"

Goodhue came up and gripped his shoulder. The touch quieted him.

"This man oughtn't to go back, Green," the doctor announced.

George stiffened. He hadn't made that score. He hadn't smashed Lambert
Planter half enough. Better to leave the field on a stretcher, and in
darkness again, than to quit like this: to walk out between the halves;
not to walk back. He began to lie, overcoming a physical agony of which
he had never imagined his powerful body capable.

"No, that doesn't hurt, nor that," he replied, calmly, to the doctor's
questions. "Don't think I'm nutty because I lost my temper. My head's
all right. That gear's fine."

So they let him go back, and he counted the plays, willing himself to
receive and overcome the pounding each down brought him, continuing by
pure force of will to outplay Lambert; to save his team from dangerous
gains, from possible scores; nearly breaking away himself half-a-dozen
times, although the Princeton eleven was tiring and much of the play was
in its territory.

The sun had gone behind heavy clouds. A few snowflakes fluttered down.
It was nearly dark. In spite of his exertions he felt cold, and knew it
for an evil sign. Once or twice he shivered. His throbbing head gave him
an illusion of having grown enormously so that it got in everybody's
way. Instinctively he caught a Yale forward pass on his own thirty-yard
line and tore off, slinging tacklers aside with the successful fury of a
young bull all of whose dangerous actions are automatic. He had come a
long way. He didn't know just how far, but the Yale goal posts were
near. Then, quite consciously, he saw Lambert Planter cutting across to
intercept him. The meeting of the two was unavoidable. He thought he
heard Lambert's voice.

"Not past me!"

Lambert plunged for the tackle. George's right hand shot out and smashed
open against Lambert's face. He raced on, leaving Lambert sprawled and
clawing at the ground.

The quarterback managed to bring him down on the eight-yard line, then
lost him; yet, before George could get to his feet others had pounced,
and his heavy, awkward head had crashed against the earth again.

They dragged him to his feet. For a few moments he lurched about,
shaking off friendly hands.

"Only five minutes more, George," somebody prayed.

Only five minutes! Good God! For him each moment was a century of
unspeakable martyrdom. Flecks of rain or snow touched his face, lifted
in revolt. The contact, w