“They’re sure getting all the breaks,” agreed Billy.
“Never mind, fellows!” sang out Melvin. “Buck up. We’ll beat them yet.”
But the gloom of the Rally Hall rooters became still deeper a few minutes later, when a beautiful drop kick of Fred’s that was going straight for the goal was blown by a puff of wind just enough to graze the post on the wrong side.
There was no more scoring in that period, and the quarter ended with Lake Forest still in the lead.
“Now, fellows,” said Melvin, as they came out to do or die in the last quarter, “it’s our last chance. Go at them and rip up their line. Go through them like a prairie fire. We won’t try drop kicking. Even if we got a goal from the field, they’d still be ahead, and the time’s too short to make two of them. The only thing that’ll do us any good is a touchdown. We must win! Hammer the heart out of them! Tear them to pieces!”
And the boys responded nobly. They charged hard and played fast. They plunged into the lines of their opponents like so many wild men. Every member of the team played as though the victory depended on him alone. Down the field they went, in one desperate raging charge that carried all before it. Only once did they fail to make their distance, and even then they got the ball back promptly.
But time was on the enemy’s side. They fought back savagely and contested every inch. Six, eight, ten minutes went by, while the ball was traveling down the field, and when the teams faced each other, pale, panting, covered with dust and sweat, on Lake Forest’s ten-yard line, only three minutes of playing time remained.
All the spectators now were on their feet, yelling wildly, and the tumult was fearful.
“Brace, fellows, brace!” screamed Eggleston, the Lake Forest captain. “Throw ’em back! Don’t give an inch!”
Melvin selected Fred for the final plunge.