Roy Eliot Stokes, Andy at Yale
“ He was rushing about, waving his hands, stamping his feet—a veritable little cyclone of a coach.“Signal!” he cried sharply.It came from the varsity quarter, and Andy noticed, with a thrill in his heart, that Gaffington was to take the ball.“Here’s where I get him!” muttered Andy, fiercely.There was a rush—a thud of bodies against bodies—gaspings of breaths, the cracking of muscles and sinews. Andy felt himself in a maelstrom of pushing, striving, hauling and toppling flesh. Then, in an instant, there came an opening, and he saw before him but one player—Mortimer—with the ball. ”
