squeezed from the half-back’s arms, bound into air
The shout came frantically from somewhere and Clint saw the pigskin,
squeezed from the half-back’s arms, bound into air. A blue-sleeved arm
shot toward it, and another, but the ball, bouncing away from an eager
hand, went, turning lazily over and over in its flight, toward the side
line. Clint turned swiftly and pursued, elbowed by others. He shot an
arm out to the left and cleared his path. Cries and pounding footsteps
came to his ears. Away rolled the ball, spurning the five-yard line,
seemingly bent on trickling out of bounds. A blue-jerseyed player tried
to edge past Clint, but the latter swung in front of him. Then he was on
the ball, and up again with it tucked against his stomach, and was
plunging toward the goal line, a scant six yards away! A Claflin man
dived at him and strove to pinion his knees, but with a wrench Clint
tore one leg free and staggered on another stride. Arms clutched him
about the shoulders and it seemed that he was pulling a ton of weight
with him. Then there was a shock, his legs went from under him and he
toppled to earth. But as he fell, and as the last breath in his body
seemed to leave him forever, he pushed the ball away from him at arm’s
length and set his fingers about it like so many vises! And that was the
last he knew.