The line was like the crystal globe that hypnotizes one. It held his gaze.
On, and on, and on
Sid fell in a heap. His breath left him. There was a darkness before him. Down he went heavily.
But, oh, what a shout came dimly to his ears! What a wild riot of cries! He tried to look down and see whether he had crossed the line before he stumbled, but he could only see the brown earth and green grass. He heard someone still running after him. He lifted his head. There, just before him, was the goal line.
With the energy of despair, he raised the ball in his arms, and placed it over the chalk mark, holding it there with all his remaining strength, when someone threw hhnself fiercely upon him.
It was Langridge, eager, wrathful and almost beside himself with rage. But he was too late. The ball was well over the last line, and, knowing from the attitude of the Boxer player that it was there, the great throng of Randall men and women, young men and maidens, joined in one great cry:
"Touchdown! Touchdown!"
It was—the winning touchdown, for, as the other players, some fearful, some hoping, came rushing up, the final whistle blew, ending the con-
