A roar went up all round the enclosed field. A double pass had been made, and a Brown man was going clean round Yale’s end, having tricked the defenders of the blue. If he got round, an open field lay before him, and the Providence team would score. Roar, roar, roar—how the sound rose to the dull autumn sky. Flags were fluttering everywhere, while men and women were on their feet shouting at the top of their voices.
The Yale men sat still without breathing, watching, waiting, hoping. Out of the tangled mass shot a man. He was so covered with dirt that it was almost impossible to tell whether he was a Yale man or an enemy. He went at the man with the ball like a shot out of a gun.
“Who is it?”
“He can’t catch him!”
“Brown scores!”
“It’s Thurlow, with the ball!”
“He can run like the wind!”
“He’s flying!”
“So’s t’other fellow!”
“He’s catching him!”