the cohorts on the big stand—"Aut Vincere, Aut, Mori!"—"Either We Conquer, or We Die!"
"Might as well die, as to be defeated," thought Sid, bitterly. The ball came back to him. Like a flash he was in motion. The big Californian, as he had done before several times in the game, opened a hole so fiercely that the opposing players seemed to shrink away from him.
Forward leaped Sid, with all the power of despair. Forward! Forward!
"There! See!" cried Bean Perkins. "He's through the line! He's going to make a touchdown—the winning touchdown!"
Sid was through. Staggering and weak, but through. Between him and the coveted goal line now was but one player—the Boxer full-back—William Cook. He crouched, waiting for Sid, but there were few better dodgers than this same Sid. On he came, wondering if his wind and legs would hold out for the race he had yet to run—a race with glory at the end—or bitter defeat on the way.
Cook was opening and shutting his hands, in eager anticipation of grasping Sid. His jaw was set, his eyes gleamed. On came the half-back, gathering momentum with every stride, until, just as Cook thought he had him, Sid dodged to one side, and kept on. There was now a clear field ahead of him, and he was urged forward by the
