How it was that Ben got that ball up from the ground and kept his feet no witness could tell. For two or three strides it seemed that he must plunge headlong with it, and then he regained his equilibrium and brought a gasping chorus of cries from the southern side of the field as he ran on toward Clearport’s goal. Nevertheless, he had given his left ankle a wrench, and every step hurt like the jab of a knife. With his teeth set, he hugged the ball beneath one arm, the other thrown out stiffly to fend off a dark figure he saw coming at him; and he left the would-be tackler jarred, dazed and knocked to his knees.