"Here's our chance!"
Stover, beside himself, ran up to De Soto and flung his arms about his neck, whispering in his ear:
"Give me a chance—you must give me a chance! Send me through Regan!"
He got his signal, and went into the breach with every nerve set, fighting his way behind the great bulk of Regan for a good eight yards. A second time he was called on, and broke the line for another first down.
Regan was transformed. All his calm had gone. He loomed in the line like a Colossus, flinging out his arms, shouting:
"We're rotten, are we? Carry it right down the field, boys!"
Every one caught the infection. De Soto, with his hand to his mouth, was shouting hoarsely, through the bedlam of cheers, his gleeful slogan:
"We don't want to live forever, boys! What do we care? We've got to face Yale after this. Never mind your necks. We've got the doctors! A little more murder, now! Shove that ball down that field, Yale! Send them back on stretchers! Nineteen—eight—six—four—Ha-a-ard!"
Again and again Stover was called on, and again and again, with his whole team behind him or Regan's great arm about him, struggling to keep his feet, crawling on his knees, fighting for every last inch, he carried the ball down the field twenty, thirty yards on.