For the ball was under him! It was over the line! He had made the touch-down!
Oh, how the stands vibrated with the yells, the cheers, the songs, the delirious leaping up and down, the stamping of feet and the clapping of hands! How the Fairview girls shrilly screamed their college cry! How it was caught up, swallowed and silenced by the booming cheers from the Randall cohorts!
For Randall had won. Even if she could not kick the goal, she had won, as there remained but one minute more of play. But the goal was kicked. Holly Cross saw to that, and then, with a final, useless kick-off, and after the final whistle had blown, the Randall players gathered together, their arms about each other, and cheered heartily and mightily for the victory.
Dutch was hoisted to the shoulders of his mates protestingly, and carried about. The Boxer Hall eleven was cheered, and they gave back a perfunctory, complimentary yell for their opponents. They had been beaten where they hoped to win. Beaten twice in the season by their former victims. It was humiliating.
“Here!” cried Holly Cross. “Up with Phil Clinton. He piloted the team to victory!”
“That’s right!” shouted Bricktop. “Up with him!”
But Phil was running toward the grandstand at top speed; toward the A section where, he had told Tom, Madge and Ruth sat.
“He’s hurrying to receive the congratulations of Madge,” thought Tom bitterly.
Holly Cross took after the fleeing quarter-back.
“Come here!” he cried.