The ball is back almost in the middle of the field again, when suddenly the warning whistle sounds shrilly, and the first half is over. A great buzz goes up from thousands of seats as the spectators discuss the details of the game, and, long before one expects them, the players are trooping back. Hair all adrip from the hurried sponging that the rubbers have given their grimy faces, bodies still atingle from the stinging alcohol rub-downs, with the hoarse, earnest, words of the graduate coachers still ringing in their ears, they line up for the bitter second half. From the start the advantage lies with the orange and black. The weight of their tremendous rush-line begins to make itself felt. Back and forth goes the ball, but--significant fact to the knowing ones--it stays constantly in Yale's territory. For the first time during the afternoon there is a dead silence, and the thud of the players' bodies as a back strikes the rush-line or tries to smash through the interference can be heard, and their sobbing breathing as again and again the confused heap untangles itself. The shrill voices of the quarter-backs as they call out the signal for the next play punctuates every struggle, and now and then one or the other of the Captains claps his muddy hands sharply together with a "Play hard, boys! Hit it up! _Now_ show your sand!" Above the struggling, changing mass hangs a thin white steam--truly a battle-mist. Finally, towards the end of the half, by a series of short, hard rushes, Princeton is on Yale's 20-yard line. But here the wearers of the blue stand like a stone wall, and, after three vain attempts, the ball goes to Yale on downs. Instantly it is passed back for a punt, and then--no one knows how it happened, perhaps the Yale guard was napping, perhaps the tackle was to blame--straight through the line, between tackle and guard, smashes the great right guard of Princeton and blocks the kick. The ball bounds from his broad chest clear across the line. In a flash one of the Princeton ends has followed, fallen on it, and the score is 4-0 in favor of Princeton. A crumb of comfort is it, but only a crumb to the Yale adherents, who sit gloomy and despondent amid a roaring storm of Princeton cheers, that no goal is kicked. "Only seven minutes left," exclaims Mr. Bright, despairingly, "and that's not time to do anything against a rush-line like that. But the boys'll die a-trying, anyhow!"