asing only when Gifford signaled
for silence.

Then there were speeches by each member of the team, all
enthusiastically applauded, and finally the speech of the evening, that
of the coach, Jack Price. He was a big, compactly built man with regular
features, heavy blond hair, and pale, cold blue eyes. He threw off his
coat with a belligerent gesture, stuck his hands into his trousers
pockets, and waited rigidly until the cheering had subsided. Then he
began:

"Go ahead and yell. It's easy as hell to cheer here in the gym; but what
are you going to do Saturday afternoon?"

His voice was sharp with sarcasm, and to the shouts of "Yell! Fight!"
that came from all over the gymnasium, he answered, "Yeah,
maybe--maybe." He shifted his position, stepping toward the front of the
platform, thrusting his hands deeper into his pockets.

"I've seen a lot of football games, and I've seen lots of rooters, but
this is the goddamndest gang of yellow-bellied quitters that I've ever
seen. What happened last Saturday when we were behind? I'm asking you;
what happened? You quit! Quit like a bunch of whipped curs. God! you're
yellow, yellow as hell. But the team went on fighting--and it won, won
in spite of you, won for a bunch of yellow pups. And why? Because the
team's got guts. And when it was all over, you cheered and howled and
serpentined and felt big as hell. Lord Almighty! you acted as if you'd
done something."

His right hand came out of his pocket with a jerk, and he extended a
fighting, clenched fist toward his breathless audience. "I'll tell you
something," he said slowly, viciously; "the team can't win alone day
after to-morrow. _It can't win alone!_ You've got to fight. Damn it!
_You've got to fight!_ Raleigh's good, damn good; it hasn't lost a game
this season--and we've got to win, _win_! Do you hear? We've got to win!
And there's only one way that we can win, and that's with every man back
of the team. Every goddamned mother's son of you. The team's good, but
it can't win unless you fight--_fight_!"

Suddenly his voice grew softer, almost gentle. He held out both hands to
the boys, who had become so tense that they had forgotten to smoke.
"We've got to win, fellows, for old Sanford. Are you back of us?"

"Yes!" The tension shattered into a thousand yells. The boys leaped on
the chairs and shouted until they could shout no more. When Gifford
called for "a regular cheer for Jack Price" and then one for the
team--"Make