"Five, seven, twenty-nine!" shouts the quarter-back, hoarsely, and the ball goes back to Teddie, and smash he goes into the line. Like a flash the tangled mass dissolves, with the ball six yards nearer the goal. Nothing is harder to stand than the dumb furious rush of a despairing eleven, nerved by the sting of defeat, and seeing a chance to retrieve itself. No end plays now, but straight through the centre they go, and even Princeton's mighty rush-line wavers. Mr. Bright's prediction as to Teddie's having been held in reserve proves a true one. Back into his hands goes the ball for nearly every play, and gallantly that day does he sustain his reputation as the best line-breaker that has ever worn a Y. Sometimes it is a "turtle-back," or one of the huge guards makes a hole for him at the centre, or again, in a tandem play, Teddie follows the smashing rush of the heaviest back. But, whatever the play, crashing through or even leaping over the opposing line, as they crouch for his approach, pushing, boring, squirming, with the weight of half a dozen men crushing the breath out of him, Teddie always gains ground. Sometimes the gains are small, to be sure, but always enough for Yale to keep the ball. Once there is a line-up by the side-line close to where the two fathers sit, and Mr. Larned looks down into Teddie's face scarce ten yards away. It shows very white now underneath the grime and sweat, while the blood, oozing from a cut in the forehead, clots blackly in little streams down the side of his face. But, strangely enough, the pater forgets to characterize the whole thing as brutal. In fact, his teeth are clinched as grimly as his son's as he leans far forward to see every move of the game, and his heart goes out to those "young savages" who are making such a dogged up-hill fight of it.
And now the ball is on the twenty-yard line, diagonally from the goal.
"Thirty seconds to play," shouts the umpire, poring over his stop-watch. "Thirty seconds to make one last attempt for Yale, and every man on the eleven nerves himself to hold against the Princeton rush-line as against death himself. As the quarter-back cries the signal, the right and left half-backs, from mere force of habit, crouch ostentatiously, as if prepared for a run round the end. But the feint is unnecessary. Every man on the Princeton eleven, every coacher on the side-lines, every football-player on the crowded grand stands, knows that a goal from the field is Yale's only chance, knows that on Teddie's coolness depends the fate of the day. Back goes the ball on a long, low, accurate pass from the wiry little quarter-back. And before it has reached Teddie's outstretched hands the crash comes, and against the sternly waiting line comes the full force of the Princeton rushers bent on breaking through and blocking the kick.
"Hold 'em, Yale!" gasps the Captain from his place at tackle, as he braces against the hard-pressed right-guard. And for a second Yale holds. Then the line wavers, and straight for Teddie, from as many different points, spring three men. But that second had been enough. Deftly and slowly, as if in practice, the ball is poised and dropped. Struck on the rebound by Teddie's foot, it spins up and out just above the outstretched fingers of the Princeton rushers, who leap high in the air to intercept it. The goal is a difficult, diagonal one to make, and every player forgets to breathe as the ball sails slowly on, until it just clears the cross-bar, making the score stand 5-4 in favor of Yale; the game has been won in the last quarter of a minute.
THE GAME HAS BEEN WON IN THE LAST QUARTER OF A MINUTE.
In such an indescribable turmoil as the one that followed, with every Yale sympathizer swarming out on the field to embrace the eleven which had so gallantly snatched a victory from the jaws of defeat, it was impossible to chronicle events with perfect accuracy; but it has been reported, on reliable authority, that shortly after the goal was kicked, a hatless and much dishevelled individual, bearing some faint resemblance to the dignified Mr. Larned, the well-known financier of New York, was seen enthusiastically hugging a muddy Yale player, supposed to be the full-back, pouring forth divers fragments of cheers the while, and at intervals embracing a tall man in a slouch hat who was performing a vigorous war-dance with variations. Both of these parties mentioned were also said to have been members of the group that carried the aforesaid full-back around the field on their shoulders in triumph. Undoubtedly the facts in the case have been much exaggerated, but it is certainly true that Mrs. Larned, to her unbounded amazement, received the following telegram from her husband late that evening:
"Teddie, my friend Bright, and four of the Yale eleven will eat Thanksgiving dinner with us to-night."