The Half-Back Part 25

"Lacing to you," said Blair quietly. Story s.h.i.+fted the ball imperceptibly.

"More." The quarter-back obeyed.

"c.o.c.k it." Higher went the end toward the goal.

"Not so much." It was lowered carefully, slowly.

"Steady." Blair stepped back, glanced once swiftly at the cross-bar, and stepped forward again.

"Down!" Story's left hand touched the gra.s.s, the Yates men surged forward, there was a thud, and--

Upward sped the ball, rising, rising, until it topped the bar, then slowly turning over, over in its quickening descent. But the nearly silent west stand had broke again into loud cries of triumph, and upon the face of the Scoreboard appeared the momentous word, "GOAL!"

Again the ball was put in play, but the half was soon over and the players, s.n.a.t.c.hing their blankets, trotted to the dressing rooms. And the score-board announced:

"Opponents, 6. Yates, 6."

As the little swinging door closed behind him Joel found himself in a seething ma.s.s of players, rubbers, and coaches, while a babel of voices, greetings, commands, laughter, and lament, confused him. It was a busy scene. The trainer and his a.s.sistants were working like mad. The doctor and the head coach were talking twenty to the second. Everybody was explaining everything, and the indefatigable coaches were hurrying from man to man, instructing, reminding, and scolding.

Joel had only to look on, save when he lent a hand at removing some torn and stubborn jersey, or at finding lost s.h.i.+n-guards and nose masks, and so he found a seat out of the way, and, searching the room with his gaze, at length found Prince. That gentleman was having a nice, new pink elastic bandage put about his ankle. He was grinning st.u.r.dily, but at every clutch of the web his lips twitched and his brow puckered. Joel watching him wondered how much more he would stand, and whether his (Joel's) chance would come ere the fatal whistle piped the end of the match.

"Time's up!" cried the head coach suddenly, and the confusion redoubled until he mounted to a bench and clapped his hands loudly above the din.

Comparative silence ensued. "Fellows," he began, "here's the list for the next half. Answer to your names, please. And go over to the door.

Fellows, you'll have to make less noise. Dutton, Selkirk, Murdoch--Murdoch?"

"Right!" The voice emerged from the folds of a woolen sweater which had stubbornly refused to go on or off. With a smile the head coach continued the list, each man responding as his name was announced and crowding to the doorway.

"Chesney, Rutland, Burbridge, Barton--"

A murmur arose from the listening throng, and Chase, a tall, pale-faced youth, his cheek exhibiting the marks of a contact with some one's shoe cleats, groaned loudly and flung himself on to a bench, where he sat looking blindly before him until the list was finished.

"Story, Prince--"

"Here!" called the latter, jumping from his seat. Then a sharp, agonized cry followed, and Prince toppled over, clutching vainly at the air. The head coach paused. The doctor and the trainer pushed toward the fallen man, and a moment later the former announced quietly:

"He's fainted, sir."

"Can he go on?" asked the head coach.

"He is out of the question. Ankle's too painful. I couldn't allow it."

"Very well," answered the other as he amended the list. "Kingdon, Blair, March."

Joel's heart leaped as he heard his name p.r.o.nounced, and he tried to answer.

"March?" demanded the head coach impatiently; and

"Here, sir!" gulped Joel, rus.h.i.+ng to the door.

"All right," continued the head coach. "There isn't time for any fine phrases, fellows, and if there was I couldn't say them so that they'd do any good. You know what you've got to do. Go ahead and do it. You have the chance of wiping out a good many defeats, more than it's pleasant to think about. The college expects a great deal from you. Don't disappoint it. Play hard and play together. Don't give an inch; die first. Tackle low, run high, _and keep your eyes on the ball!_ And now, fellows, _three times three for Harwell!_"

And what a cheer that was! The little building shook, the men stood on their toes; the head coach cheered himself off the bench; and Joel yelled so desperately that his breath gave out at the last "Rah!" and didn't come back until the little door was burst open and he found himself leaping the fence into the gridiron.

And what a burst of sound greeted their reappearance! The west stand shook from end to end. Crimson banners broke out on the breeze, every one was on his feet, hats waved, umbrellas clashed, canes swirled. A youth in a plaid ulster went purple in the face at the small end of a five-foot horn; and for all the sound it seemed to make it might as well have been a penny whistle. The ushers waved their arms, but to no purpose, since the seats heeded them not at all, but shouted as their hearts dictated and as their throats and lungs allowed.

