“Kick the goal, and we’ll be one point ahead of them!” cried Bricktop Molloy to Holly. “Put all the power ye have to spare into your toe, me lad, and boost the ball over.”
“I’ll try,” promised the captain, but the wind had increased, and the pigskin struck the bar and bounded back. But the score was tied, and Randall felt that she was coming into her own.
“Fast and snappy play, now!” called Phil Clinton, and once more he passed his hand over his head. There was an air of desperation about him, and Tom noticed it.
“Maybe he’s feeling sick,” he thought, and he hurried over to his chum and asked him.
“I don’t feel just right,” answered Phil. “But I’m not sick. I’m all right. Don’t say anything. We’re going to win. We’re going to win!” he repeated fiercely. “I’m going to run the team to another touch-down. After that—after that,” he faltered—“well, it doesn’t matter, after that.”
The ball was kicked off. An exchange of punts followed the scrimmage, and Boxer Hall got the ball. Her players began some good work, but Randall was ready for it. Several of the best men were tackled so hard, though not unfairly, that time had to be taken out for them to recover. Then Pinstock had to retire because of a twisted ankle, but, to offset this, Jerry Jackson was knocked out and Everet took his place.
For a few minutes it seemed as if Boxer Hall was going up the field for another touch-down, but Randall braced in time. Then a sudden change appeared to come over Phil. He had been playing for all he was worth, but now he seemed a perfect whirlwind as he called snappily to his men to take the ball through. And they did it. Through holes torn first on one side between tackle and guard, or guard and center, and then on the other wing, Everet, Holly Cross or Kindlings butted their way. Phil varied this with some end runs and then called for his favorite play, the fake right-half back and tackle shift, when Kerr took the ball on the fly and went through the opposite side of his opponents’ line with it. The play netted fifteen yards, and placed the ball on Boxer Hall’s twenty-yard line.
The time was fast drawing to a close. Could Boxer hold the line sufficiently to prevent Randall from scoring again, making the game a tie? Or could Randall break through? Those were the questions every one was asking.
“Now, fellows, for the ‘Conquer or Die’ song,” called Bean Perkins, and during a silence that followed a brief consultation between Phil and Holly Cross there welled out over the gridiron the inspiring strains of “Aut Vincere Aut Mori!”
“Signal!” cried Phil, and he gave one for a forward pass. He got the ball off in good shape, but Nottingham, the burly guard of Boxer Hall, broke through, and jumped right at the quarter-back, hoping to break up the play. Phil went down under him, and when Kindlings had been stopped, after a few yards’ advance, the quarter-back did not get up.