Appel’s voice brought him out of his amazed thoughts. He looked for the white sweater, found it and slipped into the line. A whistle blew again and—well, after that he was very busy. The game went on, hard, gruelling. Alton advanced and retreated, Kenly won ground and lost it. The ball hurtled through the air, feet pounded the turf, bodies rasped together, tired lungs fought for breath and aching legs for strength. The third period came to an end, the score unchanged.
Leonard was playing better than he had ever played, better than he had thought himself capable of playing. His victories were not easily won, for his opponent was a big, hard-fighting fellow, but won they were. The right side of the Alton line was still holding firmly, and it continued to hold right up to those last few minutes of the game when the Cherry-and-Black, desperate, reinforced with fresh players, ground her way inexorably to the twenty-yard-line and, with Kenly throats imploring a touchdown, thrice threw her attack at the enemy line and was thrice repulsed almost under the shadow of the Alton goal.
The end was close then, the time-keeper had his eyes on his watch more often than on the game and all hope of a touchdown by rushing tactics was abandoned by the home team. Either a pass over the line or a field-goal must serve. Thus far Kenly’s forward-passes had almost invariably failed, and this fact doubtless brought the decision to try for a tied score rather than a victory. At all events, Kenly placed her drop-kicker back, arranged her defenses and set the stage for the final act. The kicker was on the twenty-seven yards, no great distance now that the breeze had died away. The signal came, the ball shot back, the lines met.
[Then it was that Leonard had his great moment]. He went through, the first of his line to start when the ball was passed, the only one to penetrate that desperate wall in front of the kicker. Quite alone he charged, almost in the path of the ball. An enemy was met and evaded with a quick swing to the left. Hands clutched him, but too late. He was off his feet now, arms upstretched, leaping high in the air. Something swam toward him against the sunset light, brown and big, turning lazily in its flight. An arm swept into its path. Leonard was down in a writhing mass, had found his feet, was tossed aside. The battle was up the field now, back near the thirty-five-yard line. Leonard scrambled breathlessly up and staggered in the wake of the swarming players. A whistle blew and a voice, the referee’s, was shouting:
“Alton’s ball! First down!”
They were back in the hotel, the cheering and the tumult left behind for the while. The dressing room was crowded, full of confusion and excitement. Every one was talking, laughing, shouting at once. A wonderful sense of complete happiness held Leonard as he tugged at his laces. Just then it seemed as though nothing could ever possibly happen that would matter one bit. They had beaten Kenly Hall! And he had helped! Fellows were bumping into him, fairly walking over him, but he didn’t mind. He didn’t mind even when some one placed a big hand at the back of his head and bore down until it hurt. He looked up when he could, though. It was Gordon Renneker. Leonard sought for words, beautiful, big, round, insulting words, but the best he could do was only:
“You—you blamed old faker!”
Renneker rumpled Leonard’s damp hair rudely, grinning down.
“Fifty-fifty,” he said.