“RIGHT GUARD BACK!”
November started in with an Indian summer, but by the middle of the
month the spell had broken, and a week of hard, driving rain succeeded
the bright weather. Until then Allan had spent almost every afternoon
on the cinder-track, running the half mile at good speed, doing the
mile and a half inside his time, occasionally practising sprinting,
and, once a week, jogging around until he had left nine laps behind him
and had covered a quarter of a mile over his distance.
For by this time Kernahan had decided that the two-mile event was what
he was cut out for, but promised him, nevertheless, that at the indoor
athletic meeting, in February, he should be allowed to try both the
mile and the two miles. The trainer’s instruction had already bettered
Allan’s form; his stride had lost in length and gained in speed and
grace until it became a subject for admiring comment among the fellows.
The Purple, in an article on Fall Work of the Track Team Candidates,
hailed “Ware ’07” as “a most promising runner, and one who has
improved rapidly in form since the Fall Handicaps until at present he
easily leads the distance men in that feature. It is Mr. Kernahan’s
intention,” concluded the Purple, “to develop Ware as a two-miler,
since this year, as in several years past, there is a dearth of
first-class material for this distance.”
But the rains put an end to the track work, as they put an end to all
outdoor activities save football, and training was practically dropped
by the candidates. On three occasions, when the clouds temporarily
ceased emptying themselves onto a sodden earth, the middle and long
distance candidates were sent on cross-country jogs and straggled home
at dusk, very wet and muddy, and much out of temper. A week before
Thanksgiving the sky became less gloomy and a sharp frost froze the
earth till it rang like metal underfoot.
It was on one such day, a Saturday, that the Robinson freshman football
team came to town and, headed by a brass band, marched out to the
field to do battle with the Erskine youngsters. The varsity team had
journeyed from home to play Artmouth, and consequently the freshman
contest drew the entire college and town, and enthusiasm reigned
supreme in spite of the fact that a Robinson victory was acknowledged
to be a foregone conclusion.
Allan and Tommy Sweet watched the game from the side lines; Tommy, with
note-book in hand, darting hither and thither from one point of vantage
to another, and Allan vainly striving to keep up with him. The latter
had gained admission beyond the ropes by posing as Tommy’s assistant;
the assistance rendered consisted principally of listening to Tommy’s
breathless comment on the game.
“Oh, rotten!” Tommy would snarl. “Two yards more!... Oh; perfectly
rotten!... See that pass? See it? What? Eh, what?... Now, watch this!
Watch-- What’d I say? Good work, Seven!... Now, that’s playing!...
Third down and one to-- What’s that? Lost it? Lost nothing! Why,
look where the ball is! How can they have lost-- Hey! how’s that for
off-side? Just watch that Robinson left end; look! See that?... Three
yards right through the center! What was Burley doing?... Well, here
goes for a touch-down. There’s no help now!... Another yard!... Two
more!... Did they make it? Did they?... _Hi-i-i! Our ball!_”
It was a very pretty game, after all, and when the first half ended
with the score only 5 to 0, in the visitors’ favor, Erskine’s hope
revived, and during the intermission there was much talk of tying
the score, while some few extremely optimistic watchers hinted at
an Erskine victory. Considering the fact that the purple-clad team
was twelve pounds lighter than its opponent, this was a good deal to
expect, and Tommy, a fair example of conservative opinion, declared
that the best he looked for was to have the second half end with
the score as it then stood. But a good many guesses went wrong that
afternoon.
Erskine had played on the defensive during the first half, and when,
after receiving Robinson’s kick-off, she punted the ball without trying
to run it back, it seemed that she was continuing her former tactics.
The punt was a good one and was caught on Robinson’s thirty-yard line.
The Brown accepted the challenge and returned the kick. It went to
Erskine’s forty-five yards. Again Poor punted, and the ball sailed down
to the Brown’s fifteen yards, where it was gathered into a half-back’s
arms. Erskine had gained largely in the two exchanges of punts, and her
supporters cheered loudly, while Robinson, realizing discretion to be
the better part of valor, refrained from further kicking and ran the
ball back ten yards before she was downed.
