“First down!” called the referee.
“Line up, fellows!” shrieked Evan. “Get a move on! Lower, you right tackle. Now make this go, fellows. Put it over! Devens back!” Gus fell from his place and formed into the tandem. “73—34—24—14—8—6—”
Straight at the center of the enemy charged the tandem, Hover snuggling the ball to his stomach and grunting like an enraged bull as the lines met. Forward he went; some one went down before him and seized one knee; he struggled on grimly, dragging the enemy with him; for a moment he was stopped; then something gave in front and he went falling, staggering over the line for the touchdown amid the wild shouts of Riverport.
It was all over shortly after Hinkley had kicked goal, and the team was borne off the field on the shoulders of as joyously mad a throng of fellows as ever yelled themselves hoarse over a victory.
Four hours later Evan slipped out of the dining-room into the arms of a waiting crowd that filled the corridor from side to side.
“Who’s elected, Kingsford?” they cried as they surrounded him.
“Hopkins proposed Rob,” he cried, “and—”
“Good stuff!”
“Bully for Hop!”