The ball was snapped, Blair ran three strides nearer, the quarter turned, and the pigskin flew back. Joel started like a shot, seized the ball from the full-back's outstretched hands, and sped toward the right end of the line. The right half crossed in front of him, the right end and tackle thrust back their opponents, the left tackle and guard blocked hard and long. Blair helped the right half in his diversion at the left end, and Joel, with Dutton interfering and Blair a stride behind, swept around the end.

The only danger was in being forced over the touch line, but the play worked well, and the opposing tackle seemed anchored. The Yates end, from his place back of the line, leaped at them, but was upset by Dutton, and the two went down together. The opposing left half bore down upon Joel and Blair, the latter speeding along at the runner's side, and came at them with outstretched arms. Another moment and Joel was alone. Story and the half were just a mass of waving legs and arms many yards behind.

Joy was the supreme sensation in Joel's breast. Only the Yates full-back threatened, the ball was safely clutched in his right arm, his breath came easily, his legs were strong, and the goal-posts loomed far down the field and beckoned him on. This, he thought exultingly, was the best moment that life could give him.

Behind, although he could not hear it for the din of shouting from the Harwell stand, he knew the pursuit to be in full cry. He edged farther out from the dangerous touch line and sped on. The Yates full-back had been deceived by the play and had gone far up the field for a kick, and now down he came, and Joel found a chill creeping over him as he remembered the player's wide reputation. He was the finest full-back, so report had it, of the year. And of a sudden Joel found his breath growing labored, and his long legs began to ache and seemed stiffening at the thighs and knees. But he only ran the faster and prepared for the threatened tackle. Harwell hearts sank, for the crimson-clad runner appeared to waver, to be slowing down. Suddenly, when only his own length separated him from his prey, the Yates full-back left the ground and, like a swimmer diving into the sea, dove for the hesitating runner.

There was but one thing that day more beautiful to see than that fearless attempt to tackle; and that one thing was the leap high into the air that the Harwell left half made just in the nick of time, clearing the tackler, barely avoiding a fall, and again running free with the ball still safe!

"A leap in the nick of time."

The Yates player quickly recovered and took up the chase, and the momentary pause had served to bring the foremost of the other pursuers almost to Joel's heels. And now began a contest that will ever live in the memories of those who witnessed it.

Panting, weary, his legs aching at every bound, his throat parching with the hot breath, Joel struggled on. Joy had given place to fear and desperation. Time and again he choked down the over-ready sobs. Behind him sounded the thud of relentless feet. He dared not look back lest he stumble. Every second he expected to feel the clutch of the enemy. Every second he thought that now he must give up. But recollection of that fumble crushed down each time the inclination to yield, and one after another the nearly obliterated lines passed under foot. He gave up trying to breathe; it was too hard. His head was swimming and his lungs seemed bursting.

Then his wandering faculties rushed back at a bound as he felt a touch, just the lightest fingering, on his shoulder, and gathering all his remaining strength he increased his pace for a few steps, and the hand was gone. And the ten-yard line passed, slowly, reluctantly.

"One more," he thought, "one more!"

The great stands were hoarse with shouting; for here ended the game. The figures on the score-board had changed since the last play, and now relentlessly proclaimed one minute left!

Nearer and nearer crept the five-yard line, nearer and nearer crept the pursuing full-back. Then, and at the same instant, the scattered breadth of lime was gone, and a hand clutched at the canvas jacket of the Harwell runner. Once more Joel called upon his strength and tried to draw away, but it was no use. And with the goal line but four yards distant, stout arms were clasped tightly about his waist.

One–two–three strides he made. The goal line writhed before his dizzy sight. Relentlessly the clutching grasp fastened tighter and tighter about him like steel bands, and settled lower and lower until his legs were clasped and he could move no farther! Despairingly he thrust the ball out at arms' length and tried to throw himself forward; the trampled turf rose to meet him....

"The ball is over!" pronounced the referee. It was a nice decision, for an inch would have made a world of difference; but it has never been disputed.

Then Dutton leaped into the air, waving his arms, Rutland turned a somersault, and the west stand arose as one man and went mad with delight. Hats and cushions soared into air, the great structure shook and trembled from end to end, and the last few golden rays of the setting sun glorified the waving, fluttering bank of triumphant crimson!

CHAPTER XXV.
THE RETURN

"Boom! Boom!" thundered the big drum.

"Tootle-toot!" shrilled the fife.

