“you’ve got it right,” said mr. dana. “here, let’s sit down; i want to talk to you.” he looked toward the bench and one of the second team fellows got up politely and moved to another seat. “now tell me all about it. this is your first year, eh? well, do you like it? was i wrong when i used to tell you to come to yardley?”
“no, sir, i like it very much indeed.”
“that’s good. getting on all right, are you?”
“yes, sir.”
“but, look here, kendall— by the way, i can’t recall your last name, my boy. was it benson?”
“burtis, sir.”
“burtis, of course!” mr. dana slapped his knee. “and how are your folks, burtis? father and mother well, i hope? they’re nice people. we had a bully summer up there that time.”
“yes, sir, thank you, they’re all well.”
“and the old spotted cow that chased me out[306] of the barnyard one morning? how’s she getting on?”
“she’s gone,” laughed kendall. “we made beef of her.”
“how are the mighty fallen!” said mr. dana. “burtis, that cow was one of the few persons—or things—i was ever afraid of!” he noticed the blue badge on kendall’s coat and nodded at it. “what sort of a decoration is that? what noble deed have you performed to be allowed to wear that proud insignia?”
“it’s just a badge to get inside the ropes, sir. i was playing football on the second team for a while.”
“second? dear me, i thought you’d make the first and kick yourself to glory and fame, burtis! haven’t forgotten all we taught you about punting and drop-kicking, have you?”
“no, sir. i—i’ve still got that ball.”
“what ball is that?”
“the one you gave me when you left our place, sir.”
“i’d forgotten about it, burtis. you still have it, you say. it must be getting a pension now, eh? but, look here, why didn’t you get taken on to the first team, burtis? if there was ever a team in need of a good punter, to say nothing of a drop-kicker, it’s this one right here. why, payson[307] told me not an hour ago that kicking was their weakest department.”
“i—i did try, mr. dana, but i had—bad luck.” and then kendall told about his probation and how he had to give up football and how dan vinton had got him back onto the second team at the end of the season.
“too bad.” mr. dana shook his head. “that sort of thing doesn’t pay, burtis. of course, i don’t object to a fellow having his fun, but it’s a mistake to get the office down on you. see what it’s cost in your case. if you hadn’t got on probation you might have made the first and been out there now winning the game for us.”
“yes, sir, i know; but it wasn’t really my fault. it—it was a sort of mistake.”
“was it?” mr. dana smiled. “well, don’t have too many of them. mistakes are costly. still kick pretty well, do you? we used to have great hopes of you at the farm, burtis. your legs seemed made for kicking a football and you seemed to get the hang of it remarkably well. did you do the punting for the second?”
“no, sir. i—i didn’t play much, you see.”
“still, you might have kept in practice, burtis,” responded mr. dana with a slight frown. “why didn’t you?”
“i did practice a good deal. i used to come[308] down here in the mornings between recitations for a while.”
“that sounds more like the boy i used to know,” said the other approvingly. “you used to have as much stick-at-it as any lad i ever met. did you get so you could do your forty yards all right?”
“yes, sir, and forty-five lots of times. i tried dropping goals a good deal, though. i did seven out of ten from the thirty-five yard line one day.”
“that was from placement, of course. but even then it—”
“oh, no, sir, that was drop-kicking. i’ve made placements from the forty, and once from the forty-three.”
“what! look here, burtis, did anyone see you do it?”
“why, no, sir. i was alone.”
“and you mean to say that you can go out there and make a place-kick from, say, the thirty-five yards without trouble?”
kendall looked doubtful. mr. dana’s earnestness made him feel uneasy. “why—why, i don’t know, sir. i could do it, but i haven’t kicked lately. i guess it would soon come back to me.”
“but—why, look here, burtis! aren’t you eligible for the team?”
[309]
“i suppose so, sir.”
“then—then i’m blest if i understand it,” muttered mr. dana. “payson must be crazy!” he looked around him. then, he took a firm hold on kendall’s sleeve and pulled him to his feet. “you come with me,” he commanded. kendall, wondering, followed. mr. dana reached down and scooped up a football with one hand and ducked under the rope. kendall went after. curious glances followed them to the corner of the stand, but in the next moment they were forgotten, for the yardley team came trotting out onto the field and the yardley cheer leaders scuttled to their places and seized their big blue megaphones.
“now, fellows! regular cheer for the team! and everyone get into it. ready! one! two! thr—”
then off bounced the discarded megaphones, arms waved and the stand rocked with the burst of sound that followed. blue flags fluttered and tossed against the rising bank of shouting youths and down below the big drum boom-boomed an accompaniment. oh, yardley wasn’t defeated yet, nor disheartened! the game was still to be won! so everybody into it! make ’em hear you! louder! cheer, you fellows up there! boom, boom, boom, boom, boom!
[310]
“give ’em the can-can, fellows!” shouted a leader.
