Then, backed by his supporters, he dashed through the opposition---on and on! Twice Dick was on the point of being tackled, but each time his interference carried him through.

He was over second's line---touch-down, and the whistle sounded shrilly, just a second ahead of cheers from some hundred on-lookers.
As Dick came back he limped just a bit.
"I tell you, it takes nerve, and a lot of it, to play that game," remarked one citizen admiringly.
"Nerve?
pooh!" retorted his companion.

"Just a hoodlum footrace, with some bumping, and then the whistle blows while a lot of boys are rolling over one another.

The whistle always blows just at the point when there might be some use for nerve." The first speaker looked at his doubtful companion quizzically.
"Would it take any nerve for you," he demanded, "to jump in where you knew there was a good chance of your being killed," "Yes; I suppose so," admitted the kicker.
"Well, every season a score or two of football ball players are killed, or crippled for life." "But they're not looking for it," objected the kicker, "or they wouldn't go in so swift and hard.

Real nerve?
I'd believe in that more if I ever heard of one of these nimble-jack racers taking a big chance with his life off the field, and where there was no crowd of wild galoots to look on and cheer!" "Of course killing and maiming are not the real objects of the game," pursued the first speaker.