“Faster!” he panted. “To the right.”
Lane had no time to make his lagging limbs obey ere Sanford and the foe were piled together at his feet. He plunged blindly over the writhing heap, stumbled, fell on one knee, staggered up again, saw the yellowish turf rising and sinking before him, felt his knees doubling up beneath him, fell, rolled over twice, crawled and wriggled on knees and elbows from force of habit, and then closed his eyes, laid his head on his arm and was supremely content.
Syddington sped down the field with the roar of three thousand voices in his ears, and a great, almost sickening happiness at his heart.
Hillton had won!
For the moment thought refused to go beyond that wonderful fact. His team, the boys whom he had threatened, coaxed, driven, struggled with for months, had beaten St. Eustace!
He thrust his way through the little group and dropped to his knees. Lane opened his eyes and for an instant stared blankly into his face. Then recollection returned and he raised his head. Above him rose the goal-posts. He grinned happily.
“Over, eh, Syddington?” he asked, weakly.
“Yes, Lane, over. Are you all right?”
“Yes; a bit tuckered, that’s all. Let me up, please.”
They helped him to his feet, and he stretched his aching muscles cautiously. Beck handed him his head harness, and he turned and limped off. The cheering, which had almost subsided for want of breath, took on new vigor, and he went up the field to the wild refrain of “Lane! Lane! Lane!”