In the intermission Harrison contributed an outside-right-tackle signal which he had learned from the repetitious Newbury quarter, and Bumpus the number which usually preceded onslaughts on centre.
“Don’t try to find out anything more!” commanded Yards. “Put your whole soul into the play. You’ve got the game if you can only hold them.”
Back they trotted, with smirched faces and tired limbs, but eager and determined. Their schoolmates on the cheering benches howled joyfully at them as they passed, but a certain gentleman wearing a brown derby and fur overcoat, and accompanied by a short, rotund man, easily recognizable by his diamond shirt-stud, thick mustache, and fat, red-veined face, gave them but ungracious looks. These looks presaged words equally ungracious to be uttered after the game, but the players passed on, unaware that the eye of President John Smith rested on them in disapproval.
I wish I might relate all the feats of heroes performed during the second half of this game which seemed to Mike McKay the most wholly satisfying contest he had ever witnessed. The chapter, however, has already run its length, and more football is coming. The ball made many futile journeys to and fro. Thrice the Newbury captain forced his quarter to alter the signals because Westcott’s change showed that the coming move was understood. Twice a Newbury man got an on-side kick behind the Westcott secondary defence, only to go down in McDowell’s grasp. Once Mac risked a long forward pass in the middle of the field on a first down, and Harrison, getting it near the side-line, made a forty-yard run to a touch-down. Once Skillen hit Hardie a swinging blow with his fist as the Westcott end _would_ interfere between him and the ball; and escaped the eye of the umpire. Once more he tried the same pretty trick and retired from the field in consequence. Time slipped away, and with it Newbury’s chance and Newbury’s courage. At the last blast of the referee’s whistle the score stood eleven to nothing in favor of Harrison’s team.
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THE delighted Westcott lads poured after their team to the dressing rooms in a turbulent stream. The forward ones thronged the limited space within, interfering with the progress of the players toward cleanness and respectability, and wearying them with fierce clutches of the hand and much repetition of exclamations and idle questions. Dunn served his companions a good turn—unintentionally, to be sure—by standing near the door and delivering to a densely packed circle a disquisition on the game, which included not merely the true explanation of the weakness of the Newbury team and the faults of their playing, but a candid setting forth of the errors on the Westcott side. According to Dunn, the score might have been doubled if Westcott’s hadn’t thrown the ball away so much by punting, and had gone systematically to work at the outset to use up Thorne, the Newbury tackle who did half the defensive work of his team.