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Updated: May 12, 2025
Diemann had known all along what the fellow was suffering, and he pitied him. According to Ashley's room-mate, the boy talked in his sleep, all night sometimes, chiefly about Blake and the play. If they did not look sharp, the coach said to himself, there might be another stale man on their hands. Diemann had been thinking of this that very morning when he got the doctor's telegram.
With his arm over Lyman's shoulder he had gone back to the Hall, dragging his feet heavily, while the crowd sat on the bleachers, quiet and frightened. Then the pain came, tearing its way into the heroic body, and the specialist hurriedly summoned from San Francisco had said that they must get him to the hospital. Now it was all over, and Diemann was following his melancholy telegram to college.
People stopped urging him to be like Blake; only Diemann went over the thing again and again, explaining, reminding. Now Thanksgiving had come, and the substitute fullback had never felt better in his life. He would do his best, and they could not say he had not tried.
Was it coming, at the last moment? As the trainer shot out from the side-lines with bucket and sponge, Diemann saw Ashley spring up, slap the grimy moleskins of the men nearest him, and get back into position to kick. Stanford was standing on her own goal line.
Diemann sat beside him, and Lyman and Dr. Forest stood by the window. The substitute fullback sat up. "I felt faint just then," he said. "I couldn't help it; you know about it, Diemann." He looked at the other men. "Did they get it over?" he asked. Lyman ran across the room. "Tom, old man," he said, choking, "you won it for us, and you'll never be forgotten, you and your run!"
The fullback looked at him blankly. "My run?" he faltered. Diemann came between them. "Better lie down and rest a bit, my boy; you can talk later." Then, turning to the others: "You see," he whispered, "he's wandering a little yet." Two Pioneers and an Audience. "The Mother sits beside the bay, The bay goes down to wed the sea, And gone ye are, on every tide Wherever men and waters be!"
The gloom hanging over the first half of the practice had affected him strongly and he had flung himself into the game, trying to forget, to cast off the foolish sense of an implied reproach. Diemann could see that he was very tired. He made him lean upon him, and they started for the Hall.
Then the whistle sounded, sharp in the still air, and the teams came trotting to the side-lines to take their sweaters and caps from devoted admirers and to stroll off, arm over shoulder, with people who minded not in the least the campus dirt those heroes had been gathering. Diemann took Ashley's arm. "Let's walk together," he said. The substitute fullback had been playing hard ball.
Far across the bay, the hills that were cool and blue when practice began, grew luminously red in the level light of the dying rays; against the fading color of the west, the power-house chimney rose picturesquely dark; the swift, elusive twilight of California settled down on Santa Clara's broad acres, so that Diemann had to stare hard to follow Ashley's play.
Diemann stepped up closer to him beside the curving balustrade and looked the football man steadily in the eyes. "You are playing more like Blake every day," he said. "I wish I were." "We are going to the Springs to-morrow," went on the coach, "and you can rest. By the way, if I were you I wouldn't say anything about your feeling faint just now.
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