Then, amid the cheers of the delighted thousands, he walked back on the field, and while one of the players lay down on the ground, with the spheroid delicately poised before his face, the same youth who made the touchdown smote the ball mightily with his sturdy right foot and sent it sailing between the goal-posts as accurately as an arrow launched from a bow.
That exploit, as I have said, won the championship for the Orphions, and the boy who did it was Jack Dudley.

In the latter half of the game, almost precisely the same opening presented itself again for the great half-back, but he had no more than fairly started when he met an obstruction in his path.

The gritty opponent tackled him like a tiger, and down they went, rolling over in the dirt, with a fierce violence that made more than one timid spectator fear that both were seriously injured.

As if that were not enough, the converging players pounced upon them.

There was a mass of struggling, writhing youths, with Jack underneath, and all piling on top of him.