“That’s the way to hold ’em! We’ve got ’em now! They don’t dare to kick!”
“Third down! Six to go!”
“Line up, fellows! You’ve got to put it over! Get down there, Best! Kick formation! Burtis——”
But Holmes paused, for Kendall was whispering to him.
“A field goal will only tie it, Holmes,” said Kendall eagerly. “They’re looking for a kick. Let me try a run around the left end. Their ends are away in. I can do it! Fake a kick, Holmes, and let me try it!”
For an instant Holmes hesitated. Then, with a flash in his eyes, “All right! But I’ll get the dickens if we lose the ball, Burtis. You’ve got to make it go, remember!”
“I will,” answered Kendall grimly.
“Kick formation! Burtis back! Do your best, fellows! Remember last year!” Then came the signals and Kendall saw the sudden look of surprise in Greene’s face as he shifted a few inches nearer the play. Cousins edged out a step, the opposing end eyeing him doubtfully. Then Best shot the ball back and Kendall, standing near the twenty-yard line, caught it. Snuggling it close in his injured elbow, he darted to the left. Then the field was in movement, the two teams racing between him and the goal. Luckily the Yardley line had held firmly, and in the second between his catching of the ball and the discovery of the play by the opponents Kendall had gained three good strides. The interference formed a moving wall between him and the pursuit as he pounded across the slippery turf. The only thing he feared was to miss his footing.
“In! In!” shrieked Holmes, sending a Nordham man sprawling, and Kendall, swinging to the right, made for the goal-line. A red-sleeved figure sprang in front of him, and Kendall’s right arm went out, there was a shock and the red sleeves slipped from view. One more white line passed under his feet. The air was filled with shouts. One of his own men stumbled into his path and went down. Kendall sprang over him, slipped, found his stride again, and looked into the wild, wide eyes of the Nordham quarter. Out went the straight arm again, but the quarter darted aside and sprang. His hands clutched at Kendall’s hips as the latter pivoted. The quarter’s hands slid from the slippery, rain-soaked canvas and closed like a vise about one leg. Kendall, gasping for breath, struggled on, that dead weight sliding behind him. He had lost all sense of location and had no idea how near to the goal-line he was. His only thought was to go on and on, somehow, as long as they would let him. Then a long red arm shot across his chest, a body banged against him, and he fell to one knee, clutching the ball desperately with both hands. He struggled to rise again, felt himself being pulled backward, resisted to the limit of his strength, and finally squirmed forward, burying his face in the cold, wet grass just as the whistle shrilled.