"Yes," replies Black quietly, "Balfour is swifter, and harder in
tackle."
"Have you anything to suggest?" asks Campbell, with a reverence which a
man in the struggle feels for one who has achieved. The men are all
quiet, listening. But Black knows his place.
"Not in the least. You have a great team, and you are handling them
perfectly."
"Hear that now, will you?" cries little Brown "We're It!"
"Do you think we had better open up a little?" But Black is a gentleman
and knows better than to offer advice.
"I really cannot offer an opinion. You know your men better than I.
Besides, it is better to find out your enemy's tactics than to be too
stuck on your own. Remember, those fellows are doing some thinking at
this blessed minute. Of course," he went on hesitatingly, "if they keep
playing the same close game--well--you might try--that is--you have got
a great defence, you know, and The Don can run away from any of them."
"All right," said the captain. "We'll feel 'em first, boys. Keep at the
old game. Close and steady till we get inside their heads. Watch their
quarters. They're lightning in a pass."
It turns out that old Black is right. The McGills have been doing some
thinking. From the kick-off they abandon the close scrimmage for a
time, playing an open, dribbling, punting game, and they are playing it
superbly. While they are sure in their catching and fierce in their
tackle, their specialty is punting and following up. In this they are
exceedingly dangerous. For the first ten minutes the 'Varsity men are
forced within their own twenty-five yard line and are put upon their
defence. The quarters and forwards begin to "back," a sure sign of
coming doom.
"What in thunder are you doing back here!" roars Martin to little
Brown. "Do you see anything wrong with this line?"
Nothing so maddens a half back as to see the forward line fall back
into defence. Little Brown, accepting his rebuke with extraordinary
meekness, abandons the defence and with the other quarters and
forwards, who had been falling back, goes up where Campbell and Shock
are doing their best to break the punting game and are waiting their
chance for a run.
Every moment is dangerous; for the McGills have the spirit of victory
strong upon them, and from their supporters on the side lines the
triumphant and exasperating refrain is rising:
"Got'em going, going, going,
Got'em going home."
And indeed for a few minutes it looks like it. Again and again the
McGill forward line, fed carefully and judiciously by their defence,
rush to the attack, and it is all Campbell can do to hold his men in
place. Seizing the opportunity of a throw-in for 'Varsity, he passes
the word to his halves and quarters, "Don't give away the ball. Hold
and run. Don't pass," and soon he has the team steady again and ready
for aggressive work. Before long, by resolutely refusing to kick or
pass and by close, hard tackling, 'Varsity forces McGill to abandon
open play, and once more the game settles down into the old, terrible,
grinding scrimmage.
"Oh, why don't they let The Don have it?" exclaims Betty. "I am sure he
could get through."
The crowd seem to hold the same opinion, for they begin to call out,
"Let it out, Alec. Let The Don have it."
But Campbell still plays cautiously a close game. His men are staying
well, and he is conscious of a reserve in his back line that he can
call upon at the fitting moment. For that moment, however, he waits
anxiously, for while his scrim is playing with bulldog grit it is
losing snap. True, Shock comes out of every tussle bloody, serene, and
smiling as usual, but the other men are showing the punishment of the
last hour's terrible scrimmage. The extra weight of the McGill line is
beginning surely to tell. It is an anxious moment for the 'Varsity
captain, for any serious weakening of the scrimmage line is disastrous
to the morals of a team.
"You are holding them all right, old chap," says old Black, taking
advantage of a pause in the play while little Brown's leg is being
rubbed into suppleness.
"I'd like to open out, but I'm afraid to do it," replies Campbell.
"Well, I think your back line is safe enough. Their scrimmage is
gaining on you. I almost think you might venture to try a pass game."
It is upon the passing of his back line that Campbell has in previous
matches depended for winning, and with ordinary opponents he would have
adopted long ago this style of play, but these McGill men are so hard
upon the ball, so deadly in tackling, and so sure in their catch that
he hesitates to give them the opportunities that open play affords. But
he has every confidence in The Don, his great half back; he has never
played him in any match where he has not proved himself superior to
everything in the field, and he resolves to give him a chance.
At this moment something happens, no one knows how. A high punt from
behind sends the ball far up into the 'Varsity territory, and far
before all others Bunch, who seems to have a kind of uncanny instinct
for what is going to happen, catches the ball on the bound and makes
for the 'Varsity line with a comparatively open field before him.
