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A groan arose from the Brown stand. Far to the right of the goal travelled the ball. The blue-stockinged warriors danced and shouted in glee. Keith’s head dropped despondently as he turned back up the field. “Seven minutes to play,” called the field judge. Then they were battling again.
Perhaps that lost score had its effect, for Kenwood was soon in Parkinson territory. As far as the thirty yards she went before she was stopped. Her punt went over the line and the ball came out to the twenty-five. Two attacks at the Kenwood centre brought the distance. Kenwood had new material in her line now. Brown tried an end and got three. But he was hurt and Vance took his place. Vance was stopped for a slight loss when he tried left tackle. Myron gained four through left guard and Brounker followed with three more. The tape left the ball in Parkinson’s possession. Another forward, Myron to Stearns, failed. The ball was in mid-field now and there were but three minutes left. The stands were already emptying slowly. Coach Driscoll began sending in substitutes, fellows who had worked hard and deserved their letters. Joe was gone, Cummins, Cater, even Keith, who alone might score a field-goal should Fortune give the opportunity. Warren had taken Cater’s place. Warren was fresh and eager and undismayed. His signals came snappily, and he pushed the wearied veterans hard.
“Make it go!” he chanted. “Make it go! Don’t give up the ball! There’s time enough left to score. Here’s where we get away from them. Come on, Parkinson! Show your grit!”
Brounker and Vance gained. The Kenwood line was weakening fast now, but Myron feared that it was too late. Vance again, past left tackle on a criss-cross. Then Myron, sliding off left guard for the needed distance. Well past the fifty-yard line now, and still going, but with seconds remaining instead of minutes and the time-keeper’s eyes glued to the dial of his watch. If only they could get past those Kenwood backs, thought Myron! The Blue line was pasteboard now, but the backs still fought hard and held firm. Somewhere near the enemy’s thirty yards Warren called a sequence and Myron’s heart leaped. If they played quickly, smoothly, they must get through! Brounker tried left of centre and piled through, but was nailed by Kenwood’s backs. Four yards! Then, without signals, the team snapped into the next play. A quick shift to the right, Brounker sprang away to the left, the ball sped back straight from centre and Myron caught it. Kenwood sensed danger now and shifted back to meet it, but Myron was already charging past the left of the line, the interference working like a charm. He was through before he realised it and only a surprised quarter-back stood between him and the goal!
Ahead and at his right sped Vance, tuckered but still game. Behind him weary feet pounded. In his ears was a mighty noise that he knew for the wild, imploring shrieks of friend and foe. Through it came the dull thump, thump! of the bass drum. Twenty yards more now, and the quarter, white-faced and desperate, running toward him with clutching fingers. Then Vance was down, run out, and Myron was alone. Fifteen yards and the Kenwood quarter-back poising for his tackle! Myron gave a little toward the side-line, slackened his pace and then, with a final demand on his strength, sprang forward again at renewed speed. The quarter-back leaped. Myron felt his arms at his hips as he spun on his heel. One arm fell away, but a hand closed inside his leg above the knee and a great weight pulled at him. One plunge, a second, and the last line was swimming in his sight. Then, as if by a miracle, the clutching hand was gone, and, freed of the dragging burden, Myron stumbled, fell to his knees, recovered and went on