Seeley copied the lists for reference and his pencil was not steady when he came to “Full-back, Ernest T. Seeley.”  But he pulled his thoughts away from the eleven and began to jot down notes of the passing incidents which might serve to weave into the fabric of his description.  The unwonted stimulus aroused his talent as if it were not dead but dormant.  The scene appealed to him with almost as much freshness and color as if he were observing it for the first time.

A roar of cheering rose from a far corner of the field and ran swiftly along the Yale side of the amphitheatre, which blossomed in tossing blue.  The Yale eleven scampered into view like colts at pasture, the substitutes veering toward the benches behind the side-line.  Without more ado the team scattered in formation for signal practice, paying no heed to the tumult which raged around and above them.  Agile, clean-limbed, splendid in their disciplined young manhood, the dark blue of their stockings and the white “Y” gleaming on their sweaters fairly trumpeted their significance to Henry Seeley.  And poised behind the rush-line, wearing his hard-won university blue, was the lithe figure of the Freshman full-back, Ernest Seeley.

The youngster, whose fate it was to be called a “forlorn hope,” looked fragile beside his comrades of the eleven.  Although tall and wiry he was like a greyhound in a company of mastiffs.  His father, looking down at him from so great a height that he could not read his face, muttered to himself while he dug his nails into his palms: 

“He is too light for this day’s work.  But he carries himself like a thoroughbred.”

The boy and his fellows seemed singularly remote from the shouting thousands massed so near them.  They had become the sole arbiters of their fate, and their impressive isolation struck Henry Seeley anew as the most dramatic feature of this magnificent picture.  He must sit idly by and watch his only son battle through the most momentous hour of his young life, as if he were gazing down from another planet.

The staccato cheers of Princeton rocketed along the other side of the field, and the eleven from Old Nassau ran briskly over the turf and wheeled into line for a last rehearsal of their machine-like tactics.  Henry Seeley was finding it hard to breathe, just as it had happened in other days when he was waiting for the “kick-off” and facing a straining Princeton line.  The minutes were like hours while the officials consulted with the captains in the centre of the field.  Then the two elevens ranged themselves across the brown turf, there was breathless silence, and a Princeton toe lifted the ball far down toward the Yale goal.  It was the young full-back who waited to receive the opening kick, while his comrades thundered toward him to form a flying screen of interference.  But the twisting ball bounded from his too eager arms, and another Yale back fell on it in time to save it from the clutches of a meteoric Princeton end.