“who can, can, can? we can, can, can! anybody can, can beat old broadwood! who can, can, can? we can, can, can! anybody can, can beat old broadwood!”
but broadwood’s supporters were not idle. the deep, booming cheers of the green thundered across from the opposite stand and it was not until the whistle had blown and the ball was in the air that comparative quiet fell.
yardley had made one change in her line-up. jensen had replaced stark at right tackle. broadwood held yardley for two downs; took a penalty for off-side play and wrested the ball away almost in midfield. then she began her real attack. reid and rhodes, the heavy artillery, crashed into and through the blue line for short gains, and raynor, lighter and first cousin to a streak of lightning, broke around tackle and past the wings for yards at a time. broadwood’s adherents shouted themselves hoarse with joy. down past the thirty yards went the enemy, yardley fighting stubbornly and contesting every foot of ground but yielding nevertheless. it was a terrific onslaught and those who knew on the yardley side looked grave. but down on the twenty-five the defense grew firmer, the gains shorter. the secondary[311] defense, playing close up, stopped what leaked past the outer breastworks. a yard now; then two; then—
“third down; seven to go!” cried the umpire.
yardley stood up to a man on the boards and shouted imploringly: “hold ’em! hold ’em! hold ’em!” and from across the trampled field came the frenzied cries of the enemy; “touchdown! touchdown! touchdown!”
broadwood meant to try a forward pass, but the ball went back badly, trickled away from the quarter and was pounced on by fogg. how yardley yelled when they saw the green’s quarter trot up the field with hanging head! norton dropped back as if to kick, but dan, running behind the line, took the ball at a toss from simms and cut through between tackle and end. he was clean away before the play was solved, and then it was up to saunders, the green’s quarter to prevent a score. but near the forty-yard line dan swung sharply past him as he dived, shook off a detaining hand and streaked straight down the field and under the crossbar for a touchdown, a half-dozen broadwood pursuers trailing behind!
what a pandemonium broke loose then on the yardley stand! caps flew into the air, the big drum boomed, flags darted and snapped! beyond the rope two cheer leaders, clasped closely together,[312] danced and cavorted, and the second team fellows were jumping around like maniacs. near at hand, mr. payson strolling along the line, pulled his pipe from his pocket, filled it with steady fingers and took his first smoke that day. even the fact that hammel missed the goal failed to leaven the joy.
but broadwood wasn’t ready to acknowledge defeat. back she went as savagely as ever, but yardley seemed to have found herself now and, while she couldn’t always stop the green, she made the going much more difficult. broadwood lost the ball presently on a fumble and yardley started back the way she had come. simms was holding nothing back now. every play he knew was called on. but the opponents were well blessed with that football sense that enables a team to “size up” a play even while it is getting under way, and few of payson’s pet tricks netted real gains. it was elemental football that won the most ground for yardley, plays in which roeder or hammel banged, smashed and wormed themselves through the opposing line. stearns, too, found his holes and did his best. forty-eight yards went the blue without a pause, just winning their distance time and again by inches only. then came a mix-up of signals and roeder was thrown heavily three yards behind his line.
[313]
it took him a minute or two to get his breath back and the yardley supporters waited anxiously. but presently he was up again, shaking his head like a bulldog who has had the worst of a battle, and a wild shout of joy hurtled across to him. a forward pass, simms to norton, gained seven yards, and the whistle blew for the end of the quarter.
the ball was carried to the other end of the field and in a minute or two later they were at it again. it was yardley’s ball on broadwood’s seventeen-yard line and nothing, it seemed, could prevent a second score for the blue. but something did. something turned a decisive victory into a probable defeat. with four yards to go on second down, roeder fumbled. simms fell on the ball. it was third down and eight to go. roeder plunged straight at right tackle, the line wavered and gave, cries and tumult filled the air. the whistle blew. somewhere at the bottom of a pile of players lay the ball—and tom roeder. when they found the former it lacked a foot of being where it should have been for a first down, and when they found tom they turned him over and held him quiet while the doctor ran onto the field. it was a blow on the head, or possibly a kick, and tom was of no more use that day. he was borne off between two substitutes, his head[314] lolling on his shoulder, the little doctor striding along briskly behind, while a great cheer went up for “roeder! roeder! roeder!”
in sped fayette to take his place. but fortune had dealt hardly with the blue. she had lost her best back and she had lost the ball on that play. broadwood got through for six yards on a fake kick, gained two more around norton’s end and made her distance through jensen. but on the next play she was thrown back, and, as the ball was still perilously close to her goal-line, captain bishop dropped back and got off a wonderful punt. down went the broadwood ends, with dan and norton blocking them off. dan disposed of his man, scott, right tackle, but furniss got away from norton and by the time simms was under the ball furniss was ready for simms. bishop, meanwhile, had followed his kick very closely, and when the ball descended into simms’s arms furniss tackled savagely. the pigskin bounded away. dan and bishop both made for it, but bishop was nearer. the broadwood captain took it on the bound, squirmed past dan, and streaked for the goal-line, thirty yards away. it was a close race, and had the distance been forty yards instead of thirty dan would have brought down his quarry. but as it was bishop plunged over the last white mark just before dan’s arms[315] wrapped themselves about him, and the score was tied!
