“Oh, boy! A substitution,” roared one of the noncommissioned officers, hitting Panama a resounding blow upon the back, “Number Forty-one. Let’s see. That’s Lefty Phelps, a newcomer, replacing the best man on the Yale team. I’ll bet that coach’s got something up his sweater. Come on, Yale!”
At this announcement, the taciturn Panama shifted idly in his seat, for the first time showing some sign of interest.
“I hope that egg can do something,” Panama muttered, biting off a chew of tobacco, just as the ball was shot to Lefty, who made a terrific drive over the left tackle, gaining twenty yards, with the ball now on the Harvard thirty-yard line.
At the conclusion of this perfect play, the roars of the Yale rooters echoed and reechoed through the vast stadium, with every man, woman and child on the New Haven side up and on their toes, tingling with excitement and shouting themselves hoarse.
“What did I tell you?” shrieked the enthusiastic noncom, again whacking Panama across the back. “He went through that line like a sieve!”
Yale then went into a huddle, with every mother’s son among them tense with action and nerves on edge.
Lefty gave the signal for the next play. The ball was snapped at him as he made a sweeping left end run.
Harvard was not to be taken by surprise again. As Lefty made for their goal and victory, he was partly tackled, knocked to the ground, rolling over in the tussle.
In a moment, he regained his feet, but the tackle and the excitement all about him muffled his direction and he faced the Yale side, continuing to run toward the wrong goal in his eagerness for victory.
As he shot out swiftly on his way in the opposite direction, he wondered why there was a clear field ahead of him, but with less than a minute to play, he felt that this was no time to stop and consider Harvard’s inefficiency.