ng off half the Yale team while the stands with
primeval ferocity approved and prayed.

That made it first down on Yale's five-yard line. He was absolutely
confident that the Yale team could not prevent his taking the ball over
in the next few plays.

"I will! I will! I will!" he said to himself.

Alone, he felt, he could overcome that five yards against the eleven of
them.

"Let's have it, Dicky," he whispered. "I'm going over this play or the
next. Shoot me outside of tackle."

On the first play Goodhue fumbled, and a Yale guard fell on the ball.
George stared, stifling an instinct to destroy his friend. The chance
had been thrown away, and his head made him suffer more and more. Then
he saw that Goodhue wanted to die, and as they went back to place
themselves for the Yale kick, George said:

"You've proved we can get through them. Next time!"

Would there be a next time? And Goodhue didn't seem to hear. With all
his enviable inheritance and training he failed to conceal a passionate
remorse; his conviction of a peculiar and unforgivable criminality.

In the dressing-room a few minutes later some of the players bitterly
recalled that ghastly error, and a coach or two turned furiously on the
culprit. It was too bad Squibs and Allen weren't there to watch
George's white temper, an emotion he didn't understand himself, born, he
tried to explain it later, of his hurt head.

"Cut that out!" he snarled.

The temper of one of the coaches--an assistant--flamed back.

"It was handing the game on a----"

George reached out and caught the shoulders of that man who during the
season had ordered him around. The ringing in his head, the increasing
pain, had destroyed all memory of discipline.

"Say another word and I'll throw you out of here."

The room fell silent. Some men gasped. The coach shrank from the furious
face, tried to elude the powerful grasp. Stringham hurried up. George
let the other go.

"Mr. Stringham," he said, quietly, "if there's any more of this I'll
quit right now, and so will the rest of the team if they've any pluck."

Stringham motioned the coach away, soothed George, led him to a chair,
where Green and a doctor got off his battered headgear. George wanted to
scream, but he conquered the brimming impulse, and managed to speak
rationally.

"You've done all you can for us. We've got to play the game ourselves,
and we're not giving anything away. We're not making any mistakes we can
help.