"Those chaps aren't thrashed yet, my boy," said Holworthy. "They won't be, either, until the game is called, and, by Jove, they may not be then."
This observation was perfectly true. The Waterloo simile extended no further than the appearance of battle. A Yale touch-down would tie the game, and if made near the goal would probably win it. For the fourth time the New Haven men struggled to the Cantabrigian twenty-yard line. There had been many delays in the game, and the short November afternoon had grown dark. A bad pass by the Harvard quarterback, a slip, a fumble by Spofford, might turn the result. The time was nearly up. The cheering had died almost entirely; the excitement was too deep for that, and every one was too breathless. A short gain for Yale.
"Rattleton? Is Mr. Rattleton here?" called a messenger boy walking along the front of the long stand.
"Hullo, here. What's wanted?" answered Jack.
"Telegram for you, sir," said the boy. Rattleton did not take his eyes from the game while he tore open the envelope. Having opened it, he glanced hurriedly at the message, then jumped to his feet with a whistle. He had read:
"Come to Massachusetts General Hospital immediately when back from game.
"Varnum."
"When does the next train leave for Boston?" he asked the boy.
"There is one in a few minutes," was the answer.
"Whoop it up for me, children," he said to the others, "I've got to leave. Come along, Blathers."
"Why, Jack, what's up?"