When Hugo entered the line, Jerry Painter and Lefty spoke to him in
strained tones. "You've got to take it over, Hugo--all the way."
"All right."
The men lined up. A tense silence had fallen on the Yale line. They knew
what was going to happen. The signals were called, the ball shot back to
Lefty, Hugo began to run, the men in front rushed together, and Lefty
stuffed the ball into Hugo's arms. "Go on," he shouted. The touchdown
was made in one play. Hugo saw a narrow hole and scooted into it. A man
met his outstretched arm on the other side. Another. Hugo dodged twice.
The crescendo roar of the Webster section came to him dimly. He avoided
the safety man and ran to the goal. In the pandemonium afterwards, Jerry
kicked the goal.
A new kick-off. Hugo felt a hand on his shoulder. "You've gotta break
this up." Hugo broke it up. He held Yale almost single-handed. They
kicked back. Hugo returned the kick to the middle of the field. He did
not dare to do more.
Then he stood in his leather helmet, bent, alert, waiting to run again.
They called the captain's signal. He made four yards. Then Lefty's. He
made a first down. Then Jerry's. Two yards. Six yards. Five yards.
Another first down. The stands were insane. Hugo was glad they were not
using him--glad until he saw Jerry Painter's face. It was pale with
rage. Blood trickled across it from a small cut. Three tries failed.
Hugo spoke to him. "I'll take it over, Jerry, if you say so."
Jerry doubled his fist and would have struck him if Hugo had not stepped
back. "God damn you, Danner, you come out here in the last few minutes
all fresh and make us look like a lot of fools. I tell you, my team and
I will take that ball across and not you with your bastard tricks."
"But, good God, man--"
"You heard me."
"This is your last down."
There was time for nothing more. Lefty called Jerry's signal, and Jerry
failed. The other team took the ball, rushed it twice, and kicked back
into the Webster territory. Again the tired, dogged players began a
march forward. The ball was not given to Hugo. He did his best, using
his body as a ram to open holes in the line, tripping tacklers with his
body, fighting within the limits of an appearance of human strength to
get his teammates through to victory. And Jerry, still pale and profane,
drove the men like slaves. It was useless. If Hugo had dared more, they
might have succeeded. But they lost the ball again. It was only in the
last few seconds that an exhausted and victorious team relinquished the
ball to Webster.
Jerry ordered his own number again. Hugo, cold and somewhat furious at
the vanity and injustice of the performance, gritted his teeth. "How
about letting me try, Jerry? I can make it. It's for Webster--not for
you."
"You go to hell."