It was Yardley’s ball on third down near her twenty, with five to go. Snowden got four of that five and then two more, making it first down on the twenty-five. Then began a march up the field that is still spoken of with bated breath at Yardley. It was a march against time. To the middle of the field went the Blue without a halt. Substitutes went into the opposing line and back-field, but still Yardley advanced. Snowden was the hero of that advance, Snowden first and then Deering, for it was Arnold who got away from Broadwood’s forty-four and plunged onward to her twenty-six. And after that it was Snowden again and then Lamson and again Snowden, and the teams were on the twelve yards. Broadwood was fighting for time, delaying all she dared. The two minutes had been announced when Toby gave the ball to Snowden for a final slide off tackle on the left that, if it went right, would place the ball well in front of the goal. And it did go right, although it took the last ounce of Snowden’s strength and he had to be literally carried off the field.
Watson was hustled on in his place and Yardley was cheering wildly, exultantly for a score. The ball lay just over the ten-yard line now. Four downs would spell victory or defeat. Less than a minute remained. Fanning, almost ready to drop in his tracks, whispered hoarsely of a drop-kick. Toby, seeing his condition, knew he would never make it and shook his head. Fanning didn’t insist. Perhaps he was a bit relieved that he need not make the effort.
“We’ll put it over,” declared Toby confidently. “We can do it!”
But Broadwood had massed her defenses solidly and when, fighting now against time as well as against the enemy’s desperate resistance, Deering had plunged to the left off tackle with scarcely a yard to show for it, Toby’s confidence was disturbed. The Broadwood stand cheered relievedly, exultantly. Tired warriors staggered to position. A babel of shrill cries arose, the referee’s dominating all.
“Second, and nine to go!”
Toby studied the opposing defense, a forward pass in mind, but Broadwood was set for such a trick. It would never go, and if it failed the Green would have the ball as sure as shooting. The pigskin was opposite the left hand goal-post now and, lest a field-goal should prove the last resort, it must be kept centered. Toby thought hard and fast and then shrilled his signals. Heming, who had taken Snowden’s place, hurled himself at the living wall and floundered into it for nearly two yards. Broadwood and Yardley cheers mingled.
“Roover back!” yelped Toby. “67—33—21!” He looked about at the drawn, intense faces of the three backs. “Make it good! 67—33—21—111——”
Toby slapped the ball into Roover’s arms, dug in behind him and followed, floundering, pushing, panting. The Green’s defense wavered, gave, held again. Grunts and groans and hoarse breathings filled the air, and through them the shrill piping of the whistle came.
“Third and seven to go!”