Stover at end was trembling like a blooded terrier, on edge for each play, shrieking:
"Oh, Tough, get through—you must get through!"
He was playing by intuition now, no time to plan. He knew just who had the ball and where it was going. Out or in, the attack was concentrating on his end—only McCarty and he could stop it. He was getting his man, but they were dragging him on, fighting now for inches.
"Third down, one yard to gain!"
"Watch my end," he shouted to Flash Condit, and hurling himself forward at the starting backs dove under the knees, and grabbing the legs about him went down buried under the mass he had upset.
It seemed hours before the crushing bodies were pulled off and some one's arm brought him to his feet and some one hugged him, shouting in his ear:
"You saved it, Dink, you saved it!"
Some one rushed up with a sponge and began dabbing his face.
"What the deuce are they doing that for?" he said angrily.
Then he noticed that an arm was under his and he turned curiously to the face near him. It was Tough McCarty's.