He has the ball and is
flying like the wind with two great brutes at his heels. Will they
catch him? Will they kill him? They are gaining on him.
"Run--run--run," I shout, in spite of myself, while all the people on
our benches rise in their excitement, and Josephine covers her eyes
with her hands, unwilling to look. On, on my boy runs, until at last
he falls with his two pursuers on top of him full across the Yale line.
"A touch-down, a touch-down!" bursts out Sam, as he grasps my hand in
his wild enthusiasm. I do not know exactly what has occurred except
that there is pandemonium on the Harvard side of the field unequalled
as yet by anything that has happened, and a deathly tranquility along
the benches opposite. After making sure that Fred is still alive, I
listen to the explanation that a touch-down counts a certain number of
points, and gives the right to the side which wins it to try to kick a
goal. This attempt is presently made. A player lies on the ground and
holds the ball between his hands for another to kick. Presto! the
ball sails through the air; for an instant there is agonized suspense,
and then a shout from Yale. It has failed to go between the
goal-posts, and consequently has missed.
"Four to nothing, anyway," says Sam. "That was a magnificent run.
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