. He had been forced
close to the side line in an effort to evade the tackler who was
lumbering at him across water-soaked sod. But, it was now evident that
Broadhurst must face this peril. The soggy condition underfoot had
made it impossible for him to evade the Eli even by keeping close to
the side line. There was no turning outward. To do so would carry the
ball out of bounds. And any hesitancy or slowing up would close the
distance between the Crimson runner and the three Yale men who kept
doggedly pounding along after him.

Instinctively Davies stiffened his right arm and pushed it out
violently. For one heart-quaking second it seemed to him that the
years had rolled back and that he was carrying the ball. He sensed
acutely the sensation that must be Broadhurst's, and he suddenly found
himself shrieking: "Give him the straight arm! Give him the straight
arm! Give him the----!"

And as if, from out that mad pandemonium of sound, Broadhurst had heard
and heeded, the Harvard quarterback ran directly at the oncoming
tackler; then, when it appeared as though Broadhurst must go down with
arms reaching out to encircle him, he jabbed a mud-stained hand
straight from the shoulder, catching the Yale man in the face.

The impact almost threw Broadhurst from his feet, but he saved himself
by a quick jump to the side and, a slipping lurch which shook a foot
loose from the last frantic grab of the tackler as he dived head
foremost into a muddy sheet of water.

"Atta boy! Atta boy!" cried Davies, no longer accountable for what he
might say or do.

The man with the ball now had a clear field and was crossing the
fifty-yard line. The going was difficult, each step uncertain.
Several times he all but fell, the ground was so heavy and sodden that
it seemed almost as if Broadhurst were running in one spot, his feet
slipping under him. And with the tread-mill effect it looked as though
the three frenzied pursuers were gaining.

In Yale territory now, the bleak goal posts looming up in front of him,
Broadhurst chanced a glance back over his shoulder. What he saw was
none too reassuring. The Yale stands broke into a roar of insane
entreaty. A Yale man was at Broadhurst's very heels, and Broadhurst
was crossing Old Eli's ten-yard line with a touchdown in sight! It was
but a matter of seconds. If the Crimson runner could be overtaken,
Harvard's last bubble of hope would be punctured.

"Yea! He's got him!" yelled