The fake-kick had failed to fool the enemy. Toby looked almost despairingly along the line, searching for some telltale sign in a Broadwood countenance that would hint of failing strength, but he saw none. Distress there was in plenty, but grim determination as well. Seven yards still to go and but two downs left! If only Snowden had remained to try the field-goal! Roover might do it, but Roover was spent and reeling. A horrid fear that failure was to be their portion took possession of Toby for an instant and his heart sank. But the instant passed and he raised his voice cheerfully, encouragingly:
“That’s the stuff, Yardley! One more like that and we’re over! They’re quitting! Get into this hard! Here’s where we win! Signals!”
Heming again, with Roover once more back in kicking position, Heming smashing at the opposing right guard, stopping, edging on, and again stopping, with every Broadwood defender massed before him, thrusting, grunting, fighting like mad. And again the whistle and the quick voice of the referee.
“Fourth down! Five and a half to go!”
“Twelve seconds!” shouted some one.
“Come on, Yardley!” shrieked Toby. “Get in there, Snow! Let’s finish it! You’ve got to do it this time! It’s your last chance, fellows! Hold that line now! Hold it! Roover back!”
The Broadwood defense widened, the backs spread, the ends poised to dash around on the kicker. And Toby, noting, was triumphant. Something had called back to memory that day when, volunteering to play quarter on the second and finding his mind blank of plays, he had unwittingly sent a half straight into the line and made the distance. It was the unexpected that won then, he reflected, and now it must be the unexpected to win again. Broadwood was certain that the enemy would not waste her last chance on a line assault with more than five yards to go. Broadwood looked for a try-at-goal or, failing that, a short, quick heave over the line. Toby looked around. A half must take the ball, for the play must go fast. He wanted Arnold, but Arnold was not fit for the task. Heming, fresher, his young face white with excitement and longing under the streaks of dirt, must make the attempt. Toby called the signals. The tense bodies stiffened. The ball shot back from center to Heming. Roover feigned to catch and kick. The Broadwood ends came racing in. Confusion reigned, [and in the very center of it, plunging, fighting], the Yardley ends and backs behind him, [was Heming].
Straight at center he had gone. There was no hole awaiting him, but the assault was so sudden, so unexpected that the enemy gave and he went smashing through. Then the Broadwood backs threw themselves to the rescue and the line held. For a moment the advance paused and the referee’s whistle went to his lips, and in that moment Roover charged in behind the struggling wedge, the mass moved forward again, a foot, a yard, faster, and yet faster! And then, suddenly the defense fell to pieces and Heming, his head and shoulders well above the sea of writhing bodies, shot forward and down and was gone from sight. And from the Yardley stands arose a straining shout that reached even Toby, buried deep in the wake of the victory!