“Let Tom take the ball through now.”

The signal was given, and, with head well down, Tom hit the opposing line on the run.  It held better than he had expected it would, and he was dizzy with the shock, but he had made a good gain, and there came a yell of delight from the supporters of Elmwood Hall.

Then the game sea-sawed back and forth, with matters a little in favor of Tom’s team.

“Get a touchdown!  Get a touchdown!” pleaded the captain.

“By Jove I will!” thought Tom, grimly.  “If I only get half a chance.”

He got it a moment later.  A fake kick was called for, but there was a fumble, and Tom grabbed up the ball on the bounce.  Tucking it under his arm, he ran for a hole he spied in the other line.  Hands reached out for him, but he eluded them, and the fullback of Holwell, having been drawn in fatally close, was not able to stop our hero, who was running well.

“Touchdown!  Touchdown!” screamed the crowd, as Tom sprinted over mark after mark.

“I’ll do it!” he cried fiercely.

Now the other players had disentangled themselves from the mass into which they had been hurled, and were after him.  One of the fleetest was approaching our hero.

“I’ve got to out-distance him,” murmured Tom, looking back over his shoulder, and he let out a little more of the speed he had been reserving.  Then, panting and weary, he crossed the goal line------and only just in time, for, as he leaped over it, the hand of the Holwell fullback was on his jacket.

“Touchdown!” gasped Tom, as he fell on the ball.

Then broke out a riot of cheers, cries and songs of victory!  The goal was missed, owing to a strong wind, but the Elmwood Hall lads cared little for that.  They were in winning luck, they felt sure.

The first period was practically over, and soon came the second, during which Holwell tried desperately to score.  But she could not, though several of her players were injured in the fierce rushes, and two of Elmwood’s lads had to be replaced by substitutes.

It began to rain shortly after the third period started, and it came down in such torrents that the field was soon a sea of mud and mud-soaked grass.  Still the game went on, though many of the spectators deserted the field.

“Keep playing!  Keep playing!” begged Captain Denton.  “We can win if we only hold them from scoring.”

At first it looked as if this was not to be, for the Holwell team was heavier, and this told on a slippery gridiron.  But Tom and his mates had pluck, and they held well in the rushes.  Once there was a chance for Elmwood to make another touchdown, but Jack Fitch slipped and fell in a mud-puddle, the ball rolling out of his hands.  Then a Holwell played grabbed it, and kicked it out of danger on the next line-up.

“Only a few minutes more,” called the coach encouragingly, as the fourth quarter neared a close.  “Hold ’em, boys!”