been said over and over again, hundreds, thousands of times, since the first football team was formed. But Dave, floundering, seeking desperately for words, his eyes fixed on the barred field over yonder, managed to endow old sounds with a fresh meaning.
"Coach says we can do it, fellows," said Dave. "He's not lying to us. Besides, I know, too. I know that if we think—if we just say we can lick 'em—go out there and fight every minute, every second, just forgetting everything but beating Wolcott—why, I know we can, fellows! We've got to fight, fight hard. Well, we can do it. We've got to fight harder than they fight. We can do that, too. I—I wouldn't want to lead you fellows out there if I wasn't certain right down to my boots that you meant to lick those guys. Think what it would be like to go back to Wyndham to-night beaten. We couldn't face the School! Why, hang it, we've got to win! That's all there is to it. We've got to win! And when you've got to do a thing, you—you"—Dave's gaze came back from the gridiron and challenged them—"you do it, if you're not yellow! Well, that's all. Only"—Dave shot out a big fist—"tell me this. Are you going to fight? Are you going to win?"
"Yes!" The reply was an explosion of pent-up emotions, a determined, defiant, exalted burst of sound that carried far across the sunlit field.
"Come on, then!" said Dave.
Twenty minutes later the gridiron was empty again.
