But once in the dressing room, the reaction came. He saw the others strip and hurriedly don their togs; listened to their eager, excited discussion of their chances for victory; watched them troop out in a body and lope across to the gridiron; and, as he followed slowly, dispiritedly, he realized with a bitter pang that he was out of it. Instead of plunging into the contest with tingling blood and every sense alert, doing his best for his Alma Mater, straining every nerve to win a victory for the blue, he must stand on the side lines and just watch.
The thrilling, deep-toned cheers of the excited thousands would ring in his ears as before, but they would have a different sound. They would be meant for others, not for him. Somehow, he felt that if he could only have played in this one game he could be resigned about never going on the field again. If he could only show just once more what he could do—play just one more game for all that was in him, and perhaps help to win a victory, it would content him.
But it was too late. He had given his word, and the team was finally made up. With downcast eyes and bitter heart, he entered the inclosure and, walking past the grand stands, dropped down on the side lines with the subs. At least he would watch the game from the field. He couldn’t bear sitting in a stand. He had never done that in all the time he had first come out for the team.
The stands were filled to overflowing, a sea of eager, enthusiastic faces rising, tier upon tier, from the field. Flags fluttered by the hundreds, blue, mostly, but with a liberal sprinkling of the orange and black. The hum of many voices sounded like the drone of a gigantic hive of bees. The flash of many faces turned impatiently toward the closed gates as the hour approached.
At last the gates were flung open and the teams appeared. Princeton came first, and cantered briskly across the field. They were greeted by a round of applause from their adherents.
Then Yale appeared, and the stands rose to them with a yell which sent a thrill through Hollister’s heart—a thrill followed swiftly by a stab of pain. Perhaps Dick had been right when he said it would be harder here than if he had stayed away.
Yale won the toss, and, there being a rather brisk wind blowing, chose the protected goal and gave the enemy the ball. The fellows swiftly took their places to await the kick off. Presently the whistle sounded, and from that moment Bob Hollister was oblivious to time and space, the shouting crowd, the excited subs—everything, in short, except the progress of the contest before him.
Almost at once he saw that Princeton had an unusually strong team. He had expected something of the sort, for all reports agreed in stating that it was the best eleven the New Jersey college had turned out in several years; but Hollister had not thought it would be quite so good as it now appeared.
With knitted brows, he watched the progress of the ball down the field toward Yale’s goal. There was no doubt in his mind that the orange-and-black fellows had made the most of some very efficient coaching. Their teamwork was splendid, and every now and then they made use of some novel play which caused Hollister to bestow upon them a sincere, if somewhat grudging, admiration.
But presently he ceased to watch their good points and bent an anxious, scrutinizing eye upon his former comrades. Something seemed to be the matter with their playing. A subtle, impalpable something, hard to define, but plainly evident to the quick mind of the man on the side line.