Meantime the game went on. Football is the game of war. When a few wounded have been carried from the field, a battle does not stop.
It was a grim battle that followed. No one blamed that big full-back, not really, and yet—They must not win now. Pitt must not!
The crippled Hillcrest team battled hard but could not gain. They punted. Pitt carried the ball far into their territory. Two brilliantly executed passes by Pitt men brought the ball to the Hillcrest ten-yard line. One line buck and the distance to a touchdown was cut to five yards, one more line buck and a slim yard stood between Pitt and victory.
The Hillcrest bleachers were screaming: “Hold that line! Hold that line! Hold that line!” From the wall of blue on the opposite side came the words of a song: “Forward! Forward! March against the foe!”
Little more than one moment to play with the ball on Hillcrest’s one-yard line. It was a tense situation. Pitt went into a huddle, snapped out of it quickly, crouched like tigers, shuffled uneasily for ten seconds, then—the ball sped. Dynamite followed it with his eye. “There! There! There it is!” His muscles registered a sensation that may never have reached his brain.
The Pitt full-back had the ball—that same giant whose hurdling force had crushed poor, slender Kentucky. Dynamite bore him no grudge—it was all in the game. And yet—“It’s all for Old Kentucky!” he hissed as, straight as an arrow, he shot at the full-back. He struck him with the sudden, solid impact of a bullet. The ball leaped from the opponent’s hands. By some strange chance, it shot straight into the air. It came curving down into Artie Stark’s arms. Too astonished to believe in his luck, Artie started streaking down the field. Only one opponent half-heartedly followed. The moment was all for Artie. So too was the game for, a half minute after the play, the whistle blew and Hillcrest’s most exciting, most astonishing game was at an end.
CHAPTER XVII
GLIDING TOWARD FRESH ADVENTURE
Artie Stark was carried off the field in triumph. This was natural enough. Dynamite did not in the least begrudge him the honor, for had it not been his spectacular run in the last minute of the game that saved the day? How many had seen Dynamite’s wild plunge through the line, the plunge that broke up the opponent’s play? Very few. Such things are not seen. It is the lad with the long run to his credit who receives the cheers. Dynamite did not care. He did not so much as think of it. His mind was occupied with other matters. He and Johnny Thompson walked off the field together.
“Poor Kentucky,” Dynamite was saying. “He doesn’t seem to have any luck.”
“All the same,” Johnny replied quietly, “it was he who won today’s game.”