And then, as in the first period of play, she began to advance the
pigskin by fierce plunges at the Erskine line. But now there was a
perceptible difference in results, a difference recognized by the
spectators after the first two attacks. Robinson wasn’t making much
headway. Twice she barely made her distance; the third time she failed
by six inches and, amidst cheering plainly heard on the campus, Erskine
took the ball on her opponent’s twenty-five yards. The first plunge
netted a bare yard, yet it carried the ball out of the checker-board,
and a line-man dropped back. Tommy set up a shout.
“It’s Burley! They’re going to play him back of the line!”
There was no doubt about it’s being Burley. He loomed far above the
rest of the backs, and even when, his hands on the full-back’s hips, he
doubled himself up for the charge, he was still the biggest object on
the field. The stands danced with delight.
So far there had been no hint of the big right guard taking part in the
tandem attacks; in fact, his presence on the team was doubtful until
the last moment, for Burley’s development as a football player had been
discouragingly slow, in spite of his weight and strength and cheerful
willingness. Even yet he possessed only a partial understanding of the
game. He did what he was told to do, and did it as hard as he knew
how; that constituted the extent of his science. The stands composed
themselves, and breathless suspense reigned. Poor’s shrill pipe was
heard reeling off the signals, and then--
Then the advance began.
Robinson had played hard every moment of the first thirty-five minutes,
and she had played on the offensive. Erskine had played hard too, but
her playing had been defensive. To attack is more tiring than to repel
attack, and now what difference there was in condition was in Erskine’s
favor. Her defensive tactics were suddenly abandoned, and from that
moment to the final whistle she forced the fighting every instant of
the time.
Peter Burley was, to use Tommy’s broken, breathless words, “simply
great.” He knew little or nothing about line-plunging. He didn’t do any
of the things coaches instruct backs to do. He merely waded into and
through the opponents, without bothering his head with the niceties
of play. If the hole was there, well and good; he went through it and
emerged on the other side with half the Robinson team clinging to
him. If the hole wasn’t there, well and good again; he went through
just the same, only he didn’t go so far. But there was always a good
gain--sometimes a yard, sometimes two, sometimes three or four.
When the whistle blew, Burley climbed to his feet and ambled back to
his position, unruffled and unheeding of the bruises that fell to his
share. Nine plunges brought the ball to Robinson’s five yards. There
the Brown line held for an instant. The first down netted a bare yard,
the second brought scarcely as much. The cheering, which had been
continuous from the first attack, died down, and a great silence fell.
Tommy was nibbling the corner off his note-book, and Allan, kneeling
beside him, was nervously biting his lip. Poor drew Burley and the
backs aside for a whispered consultation. Then the players took their
positions again, and--
Presto! Erskine had scored!
Without signals, the tandem had plunged onto the Robinson left tackle,
Burley’s leather head-guard had been seen for an instant tossing
high above a struggling mass, and then had disappeared, and chaos
had reigned until the referee’s whistle commanded a cessation of
hostilities. When the piled-up mass was removed, Burley was found
serenely hugging the ball to his chest a yard over the line.
While the stands cavorted and cheered, Poor kicked the goal. Erskine
was already victorious, and Robinson’s youngsters seemed to realize
the fact. For, though they fought valiantly and doggedly for twenty
minutes longer, it was evident that they no longer looked for victory.
With every repulse their defense grew perceptibly weaker, while their
rivals, as though they had husbanded their strength until now, made
each attack fiercer than the one before, until in the last ten minutes
of the contest they simply drove the Brown before them at will. Long
before the game was at an end the stands began to empty; there was
small pleasure in seeing a defeated enemy humbled. When the final
whistle blew, the score stood 17 to 5, and Peter Burley, breathing hard
through bleeding and swollen lips, said “he guessed he was ready to
have his oats and be bedded down.”