"Throw 'em back!"
"Hold 'em!"
"First down again!"
"Hold 'em, Lawrenceville!"
"Don't let them carry it seventy yards!"
"Get the jump!"
"There they go again!"
"Ten yards around Banks!"
Stover alone, squatting opposite the line of play, moving as it moved, coldly critical, studied each individuality.
"Funny nervous little tricks that Goodhue's got—blows on his hands—does that mean he takes the ball? No, all a bluff. What's he do when he does take it? Quiet and looks at the ground. When he doesn't take it he tries to pretend he does. I'll tuck that away. He's my man. Seems to switch in just as the interference strikes the end about ten feet beyond tackle, running low—Banks is playing too high; better, perhaps, to run in on 'em now and then before they get started. There's going to be trouble there in a minute. The fellows aren't up on their toes yet—what is the matter, anyhow? Tough's getting boxed right along, he ought to play out further, I should think. Hello, some one fumbled again. Who's got it? Looks like Garry. No, they recovered it themselves—no, they didn't. Lord, what a butter-fingered lot—why doesn't he get it? He has—Charlie DeSoto—clear field—can he make it?—he ought to—where's that Goodhue?—looks like a safe lead; he'll make the twenty-yard line at least—yes, fully that, if he doesn't stumble—there's that Goodhue now—some one ought to block him off, good work—that's it—that makes the touchdown—lucky—very lucky!"