Scrimmage after scrimmage ensued, the ball was constantly in Chancery, but each crush brought us a yard or so nearer the enemy's goal than we had been before.
All this time I was little better than a spectator, for the ball never once came within reach of my fingers, and I was beginning to think that, after all, a big match was not so exciting a thing as one is apt to imagine.
At last, however, after one scrimmage more desperate than any that had gone before, the ball flew out suddenly, and bounded off one of the Craven men into my grasp.

Now was my chance.

"If only I could--" The next thing I was conscious of was that about twenty people had fallen to the ground all of a heap, and that I and the ball were at the bottom.
"Down!" I cried.
"Pack up there, Parkhurst!" sang out Wright.
I extricated myself as quickly as I could, and got back to my place in the rear, thinking to myself, after all, there _was_ some little excitement in football.
At last the ball got well away from the scrimmage, and who should secure it but the redoubtable Slider! I felt a passing tremor of deep despair, as I saw that hero spring like the wind towards our goal.
"Look out, Adams!" shouted Wright.
Sure enough he was coming in my direction! With the desperation of a doomed man I strode out to meet him.

He rushed furiously on--swerving slightly to avoid my reach, and stretching out his arm to ward off my grasp.

I flung myself wildly in his path.