Unless we could secure an advantage now, we should be as good as defeated, for the Craven had scored a "touch-down" to our nothing.

Was this desperate fight to end so?
Was victory, after all, to escape us?
But I had no time for reflection then.
"Now, Parkhurst," sang out Wright, "pull yourselves together for once!" A Craven man is standing to throw the ball out of "touch," and either side stands in confronting rows, impatient for the fray.

Wright is at the end of the line, face to face with Naylor, and I am a little behind Wright.
"Keep close!" exclaims the latter to me, as the ball flies towards us.
Wright has it, but in an instant Naylor's long arms are round him, bearing him down.
"Adams!" ejaculates out captain, and in a trice he passes the ball into my hands, and I am off like the wind.

So suddenly has it all been done that I have already a yard or two start before my flight is discovered.
There is a yelling and a rush behind me; there is a roar from the crowds on either side; there is a clear "Follow up, Parkhurst!" from Wright in the rear; there is a loud "Collar him!" from the Craven captain ahead.
I am steering straight for their goal; three men only are between me and it--one, their captain, right back, and Slider and another man in front of him.
I see at a glance that my only hope is to keep as I am going and waste no time in dodging, or assuredly the pursuing host will be upon me.
Slider and his companion are closing in right across my path, almost close together.

With a bound I dash between them.