Dana came running back to support him. Out of the sky like a monstrous bird something round, yellow, and squirming came floating toward him. He was forced to run back, misjudged it a little, reached out, half fumbled it, and recovered it with a plunging dive just as Cockerell landed upon him.
"Get you next time, Dink," said the voice of his old school captain in his ear.
Stover, struggling to his feet, looked him coolly in the eye.
"No, you won't, Garry, and you know it. The next time I'm going back ten yards."
"Well, boy, we'll see."
They shook hands with a grim smile, while the field straggled up. He was lined up, flanked by Dana and Dudley, bending over, waiting for the signal. Three times De Soto, trying out the Princeton line, sent Dana plunging against the right tackle, barely gaining the distance. A fourth attempt being stopped for a loss, Stover dropped back for a kick on the second down.
The ball came a little low, and with it the whole line seemed torn asunder and the field filled with the rush of converging bodies. To have kicked would have been fatal. He dropped quickly on the ball, covering it, under the shock of his opponents.
Again he was back, waiting for the trial that was coming. He forgot that he was a freshman—forgot everything but his own utter responsibility.
"You center men, hold that line!" he cried. "You give me a chance! Give me time!"
Then the ball was in his hands, and, still a little hurried, he sent it too high over the frantic leaping rush, hurled to the ground the instant after.