are running up. One tears Hoskins away. Hawley cleverly blocks the other, and the California full-back is dashing down the field--but one player between him and victory for the Blue and the Gold! Tightly hugging the ball, his breath coming easily, and his long legs working like pistons, Rawson bends his head, and, snorting like an unbridled stallion, he surges forward. Exultation reigns supreme in his heart. "Now is the time to show them!" But there, like an evil fate, comes the Stanford full-back, tensely, to meet him. The rest are scattered, pulling and hauling, full fifteen yards behind. Nearer and nearer approaches the gritty full-back, his teeth clenched. His the task to win or lose the game for his beloved college. He approaches with no attempt at deviation. Nor does James relax speed nor alter his path. Freely he is coursing, low and hard, the ball tightly hugged to his right side. His left arm stiffens unconsciously as he calculates the other's approach. Behind him, he can hear the thump, thump, of the pursuers, but he shuts them out of his mind, leaving there but one object-the tense figure now so near. Fifteen yards! Ten! Five! It looks like a head-on collision. James adds a spurt. The other dives forward. James' left arm, outstretched, open-handed and rigid, meets him. A whirl and a straight-arm. The red-stockinged figure goes down, clutching wildly. Rawson gathers himself together, the goal-posts, thirty yards away, now the only object in his vision. He has lost his stride in the collision, and the "thump, thump" of a pursuer who has gained on him sounds painfully distinct. His right arm hugs the ball more tightly as he bends to his work. As he becomes conscious that lungs and legs are not working so easily, he adds additional effort to his going. The "thump, thump" from behind sounds louder, nearer, cannot be ignored. James can hear his pursuer's sharp panting. He tries to focus his attention on the whitewashed lines and goalposts in front. "Will those white lines never pass behind? Three! Two! Oh, that last one! It is receding!" Summoning all his strength, James throws himself forward. Not a second too soon. With a desperate dive, the pursuer does likewise. James feels the clawing grasp close over his ankles and worms himself forward on the ground. But no need, for at last that final white line has disappeared. Panting and distressed, James Rawson lies half over it, hugging the precious ball tightly to his breast. The game is won for California ! What words could describe that frantic, dancing, waving, shouting mass of blue and gold? With one tremendous, exultant yell it announces the result. Then the rooters explode in a series of roars and barks. With tremendous energy they ask, as one man, "What's the matter with Jim Rawson?" And no dissenting voice is heard. They calm down for the goal-kick. James has pulled himself together. Al is sponging his face and neck, and offering him water. Carefully the full-back directs Burton, who is lying full length on the ground, the ball held lightly, top and bottom. "Punk!" It is over. California 11, Stanford 6. Pandemonium again! What matters the rest? Stanford grit, under certain defeat, holds to the end. And, although, as the final whistle blows, the ball is once again safely in her possession, the Cardinal contests the last down just as fiercely as she contested the first. When the final whistle does blow! It seems as if the enthusiasm has only begun. Dejectedly the Stanford players seek their dressing-room and coach. In a moment the field is overrun by a jubilant, surging mass of California rooters. A rush is made for the eleven tired, happy players. Lifted high aloft by hundreds of eager arms, with Garrett at their head, and preceded by the band, they are paraded around the field to the tune of "Palms of Victory." A serpentine is formed, zigzagging dizzily after, shouting, yelling, taunting the Stanford adherents; like mad, the joy-intoxicated Californians dance around. The name of Rawson is on every lip. But not his name alone. That of Hawley, Hoskins, Percy, the stouthearted men of the line, accompany it. Rawson's lot it had been to perform the spectacular part. But his part would have been impossible but for the co-operation of his ten team-mates, every man of whom has done an equal share in the task. Team work! That sums it up. Proud are the freshmen! George has made his way straight for his friend. "Jim!" He can say no more. All he can say has been included in that one word. James, his head-gear pulled off, his black hair hanging straight and stiff, hair and face alike streaked with mud, smiles joyously down as he grips George's hand. "Boys, we walk down the line!" yells the bandmaster, jumping up and down. The horses are unhitched from the coach. The players pile in. Eager hands jostle for a hold on the shaft, and the pulsating, victorious Californians start for town. Inside the coach? We draw the curtain. But James afterwards sheepishly admitted that it was the first time he had ever seen grown-up men actually kiss one another. A long night was that Thanksgiving night. At its end James sank upon a downy bed, and for the first time in two weeks he did not play football in his sleep. CHAPTER VIII The First Lap Completed The reopening of college on the following Monday found James back in his place at Mrs. Saunders' Select Students' Boarding-house. It was hard to escape from the embarrassing adulation that almost everbody was visiting upon the football men. A hundred times a day Rawson was stopped with, "Jim, you played a great game," or, "How do you feel after the ball, Jim?" Wherever a football man would appear he was immediately a magnet for a questioning, discussing group. Frat receptions and theater parties were arranged for the team and coach. Little Robbins felt, as his manner showed, that it was almost sacrilege to permit Rawson to wait on him. Miss Gray, meeting James in the hall, held out her hand, saying: "Permit me to congratulate you, Mr. Rawson, on the fine game that you played. I felt quite proud of knowing you.'' "Thank you," replied James, blushing, and he gripped her hand harder than he knew. He thought more, somehow, of this simple speech than of all the many others. Its value was enhanced by the frank, square look between the eyes, which had accompanied it. Mrs. Saunders postponed her Thanksgiving dinner until her strayed boarders had reassembled. She felt, inwardly, a great pride in having the two most prominent football men in her company, and for a brief moment |