A man of Harlowe's size was no one to send after a greased
mosquito like Fenton.
So nothing hindered. Amid the wildest, noisiest rooting, Fenton
stepped it over Hallam's now undefended goal line, reached down
and pressed the pigskin against the earth for a touchdown.
On the grand stand the noise was deafening. The whistle sounded
and the flushed players of both teams came back to range up for
the kick from field. Dave, his cheeks glowing, took the kick.
He sent a clean one that scored one more point for Gridley.
The cheering and the playing of the band still continued when
the two elevens again lined up for play during the last five minutes
of the game. The referee was obliged to signal to the leader
to stop his musicians.
Forsythe looked hot and weary. His expectation of an easy victory
had come to naught. Unless he and ten other Hallam boys could
work wonders in five minutes.
But they couldn't and didn't. The time keeper brought the game
to a close.
"Gridley has handed us six to nothing," muttered Forsythe, as
he led his disheartened fellows from the field. "That puts us
with the other second-rate teams in the state."
"A great lot of orders you needed, didn't you?" was Captain Dick
Prescott's happy greeting as Dave met him beyond the side lines.
"You won that game for us, just the same," retorted Dave.
"I?" demanded Dick, in genuine amazement.
"Yes; you, and no one else.
Pages:
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85