“We’ve time to put it over,” he cried. “Line up, fellows!”
“Forty seconds!” called the linesman.
Holmes faltered and passed a hand over his face. Broadwood, jubilant, broke into exultant cries. “Hold them, Broadwood! It’s their last play! Stop this! Throw them back! Get under ’em!”
“Signals!” growled Holmes. “Kick formation! Burtis back!” He turned and viewed the positions. Greene and Brinspool were crouched already at the right, and Kendall, white-faced but steady, was raising his hands. “Get this, Burtis, and make it good, boy! Signals! 17-11-21!”
“Signals! Signals!” shrieked Greene, as Kendall’s heart leaped. Holmes darted a look of murder at the offending Greene.
“Signals!” he cried again, chopping out the numbers with hoarse barks. “17-89-31! 17-89——”
“Block this kick! Block it!” shrieked Broadwood.
Back swept the ball from between Best’s wide-set feet, back to Kendall at head-height. Up went his hands, out swung a leg and then, with the ball tucked in the crook of his left elbow, he was plunging across the field to his left, while shrieks and cries filled the air. It was the play that had won the Nordham game, a simple run from kick formation, a play easy to stop if expected, but likely to gain if not. And in this case Broadwood had looked for a kick, reasoning that Yardley had given up all idea of trying to win by rushing, that in the few seconds remaining she would try to mitigate her defeat by securing the three points that a goal from field would yield her. And Broadwood was napping on the right of her line. The brilliant Thurston who had made himself feared all through the game, who had spoiled more than one attempt at his end of the line, had crept in and up, desperately determined to get inside of the Yardley end and spoil the kick. It was Broadwood’s right half-back, Reid, who first scented the danger and started to intercept Kendall. Saunders pounded behind him. But the Yardley interference was well formed, well spaced and desperate. Reid went down with Holmes, and Greene blocked Saunders. At that instant Kendall turned in and leaped toward the goal-line, his right elbow locked and his arm stretched out to meet the foe. Six white lines lay between him and the goal. He crossed two in safety, Greene speeding beside him. Then the enemy swept upon him. Greene threw himself in the path of a frantic foe and went down, and Kendall ran alone.
Three white streaks danced before his eyes now. A form leaped at him, all blue-clad arms, and Kendall’s open hand flattened against a face and he was still free. Two lines more now, only two! A shock almost threw him from his feet; hands were clutching at his hips; he whirled on one heel, staggered and broke away; a form dashed in front of him, hands stretching upward; Kendall leaped and went over the falling foe; the last line was under foot! One stride—another!— Many hands fell upon him, dragging him down! He tried to shake free, but they were too many for him! He fell to his knees, [something crashed against him, driving the remaining breath from his body], and he toppled over on the turf, the old injury paining horribly and his lungs bursting for air.
