Oh boy! Maybe we didn’t go crazy on the stand! Why, we hadn’t done anything like that to Enwright in four years! We got cocky and crazy-headed and predicted a score something like twenty-eight to nothing! We ought to have known better, but we didn’t. Enwright sort of pulled herself together after that and held us off until the quarter was up. But we were still hopeful and looked for more glory in the second period. The glory was there, too, but it went to Enwright. She came bravely out of her trance and pushed us straight down the field for a touchdown and then, when White misjudged a long corkscrew punt and had to fall on the ball on our twelve yards, she did it again in just three rushes. She missed both goals, though, and we got some comfort from that. Twelve to seven wasn’t so bad, after all. And the game wasn’t half over yet.
But, although the visitors didn’t score again in that quarter, they outplayed us badly. And they kept it up in the third period, too, after we had sung and cheered all during half-time. But they didn’t score. They had three perfectly good chances, and each time some turn of the luck queered them. Of course, our fellows did their bit. They were giving their well-known imitation of Horatius keeping the bridge. But, shucks, if it hadn’t been for a fumble on our three yards, a perfectly punk pass from center to fullback and holding in the line, Enwright would have scored three times in that quarter. The trouble with us was that we never forgot who we were up against. We were whatyoucallems—fatalists. When an Enwright runner was tackled he kept on running and made another yard, maybe two or three. When one of our fellows was tackled he quit cold. Same way in hitting the line. When one of our backs ran up against the defense he eased up. Even our punting showed it. We didn’t mean to quit, but we were doing it. We oozed through the third quarter with the score still twelve to seven, and we began to hope then that we could hold the score where it was. What happened after the whistle blew I got from Tru and Joe.
Coach Morgan called Joe from the bench. “Jones is very bad,” he said in that quiet, crisp way of his, “and they’re making too many gains at our center, Talmadge. It’s too bad we haven’t anyone to stiffen it, isn’t it? If it was only the second team I’d chance putting you in.”
Joe looked troubled. “I’ll try my best, sir,” he said doubtfully.
“We-ell, I don’t know. They’ve got us beaten anyway, and——”
Joe flared up. “They have! Like fun they have! We’ve got ourselves beaten. There isn’t a fellow out there that doesn’t think he’s done for right now. There isn’t one of ’em that really expects to win. There isn’t more than one or two that’s trying. They’re just dying game, that’s all they’re doing! Beaten! Yah, that Enwright bunch would quit cold if someone put up a real fight!”
“Think so?” asked the coach mildly. “I wonder. Too bad someone couldn’t go out there and convince them of that, isn’t it, Talmadge?”
“Yes, but what’s the use? They won’t believe it, Coach.”
“They might—if it was put to them hard enough,” the man mused.