“Dave,” the Kentucky boy whispered, when next they prepared to line up. “One minute to go. We—we gotta’ have that touchdown. You—you know how. Don’t think of me, Dave. Forget the bullets and shells. It’s war, Dave. Let’s go through together.”
Dave set his teeth grimly. “It’s a go, Kentucky!”
And they went through. Throwing all the force of his marvelously developed body in a line plunge, Dynamite blasted a hole so wide that both he and Kentucky went through.
But Naperville had been expecting a forward pass. Her ends and half-backs were a full twenty yards behind the line. Like a troop of wild bears, they sprang at the onrushing pair.
“They must not hit him!” Dynamite was saying to himself. “They must not.” Hurling himself at the first man, he sent him spinning to the right. He tipped the second to the left. The third he missed altogether. And all this time the slim Kentucky boy hugged the ball and sped on behind him. Ten—twenty—thirty yards—for—
Dynamite struck something that was like a stone wall. He went down in a heap.
But Kentucky, racing like an escaped colt, sped on to the winning touchdown.
The crowd would have rushed upon the field but officers held them back. All plays begun before the whistle must be completed. There must be a trial for the extra point.
As the players began lining up, they missed Dynamite. Sudden consternation seized them as they discovered him lying quite senseless on the field.
“He’s out for good. That full-back smashed him. Take him off the field,” a doctor ordered.
“Kentucky, you may call the play,” the coach said quietly.
“All right, boys,” Kentucky whispered in the huddle, “a line plunge. Make it a good one.”
“A line—” Rabbit Jones who started to speak, felt a hand over his mouth.
A line plunge it was, and a good one, but not good enough. The score stood 13 to 7 and all Hillcrest went wild—all but one, Dynamite.
They would have picked Kentucky up and carried him on their shoulders, those Hillcrest fans, but the boy would not have it. “Dynamite,” he shouted. “Save all that for good old Dynamite. He knew it was he or I, and he—he took it.” There were tears in Kentucky’s eyes—and the crowd loved him for it.
“Kentucky,” Coach Dizney dropped in beside the slim boy as the team marched off the field, “you may ride back to Hillcrest in my car. Your friend, Jensie Crider, rode over with us.” There was a strange, new light of friendliness in his eye.