It was the voice of the coach in his ears. Andy felt himself being lifted to his feet. His ears rang, and he could not see clearly. There was a confused mass of forms about him, and the ground seemed to reel beneath his feet.
Then like another dash of cold water came the thought to him, sharply and clearly:
“This isn’t playing the game! If I’m going to go over like this every time I’m tackled I’ll never play for Yale. Brace up!”
By sheer effort of will Andy brought his staggering senses back.
“I—I’m all right,” he panted. “Sort of a solar plexus knock, I guess.”
“That’s the way to talk!” exclaimed the coach, grimly. “Now then, fellows, hit it up. Where’s that ball? Oh, you had it, did you, Blair? That’s right, whatever happens, keep the ball! Get into the play now. Varsity, tear up that scrub line! What’s the matter with you, anyhow? You’re letting ’em go right through you. Smash ’em! Smash ’em good and hard. All right now, Blair?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Get in the game then. Scrub’s ball. Hurry up! Signal!”
Sharp and incisive came his tones, like some bitter tonic. Not a word of praise—always finding fault; and as for sympathy—you might as well have looked for it from an Indian ready to use his scalping knife. And yet—that is what made the Yale team what it was—a fighting machine.
Once more came the line-up, the scrub quarter snapping out his signals.