“Signals!” he shouted briskly. “44—18—110!”
Morris gave a final look at the cross-bar. The enemy, panting, gasping, swayed restively.
“44—18—110!”
“Block it! Block it!” shrieked the defenders.
Back sped the ball to Chester’s outstretched hands. The lines heaved. Canvas rasped against canvas, bodies strained, cries and grunts from labored lungs made pandemonium for a moment. Morris stepped and swung his leg. Half a dozen blue-clad arms reached in air. The Springdale right end broke through, but met Lanny and went hurtling aside toward the line. And then, just as the Springdale forwards came charging through, Chester, the ball snuggled in the crook of his left elbow, sprang up and darted straight ahead toward the left of the field!
Ahead of him ran Lanny, but Lanny had little to do. Springdale was tricked. There had been not the slightest doubt in the mind of any of them but that Brent’s appearance at that moment meant a try for goal. The line, from end to end, had been intent upon but one thing, and that was to break through at any cost and block the kick. Strengthening the right of the Clearfield line had drawn an extra Springdale back to that side and now Chester was in slight danger of being stopped. Lanny threw himself in front of the Springdale quarter and sent that frantic youth rolling head over heels, and Chester, striking in toward the goal line, crossed it without opposition! It was not until he was almost behind the nearer post that hostile arms dragged him to earth and he was smothered by angry blue-stockinged defenders!
Cheers thundered from the stand, the bass drum thumped a pæan of victory, caps and megaphones sailed into the air, and, on the bench, a round-faced youth sat silent in wondering and awed delight. The Secret Play had won!
Two minutes later Nelson Beaton, racing back to the field, kicked the goal that added another point to that glorious 6, and forty seconds after that the final whistle shrilled and George Cotner, snatching the ball from the umpire, raced into the throng with it, dodging the [ecstatic youths] who, flowing onto the field, [were capturing the players and raising them shoulder-high] while the band played unheard and a babel of voices proclaimed Clearfield’s victory!
Ten minutes later still, when Toby Sears was standing perilously on the railing of the grandstand leading the cheers, a hoarse voice demanded “Lovering! We—want—Coach—Lovering!” The demand was multiplied by two hundred voices, and willing emissaries darted away in search of him. But they didn’t find him. Dick, a contented smile on his face, was blocks away, chugging home in Eli.