frantic yells of his fellow players and the wild, shouting crowds on the stands. Not a person was seated. They were all standing up, swaying, yelling, imploring, or praying, that Sid would keep on—or fall or be captured before he crossed that magical white line.
Sid kept on. Then there came a different yell. It was from the Boxer stands. Tom, picking himself out from a heap of players, saw Langridge sprinting after Sid. And how the former bully of Randall did run!
"Oh, Sid! Go on! Go on!" implored Tom, in a whisper, as if the youth could hear him.
And Sid went on. After him, fiercely, came Langridge. The distance between them lessened. Sid was staggering. His brain was reeling. His legs tottered. The ball seemed about to slip from his grasp, and he found himself talking to it, as to a thing alive.
"Stay there, now—stay there—don't fall out. And—and you legs—don't you give way—don't you do it! Keep on, old man, keep on! You can do it! You can do it!"
Thus Sid muttered to himself. He heard the patter of the running feet behind him. He did not look to see who was coming—he dared not. He felt that if he took his eyes off the last white line ahead of him that he would stagger and fall.
