Pemberton had found the contest exciting, breathlessly so at moments, but disappointing. Being a freshman, as well as a 'varsity substitute of a week's standing, he was intensely patriotic, and the thought of a tie game was unbearable; to a youth of his enthusiasm a tie was virtually a defeat for the Blue; and a defeat for the Blue was something tragic, inconceivable! Pemberton was a sandy-haired, blue-eyed, round-faced chap of eighteen; in height, five feet nine; in weight, one hundred and sixty-eight; neither large nor heavy, but speedy as they make them, a bundle of nerves, endowed with a fanatical enthusiasm and a kind of brilliant, dashing recklessness that often wins where larger courage fails.
At Exeter he hadn't gone in for football until his senior year; the Physical Director couldn't see the thing from Pemberton's viewpoint; physical directors are narrow-minded souls; Pemberton will tell you so any day. With three years of lost time to make up, Pemberton had put his whole mind into football with the result that he had made the team in time to play for five short, mad minutes against Andover. This fall he had distinguished himself on the Freshmen Eleven, and the game with the Harvard youngsters, if it hadn't resulted in a victory for Yale, had, at least, made the reputation of Pemberton, left half back. In that somewhat one-sided contest he had shown such dash and pluck, had eeled himself through the Crimson's line, or shot like a small streak of lightning around the ends so frequently that he had been called to the 'varsity bench. And on the 'varsity bench, one, and quite the smallest one, of a long line of substitutes, he had sat since the beginning of the Princeton game, with an excellent chance of staying there until the whistle blew.
He wasn't a fellow to accept inactivity with gracefulness. That "they also serve who only stand and wait," he was willing to accept as true; but that wasn't the kind of serving he hankered for; Pemberton's ideal of usefulness was getting busy and doing things—and doing them hard.
On opposite sides of the field rival bands were blaring out two-steps, the strains leaking now and then through the deep, thundering cheers. Down on Yale's thirty-five-yard line Princeton was hammering at right guard for short gains, edging nearer and nearer the goal, and thousands of eyes fixed themselves expectantly on Princeton's left half back, dreading or hoping to see him fall back for a kick. On the thirty yards Yale's line braced and held. Princeton tried a run outside of left tackle and got a yard. The ball was directly in front of goal.
"Sturgis is a dub if he doesn't try it now," said the big fellow on
Pemberton's left.
"But he couldn't do it from the forty-yard line, could he?" asked
Pemberton.
"Search me; but from what he's done so far to-day I guess he could kick a goal from the other end of the field. Nothing doing, though; they're trying right guard again. There goes Crocker."
Yale's line gave at the center and a Princeton tackle fell through for two yards. The Princeton cheers rang out redoubled in intensity, sharp, entreating, only to be met with the defiant slogan of Yale. Pemberton shuffled his scarred brown leather shoes uneasily and gnawed harder at his knuckles. Princeton was playing desperately, fighting for the twenty-yard line. A play that looked like a tandem at right guard resolved itself into a plunge at left tackle and gave them their distance. The Yale stands held staring, troubled faces. The Princeton stands were on their feet, shouting, waving, swaying excitedly; score cards were sailing and fluttering through the air; pandemonium reigned over there. Pemberton scowled fiercely across. His left-hand neighbor whistled a tune softly. Princeton piled her backs through again for a yard.
"Oh, thunder!" muttered Pemberton.
The other nodded sympathetically.