The ball flew back from Stowell and Foster caught it breast-high.  The Erskine line held for a moment, then the blue-clad warriors came plunging through desperately, and had Foster attempted a kick the ball would never have gone ten feet; but Foster, who knew his limitations in the kicking line as well as any one else, had entertained no such idea.  The pigskin, fast clutched to Paul’s breast, was already circling the Brown’s left end.  Devoe had put his opponent out of the play, thereby revenging himself for like treatment in the first half, and Pearse, a veritable whirlwind, had bowled over the Robinson left half.  There is, perhaps, no prettier play than a fake kick, when it succeeds, and the friends of Erskine recognized the fact and showed their appreciation in a way that threatened to shake the stand from its foundations.

Paul and Pearse were circling well out in the middle of the field toward the Robinson goal, now some thirty yards distant measured by white lines, but far more than that by the course they were taking.  Behind them streamed a handful of desperate runners; before them, rapidly getting between them and the goal, sped White, the Robinson captain and quarter.  To the spectators a touch-down looked certain, for it was one man against two; the pursuit was not dangerous.  But to Paul it seemed at each plunge a more forlorn attempt.  So far he had borne more than his share of the punishment sustained by the tackle-tandem defense; he had worked hard on offense since the present half began, and now, wearied and aching in every bone and muscle, he found himself scarce able to keep pace with his interference.

He would have yielded the ball to Pearse had he been able to tell the other to take it; but his breath was too far gone for speech.  So he plunged onward, each step slower than that before, his eyes fixed on the farthest white streak.  From three sides of the great field poured forth the resonance of twelve thousand voices, triumphant, despairing, appealing, inciting, the very acme of sound.

Yet Paul vows that he heard nothing save the beat of Pearse’s footsteps and the awful pounding of his own heart.

On the fifteen-yard line, just to the left of the goal, the critical moment came.  White, with clutching, outstretched hands, strove to evade Pearse’s shoulder, and did so.  But the effort cost him what he gained, for, dodging Pearse and striving to make a sudden turn toward Paul, his foot slipped and he measured his length on the turf; and ere he had regained his feet the pursuit passed over him.  Pearse met the first runner squarely and both went down.  At the same instant Paul threw up one hand blindly and fell across the last line.

On the north stand hats and flags sailed through the air.  The south stand was silent.

Paul lay unmoving where he had fallen.  Simson was at his side in a moment.  Neil, his heart thumping with joy, watched anxiously from the bench.  Presently the group dissolved and Paul emerged between Simson and Browning, white of face and stumbling weakly on his legs, but grinning like a jovial satyr.  Mills turned to the bench and Neil’s heart jumped into his throat; but it was Smith and not he who struggled feverishly out of his sweater, donned a head-harness, and sped on to the field.  Neil sighed and sank back.