"Tarum! Taroom!" growled the horns.

The Harwell band marched through the archway and defiled on to the platform. The college marched after. Well, perhaps not all the college; I have heard that a senior living in Lanter was too ill to be present. But the incoming platform was thronged from wall to track, so it was perhaps as well that he didn't come, because there positively wasn't room for him.

"What is it?" asked a citizen in a silk hat of a gayly decorated youth on the outskirts of the crowd. The latter stared for full a minute ere the words came. Then he cried:

"Here's a fellow who wants to know what we're here for!" And a great groan of derision went up to the arching roof, and the ignorant person slunk away, yet not before his silk hat had been pushed gently but firmly far down over his eyes. Punishment ever awaits the ignorant who will not learn.

"Glory, glory for the Crimson,
Glory, glory for the Crimson,
Glory, glory for the Crimson,
For this is Harwell's day,"

sang the throng.

"Boom! Boom! Boom!" thundered the big drum.

"Tootle-toot!" shrilled the fife.

"Now, fellows, three times three, three long Harwells, and three times three!" shouted the master of ceremonies hoarsely.

"Rah-rah-rah, Rah-rah-rah, Rah-rah-rah, Harwell! Harwell! Harwell! Rah-rah-rah, Rah-rah-rah, Rah-rah-rah, Harwell!" shrieked the crowd.

"Louder! Louder!" commanded the remorseless youth on the baggage truck. "Nine long Harwells! One, two, three!"

"Har-well! Har-well! Har-well! Har-well! Har-well! Har-well! Har-well! Har-well! Har-well!" The sound crashed up against the vaulted station roof and thundered back. And none heard the shriek of the incoming train as it clattered over the switches at the entrance of the shed, and none saw it until it was creeping in, the engineer leaning far out of the cab window and waving a red bandanna handkerchief, a courtesy that won him a cheer all to himself.

Then out tumbled the returning heroes, bags in hands, followed by the head coach and all the rest of the attendant train. And then what a pushing and shouting and struggling there was! There were forty men to every player, and the result was that some of the latter were nearly torn limb from limb ere they were safe out of reach on the shoulders of lucky contestants for the honor of carrying them the first stage of the journey to college.

There were some who tried to hide, some who tried to run, others who enjoyed the whole thing hugely and thumped the heads of their bearers heartily just to show good feeling.

Joel was one of the last to leave the car, and as he set foot on the platform a hundred voices went up in cheers, and a hundred students struggled for possession of him. But one there was who from his place of vantage halfway up the steps repelled all oncomers, and assisted by a second youth of large proportions seized upon Joel and setting him upon their shoulders bore him off in triumph.

"Boom! Boom!" said the big drum. And the procession started. Down the long platform it went, past the waiting room doors where a crowd of onlookers waved hats and handkerchiefs, and so out into the city street. Joel turned his head away from the observers, ashamed and happy. There was no let-up to the cheering. One after another the names of the players and substitutes, coaches and trainer, were cheered and cheered again.

"Out of the way there!" cried Joel's bearers, and the marching throng looked about, moved apart, and as Joel was borne through, cheered him to the echo, reaching eager hands toward him, crying words of commendation and praise into his buzzing ears.

"Rah-rah-rah, Rah-rah-rah, Rah-rah-rah, March!"

"One!" shrieked a youth near where Joel soon found himself at the head of the procession, and the slogan was taken up:

"Two! Three! Four! Five! Six! Seven! Eight! Nine! Ten! E-lev-en!"

"Now give me your hand, Joel!" cried the youth upon whose left shoulder he was swaying. Joel obeyed, smiling affectionately down into the upraised face. Then he uttered a cry of pain. One of the fingers of his left hand was bandaged, and Outfield West dropped it gingerly.

"Not–not broke?" he asked wonderingly. Joel nodded.

"Aren't you proud of it?" whispered his chum.

"Yes," answered Joel simply and earnestly.

"May I take it, too?" asked the other youth. Joel started and looked down into the anxious and entreating face of Bartlett Cloud. He grasped the hesitating hand that was held up.

"Yes," he answered smilingly.

And the big drum boomed, and the shrill fifes tootled, and the crimson banners waved upon the breeze, and every one cheered himself hoarse, and thus the conquering heroes came back to the college that loved them.

And Joel, a little tearful when no one was looking, and very happy always, was borne on the shoulders of West and Cloud, friend and enemy, at the very head of the procession, honored above all!