from under his very feet. Before the Pornellite could recover from his astonishment, Sam was pelting up the field with all the nimbleness of his agile legs.
"Hurrah for Sam Rover!"
"Great Cæsar! see him leg it!"
"They can't catch him!"
"There he goes over the line!"
"A touchdown! The game is a tie!"
"Quick, fellows!" cried Sam. "Only five more minutes, remember. Who is to kick?"
It was a player named Larcom. But Larcom was not equal to it, for the wind was rising and blowing in several directions at once.
"No goal! The game is a tie!"
"Put the ball out again!"
"Only four minutes to play!"
Again the football went forth, and again the crowd pounced upon it. The Pornellites were now desperate and massed themselves as never before. They pushed forward ten yards—fifteen—twenty—almost thirty. It looked as if they would score another touchdown, if not kick a goal. But now Sam Rover sent a certain sign to his players. It was taking a risk, but it was worth trying. The ball came over to the right of the field and spun like lightning to the left. Fred caught it up, ran ten yards, and passed it
