hat came his way, half-knocked aside,
half-getting his man, dragged again until assistance came. DeSoto's
stinging hand slapped his back and the sting was good, clearing his
brain.

Things came into clear outline once more. He saw down the line and to
the end where Garry Cockrell stood.

"Good old captain," he said. "They'll not get by me, not now."

He was in every play it seemed to him, wondering why Andover was
always keeping the ball, always coming at his end. Suddenly he had a
shock. Over his shoulder were the goalposts, the line he stood on was
the line of his own goal.

He gave a hoarse cry and went forward like a madman, parting the
interference. Some one else was through; Tough was through; the whole
line was through flinging back the runner. He went down clinging to
Goodhue, buried under a mass of his own tacklers. Then, through the
frenzy, he heard the shrill call of time.

He struggled to his feet. The ball lay scarcely four yards away from
the glorious goalposts. Then, before the school could sweep them up;
panting, exhausted, they gathered in a circle with incredulous,
delirious faces, and leaning heavily, wearily on one another gave the
cheer for Andover. And the touch of Stover's arm on McCarty's shoulder
was like an embrace.

XIX

At nine o'clock that night Stover eluded Dennis de Brian de Boru
Finnegan and the Tennessee Shad and went across the dusky campus,
faintly lit by the low-hanging moon. Past him hundreds of gnomelike
figures were scurrying, carrying shadowy planks and barrels, while
gleeful voices crossed and recrossed.

"There's a whole pile back of Appleby's."

"We've got an oil barrel."

"Burn every fence in the county!"

"Who cares!"

"Where did you get that plank?"

"Up by the Rouse."

"Gee, we'll have a bonfire bigger'n the chapel!"

"More wood, Freshmen!"

"Rotten lot, those Freshmen!"

"Hold up your end, Skinny. Do you think I'm a pack mule?"

Dink pulled the brim of his hat over his eyes and slunk away, not to
be recognized. He went in a roundabout way past the chapel. He had
just one desire, to stand under the goalposts they had defended and to
feel again the thrill.

"Who's that?" The voice was Tough McCarty's.

"It's me. It's Dink," said Stover.

"I came down here," said McCarty, appearing from under the goalposts
and hesitating a little, "well, just to feel how it felt again."

"So did I."

Dink stood by the posts, taking one affectionately