It was strange, the feeling that came over Red Rodgers as he leaped forward. He was not on a football field dodging men, but on the water, heading into waves that threatened to swamp his frail craft. There was one to the right, a huge one. This way out. Here were two at the left. A quick turn here, a short twist there, and he was on again. Five, ten, fifteen, twenty, twenty-five yards, he raced forward. The field was clear now. The crowd was on its feet. They were shouting themselves hoarse. The miracle had happened. The Red Rover, their idol, was away at last.
“Touchdown! Touchdown!” they screamed. And at last Berley Todd joined in the cry. “Touchdown! Touchdown!”
Touchdown it was. Then the crowd waited, breathless, for the kick that promised a tie or defeat; the crowd waited and lost, for the ball went wild. The score stood Northern 7; Midway 6.
“Two minutes to play,” Red muttered to himself. “Two minutes are enough for any man’s touchdown.” But were they?
Midway called for “time out.” As the team dropped to the ground one word was passed from man to man.
A moment’s rest and they were up again. A hush fell over the great throng as Northern sent the ball soaring high.
Watching as a hunter watches a hawk, Red measured the distance, dashed a clean twenty yards, gathered the ball in his arms and, never pausing, sped on toward the goal line.
It was strange. Only half conscious of his opponents, he passed them one by one. As one leaped at his feet he swerved and sagged far over. The man missed. Now three were bunched against him. They formed a pinwheel. He was at the center of the wheel. They whirled round and round like sparks. They flew to right and left of him. Again he sped on. One man remained. Red leaped at him, then stopped dead. The man went on his face.
Then, with the thundering roar of a victory mad throng beating on his ears, he fell across the line for a touchdown.
Johnny Thompson and Drew Lane, away up on Passage Island, heard all this, and greeted one another with a solemn handclasp.