Larsen stuck his blonde head close up to theirs, "For Christ's sake, let me take it! It's my last game. I won't play no more after to-day!"
"Neither will I," thought Neale, but he nodded and they lined up with Larsen back.
"Look out for a funny one," cried the Cornell quarter, as the signals began. "Cap and quarter had a consultation—"
As the center's fingers contracted for the snap-back, Neale shot out of his tracks, and crashed into the defensive half. "Got him flat-footed," he thought, remembering as they both went down to swing his feet wide in the hope of getting the defensive quarter as well. He rolled clear at once, and looked back to see if he could be of any help. It wasn't necessary. Practically all the two teams were heaped in a human haystack, from the base of which emerged a grinning blonde face. Under the face were two huge hands some six inches over the line, clutching the ball, on which emotional Swedish eyes were weeping beatific tears.
Neale kicked a fairly easy goal. The trainer let him suck a little water from a sponge, whispering out of the corner of his motionless mouth, "Andy says minute and a half to play. Hold the ball and line up slow!"
But the team had tasted too much blood to stall. They went down on the kick-off like a pack of wolf-hounds. They smashed two plays for a loss, and after a punt, they punched the ball to mid-field before the whistle blew and the game was over.
Nicholson tossed the ball to Neale, "Here's your ball, Cap!"
Neale saw Mike Blahoslav kissing Bunny Edwards. He himself was hugging Gus Larsen, when the pandemonium from the grand-stand struck them. He was lifted on a platform of shoulders and carried to the gate surrounded by a cheering singing, crazy mob of rooters.
"That's so," he thought, "there was a crowd looking on!" He had not thought of the bleachers, or heard a cheer since the second half began.
They packed into the 'bus, Varsity inside, scrub on top.
