"He says he'll play, anyhow!"

"Good for him. Well, I guess we can make a shift."

The football game was one long to be remembered. It was played on a cold, crisp day, and a record-breaking crowd was in attendance. For the first three quarters neither side scored. There were brilliant runs, sensational kicks and tackles, brilliant pa.s.sing, and good plays generally, but the teams seemed too evenly matched.

Then came the last quarter. Foot by foot the ball had been worked to within striking distance of the rival's goal.

"Now, boys, a touchdown!" cried the captain.

Smith, the new quarterback, gave the signal for Tom to take the pigskin through center, and Tom, with lowered head and fiercely beating heart, leaped forward. There was a crash as the two lines of players met, and then, struggling forward, tearing himself loose from restraining hands--pushed, shoved and all but torn apart, Tom forced his way onward.

His vision became black! His breath was all but gone, and then, with a last mighty heave, he shoved the ball over the last line.

"Touchdown! Touchdown!"

"Tom Fairfield's touchdown!"

"Elmwood Hall forever!"

"Three cheers!"

"Three cheers for Tom Fairfield!"

The players and spectators went wild, and the game came to an end a few minutes later, with Tom's team the champions.

"Well, old man, we did 'em," said Jack some hours later, when the chums, and as many of their friends as possibly could crowd into the room of our heroes, had gathered there. "We did 'em."

"Good and proper," added Bert.

"How's the ankle, Tom?" asked the captain anxiously. "We don't want to permanently cripple you, for there'll be more games next year."

"Oh, I guess I'll be all right by then," said Tom, with a smile.

"Jack, pa.s.s those sandwiches," for an impromptu banquet was under way.

"Yes, and don't hold that mustard for a loss," added George.

"Pa.s.s those pickles up this way for a touchdown," begged Reddy Burke.

"Well, Tom," asked Bruce Bennington in a low voice, "are you glad or sorry you didn't insist on having a row with Sam, right off the bat?"

"Glad," answered Tom. "It came out all right anyhow."

"Sure it did. He's gone, and you're here," said Bruce.

"A song, boys! A song!" called Jack Fitch, and a moment later, in spite of the danger of a visit from the proctor, there swelled out the strains of "For He's a Jolly Good Fellow!"

But the proctor did not come. As he heard the forbidden sounds of gaiety he smiled grimly.

"It Isn't every day that Elmwood Hall wins a championship," he remarked to Doctor Meredith.

"No, indeed," agreed the head master. "And so young Fairfield made the winning touchdown?"

"Yes. As plucky a lad as we have in the school. He played the game with an injured ankle."

"Oh, it isn't alone physical pluck that Fairfield has," remarked the head of the school thoughtfully, as he remembered what Tom had endured.

Those had been strenuous times for Tom, but other happenings were still in store for him, and what some of them were will be related in another volume, to be called "Tom Fairfield's Hunting Trip; Or, Lost in the Wilderness," in which we shall see how Tom's pluck was put to the supreme test.

"All ready for the grand march!" cried one of the boys, and soon a big line was formed, and the boys began to march around the school buildings. And here we will say good-bye to Tom Fairfield.

THE END