Fifteen yards from the line he is tackled by Martin, but ere he falls
passes to Huntingdon, his captain, who, catching neatly and dodging
between Campbell and another 'Varsity man, hurls his huge weight upon
Pepper, who is waiting for him, crouched low after his usual style.
The full back catches him fairly and throws him over his shoulder. As
both come heavily to the ground there is a sickening crack heard over
the field. The McGill captain, with Pepper hanging desperately to his
hips, drags himself over the line and secures a touchdown for McGill.
At once there rises a wild tumult of triumph from the McGill
contingent, but after a minute or two the noise is followed by an
anxious hush, and when the crowd about the prostrate players is
dispersed Pepper is seen lying on his face tearing up the grass. Two or
three doctors rush in from the crowd, and before long Pepper is carried
off the field. His leg is broken.
A number of people begin to leave the field.
"Oh, isn't it horrible," groans Betty, turning very pale. "Shall we go
home, Mrs. Macgregor?"
Helen looks at the old lady anxiously.
"Here is Hamish," she replies quickly. "We will wait."
Shock runs up, much disturbed.
"Awful, is it not?" he says to Helen, who is the first to meet him. "I
am sorry, mother, you are here."
"Will they be stopping, think you, Hamish?" asks his mother. There is a
shade of anxiety in her voice.
"No, mother, we must play it out."
"Then I will just be waiting for the end," says the old lady calmly.
"Poor laddie--but he was bravely defending his post. And you must just
be going, Hamish man."
As Shock moved off the young ladies and Lloyd looked at her in
amazement. It was in some such spirit that she had sent her husband to
his last fight twenty years ago.
A cloud of grief and foreboding settles down upon the 'Varsity team,
for Pepper is not only a great favourite with them, but as a full back
they have learned to depend upon him. Huntingdon is full of regrets,
and at once offers Campbell and the referee to forego the touchdown,
and to scrimmage at the point of tackle.
"He would have held me, I know, bar the accident," he says.
The referee is willing, but Campbell will not hear of it.
"Put off a man," he says shortly, "and go on with the game."
Bate is moved from half to full, a man is taken from the scrimmage to
supply his place, McGill makes a similar shift, and the game proceeds.
Huntingdon fails to convert the touchdown into a goal. Bate kicks back
into touch, and with desperate determination 'Varsity goes in to even
the score.
Campbell resolves now to abandon the close game. He has everything to
win, and to lose by four points is as much a loss as by a dozen.
"Play to your halves every time," he orders the quarters, and no sooner
is play begun than the wisdom of the plan is seen. With a brilliant
series of passes the 'Varsity quarters and halves work the ball through
the McGill twenty-five line, and by following hard a high punt, force
the enemy to a safety touch. No sooner has the McGill captain kicked
off than the ball is returned and again McGill is forced to rouge.
The score now stands four to two in favour of McGill, but the 'Varsity
men have come to their strongest and are playing with an aggressiveness
that cannot be denied. Again and again they press their opponents
behind their twenty-five line.
"Oh," exclaims Betty, "if there is only time they can win yet. Do find
out," she says to Lloyd, "what time there is left." And Lloyd comes
back to announce that there are only six minutes to play.
"Hamish will be telling me that a game is often won in the last
minute," remarks the old lady encouragingly.
As Campbell perceives his desperate case, he begins to swear low,
fierce oaths at his quarters. In all their experience of their captain
the 'Varsity men have never heard him swear, and they awake to the fact
that they are face to face with a situation entirely unparalleled in
their history as a team. They are being defeated, and about to lose
their one chance of the proud distinction of holding the championship
of Canada.
From man to man Campbell goes as he finds opportunity his face white,
his eyes ablaze, adjuring, urging, entreating, commanding, in a way
quite unusual with him.
A new spirit seizes the men. Savagely they press the enemy. They are
never off the ball, but follow it as hounds a hare, and they fling
themselves so fiercely at their foe that in every tackle a McGill man
goes down to earth.
But try as they may it seems impossible to get the ball to The Don. The
McGill men have realised their danger and have men specially detailed
to block the great 'Varsity half. Again and again The Don receives the
ball; but before he can get away these men are upon him.
At length, however, the opportunity comes. By a low, swift pass from
Brown, Martin receives the ball and immediately transfers it to The
Don. Straight into the midst of a crowd of McGill men he plunges,
knocking off the hands reaching for him, slipping through impossible
apertures, till he emerges at the McGill line with little Carroll
hanging on to his shoulders, and staggering across falls fairly into
the arms of big Mooney.
Down they go all three together, with hands on the ball.
