A few minutes later, when goal had been tried for and missed, when cheers were hurtling up at a shadowing sky and the field of battle was a mad scene of Yardley rejoicing, Toby, rather the worse for wear, got to his feet, assisted by Arnold and Tubb, while about them an impatient mob waited to seize them and carry them off. He cast an apologetic look at Arnold.
“I’m awfully sorry, Arn,” he panted.
“Sorry for what?” demanded the other.
“That fourth down. I wanted you to have the ball, Arn, but I didn’t dare. You were too done up. It had to be Heming, honest!”
“Oh, forget it, old dear! Of course it had to be Heming! What do you suppose I care? We won, didn’t we?”
“Did we?” exclaimed Tubb exultantly. “Did we! Why, say——”
“Then that’s all right,” said Toby happily. “I was afraid——”
But Toby’s fear was never voiced then, for the waiting mob descended on them and rude hands hoisted them aloft, and Toby, bobbing about above the heads of the laughing, shouting, pushing throng, knew for a moment a joy of triumph as great as Alexander’s after the Battle of Issus!
THE END