Benz placed his hand on Judd's broad back and strove to keep pace with him. He stumbled dizzily across two chalk marks and was vaguely aware of shaking off some tackler from behind. A few more steps. Everything was getting black! His hand pushed heavily against the lunging Judd, for support. Then, directly in front of Benz, danced the jeering face of Gordon! He felt Judd's body slide away from him—lost sight of Gordon. There was a dark, struggling mound at his feet! He made a desperate jump and cleared it; fell forward upon his knees; crawled a few paces; then pitched over upon his face.
When Benz came to himself the great game was all history. A howling mob was upon the field dancing about a huge bonfire which dispelled the falling darkness. A few of his team-mates surrounded him.
"If it hadn't been for my sprained ankle, fellows," sobbed Benz, "I'd have made that touchdown. I,—I kept up as long as I could but,—but,—"
"What are you talking about, man? You made a touchdown!" yelled a
Bartlett enthusiast.
"Me! Made a touchdown?" Benz was recovering fast now.
"Sure! You crawled over the goal line on your knees!"
"Zowie!—and then?"
"Rube kicked goal."
"Great snakes, … WE WON!"
Benz was too overjoyed and excited to speak.