“He’ll do it!”
“He’s caught him and tackled!”
“Thurlow’s down!”
Then the uproar became indescribable, for a Yale man had stopped the swift runner with the ball on the Yale fifteen-yard line. It had been done by splendid speed, although the runner had covered the ground in a queer, awkward, toeing-in manner. Then came the Yale cheer rolling across the gridiron.
Harvard had not permitted Brown to score, but Harvard had scored but twelve points against her. Yale led by six points, if she could keep the Providence team from making fifteen yards more before the finish. Of course, Yale was anxious to defeat Brown by a greater score than Harvard had done, as it would give the sons of Old Eli courage for the coming battle with the crimson. “Battle” is the word, for surely it was more of a battle than a game. According to fixed rules and an established code, the two elevens fought like untamed tigers for the mastery.
Brown’s exultation had been temporary. While it lasted they had seemed frantic, but now the Yale men were whooping it up.
“Who did it?”
“Who stopped him?”
“What’s his name?”
“Anybody know him?”