"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."