"Come on, now, bang into it! Yes, but hold on to it! Squeeze it. Better—more snap there! Get out the way! Come on! Rotten! Take that again—on the jump!"
Stover suddenly felt the inflaming seriousness of Yale, the spirit that animated the field. Everything was in deadly earnest; the thing of rags swinging grotesquely was as important as the tackle that on a championship field stood between defeat and victory.
His turn came. He shot forward, left the turf in a clean dive, caught the dummy at the knees, and shook the ground with the savageness of his tackle.
"Out of the way, quick—next man!" cried the driving voice.
There was not a word of praise for what he knew had been a perfect tackle. A second and a third time he flung himself heedlessly at the swinging figure, in a desperate attempt to win the withheld word of approbation.
"He might at least have grunted," he said to himself, tumbling to his feet, "the little tyrant."
In a moment Tompkins, without relaxing a jot of his nervous driving, had them spread over the field, flinging themselves on a dozen elusive footballs, while always his voice, unsatisfied, propelling, drove them:
"Faster, faster! Get into it—let go yourselves. Throw yourself at it. Oh, hard, harder!"
Ten minutes of practise starts under his leash, and they ended, enveloped in steam, lungs shaken with quick, convulsive breaths.