Fisher came up for the third round, visibly groggy and shaken by the force of the tackles he had received, but game. Twice Stover, watching his chance, dove under the groping hands and flung him savagely to the ground. Once Fisher caught him, as they lay on the ground, in a hold that might have been decisive earlier in the match. As it was, Stover felt with a swift horror the arm slipping under his arm, half gripping his neck. The wet heat of the antagonistic body over his inflamed all the brute in him. The strength was now his. He tore himself free, scrambled to his feet, and hurled Fisher a last time clean through into the scattering crowd, where he lay stunned, too weak to resist the viselike hands that forced his shoulders to the ground. Dana hauled Stover to his feet, a little groggy. "Some tackling, freshman! Bout's yours! Call out the heavyweights!" Scarcely realizing that it was his captain who had spoken, Dink stood staring down at Fisher, white and conquered, struggling to his feet in the grip of friends. "I say, Fisher," he said impulsively, "I hope I didn't shake you up too much. I saw red; I didn't know what I was doing." "You did me all right," said the sophomore, giving his hand. "That tackle of yours would break a horse in two. Shake!" "Thank you," said Stover, flustered and almost ashamed before the other's perfect sportsmanship. "Thank you very much, sir!" He went to his corner, smothered under frantic slaps and embraces, hearing his name resounding again and again on the thunders of his classmates. The bout had been spectacular; every one was asking who he was. "Stover, eh, of Lawrenceville!" "Gee, what a fierce tackler!" "Ridiculous for Fisher to be beaten!" "Oh, is it? How'd you like to get a fall like that?" "Played end." "Captain at Lawrenceville." "He ought to be a wonder." "Say, did you see the face he got on him?" "Enough to scare you to death." "It got Fisher, all right." While he was being rubbed down and having his clothes thrust upon him, shivering in every tense muscle, which, now the issue was decided, seemed to have broken from his control, suddenly a hand gripped his, and, looking up, he saw the face of Tompkins, ablaze with the fire of the professional spectator. "I'm not shaking hands on your brutal old tackling," he said, with a look that belied his words. "It's the other thing--the losing the first fall. Good brain-work, boy; that's what'll count in football." The grip of the veteran cut into his hand; in Tompkins's face also was a reminiscent flash of the fighting face that somehow, in any test, wins half the battle. The third bout went to the sophomores, Regan, the choice of the class, being nowhere to be found. But the victory was with the freshmen, who, knit suddenly together by the consciousness of a power to rise to emergencies, carried home the candidates in triumph.