But Belden gained, too. Like Lakeville, when they couldn't advance the ball, they kicked. And so, for three full quarters and part of another, neither team was able to cross the other's goal line. Now, near the end of the final period, the two teams fought in the middle of the field. A scoreless tie seemed inevitable.
It was Lakeville's ball. As the players scrambled into position for the scrimmage, Captain Claxton held up his hand.
"How much longer?" he shouted toward the side lines.
"Four minutes to play," the timekeeper told him.
Buck groaned. They could never make it; they could never carry the ball over those countless lines of white to the goal beyond. True, they might go on smashing forward a yard or two at a time, even making their distances often enough to hold the ball, for Belden was clearly tiring; but it would take longer than four minutes to reach the last rib of the field. Buck felt suddenly weak and limp. He would never make that glorious touchdown of which he had dreamed each night of the past week.
"Well, don't quit!" he snarled at his quarterback.
Bunny stepped into position. "Line up!" he yelled shrilly. "Line up! Seven—four—six—two—ten!"
Buck's tired brain wrestled with the signal. It was a new play they had learned that past week, a double pass, with the quarterback eventually taking the ball. Well, why not? Bunny was fast enough, and there was no element of courage involved. Besides, in this desperate eleventh hour, it was high time for trick plays.
The ball was passed. As the Belden line braced for the onslaught, Buck swung in behind Bunny, took the soiled pigskin from him, ran with it toward the left end, and then slipped it backward into the boy's eager hands. The other team was jamming in front of the Lakeville captain, and he plunged head-down into the mass, to carry on the deception. As he slipped and fell, his ears caught the first rumble of a mighty cheer. Perhaps—