Then his arm shot out and off went the ball, arching to the left, over the end of the battling, swaying lines, straight and far and true to where a lithe figure stood with upraised hand near the Blue's ten-yard line.

Too late Claflin saw her error.

Steve ran a step forward, felt the pigskin settle into his outstretched hands, whirled on his heel and sped toward the goal-line.

The Claflin right end was almost on him as he crossed the five-yard mark, but when desperate arms settled about Steve's legs and brought him crashing to earth he was well over that last white line and the day was won! Frantic blue-stockinged youths dropped mercilessly down upon him and drove the breath from his body, in his ears was a wild and terrific clamour of frenzied joy and faintly a whistle shrilled.

Steve, his nose buried in the soft sod, clutched the ball tightly beneath him and smiled in the darkness..