Grim and unyielding the Yale men line up for these last stern minutes. They have failed. No matter the reason, the audience may call it a fluke, a piece of hard luck; but up on the Yale campus it is results that count--not excuses. In their hands is the honor of the college, and but seven minutes remain to wipe off the stain of defeat before thrice ten thousand people. Like a flash the eleven lines up. The battle opens with a last-resort flying-wedge play, too risky to try except at such a desperate time when every chance must be taken. When it is over the blue line is twelve yards nearer the Princeton goal; but two of the precious minutes are gone. "Five, seven, twenty-nine!" shouts the quarter-back, hoarsely, and the ball goes back to Teddie, and smash he goes into the line. Like a flash the tangled mass dissolves, with the ball six yards nearer the goal. Nothing is harder to stand than the dumb furious rush of a despairing eleven, nerved by the sting of defeat, and seeing a chance to retrieve itself. No end plays now, but straight through the centre they go, and even Princeton's mighty rush-line wavers. Mr. Bright's prediction as to Teddie's having been held in reserve proves a true one. Back into his hands goes the ball for nearly every play, and gallantly that day does he sustain his reputation as the best line-breaker that has ever worn a Y. Sometimes it is a "turtle-back," or one of the huge guards makes a hole for him at the centre, or again, in a tandem play, Teddie follows the smashing rush of the heaviest back. But, whatever the play, crashing through or even leaping over the opposing line, as they crouch for his approach, pushing, boring, squirming, with the weight of half a dozen men crushing the breath out of him, Teddie always gains ground. Sometimes the gains are small, to be sure, but always enough for Yale to keep the ball. Once there is a line-up by the side-line close to where the two fathers sit, and Mr. Larned looks down into Teddie's face scarce ten yards away. It shows very white now underneath the grime and sweat, while the blood, oozing from a cut in the forehead, clots blackly in little streams down the side of his face. But, strangely enough, the pater forgets to characterize the whole thing as brutal. In fact, his teeth are clinched as grimly as his son's as he leans far forward to see every move of the game, and his heart goes out to those "young savages" who are making such a dogged up-hill fight of it. And now the ball is on the twenty-yard line, diagonally from the goal.