Suddenly there is silence, a warning whistle blows. Yale has the ball, and the forwards group themselves in a curious zigzag formation, awaiting the kick off.
The short and chunky Teddie takes a run, his foot swings and strikes the ball with what seems hardly more than a gentle touch, but the oval is spinning clear down to the other end of the field, followed by the terrible rush of the whole Yale team. It is caught by a running Princeton man, who, with a swerve of his body, avoids the spring of one runner, hurls another aside with the "straight-arm," and comes tearing down the field like a deer. A tremendous shout from the wearers of the orange and black masses is bitten off with surprising abruptness. For Teddie smashes straight through the interference, and with a lightning-like dive, which there is no evading, tackles the runner just about the knees and hurls him headlong. In a flash the lined-up elevens are facing each other, and the fight is on.
"Too fat, eh? Just look at that!" chuckles Mr. Bright, slapping the erstwhile dignified Mr. Larned ecstatically on the back, as Yale's centre catches his opponent napping, hurls him aside, and downs a runner in his tracks.
Back and forth surges the tide of battle. The elevens are almost evenly matched, and though the ball has been dangerously close to either goal, it has always been kicked or rushed back in time. The pater marvels at Teddie. Where had his boy learned the daring, the coolness, and the self-reliance that characterize him that day? Time after time the Yale backs smash at the Princeton line and fail to make the necessary ground, and the ball is close to the goal, with only the swing of Teddie's right leg to ward off a touch-down. But the boy never falters. Unerringly he catches the ball, and just at the right moment when the rush of the opposing backs is almost upon him, the ball spins far out of danger, and a long-drawn breath of relief comes from the Yale seats. And once when Teddie dives into the line with the ball, and the great seething mass of arms and legs untangles itself, there is one that fails to rise with the rest. The little full-back lies very limp and still, and there is a cry for water, while old Mike rushes from the side-lines with a great blanket flapping in the breeze. The pater's face becomes all of a sudden drawn and white, and he trembles so that the great Westerner drops his arm across his shoulders.
"Steady, old man," he says, soothingly; "the boy's only had the wind pounded out of him. He'll be up and playing in a second." And maybe the two fathers don't join in the tremendous cheer that arises when Teddie trots back to his place—a little unsteadily, to be sure—and the game goes on.
"They're saving him," says Mr. Bright, after watching the play carefully for some time. "He's only been sent against the line three times this half, and now the other backs are doing most of the punting. They'll send him in to save the game in the last ten minutes."
The ball is back almost in the middle of the field again, when suddenly the warning whistle sounds shrilly, and the first half is over. A great buzz goes up from thousands of seats as the spectators discuss the details of the game, and, long before one expects them, the players are trooping back. Hair all adrip from the hurried sponging that the rubbers have given their grimy faces, bodies still atingle from the stinging alcohol rub-downs, with the hoarse, earnest, words of the graduate coachers still ringing in their ears, they line up for the bitter second half. From the start the advantage lies with the orange and black. The weight of their tremendous rush-line begins to make itself felt. Back and forth goes the ball, but—significant fact to the knowing ones—it stays constantly in Yale's territory. For the first time during the afternoon there is a dead silence, and the thud of the players' bodies as a back strikes the rush-line or tries to smash through the interference can be heard, and their sobbing breathing as again and again the confused heap untangles itself. The shrill voices of the quarter-backs as they call out the signal for the next play punctuates every struggle, and now and then one or the other of the Captains claps his muddy hands sharply together with a "Play hard, boys! Hit it up! Now show your sand!"
Above the struggling, changing mass hangs a thin white steam—truly a battle-mist. Finally, towards the end of the half, by a series of short, hard rushes, Princeton is on Yale's 20-yard line. But here the wearers of the blue stand like a stone wall, and, after three vain attempts, the ball goes to Yale on downs. Instantly it is passed back for a punt, and then—no one knows how it happened, perhaps the Yale guard was napping, perhaps the tackle was to blame—straight through the line, between tackle and guard, smashes the great right guard of Princeton and blocks the kick. The ball bounds from his broad chest clear across the line. In a flash one of the Princeton ends has followed, fallen on it, and the score is 4-0 in favor of Princeton. A crumb of comfort is it, but only a crumb to the Yale adherents, who sit gloomy and despondent amid a roaring storm of Princeton cheers, that no goal is kicked.
"Only seven minutes left," exclaims Mr. Bright, despairingly, "and that's not time to do anything against a rush-line like that. But the boys'll die a-trying, anyhow!"
Grim and unyielding the Yale men line up for these last stern minutes. They have failed. No matter the reason, the audience may call it a fluke, a piece of hard luck; but up on the Yale campus it is results that count—not excuses. In their hands is the honor of the college, and but seven minutes remain to wipe off the stain of defeat before thrice ten thousand people. Like a flash the eleven lines up. The battle opens with a last-resort flying-wedge play, too risky to try except at such a desperate time when every chance must be taken. When it is over the blue line is twelve yards nearer the Princeton goal; but two of the precious minutes are gone.