The game was now near its end. The sun was setting; darkness would soon descend upon the field. Hillbury, discouraged at the failure to score when the opportunity had seemed so bright, played with less fire and speed. On the third down, with but a yard to gain, a Seaton linesman scented the play and tackled the runner behind his own line. The ball was in Seaton hands in the middle of the field. Wolcott whispered to Durand, the signals rang out, the quarter-back took the ball, dodged around Hendry, edged by the Hillbury back, and behind Lindsay and Wendt twisted his jerky, slippery course past half-a-dozen frantically grasping Hillburyites to the open field. Here, if his speed had equalled his agility, Durand might have carried the ball directly to a touchdown; but Joslin caught him from behind, and throwing him without mercy, strove to wrench the ball from his hands. Durand clung to it desperately, and Seaton had the ball on the twelve-yard line. From here across the goal-line was but a question of half-a-dozen determined drives.
After this third touchdown there was no more anxiety on the Seaton side. The followers cheered from happiness now, and assurance that the great contest was won—not because the team needed support. It was hearty cheering, but tumultuous and ragged.
Across the field Hillbury, undaunted to the end, with full volume and in splendid unison, sent forth their exhortation. And when, a few minutes later, with the weary lines still struggling in mid-field, the referee’s whistle announced the end, the Hillbury sky-rocket call was still sounding clearly in Seatonian ears.
Mr. Lindsay climbed stiffly down the tiers of seats, and edged his way past the side-lines into the field, over which the exultant crowd had suddenly scattered, like leaves flung broadcast by a whirlwind from the gardener’s neatly ordered pile. He wanted to make sure that Wolcott was unhurt and to congratulate him upon his escape. This, at least, was his avowed object. Within his heart, however, lurked another motive, less definite and unacknowledged, to show some recognition of the work the boy had done; some appreciation of the skill, the physical power, the coolness and alertness of mind, the tremendous persistence, which had marked Wolcott’s play from the beginning. There are boys before whom a teacher must sometimes feel like standing uncovered, so much more faithful and sufficient do they seem in their places than he in his. Some such impulse of respect Mr. Lindsay felt, as he pushed by the stragglers toward the groups about the players. It was not the victory,—he cared nothing for that,—nor the silly boys’ enthusiasm for an athlete; the play as an achievement, as an example of what training and determination and hard endeavor could accomplish, appealed to him in spite of himself.