Then the battle began again. The Harvard team had suffered an irreparable loss in the fall of the famous Jarvis, but the score was four to nothing in its favor, and all it needed to do now was to hold its own. The Crimson was on the crest, and it was for the Blue to come up hill. Every one on the north side was elated and confident. Then began a struggle grim and great. The Yale men closed up and went in for the last chance. There was no punting for them now, the wind was against them; but they had the heavier weight and well they used every ounce of it. Steadily, as the Old Guard trod over its slain at Waterloo, did the Blue wedge drive its way, rod by rod, towards the Harvard line. And as the fierce red Britons tore at Napoleon's devoted column, so did the Crimson warriors leap on that earth-stained phalanx. The rushers strained against it, Blake would plunge into and stagger it, Rivers and Spofford would throw their great bodies flat under the trampling feet, and bring the whole mass down over them. At last there would be a waver in the advance, three forward struggles checked and shattered, and on the fourth down, the ball would be Harvard's. On the first line up with the ball in Harvard's possession, would be heard the sound of Spofford's unerring foot against the leather and the brown oval would go curving and spinning over the heads of the rushers, far back into Yale's territory, with the Harvard ends well under it. A great "Oh!" of relief would go up from the north side. Then those Yale bull-dogs would begin all over again. Again and again did they fight their way almost to the Harvard line, only to be driven all the way back by a long Spofford punt. "How those Elis do fight!" exclaimed Gray in admiration. "Don't they," admitted Burleigh; "and isn't it nice to be able to be magnanimous and admire them? What a lot of credit you can give a fellow when you are licking him." "Those chaps aren't thrashed yet, my boy," said Holworthy. "They won't be, either, until the game is called, and, by Jove, they may not be then." This observation was perfectly true. The Waterloo simile extended no further than the appearance of battle. A Yale touch-down would tie the game, and if made near the goal would probably win it. For the fourth time the New Haven men struggled to the Cantabrigian twenty-yard line. There had been many delays in the game, and the short November afternoon had grown dark. A bad pass by the Harvard quarterback, a slip, a fumble by Spofford, might turn the result. The time was nearly up. The cheering had died almost entirely; the excitement was too deep for that, and every one was too breathless. A short gain for Yale. "Rattleton? Is Mr. Rattleton here?" called a messenger boy walking along the front of the long stand. "Hullo, here. What's wanted?" answered Jack.