Across the field Mount Morris is cheering slowly over and over and over. Only six minutes now. Here and there people are already leaving their seats, to the discomfort of others. Mount Morris’s ball on her forty-six yards. Rush—rush—rush—punt! That’s her game now. Hold them off! No score for either side! Back comes Grafton. Four yards—that was Winslow through tackle-guard on the left. Three yards more—that was Vail outside tackle. Third down and only three needed. Nick makes it on a delayed run, gets it by an inch only, but gets it! First down again on Grafton’s twenty. Hello, what’s this? A punt on first down? Not likely! A forward pass then. Yes! And made it, too!
Near the forty now and still going. But she’ll never get to the goal that way. There isn’t time enough. Three minutes left? Is that all? Why don’t they try another forward pass or run the ends? It’s the only way. Plugging the line will never—There he goes! He’s off! It’s Winslow! No, it’s Vail! Ten yards—fifteen—! Oh, bully tackle, Mount Morris! First down again, though, and on their thirty or thereabouts. Here’s where we score! Bust ’em up, Grafton!
Time out for someone. A Grafton player? No, he’s got green legs. It’s Milton, their right half. No, it isn’t, it’s that big left guard of theirs. Looks groggy, doesn’t he? Pretty near all in, if you ask me. Here comes a Grafton sub; Zanetti, isn’t it? Wonder who they’ll take out. Winslow, by thunder! That’s wrong! Winslow’s playing a dandy game. What? I don’t care if Zanetti does want his letter. Let him wait until next year. He’s only an Upper Middler, anyway. Yah! Ted Trafford’s sent him off again! Now go ahead, Winslow, and show them we don’t need any subs!
The Mount Morris chap’s up. He’s going off. No, he isn’t! That’s right, give him a hand. Here we go! Put it over, Grafton! Touchdown! Touchdown! Touchdown!
Vail fails to gain on a crisscross and Dresser, running from position, takes the ball from Nick and makes two around the other end. Grafton’s trying to work over in front of goal. Once more, and Vail gets another two yards through center. Hard luck! Fourth down now and we’ll have to kick. Unless—— No, it’s a kick. You can tell from the formation. Wait a bit, though. Blake’s edging over. It’s a forward pass! If it only works! Watch ’em now! Who’s got it? What’s wrong? Hi! There he goes! There he goes! Around this end! It’s Bert Winslow! Oh, [go it, ] [you Winslow!] Oh, go—They’ve got him! No! He’ll do it, he’ll do it! Ten yards more! Look out for that man! Dodge him! That’s it! Oh, bully! He’s past! He’s—he’s over! HE’S OVER! Touchdown! Touchdown! Grafton! Grafton! WO-A-OW!... I beg pardon, sir, did I break your hat?
CHAPTER XXVI
HUGH IS UNMASKED!
Grafton had won!
That she had done so only by the slimmest of chances and in the last moments of time, that Mount Morris had held her helpless through fifty-eight minutes of that long-drawn sixty, that the Green-and-White had actually gained more ground by rushing, and had, all in all, shown more football skill, was of no moment now. Tomorrow, in a calmer frame of mind, Grafton might realize all this, but today the fact of victory was all she heeded!
She captured the scarlet-legged players, who, wearied and panting, begged for mercy, and carried them shoulder-high about the field. She snake-danced and tossed hats and caps over the crossbars. She cheered and sang and cavorted and laughed and triumphed. And finally she crowded in front of the field house and, Joe Leslie waving his scarlet megaphone and leading, cheered every member of the eleven and Coach Bonner and Coach Crowley and Trainer Richards and Manager Quinn, and then cheered the Team and the School! And, at last, as twilight settled down, she dispersed across the green and back to the buildings, still laughing, still singing, still shouting.