"What is it? Oh, what is it?" shrieks Betty, springing upon the box.
"I am thinking it is what they will be calling a maul in goal, and it
is a peety we cannot be seeing it," replies the dauntless old lady.
"Oh, it's The Don," exclaims Betty anxiously. "What are they doing to
him? Run, oh, run and see!" and Lloyd runs off.
"It's a maul sure enough. Two of them have The Don down," he announces,
"but he'll hold all right," he adds quickly, glancing keenly at Betty.
"Let me go," cried Betty. "I must go."
"Betty," says Helen, in a low voice, "be quiet."
"Oh, I don't care," cries Betty passionately. "I want to go."
"He'll hold all right," says Lloyd confidently, and Betty grows
suddenly quiet.
"Ay, that he will, yon chap," agrees Mrs. Macgregor, standing up and
trying to see what is going on.
"If The Don can hold for three minutes it will count two for his side;
if Mooney and Carroll can get the ball away it will only count one,"
explained Lloyd.
About the three players struggling on the ground the crowd pours
itself, yelling, urging, imploring, shrieking directions. Campbell
stoops down over The Don and shouts into his ear. "Hold on, Don. It
means the game," and The Don, lying on his back, winds his arms round
the ball and sets himself to resist the efforts of Mooney and Carroll
to get it away.
In vain the police and field censors try to keep back the crowd. They
are swept helpless into the centre. Madder and wilder grows the tumult,
while the referee stands, watch in hand, over the struggling three.
"Stop that choking, Carroll," says Shock to the little quarter, who is
gripping The Don hard about the throat.
"Get off, Mooney," cries Campbell. "Get off his chest with your knees.
Get off, I say, or I'll knock your head off."
But Mooney persists in boring into The Don's stomach with his knees,
tugging viciously at the ball. With a curse Campbell springs at him.
But as he springs a dozen hands reach for him. There is a wild rush of
twenty men for each other's throats. Too close to strike they can only
choke and scrag and hack each other fiercely. The policemen push in,
threatening with their batons, and there is a prospect of a general
fight when the referee's whistle goes. Time is up. The MAUL is over.
'Varsity has its two points. The score now stand even, four to four,
with two minutes to play.
They lift The Don from the ground. His breath is coming in gasps and he
is trembling with the tremendous exertions of the last three minutes.
"Time there!" calls out Shock, who has Balfour in his arms.
The smile is all gone from Shock's face. As he watches The Don
struggling in deep gasps to recover his breath, for the first time in
his football life he loses himself. He hands his friend to a couple of
men standing near, strides over to Mooney, and catching him by the
throat begins to shove him back through the crowd.
"You brute, you!" he roars. "What kind of a game do you call that!
Jumping on a man when he is down, with your knees! For very little," he
continues, struggling to get his arm free from the men who are hanging
on it, "I would knock your face off."
Men from both sides throw themselves upon Shock and his foe and tear
them apart.
"That's all right, Shock," cries The Don, laughing between his gasps,
and Shock, suddenly coming to himself, slinks shamefacedly into the
crowd.
"It is not often Hamish forgets himself in yon fashion," says his
mother, shaking her head. "He must be sorely tried indeed," she adds
confidently.
"I am quite sure of it," replies Helen. "He always comes out smiling."
And the old lady looks at her approvingly a moment, and says, "Indeed,
and you are right, lassie."
In a few minutes The Don is as fit as ever, and slapping Shock on the
back says pleasantly, "Come, along, old fire-eater. We've got to win
this game yet," and Shock goes off with him, still looking much ashamed.
McGill kicks from the twenty-five line, but before the scrimmage that
follows is over time is called, with an even score.
The crowd streams on the field tumultuously enthusiastic over a game
such as has never been seen on that campus. Both sides are eager to go
on, and it is arranged that the time be extended half an hour.
Old Black gets Campbell aside and urges, "Take ten minutes off and get
your men into quarters." Campbell takes his advice and the rubbers get
vigorously to work at legs and loins, rubbing, sponging, slapping,
until the men declare themselves fresh as ever.
"Not hurt, Don?" inquires Campbell anxiously.
"Not a bit," says The Don. "It didn't bother me at all. I was winded,
you see, before I fell."
"Well," says Campbell, "we're going to give you a chance now. There's
only one thing to do, men. Rush 'em. They play best in attack, and our
defence is safe enough. What do you say, Black?"
"I entirely agree. But begin steady. I should use your whole half back
line, however, for a while. They will lay for Balfour there."