it was broadwood’s moment and she made the most of it. she had no band to help her, but she didn’t need it! and while the wild cheers were still thundering out, the yardley players drew up in line under the crossbar, simms with tears streaming down his tired face, and bishop himself directed the canting of the ball held by saunders.
a strange stillness settled over the field. if bishop kicked the goal—and it was not a difficult one—it would probably spell a broadwood victory, for the last quarter was fully half over. there were plenty of white faces on the yardley stand just then and more than one fellow, his clenched hands thrust into his pockets, settled back into his seat and refused to look.
very leisurely, bishop, still fighting for breath after his run, directed saunders. finally he stepped back, hitched his trousers at the waist, cast a glance at the goal, and—kicked.
up went the ball, straight for the bar. one brief instant of suspense, and then—bedlam on the broadwood side and deep gloom across the field! on the score board broadwood’s 5 changed to a 6.
“how much time?” cried simms as the teams[316] trotted back to their places. the timer held up one outstretched hand and two fingers of the other.
“seven minutes, dan,” panted simms. “there’s time to kill ’em yet.”
“all right! hard into it, fellows!” cried dan.
mr. payson sent in sayer for norton and plant for mitchell, and the game went on. broadwood resumed the defensive now. yardley got the ball as far as the green’s thirty-eight yards only to lose it on downs, and broadwood promptly booted the leather far up the field again. simms got away for a twenty-yard run once, and fayette, who, if he was not roeder’s equal, was fresh and untired and eager, pulled off a wonderful plunge through the left of the green’s line and squirmed and pulled himself—and three opponents—along for twelve yards! hammel pounded the line for gains and stearns knifed himself through for a yard or two at a time. then came a fumble by fayette and a broadwood player pounced on the ball. once more broadwood kicked. stearns caught the punt on the run, the interference formed about him, and he came pounding back for nearly twenty yards.
again yardley took up the journey, but the time was growing perilously short. past the middle of the field she worked; hammel; fayette; stearns; then hammel again. finally an end run[317] by simms that laid the pigskin on the thirty-five-yard line. a plunge by fayette netted a scant yard and stearns tried a skin-tackle play and made six. but he was hurt and greene took his place. broadwood seized the opportunity to put three fresh men into her line. greene was given the ball on the next play and tore off three yards, making it first down again. only two minutes and a half remained. simms, hoarse, almost staggering, called signals, changed them and then looked appealingly at dan.
“it’s all right!” yelled dan savagely. “go ahead!”
but it wasn’t all right. fayette should have had the ball, and fayette wasn’t there. simms was still clutching it when the broadwood left guard hurled himself through and slammed simms to earth. simms gave up then for a minute. ryan came on with the pail and the big sponge, and dan and ridge talked together while the quarter struggled for his breath.
“we’d better have holmes, hadn’t we?” asked ridge through two swollen lips.
dan shook his head, looking doubtfully at the side-line.
“no, simms can do it if it can be done. why, oh, why, hal, haven’t we a fellow who can kick that ball over from here? i’d try it myself if[318] there was a ghost of a chance. even norton’s off now, and he’s about the only one—”
he broke off and hurried over to simms. the quarter was on his feet and staring rather dazedly around him.
“what’s the down, dan?” he whispered huskily.
“second; twelve to gain. come back here.” he led him away. “what do you think? forward pass? or number 24? or shall we try to smash it out, al?”
“smashing’s—no good—now,” panted simms. “roeder’s the only fellow—who could get us by. better try a forward, dan; it’s the only chance. isn’t it? what else can we do, dan? there’s only a couple of minutes more, and it’s second down. gee, dan, i don’t want to lose this game!” simms was almost whimpering now.
“cut out the weeps,” said dan brutally. “brace up, al. try a forward. give it to me and i’ll get through with it somehow!”
simms dug a dirty knuckle into one eye, took a long breath and said quietly: “all right, cap. we’ll get ’em yet!”
“hurry up,” said the referee impatiently.
“you’ve got two minutes more,” cried the timer, running up, watch in hand.
“all right here,” said dan. “now, fellows,[319] get into this and make it go! you’ve got to do it! they’re half dead already! they can’t stop you! they can’t stop you! look at them! they’re beaten now and they know it!”
“we’d be dead for sure if bluff counted,” growled bishop, as he edged along in front of dan.
the whistle blew.
simms laid his hand on fogg’s back and raised his voice huskily: “twenty-seven—twenty-one—fifteen—thirty-three—”
“hold on!” cried greene. “here’s a sub coming!”
simms straightened up again. onto the field raced a youth in a pair of long gray trousers and a blue sweater.
“what’s the matter?” cried dan impatiently. simms nodded.
“substitute for right half, sir!” cried the newcomer.
“who the dickens—” began greene in disgust as he tore off his headgear. dan hurried back, frowning.
“here, who sent you on?”
“mr. payson.”
“hurry up, please!” cried the referee.
but dan and simms and the newcomer were whispering together and paid no heed.
[320]
“i’ll penalize you for delay if you don’t start,” threatened the referee.
“all right, fellows!” cried dan, springing back to his place, and,
“change signals!” shouted simms.
