"Hold 'em! Hold 'em!" was the Roxley cry. But it was not to be. The yard became two, and then the leather went over with a rush.
"A touchdown! A touchdown for Brill!"
"Now make it a goal!" was the cry, and a goal it became, the Brill quarter-back doing the kicking.
From that moment on the battle waged with a fury seldom seen on any gridiron. Brill, from almost certain defeat, commenced to scent a victory, and went into the play regardless of physical consequences. Tom had his thumb wrenched and Dick had his ankle skinned, but neither gave heed to the hurts. Indeed, they never noticed them until the game was at an end.
And then came Dick's hour of triumph. How he got the ball from the burly Roxley right guard nobody could exactly tell afterward but get the ball he did, and rounded two rival players before they knew what was up. Then down the field he sped, with his enemies yelling like demons behind him, and his friends on the benches encouraging him to go on. He saw nothing and heard nothing until on the grandstand he perceived a slender girlish form arise, wave a banner, and fairly scream:
"Dick! Dick! Run! run! run!"
"It's Dora," he thought. "Dora sees me! She wants me to win!"
It was the last bit of inspiration he needed, and as a Roxley full-back came thundering up to him he threw the fellow headlong. Then straight as an arrow from a bow he rushed for the goal line, crossed it, and sank limply down in front of the grandstand.
"Hurrah for Dick Rover!"
"Say, wasn't that a dandy run?"