"That's right," says the captain. "Begin steady and pass to Martin and
McLaren for the first while, and then everyone give The Don a chance."
"And Shock," calls out little Brown, "don't be a fool, and stop
fighting," at which everybody roars except Shock himself, who, ashamed
of his recent display of temper, hurries off to the field.
Once more the campus is cleared. Battered and bloody as to features,
torn and dishevelled as to attire, but all eager and resolved, the
teams again line up, knowing well that they have before them a half
hour such as they have never yet faced in all their football career.
It is 'Varsity's kick. Campbell takes it carefully, and places it in
touch well within the McGill twenty-five. After the throw in, the teams
settle down to scrimmage as steady as at the first, with this
difference, however, that 'Varsity shows perceptibly weaker. Back step
by step their scrimmage is forced toward the centre, the retreat
counterbalanced somewhat by the splendid individual boring of Campbell
and Shock. But both teams are alert and swift at the quarters, fierce
in tackle and playing with amazing steadiness.
Suddenly Carroll nips up the ball and passes hard and swift to the half
back immediately behind him, who in turn passes far out to Bunch on the
left wing. With a beautiful catch Bunch, never slacking speed, runs
round the crowd, dodges the quarters, knocks off Martin, and with a
crowd of men of both teams close upon his heels, makes for the line.
Before him stands Bate alone. From his tall, lank make one might easily
think him none too secure on his legs. Bunch determines to charge, and
like a little bull rushes full at him.
But Bate's whole football life has been one long series of deceptions,
and so he is quite prepared for this kind of attack. As Bunch comes at
him he steps lightly aside, catches the half back about the neck,
swings him round and lands him prone with such terrific impact that the
ball flies out of his grasp.
Immediately little Brown has it, passes to Martin, who on being tackled
passes to The Don. The field before him is full of the enemy, but The
Don never hesitates. Doubling, twisting, knocking of, he eludes man
after man, while the crowds on the line grow more and more frantic, and
at length, clearing the main body, he sets off across the field to more
open country on the 'Varsity left. Behind him come Campbell, Shock,
Martin and others, following hard; before him stand three of the McGill
defence. Dorion, McDonnell, and Mooney. He has already made a great
run, and it looks as if he cannot possibly make through.
First Dorion springs at him, but The Don's open hand at the end of a
rigid arm catches him full in the neck, and Dorion goes down like a
stick.
Big McDonnell bears swiftly down upon him and leaps high at him, but
The Don lowers his shoulder, catches McDonnell below the wind and
slides him over his back; but before he can get up speed again little
Carroll is clutching at his hips, and Mooney, the McGill full back,
comes rushing at him. Swinging round, The Don shakes Carroll partly
off, and with that fierce downward cut of his arm which is his special
trick, sends the little quarter flying, and just as Mooney tackles,
passes the ball over his shoulder to Shock, who is immediately pounced
upon by half a dozen McGill men, but who, ere he is held, passes to
Campbell, who in turn works forward a few yards, and again on being
tackled, passes to The Don. It is a magnificent bit of play.
The spectators have long since passed all bounds of control, and are
pouring on the field, yelling like mad people. Even the imperturbable
old lady loses her calm for a moment, and griping Helen's arm exclaims,
"Look at that, now! Man, man, yon is a grand laddie."
There is no chance for The Don to run, for a swarm of the McGill men
stand between him and the line only a few yards off. Then he does the
only possible thing. Putting his head down he plunges into the crowd in
front of him.
"Come on, Shock," yells Campbell. Instantly a dozen 'Varsity men
respond to the cry and fall in behind Campbell and Shock, who, locking
arms about The Don, are shoving him through for dear life.
There are two minutes of fierce struggle. Twenty men in a mass,
kicking, scragging, fighting, but slowly moving toward the McGill line,
while behind them and around them the excited spectators wildly, madly
yelling, leaping, imploring, adjuring by all kinds of weird oaths to
"shove" or to "hold." In vain the McGill men throw themselves in the
way of the advancing mass. Steadily, irresistibly the movement goes on.
They are being beaten and they know it.
"Down! down!" yells big Huntingdon, dropping on his knees on the line
in front of the tramping, kicking 'Varsity phalanx.
A moment's pause, and there is a mass of mingling arms, legs, heads and
bodies, piled on the goal line.
"Held! held!" yell the McGill men and their supporters.
But before the referee can respond Shock seizes The Don below the
waist, lifts him clear of the mob, and trampling on friend and foe
alike, projects him over the struggling mass beyond the enemy's line,
where he is immediately buried beneath a swarm of McGill men, who
savagely jump upon him and jam his head and body into the turf.
"He's in! he's in!" shrieks Betty, wildly waving her hand.
"Will it be a win, think ye?" anxiously inquires Shock's mother. "It
will hardly be that, I doubt. But, eh--h, yon's the lad."
"Down! down!" cries the 'Varsity captain. "Get off the man! Get off the
man! Let him up, there!"
But the McGill men are slow to move.
"Get up!" roars Shock, picking them off and hurling them aside.
"Get up, men! Get up! That ball is down," yells the referee through the
din, into the ears of those who are holding The Don in a death grip.
With difficulty they are persuaded to allow him to rise. When he stands
up, breathless, bleeding at the mouth, but otherwise sound, the crowd
of 'Varsity admirers go into a riot of rapture, throwing up caps,
hugging each other in ecstatic war dances, while the team walk quietly
about recovering their wind, and resisting the efforts of their friends
to elevate them.
"Quit it!" growls Campbell. "Get off the field! Get back, you hoodlums!"
Meantime Huntingdon is protesting to the referee.
"I claim that ball was fairly held, back there. Balfour was brought to
a dead stand."
"How do you know, Huntingdon?" returns Campbell. "Your head was down in
the scrim."
"I could see his legs. I know his boots."
It is true that The Don has a peculiar toe on his boots.
"Oh," jeers Campbell scornfully, "that's all rot, you know, Huntingdon."
"Look here, Campbell, listen to what I say. I want you to remember I am
speaking the truth."
Huntingdon's quiet tone has its effect.
"I would never think of challenging your word," replies Campbell, "but
I think it is quite impossible that you could absolutely know that The
Don came to a dead stand."
"I repeat, I can pick out Balfour's boots from a whole crowd, and I
know he was brought to a stand. I am prepared to swear that. Can any
man swear to the contrary?"
"Why, certainly," cries Campbell, "half a dozen men can. There's Shock,
who was right behind him."
But Shock thus appealed to, hesitates. He has an unfortunate conscience.
"I can't say for sure," he says, looking piteously, at his captain.
"Weren't you moving all the time, Shock?"
"Well, I was shoving all the time."
"But hold on," says Huntingdon. "Will you say that Balfour was never
brought to a stand? Will you swear that?"
"Well, I cannot say for sure," replies Shock in great distress. "It was
not very long, anyway."
Yells of triumphant laughter break from the McGill crowd.
The referee is in great difficulty. He has a reputation for courage and
fairness. He hesitates a moment or two, and then, while the crowd wait
breathless for his decision, says, "You can all see that it is almost
impossible to be certain, but on the whole I shall give it a 'hold.'"
It was a bitter moment to the 'Varsity men, but Campbell is a true
sport.
"Shut up, men," he says in answer to the loud protests of his team.
"Get behind the ball."
Every second is precious now, and the line is only three feet away.
Again the field is cleared. The teams, springing to their places in the
scrimmage, began to shove furiously before the ball is in play.
"Get up, men!" says the referee. "You must get up. Let me get this ball
in. Get up, McGill! Get off your knees!" for the McGill men are on
their goal line in an attitude of devotion.
Again and again the scrimmage is formed, only be broken by the
eagerness of the combatants. At length the referee succeeds in placing
the ball. Instantly Shock is upon it, and begins to crawl toward the
line with half a dozen men on his back, gripping him by nose, ears,
face, throat, wherever a hand can find a vulnerable spot.
"Hold there!" calls the referee. "'Varsity ball."
"Get off the man! Get off!" cry the 'Varsity men, pulling the McGill
fellows by legs and heads, till at length Shock rises from the bottom
of the heap, grimy, bloody, but smiling, grimly holding to the ball. He
has made six inches. The line is two feet and a half away.
It is again 'Varsity's ball, however, and that means a great deal, for
with Campbell lies the choice of the moment for attack.
Placing Shock on the wing, and summoning his halves and quarters,
Campbell prepares for a supreme effort. It is obviously the place for
the screw.
The McGill men are down, crouching on hands and feet, some on their
knees.
Campbell refuses to play and appeals to the referee in a tone of
righteous indignation, "What sort of game is this? Look at those
fellows!"
"Get up McGill! Get up, or I'll penalise you," says the referee.
Everyone knows he will keep his word. There is a movement on the part
of McGill to rise. Campbell seizes the opportunity, lowers his head,
and with a yell drops the ball in front of Shock. In the whirl of the
screw the ball slips out to Brown, who tips it to The Don, but before
he can take a single step half a dozen men are upon him and he is
shoved back a couple of feet.
"Man, man," ejaculates the old lady, "will you not be careful!"
"I say!" exclaims old Black to a McGill enthusiast whom he had fought
in the famous championship battle four years ago. "This is something
like."
"Great ball," replies his friend. "We'll hold them yet. I've often seen
a ball forced back from two feet off the line."
It is still the 'Varsity ball. The crowds are howling like maniacs,
while the policeman and field censors are vainly trying to keep the
field decently clear.
The Don resigns the ball to the captain and falls in behind. Every man
is wet, panting, disfigured, but eager for the fight. Again the scrim
forms, only to fall upon the ball.
"Dead ball," announces the referee, and both teams begin to manoeuvre
for advantage of position. A few inches is a serious thing.
Again the ball is placed and the men throw themselves upon it, Shock as
usual at the bottom of the heap with the ball under him.
Old Black runs up through the crowd and whispers in Campbell's ear,
"Put Balfour and Martin in the scrim. They are fresher." He has noticed
that the scrim line on both sides is growing stale, and can do no more
than grimly hold on. At once Campbell sees the wisdom of this
suggestion. The Don, though not so heavy as Shock, is quite as strong,
and is quicker than the big centre, who is beginning to show the effect
of the tremendous series of scrimmages he has just passed through.
Martin, though neither so strong nor so heavy, is like an eel.
Quietly Campbell thrusts the halves into the first line on the right,
whispering to Shock, "Let Balfour have it, and back him up."
As The Don gets the ball Campbell throws himself behind him with the
yell, "'Varsity! now!" At the same instant The Don drops the ball, and
with the weight of the whole team behind him begins to bore through the
enemy.
For a few moments both teams hang in the balance, neither giving an
inch, when old Black, yelling and waving wildly, attracts the attention
of Bate.
"Go in!" he cries. "Go in!" and Bate, coming up with a rush, throws
himself behind the scrim.
His weight turns the scale. Slowly at first, but gaining momentum with
every inch, the mass yields, sways, and begins to move. The McGill men,
shoving, hacking, scragging, fighting fiercely, finally dropping on
their knees, strive to check that relentless advance. It is in vain.
Their hour has come.
With hoarse cries, regardless of kicks and blows, trampling on
prostrate foes, and followed by a mob of spectators tumultuously
cheering, the 'Varsity wedge cleaves its way, till on the other side
The Don appears with the ball hugged to his breast and Huntingdon
hanging to his throat. A final rush and the ball is down. "The ball is
down!" cries the referee, and almost immediately time is called.
The great match is over. By four points 'Varsity holds the championship
of the Dominion.
"The greatest match ever played on this ground," cries old Black,
pushing through the crowd to Campbell, with both hands outstretched.
After him comes the Montreal captain.
"I congratulate you most heartily," he says, in a voice that breaks in
spite of all he can do.
"Thanks, old man," says Campbell quietly. "It was a case of sheer luck."
"Not a bit of it," replies Huntingdon, recovering himself. "You have a
great team. I never saw a better."
"Well," replies Campbell heartily, "I have just seen as good, and
there's none we would rather win from than McGill."
"And none," replies Huntingdon, "McGill would rather lick than
'Varsity."
Meantime Shock, breaking from a crowd of admirers who are bound to
carry him in on their shoulders, makes for the Fairbanks carriage, and
greets his mother quietly.
"Well, mother, it's over at last."
"Ay, it is. Poor fellows, they will be feeling bad. But come along,
laddie. You will be needing your supper, I doubt."
Shock laughs loud. He knows his mother, and needs no words to tell him
her heart is bursting with pride and triumph.
"Come in. Let us have the glory of driving you home," cries Betty.
"In this garb?" laughs Shock.
"That's the garb of your glory," says Helen, her fine eyes lustrous
with excitement.
"Come, Hamish man, you will get your things and we will be waiting for
you."
"Very well," he replies, turning away. "I will be only a minute."
He is not allowed to escape, but with a roar the crowd seize him, lift
him shoulder high, and chanting, "Shock! Shock! we--like--Shock!" bear
him away, in triumph.
"Eh, what are the daft laddies saying now?" inquires the old lady,
struggling hard to keep out of her voice the pride that shone in her
eyes.
"Listen," cries Helen, her eyes shining with the same light. "Listen to
them," and beating time with her hand she joins in the chant, "Shock!
Shock! we--like--Shock."