Once more every spectator was standing, and from opposite sides of the field came cries of dismay and wildly palpitant shouts of joyous encouragement.
It was Boothby, the swift left half back of the locals, who slowly but surely cut down the man with the ball. Had Ben found it possible to run barely a trifle faster, he could have carried the pigskin over the line. As it was, he made a thrillingly sensational run, and Boothby, shooting at him from behind, brought him down less than fifteen yards from Clearport’s goal. Slammed to the ground, Stone held fast to the huge yellow egg, and the next he knew Eliot was patting him on the back and telling him how good he was.
With the two teams preparing for the scrimmage, the Oakdale captain moved up and down behind the line, touching first one and then another of his comrades as he urged them to get into the play like fiends.
“We’ve got to do it right now,” said Roger, “and we can.”
Panting, Stone heard Sage calling the signal, and at the sound of the key number every nerve in his body went taut as a bow-string; for it was the play by which the most effective gains had been made in the first half—Hayden was to go through Clearport’s right wing with the ball. Ben knew he was expected to make the opening for the runner. If the work was well done, there was a chance that Bern might cover the remaining distance and secure a touchdown.
The remembrance of what had happened at the very finish of the first half struck Stone like a blow between the eyes. He doubted not that it was Hayden who had slugged him, yet now he was expected to assist that fellow in a play which might give him the glory of winning the game.
Winning the game—that was it! that was everything! Nothing else counted. The fellow who would let a personal grudge interfere was not worthy to wear an Oakdale uniform.
Tuttle snapped the ball, and Stone went at Carney like a thousand of brick. Already the Irishman had been led to respect his opponent, and, even though his backbone had weakened not a whit, he could not withstand the charge which swept him from his pins and spun him aside.
Sleuth Piper did his part by taking care of Morehead, and, his teeth set, Hayden came through that opening. It was Oakes who had seemed to anticipate the play, and Oakes who flung himself at Hayden; but it was Stone, interfering for the runner, who was brought down by the right half back of the locals. He had leaped forward in the tackler’s path just in time to save Bern.
What a shriek of joy went up from those who bore the crimson banners! How those red flags waved! For Hayden had crossed the line, and the touchdown was made.