His right hand came out of his pocket with a jerk, and he extended a fighting, clenched fist toward his breathless audience. "I'll tell you something," he said slowly, viciously; "the team can't win alone day after to-morrow. It can't win alone! You've got to fight. Damn it! You've got to fight! Raleigh's good, damn good; it hasn't lost a game this season—and we've got to win, win! Do you hear? We've got to win! And there's only one way that we can win, and that's with every man back of the team. Every goddamned mother's son of you. The team's good, but it can't win unless you fight—fight!"
Suddenly his voice grew softer, almost gentle. He held out both hands to the boys, who had become so tense that they had forgotten to smoke. "We've got to win, fellows, for old Sanford. Are you back of us?"
"Yes!" The tension shattered into a thousand yells. The boys leaped on the chairs and shouted until they could shout no more. When Gifford called for "a regular cheer for Jack Price" and then one for the team—"Make it the biggest you ever gave"—they could respond with only a hoarse croak.
Finally the hymn was sung—at least, the boys tried loyally to sing it—and they stood silent and almost reverent as the team filed out of the gymnasium.
Hugh walked back to Surrey Hall with several men. No one said a word except a quiet good night as they parted. Carl was in the room when he arrived. He sank into a chair and was silent for a few minutes.
Finally he said in a happy whisper, "Wasn't it wonderful, Carl?"
"Un-huh. Damn good."
"Gosh, I hope we win. We've got to!"
Carl looked up, his cheeks redder than usual, his eyes glittering. "God, yes!" he breathed piously.