The Princeton quarter-back had darted through the line like a bullet.  Without slackening speed or veering from his course, he scooped up the ball as he fled toward the Yale goal-line.  It was done and over within a twinkling, and while the Yale team stampeded helplessly in his wake the devastating hero was circling behind the goal-posts where he flopped to earth, the precious ball apparently embedded in his stomach.  It was a Princeton touchdown fairly won, but made possible by the tragic blunder of one Yale man.  While ten thousand Princeton throats were barking their jubilation, as many more loyal friends of Yale sat sad-eyed and sullen and glowered their unspeakable displeasure at the slim figure of the full-back as he limped into line to face the try for goal.

The goal was not scored, however, and the fateful tally stood five to nothing when the first half ended, with the blue banners drooping disconsolate.

Henry Seeley pulled his slouch hat over his eyes and sat with hunched shoulders staring at the Yale team as it left the field for the intermission.  He had forgotten about his story of the game.  The old spectre of failure obsessed him.  It was already haunting the pathway of his boy.  Was he also to be beaten by one colossal blunder?  Henry Seeley felt that Ernest’s whole career hung upon his behavior in the second half.  How would the lad “take his medicine”?  Would it break his heart or rouse him to fight more valiantly?  As if the father had been thinking aloud, the sporting editor at his side observed: 

“He may win the game yet.  I like the looks of that boy.  But he did make a hideous mess of it, didn’t he?  I hope he hasn’t got a streak of yellow in him.”

Henry Seeley turned on his neighbor with a savage scowl and could not hold back the quivering retort: 

“He belongs to me, I want you to understand, and we’ll say nothing about yellow streaks until he has a chance to make good next half.”

“Whew-w-w, why did you hold it out on me, old man?” gasped the sporting editor.  “No wonder you kicked me black and blue without knowing it.  I hope he is a chip of the old block.  I saw you play here in your last game.”

Seeley grunted something and resumed staring at the field.  He was thinking of the present moment in the training quarters, of the muddy, weary players sprawled around the head coach, of his wise, bitter, stinging rebukes and admonitions.  Perhaps he would take Ernest out of the game.  But Seeley was confident that the coaches would give the boy a chance to redeem himself if they believed his heart was in the right place.  Presently the two teams trotted on the field, not as nimbly as at their first appearance, but with dogged resolution in their demeanor.  Henry Seeley saw his son glance up at the “cheering sections,” as if wondering whether their welcome was meant to include him.  One cheer, at least, was intended to greet him, for Henry Seeley stood on his chair, waved his hat, and thundered: