THE LION HEART.
In the Yale dressing-rooms there was excitement. The men were being
hastily rubbed down. They were sore and dispirited. Some men had come
down from the pine seats. Browning and Diamond were there.
“Our best men are crippled,” confessed Birch to Bruce. “We’ll fight to
the last gasp, and that’s all we can do.”
“If we had Merriwell to put in now, he might brace the team up,” said
Lorrimer, in a low tone.
Frank Merriwell was there. Browning fell on him, figuratively
speaking.
“Merriwell,” he said, “can’t you go in? The crowd was yelling for you.
Listen! Hear ’em!”
They listened, and to their ears came a great shout from the Yale
side:
“Where is Merriwell? We want Merriwell!”
Lorrimer walked up to Frank.
“Merriwell,” he said, “if you could go into this game, you might save
the day for us. You are our only hope. Can’t you possibly do it?”
Then, to the astonishment of every one, Frank answered:
“Yes!”
“You will?” gasped Lorrimer.
“Yes!”
Browning gave a roar of delight. He would have grasped Frank in his
arms, but Merry prevented, saying:
“Don’t do it, old man! I can’t stand that!”
“Well, how are you going to stand it on the field?” asked Jack
Diamond.
“I’ll have to stand it there,” was the grim answer.
The word was passed round that Merriwell would go in, and it was
astonishing how those men brightened up.
“We’ll beat Harvard now!” they exclaimed joyously. “We can beat her
with Merriwell, even if he has to play on one leg!”
“We want Merriwell!” roared the Yale crowd, while the Harvard men
taunted and jeered at them.
Then the two teams came out to line-up for the second half, and Frank
Merriwell was with Yale. He was seen――he was recognized. It seemed
that every Yale men leaped to his feet.
“There he is!”
Never did a human being receive a greater ovation on the
football-field. The Yale men let the spectators in general know why
they were yelling and cheering like a lot of lunatics, and the great
throng of human beings took up the mad cheering. Everywhere the blue
was fluttering――everywhere except to the west.
When the teams lined up, it was seen that Frank Merriwell had been
placed at full-back, while Birch was playing half in Badger’s place.
Merriwell’s intimate friends wondered that Frank dared do such a
thing. They knew it was strictly against the orders of his physician.
But there he was, ready for the fray, and it was his kick-off. This
time Yale must fight against the wind, and, judging by her record with
the wind in her favor, she was liable to fall an easy victim to
Harvard’s gladiators.
Frank went at the ball and drove it into the air. There was a rush,
but the sphere curved out of bounds, and it was brought back for
another try. Those who witnessed the kick said it was not much like
Merriwell’s work when he was at his best. On the next attempt,
however, Frank drove off splendidly. Hollender returned the ball, and
there was some sharp volleying for a few seconds, but, with the wind
against him, Merry did not keep it up. Every time he kicked it seemed
that he was tearing a piece out of his side, but his teeth were set,
and no sound came from his lips.
Then Yale’s left end was sent into Harvard’s center with the ball, but
the gain was slight. A double pass was tried, and it gained five yards
for the blue. Then Yale was held right there on “downs” till the ball
went to Harvard.
Harvard immediately returned to the play that had been so successful
in the first half, bucking Yale’s center. To her surprise, the Yale
line seemed to be a wall of stone, and three downs came one after
another. Then Hollender punted to Merriwell, who made a beautiful
catch, tucked the ball under his arm and went past Harvard’s left end
like a shot. It was his first effective play, and the Yale crowd on
the benches rose and howled. He was getting up fine speed when two men
struck him on Harvard’s thirty-five-yard line and brought him down
with a terrible shock.
Merry was hurt. He writhed in pain, seeming unable to catch his
breath.
“By the gods! he’s knocked out so quick!” groaned Browning.
“Wait,” advised Diamond. “It takes considerable to knock Frank
Merriwell out. He’ll play if he can stand.”
At last Frank got up. He was seen to stagger, but recovered himself
and remained in the game. That caused the Yale men to cheer him
wildly.
Yale was unable to make any further gain, and Frank punted out of
bounds. Then a Harvard man went round Yale’s left end for four yards.
Harvard’s left guard was injured in interfering for the runner, and
another man was substituted. In the anxiety of Yale’s right guard to
stop his fresh opponent in the line, he went past him before the ball
was put into play, and Yale was punished by having to give five yards
to Harvard. Things were beginning to come Harvard’s way again, for all
of Merriwell’s play, and she beat Yale back into her territory yard by
yard.
It looked like Harvard’s day, for she was keeping Yale on the
defensive at least two-thirds of the time. To be sure, Yale was making
a stronger defense than she did in the first half, but the persistent
bulldog work of the crimson was bound to tell.
Hodge had not found a single opportunity to show what he could do. Now
he was able to stop two successive attacks of the Harvard men by his
own individual efforts, and he heard a word of praise from Merriwell.
Then the ball came to Yale on a fumble, and Hodge was tried on the
line. He won seven yards and was wildly cheered by the New Haven
crowd.
Again Harvard held Yale. The “downs” came thick and fast, and the ball
went to the crimson once more.
Hollender punted beautifully. Merriwell took the ball and shot
forward, as if to go round Harvard’s left end in the same style as
before. As he went by Birch, he passed the ball. Birch turned and shot
toward Harvard’s right end, but the ball left his hands and passed
into those of Hodge. And Bart Hodge went into the center of Harvard’s
line with Yale interferers all around him. This had been done so
quickly that Harvard was bewildered for a moment, and again Hodge was
forced forward for a gain of about seven yards.
“Keep it up,” said Merriwell, “and you’ll go over the line with the
ball.”
Yale was brightening up. The spectators were wild. It was a struggle
of giants, and the man who could pick the winner was a wonder. How
those megaphones roared! But Harvard made a stand, and baffled Yale
again till she could secure possession of the ball.
Hollender once more resorted to a punt, and this time Merriwell sent
it back. A Harvard man had it like a flash and went at Yale’s right
end, cutting through like a knife. How it happened no one seemed able
to tell, but he escaped tackler after tackler and raced down the field
to Yale’s twenty-five-yard line before he was stopped by Frank
Merriwell, who threw him like a log.
Merry got up spitting blood himself, having cut his lips. He did not
say a word, and nobody asked him questions. There was a line-up, and
the battle went on in Yale’s territory. At times Harvard was driven
back to center, and then she would sweep Yale into her territory
again.
“It looks as if we might keep her from scoring!” breathed Jack
Diamond, with intense satisfaction. “If we can do that, I’ll be
happy.”
Indeed, it looked as if neither side could score. Was it to be a drawn
game?
Harvard had the ball, and there was a scrimmage. In the midst of it
somebody scrambled, and the ball came whirling out of the mass of
human beings. Frank Merriwell had it in a twinkling, and he was off
down the field before the Harvard men knew what had happened. Every
breath Frank drew cut him like a keen knife, but he kept on at
wonderful speed. The hounds were after him, and he knew it. He bowled
one man over, dodged another, and then rushed onward.
All Yale rose and thundered. For the first time that day it seemed
certain that Yale would make a goal. Bruce Browning shouted like a
maniac, his face turning purple as the blood rushed to his head.
“Merriwell has done it!” he roared. “That wins this game!”
Jack Diamond’s face was pale, save where two spots of red glowed in
his cheeks. His lips were pressed together, and he was shaking again.
Frank felt a fearful pain running through him. It seemed to stop his
wind, but it did not stop him.
“I must do it!” he thought.
He became blind, but still he managed to keep on his feet, and he ran
on. Had Frank been at his best he would have crossed the Harvard line
without again being touched; but he was not at his best, and Hollender
came down on him. Ten yards from Harvard’s line, Hollender tackled
Merry.
Frank felt himself clutched, but he refused to be dragged down. He
felt hands clinging to him, and, with all the fierceness he could
summon, he strove to break away and go on. His lips were covered with
a bloody foam, and there was a frightful glare in his eyes. He
strained and strove to get a little farther, and he actually dragged
Hollender along the ground till he broke the fellow’s hold. Then he
reeled across Harvard’s line and fell.
It was a touch-down in the last seconds of the game. There was not
even time to kick a goal, but Yale had won by a score of four to
nothing!
He was carried from the field by his friends, who took him to a hotel
and put him to bed. A doctor came to see him and prescribed for him.
They came round his bed and told him what a noble fellow he was.
“Don’t boys!” he begged. “You make me tired! And I’m so happy! We won,
fellows――we won the game!”
“You won it!” cried Jack Diamond fiercely. “They can’t rob you of that
glory! They’ve tried to rob you of enough!”
“No, no! We all did it. Think how the boys fought! It was splendid!
And that was the best eleven Harvard ever put on the field. Oh, what a
glorious Thanksgiving!”
“But you are knocked out,” said Rattleton. “It’s too bad you can’t
enjoy it with the rest of the fellows! They own Boston to-night!”
“Enjoy it!” exclaimed Frank, with a faint laugh. “I am enjoying it!
Never in my life have I enjoyed a Thanksgiving so much!”
“Old man,” said Browning, “your heart is in the right place. It was
your heart that won the game to-day. If it had had one weak spot, we
could not have won.”
“It is the heart of a lion,” said Bart Hodge.
“Now, you’re not going to escape without some of this flattery!”
smiled Frank. “You did as much as any man on the field.”
“I didn’t make a touch-down.”
“Boys,” said Frank, “I’m so glad――and I’m so tired! The pain in my
side does not hurt so much since the doctor gave me the medicine. I
feel sleepy. I believe I’ll sleep awhile. Oh, what a glorious
Thanksgiving!”
Even as he murmured the words, he seemed to fall asleep. They stole
out of the room and left him there, with Bart Hodge watching at the
bedside, like a faithful dog.
THE END.
MEDAL LIBRARY NO. 365
A weekly publication devoted to good literature.
June 25, 1906.
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Transcriber’s Note:
Dialect, obsolete words and misspellings were left unchanged.
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End of Project Gutenberg's Frank Merriwell's Fun, by Burt L Standish