“It certainly was fine,” said Grace, “but it’s only one goal, and they have such a big score,” she pouted.

“Never mind.  We won’t be whitewashed, anyway.”

“It’s a pity they didn’t have Tom in the first half,” said Dora.  Although her heart was strangely sore, she nevertheless felt proud of what Tom had accomplished.

Again the two elevens went at it, and now Roxley tried again to force the center by a rush.  But to their surprise Brill shifted to the left—­that one weak spot—­and got the ball on a fumble by the Roxley half-back.  There was more quick action by four of the Brill players, and when the scrimmage came to an end the leather was found just three yards from the Roxley goal line.

And then came that awful struggle, where muscle met muscle in a strain that was truly terrific.  Roxley was heavier, but its wind was going fast.  Brill held at first, then went ahead—­an inch—­a foot—­a yard.

“Hold ’em!  Hold ’em!” was the Roxley cry.  But it was not to be.  The yard became two, and then the leather went over with a rush.

“A touchdown!  A touchdown for Brill!”

“Now make it a goal!” was the cry, and a goal it became, the Brill quarter-back doing the kicking.

From that moment on the battle waged with a fury seldom seen on any gridiron.  Brill, from almost certain defeat, commenced to scent a victory, and went into the play regardless of physical consequences.  Tom had his thumb wrenched and Dick had his ankle skinned, but neither gave heed to the hurts.  Indeed, they never noticed them until the game was at an end.

And then came Dick’s hour of triumph.  How he got the ball from the burly Roxley right guard nobody could exactly tell afterward but get the ball he did, and rounded two rival players before they knew what was up.  Then down the field he sped, with his enemies yelling like demons behind him, and his friends on the benches encouraging him to go on.  He saw nothing and heard nothing until on the grandstand he perceived a slender girlish form arise, wave a banner, and fairly scream: 

“Dick!  Dick!  Run! run! run!”

“It’s Dora,” he thought.  “Dora sees me!  She wants me to win!”

It was the last bit of inspiration he needed, and as a Roxley full-back came thundering up to him he threw the fellow headlong.  Then straight as an arrow from a bow he rushed for the goal line, crossed it, and sank limply down in front of the grandstand.

“Hurrah for Dick Rover!”

“Say, wasn’t that a dandy run?”

“Those brothers can certainly play!”

“It’s Brill’s game now!  Roxley is going to pieces!”

Amid a great din the leather was taken down into the field and the goal was kicked.

“Want to get out of the game?” Dick was asked as he came down, breathing heavily.

“No, not unless I’m put out,” was the gritty answer.

“You’ll not be put out.  That was the finest run ever made on this field.”