“Give it to me! Give it to me! Give it to me!”
He had nearly got it. Somebody pulled him back, and he struggled in his grasp.
“Let me to the ball,” he besought, sobbing with bitterness. “Oh, let me to the ball.”
So they stood back and let him to the ball. Rouse had signed to them.
He had it at last.
He smiled gleefully. He begun to trot up the field like a pup with a slipper. He looked from side to side as if for applause, began to raise his knees higher and higher from the ground. Rouse ran joyously beside him, pointing out the distant goal-line as if it were a promised land and instructing him what to do.
He was delighted beyond measure. He did not know that everybody was standing about the field watching him go, and trying to throttle hysteric laughter. He thought that he was the hero of the hour. At last they were nearly there. It was a good thing because he was beginning to puff.
“HE BEGAN TO TROT UP THE FIELD LIKE A PUP WITH A
SLIPPER.”
“Put it on that line,” said Rouse. “Put it down there, then touch it down.”