Joel, gazing about him from the field, felt a s.h.i.+ver of emotion pa.s.s through him. They were cheering _him_! He was one of the little band in honor of which the flags waved, the voices shouted, and the songs were sung! He felt a lump growing in his throat, and to keep down the tears that for some reason were creeping into his eyes, he let drive at a ball that came b.u.mping toward him and kicked it so hard that Selkirk had to chase it half down the field.

"Rah-rah-rah, Rah-rah-rah, Rah-rah-rah, Harwell! Harwell! Harwell!

Rah-rah-rah, Rah-rah-rah, Rah-rah-rah, Harwell!"

The leaders of the cheering had again gotten control of their sections, and the long, deliberate cheer, majestic in its intensity of sound, crashed across the s.p.a.ce, rebounded from the opposite stand, and went echoing upward into the clear afternoon air.

"Harwell!" muttered Joel. "_You Bet_!" Then he gathered with the others about Dutton to listen to that leader's last instructions. And at the same moment the east stand broke into cheers as the gallant sons of Yates bounded on to the gra.s.s. Back and forth rolled the mighty torrents of sound, meeting in midair, breaking and cras.h.i.+ng back in fainter reverberations. They were singing the college songs now, and the merits and virtues of both colleges were being chanted defiantly to the tunes of popular airs. Thousands of feet "tramp-tramped," keeping time against the stands. The Yates band and the Harwell band were striving, from opposite ends of the field, to drown each other's strains. And the blue and crimson fluttered and waved, the sun sank lower toward the western horizon, and the shadows crept along the ground.

"There will be just one more score," predicted the knowing ones as they b.u.t.toned their ulsters and overcoats up at the throat and crouched along the side lines, like so many toads. "But who will make it I'm blessed if I know!"

Then Harwell lined up along the fifty-five-yard line, with the ball in their possession, and the south goal behind them. And Yates scattered down the field in front. And the linesmen placed their canes in the turf, the referee and the umpire walked into the field, and the stands grew silent save for the shrill voice of a little freshman on the west stand who had fallen two bars behind in "This is Harwell's Day," and needs must finish out while his breath lasted.

"Are you all ready?" asked the referee. There was no reply. Only here and there a foot moved uneasily as weights were thrown forward, and there was a general, almost imperceptible, tightening of nerves and muscles.

And then the whistle blew.

CHAPTER XXIV.

HARWELL _VS_. YATES--A FAULT AND A REQUITAL.

The kick-off came into Blair's ready arms, the interference formed quickly, and the full-back sped down the field. One white line pa.s.sed under foot--another; Joel felt Blair's hand laid lightly upon his shoulder, and ran as though life itself depended upon getting that precious ball past the third mark. But the Yates ends were upon them.

Joel gave the shoulder to one, but the second dived through Kingdon, and the runner came to earth on the twenty-three-yard line, with Joel tugging at him in the hope of advancing the pigskin another foot.

"Line up quickly, fellows!" called Story. The players jumped to their places. "_1--9--9!_" Joel crept back a bare yard. "_1--9--9!_"

Kingdon leaped forward, snugged the ball under his arm, and followed by Joel tried to find a hole inside left end. But the hole was not there, and the ball was instantly in the center of a pus.h.i.+ng, grinding ma.s.s.

"Down!" No gain.

Story, worming his way through the jumble, clapped his hands. Chesney was already stooping over the ball. Joel ran to his position, and the quarter threw a rapid glance behind him.

"_2--8--9_!" He placed his hand on the center's broad back.

"_2--8_--!" The ball was snapped. Joel darted toward the center, took the leather at a hand pa.s.s, crushed it against the pit of his stomach, and followed the left end through a breach in the living wall. Strong hands pushed him on. Then he came bang! against a huge shoulder, was seized by the Yates right half, and thrown. He hugged the ball as the players crashed down upon him.

"Third down," called the referee. "Three yards to gain."

"Line up, fellows, line up!" called the impatient Story, and Joel jumped to his feet, upsetting the last man in the pile-up, and scurried back.

"_2--9--9_!"