Pemberton's fighting spirit came to his rescue. Did that idiot whose arms were slipping down around his legs think that he was going to be stopped here on the threshold of success? Did he know he was trying to hold Pemberton? Gosh! He'd show him! Every stride now was like pushing his knees into a stone wall; one, two, three, four, and still the line was three yards away. And now the tackler's arms had slipped down about his knees, holding them together as though with a vise. For an instant Pemberton fought on—a foot, half a foot—then further progress was impossible and he crashed over on his face, midway between the goal posts, the ball held at arms' length, his knuckles digging into the last streak of lime. Some one thumped down on to his head and strove to pull the ball back. But he locked his joints and strained forward until somewhere behind him a whistle shrilled. Then he rolled over on his back, closed his eyes and fought for breath.
Few could have missed that goal; certainly not Yale's quarter back. Once more the ball went over the exact center of the goal line, but this time above the cross bar; and wherever one or more Yale men were gathered together there was rejoicing loud and continued. For the figures on the score board told a different story: Yale, 6; Opponents, 5.
A few minutes later, in the car that was to take them back to town, Pemberton allowed the head coach to shake him by the hand, and strove to bear his honors becomingly. Congratulations roared in his ears like a torrent until he was moved to an expression of modest disclaim:
"Oh, it wasn't anything much," said Pemberton. "I ought not to have allowed that Princeton chap to get near me. But the fact is"—he addressed the head coach confidentially—"the fact is, you see, I didn't quite understand that signal."
THE SEVENTH TUTOR
"I'm being perfectly honest with you," said dad. "I tell you frankly that
I don't expect you to succeed, Mr. Wigg——"
"Twigg," corrected the chap in the basket chair.
"Pardon me; Twigg. The boy is simply unmanageable, especially where study is concerned. He—but, there, perhaps it will be best if I don't prejudice you too much. You'll have a free hand; I shan't interfere between you. The last tutor came to me every day with the story of his troubles. I paid him to keep them to himself; I don't want to hear them. I simply hand the boy over to you and say: 'Here he is; make a gentleman of him if you can, and incidentally get him ready for college. Punish him whenever you see fit. Take any method in doing it you like, so long as you don't forget you're a gentleman; brutality I won't stand.'"
I wished I could see the chap's face; but I couldn't; just his feet. He wore low patent leathers.
"If at the end of one month," dad went on, "you have managed to get the upper hand, we'll continue the arrangement. If you have failed I shall have no further need of you. In the meanwhile, until then, you're a member of the family, free to come and go as you like. See that you're comfortable. That's all, I guess. Want to try it?"