"That's the stuff! That's going some! Keep it up, you Columbia Tigers, we're all proud of you!" hoarsely called a big man, stamping about and waving his cane adorned with Columbia colors. He had graduated from the old school twenty years before, and he had never lost his love for it, nor for her sons of the gridiron.
There was an exchange of punts on the next kick-off, and when that sort of playing was over, Clifford had the pigskin on Columbia's thirty-yard line.
"Now, fellows, go through 'em!" grimly called Hastings, and Style began to give the signals in a snappy voice. In another instant Wentworth, the Clifford right half, hit the line with a tremendous smash, going for a hole between Eastwick and Daly. Their mates rallied to their support, but there was smashing energy in the attack of Columbia's opponents, and hold as Frank and his players desperately tried to, they were shoved back, and Wentworth had gained four yards.
"Another like that!" called Hastings. "Go to 'em, now! Eat 'em up!"
Once more a smashing attack, and three yards more were reeled off around Shadduck's end.
"This won't do, fellows!" said Allen, seriously. "We've got to hold 'em!"
"How's that? Guess we're going some now, eh?" demanded a Clifford admirer, who sat next to Mr. Allen.
"Yes, you have a good team," was the answer. "But our boys are only letting you do this for encouragement."
"Oh, ho! They are, eh? Just watch."
Indeed, it looked a little dubious for Columbia. Her players were being shoved back for loss with heart-stilling regularity. There was no need for Clifford to kick, and all of Frank's frantic appeals to his men to hold seemed of no avail.