dash for it; it struck and stuck, hugged to his breast, and then over
he went with a terrific shock, which jarred the ball from his grasp.

Irving had seen the play with mingled joy and sorrow. It was his brother
who had made the tackle; it was Newell, the other Harvard end, who had
dropped on the fumbled ball.

Westby and Lawrence got to their feet together; Lawrence’s eyes were
dancing with triumphant expectation; the ball was Harvard’s now on St.
Timothy’s twenty-yard line. And Westby went dully to his position, aware
of the accusing silence of the crowd.

“All right, Wes; we’ll stop them,” Collingwood said to him cheerfully.

Westby did his best and flung himself desperately into the thick of
every scrimmage. The whole team did its best, but Harvard would not be
denied. By short rushes they fought their way down, down, and at last
across the goal line—and the game was won. There were only three minutes
left to play, and in that time neither side scored.

When Mr. Barclay blew his whistle, the Harvard team assembled and
cheered St. Timothy’s, and then St. Timothy’s assembled and cheered
Harvard. After that the players walked to the athletic house, beset on
the way by the curious or by friends.

Westby was the victim of condolences, well meant but ill-timed; he
responded curtly when Blake, pushing near, said to him, “It was awfully
hard luck, Wes—but after that you played a mighty good game.” He wished
nothing but to be let alone, he wished no sympathy. He knew that he had
lost the game; that was enough for him.