Thereafter it had all a grim sameness, except, in a strange way, it seemed to him that nothing that had gone before counted--that everything they were fighting for was to keep their goal-line inviolate. Nothing new seemed to happen. When he went fiercely into a mêlée, finding his man somehow, or felt the rush of bodies about him as he managed each time to get clear his punt, he had the same feeling: "Why, I've done this before." A dozen times they stopped the Princeton advance, sometimes far away and sometimes near, once within the five-yard line. Every moment, now, some one cried wearily: "What's the time?" The gray of November twilights, the haze that settles over the struggles of the gridiron like the smoke of a battle-field, began to close in. And then a sudden fumble, a blocked kick, and by a swift turn of luck it was Yale's ball for the first time in Princeton's territory. One or two subs came rushing in eagerly from the side lines. Every one was talking at once: "What's the time?" "Five minutes more." "Get together, Yale!" "Show 'em how!" "Ram it through them!" "Here's our chance!" Stover, beside himself, ran up to De Soto and flung his arms about his neck, whispering in his ear: "Give me a chance--you must give me a chance! Send me through Regan!" He got his signal, and went into the breach with every nerve set, fighting his way behind the great bulk of Regan for a good eight yards. A second time he was called on, and broke the line for another first down. Regan was transformed. All his calm had gone. He loomed in the line like a Colossus, flinging out his arms, shouting: "We're rotten, are we? Carry it right down the field, boys!" Every one caught the infection. De Soto, with his hand to his mouth, was shouting hoarsely, through the bedlam of cheers, his gleeful slogan: "We don't want to live forever, boys! What do we care? We've got to face Yale after this. Never mind your necks. We've got the doctors! A little more murder, now! Shove that ball down that field, Yale! Send them back on stretchers! Nineteen--eight--six--four--Ha-a-ard!" Again and again Stover was called on, and again and again, with his whole team behind him or Regan's great arm about him, struggling to keep his feet, crawling on his knees, fighting for every last inch, he carried the ball down the field twenty, thirty yards on. He forgot where he was, standing there with blazing eyes and colorless face. He forgot that he was only the freshman, as he had that night in the wrestling bout. He gave orders, shouted advice, spurred them on. He felt no weariness; nothing could tire him. His chance had come at last. He went into the line each time blubbering, laughing with the fierce joy of it, shouting to himself: "I'm the weak spot, am I? I'll show them!" And the certainty of it all overwhelmed him. Nothing could stop him now. He knew it. He was going to score. He was going to cross that line only fifteen yards away.