“Watch out for fake!” shrieked the St. Eustace captain.
“44—22——”
The Blue’s right half ran back to join the quarter up the field. Hale, the Crimson’s full-back, stood with outstretched hands on the thirty-six-yard line, with Lane and Sanford guarding him. Syddington swung his arms and crouched as if on edge to get down under the punt, yet out of the corners of his eyes he was watching the St. Eustace left tackle as a cat watches a mouse.
“44—22—11—6!” gasped Colton.
Center passed the ball back straight and clean to Hale, and the latter sped it on at a short side pass to Lane, who had dropped back; Sanford dashed at the right end of the line, and Lane, the pigskin hugged close and his right arm rigid before him, fell in behind. Sanford sent the St. Eustace end reeling backward, and Syddington put the Blue’s full-back out of the play and went crashing to the ground with him. Sanford and Lane swept through outside of tackle and sped toward the goal.
Crimson banners waved and danced. The game was lost or won in the next few seconds. Victory for Hillton, defeat for her rival, lay in the crossing of those eight trampled white lines by the lad who, with straining limbs and heaving chest, sped on behind his interference.
Sanford, lithe and fleet, held a straight course for the right-hand goal-post. Ahead, with staring eyes and desperate faces, the St. Eustace quarter and right half advanced menacingly. Behind, pounding footsteps told of stern pursuit.
Then the quarter-back was upon them, face pale and set, arms outstretched, and Lane swung to the right. Sanford’s shoulder met the foe, and the two went to earth together, Sanford on top. He was up again in the instant, and, unharmed, once more running fleetly. But Lane was ahead now, and before him, near the ten-yard line, the blue-clad half-back was waiting. The man ahead stood for defeat, for Lane doubted his ability to get round him. Even running was agony, and dodging seemed out of the question. But just as hope deserted him Sanford came into sight beside him.