"Here's where Old Nassau scores," he said.
A last desperate plunge carried the little army of the Orange and Black over the coveted mark. The left half walked back; there were cries, entreaties, commands; the cheering died away and gave place to the intense silence of suspense; Pemberton could hear the little Princeton quarter back's signals quite plainly. Then, after a moment of breathless delay, the ball sped back, was caught breast high by the left half, was dropped on the instant and shot forward from his foot, and went rising toward the goal. The Yale forwards broke through, leaping with upstretched hands into the path of the ball, yet never reaching it. The field was a confusion of writhing, struggling bodies, but the ball was sailing straight and true, turning lazily on its shorter axis, over the cross bar.
Over on the Princeton side of the field hats were in flight, slicing up and down and back and forth across the face of the long slope of yellow and black; flags were gyrating crazily; the space between seats and barrier was filled with a leaping, howling mass of humanity, and all the while the cheers crashed and hurtled through the air. Well, Princeton had something to cheer for; even Pemberton grudgingly acknowledged that.
"Have we time to score?" he asked despondently.
His neighbor turned, stretching out his long, blue-stockinged legs.
"There's about five or six minutes left, I guess," he answered. "We've got time to score, but will we?"
Pemberton didn't think they would. Life seemed very cruel just then.
"Hello," continued the other, "Webster's coming out! I guess here's where your Uncle Tom gets a whack at Old Nassau—maybe." He sat up and watched the head coach alertly. The next moment Pemberton was peeling off his sweater for him.
Princeton ran Yale's kick-off back to her forty yards. The Blue's right guard was taken out, white and wretched, after the first scrimmage. Princeton started at her battering again, content now to make only sufficient gains to keep the ball. But with a yard to gain on the third down a canvas clad streak broke through and nailed her tackle behind the line. Pemberton, shouting ecstatically, saw that the streak was his erstwhile neighbor, and was proud of the acquaintance. Then Yale, with the ball once more in possession, started to wake things up. Past the forty yards again she went, throwing tackles and full back at every point in the Tiger's line for short gains, and showing no preference. But, all said, it was slow work and unpromising with the score board announcing five minutes to play. The Yale supporters, however, found cause for rejoicing, and cheered gloriously until there was a fumble and the Blue lost four yards on the recovery. Time was called and the trainers and water carriers trotted on the field. The head coach and an assistant came toward the bench, talking earnestly, the former's sharp eyes darting hither and thither searchingly. Pemberton watched, with his heart fluttering up into his throat. The head coach's gaze fixed itself upon him, passed on up the line, came back to him and stayed. Pemberton dropped his eyes. It isn't good form to stare Fate in the face. Was it a second later or an age that his name was called?"
"Go in at left half; tell Haker to come out. And—er—Pemberton, here's a pretty good chance to show what you can do."