Scott was given a third opportunity to show what he could do, and, with his head encased in some sort of helmet, which he had adjusted unseen, he took the ball and dashed off toward Highland’s right end. Ahead of him ran a wall of interferers, blocking off the Highland tacklers with the skill of veterans. With the line broken through, Scott still sped on. The backs were hurled aside, and yet he did not stop. Then it was seen that he would have an almost clear run to the enemy’s goal line, and every man and woman and child rose up and shrieked; but the cries from the crimson bleachers were those of alarm and horror.
Walker got past Renwood in some way and made a headlong flying tackle at the runner, but he missed, though his hands touched Don. Then it seemed that Highland’s last hope of preventing a touchdown had been lost.
The ten-yard line was reached, when from somewhere Davis bobbed up at the very heels of the runner. He got one hand on Don’s arm, and the desperate lad with the ball could not fling him off, though he tried. That hand went down as the other came forward, and both fastened like hooks upon Rockspur’s right half-back, dragging, him to earth exactly one yard from Highland’s goal line.