“The game isn’t over,” answered President John, sourly. “A single touch-down will wipe that gain out.”
At the dressing rooms the usual discussion of the developments of the game was going forward. The bedraggled players, their mud-streaked faces aglow with hope, lay stretched on the floor about the coach, listening eagerly to his last directions. In one corner, Duane, of the Harvard Second, was explaining to Bumpus how, by proper use of his knee, he could hold Hubbard on the offence at least a second longer. Yards, having finished his general exhortation, drew McDowell aside to talk over with him the strategy of the second half, which was, in brief, to play safely, keep the ball in opponents’ territory, and watch for chances.
“If we hold them well, you’ll put in Sumner at the last, won’t you?” Mac asked.
“Not with the score three to nothing,” answered Yards, quickly.
“If we should make a touch-down, then?” persisted Mac.
The coach hesitated a moment before replying, but when he spoke, there was no uncertainty in his words. “It wouldn’t be safe. Sumner is a good fellow, and he’s worked hard for the team, but we’re playing the game to win, not to give good fellows a chance to make their W’s. I sha’n’t take any risks.”
The Westcott players trotted forth at the call, determined to make at the outset such a show of power and dash as would put Trowbridge immediately on the defensive. The Trowbridge rushers strung out across the field on a line with the ball. Westcott’s took the usual defensive positions, the centre ten yards back from the ball, the guards flanking him, but behind, the tackles outside the guards and still farther back. Cowles ran forward for his kick-off, but instead of driving the ball to the limit of his powers down the field, he sent it with a little stab of his foot diagonally across toward the side-line. It struck the line outside the Westcott left guard. Bumpus, perplexed at the unexpected play, hesitated a moment before he leaped for the ball. His hesitation cost his side dear, for two Trowbridge rushers crashed into him before he had taken three steps, and the Trowbridge end flung himself on the ball just ahead of Eaton, who pounced upon him like a wild beast upon his prey. Trowbridge had gained the ball on Westcott’s forty-yard line!
Sumner’s heart was like lead, as he saw the Trowbridge line open in wide gaps for a trick play. If the Westcott rushers lost their heads now, there was no hope for the team. But a line that sifts evenly through, with each man keeping well within his own territory, is a hard line to work tricks upon; and a strong, aggressive tackle is a dangerous obstacle to end plays. The Westcott line did sift evenly through, and Eaton was a good tackle—so good, indeed, that he burst straight into the Trowbridge interference, and, hooking the runner with a long reach, swung him directly into Hardie’s arms. The next play, which was directed at the open centre, was spoiled by Bumpus, who burned to retrieve himself, before it had advanced three yards. Then, with six yards to gain, Cowles drew back for a kick.
“Fake!” shouted Harrison. “Look out for a forward pass!”
His warning proved false; it served only to check his own line, and give Cowles a better opportunity to get off his kick. He punted high and with such splendid accuracy that the ball fell at the Westcott six-yard line. McDowell stood under it as it came down, holding his hand high aloft and claiming the privilege of a fair catch. All about him thronged the menacing Trowbridge forwards, ready to seize the ball and carry it across the line should Mac fail to hold it.