“We’ve got to do more line plunging,” thought Andy, and he was right, for Yale began that sort of a game when the whistle blew again. The wisdom of it was apparent, for at once the ball began to go down toward Harvard’s goal, once Yale got possession of the pigskin after an exchange of kicks.
“That’s the way! That’s the way!” yelled Andy. “Touchdown! Touchdown!”
This was being yelled all over the Yale stands. But it was not to be. After some magnificent playing, and bucking that tore the Harvard line apart again and again, time for the half was called, Yale having the ball on Harvard’s eight-yard line. Another play might have taken it over.
But both teams had been forced to call on more substitutes, and Harvard lost her best punter. Yale suffered, too, in the withdrawal of Michaels, a star end.
The third quarter had not been long under way when, following a scrimmage, a knot of Yale players gathered about a prostrate figure.
“Who is it? Who is it?” was asked on all sides.
“Brooks—right half!” was the despondent answer. “This cooks our goose!”
“Blair—Blair!” cried the coach. “Get in there! Rip ’em up!”
A mist swam before Andy’s eyes. Some one fairly pulled him from the bench, and his sweater was ripped off him, one sleeve tearing out. But what did it matter—he had a chance to play!
“We’ve got to buck their line!” the freshman captain whispered in his ear. “They’re weak there, and we dare not kick too much. Our ends can’t get down fast enough. I’m going to send you through for all you’re worth.”