"Hold them, hold them, hold them!"
"Gee whiz! if Hillard doesn't stop those circus stunts," said the Wee One, "you might as well send for the ambulance right away. I'll die of heart failure. Did you ever see such luck that he recovered it?"
"They ought to put tacks to his fingers, and see if they couldn't get him to hold the ball that way," grumbled Gleason.
"A basket would be better for him."
"No, it wouldn't, he'd lose the basket."
The ball now lay about Warwick's 35-yard line, and so far Queen's had all the best of the battle, but it must be admitted that Queen's also had had all the luck. But by good luck and some skill the eleven had made good progress, and it really began to appear as if they could hold the big fellows from up the river. The hope in the Queen's stand was doomed to quick disappointment, for on the next play Dutton made a scant yard just outside of tackle, and Boston Wheeler could do no better than another yard through the weak centre. It was third down and yards still to go, so Dixon signalled a drop kick.
"It's all off now," groaned the Codfish, "we haven't a drop kicker on the whole squad. More's the pity."
"Well, let's all pray that he gets it over even if he kicks it with his knee. They're getting ready. Steady now. Oh, Lord,—hurray, hurray, it's over!"
The ball came straight and fast, and although the Warwick players seemed to be surging all around and over him, Boston Wheeler somehow got it away, a most slovenly kick, but the ball rose out of the ring of grasping arms, and went in a wobbling fashion in the direction of the goal, struck on the cross-bar and jumped over.
The Queen's cheering section was making the place echo with its yell: