"LINE UP!"
Out upon the gridiron they trotted; a mass of lads in suits which showed
contact with mother earth many times, and which, in places, were marked
with blood-stains. The eleven were as full of life as young colts, and
some in their exuberance leaped high in the air, putting their hands on
the shoulders of their mates. Others turned somersaults, and some gave
impromptu boxing exhibitions.
From the grandstand burst a mighty cheer as the Randall supporters
greeted their team. The spontaneous shout was followed by the booming of
the Randall college cry. Then Bean Perkins, with wild waves of his arm,
signaled for the "Rip 'Em Up!" song.
"What a crowd!" murmured Tom as he walked beside Phil. "I never saw such
a bunch."
"Yes, there's a good mob," answered Phil, but somehow there was a note
of indifference in his voice. He had not failed to notice Tom's recent
change of demeanor, and it hurt him. Yet he was too proud to speak of
it, or ask the reason, though, perhaps, he may have guessed what caused
it.
As for Tom, the words of the mysterious warning rang in his ears.
Several times he was on the point of speaking to Phil, but he feared he
would be laughed at.
"After all," thought Tom. "I guess all that it amounts to is that some
one has heard a rumor that there'll be an attempt on the part of some
Boxer Hall players to knock Phil out. They may think they can cripple
him and, without him, our team will go to pieces. But I'll be on the
watch for any dirty playing, and if I catch any one at it I'll smash
him. I'll do my best to keep Phil from getting hurt."
But, if Tom had only known, it was a different sort of danger that
threatened his friend.
Once more the cheers rang out, the shrill voices of the girls forming a
strange contrast to the hoarse voices of the boys and men. For there
were many men present, "old grads," who had come to do honor to Randall,
and many others who came, hoping to see Boxer Hall win. Women there
were, too; and girls, girls, girls! It seemed that all the pretty
students of Fairview Academy were there. They were waving flags and
bunches of ribbon--their own college colors mingled with those of
Randall, for Fairview was on the side of Randall to-day, in retaliation
for a severe drubbing Boxer Hall had administered to the co-educational
institution.
"Is--is your sister here?" asked Tom of Phil. He had meant to ask if
Madge was present, but somehow the words would not come.
"Yes," replied his chum. "She and Madge are over in the A section," and
he motioned with his arm to a certain portion of the grandstand. Tom
looked, hoping he might distinguish two girls out of a crowd of several
hundred. Of course, he could not, and his attention was suddenly called
away from this by the sharp voice of the coach.
"Catch some punts, Parsons!" called Mr. Lighton. "After that we'll line
up for practice."
The Randall eleven was lining up when the Boxer Hall team fairly burst
from their dressing-rooms under the east grandstand. What a roar went
up as they appeared on the white-marked field! The burst of yells
seemed fully to equal the jumble of noise that had been made by the
Randallites. For all of Boxer Hall was on hand to cheer mightily for
their eleven, and the college was a slight favorite over Randall, who,
in years past, had not been known to do anything remarkable on the
gridiron.
Encased in their clumsy garments, the Boxer players looked like young
giants, and when they lined up and ran through several formations they
did it with the precision of clock-work.
"They've improved a heap," was the somewhat dubious remark of Holly
Cross.
"So have we!" exclaimed the coach heartily. "We beat them once, and we
can do it again. Get that idea into your mind and don't let go of it."
"I guess we'll be all right if Clinton doesn't have to get out of the
game," spoke the captain.
"Why? Do you think he'll be hurt?"
"Well, maybe. Boxer Hall sometimes plays a dirty game, and we'll have to
be on the watch. I wish you'd warn the umpire to look out for holding in
the line and slugging. They may do it. They'd go to almost any length to
win this game. They don't want to lose the championship."
"Well, they're going to!" exclaimed the coach. "But about Clinton; you
don't think he's any more likely to be hurt than any other player--nor
as much, do you? He's well protected."
"Yes, I know; but Phil hasn't been himself for the last two days. I
don't know what it is that's bothering him, but it's something. He
doesn't say anything. First I thought it might be a scrap he'd had with
Tom, but they're such good friends I didn't give that much concern.
Then I imagined he might be worrying about his mother, but he told me
yesterday that the chances for a successful operation were good. I don't
know what it is, but he's certainly not himself."
"Oh, you imagine too much!" declared Mr. Lighton with a laugh. "Clinton
is all right. He's a plucky lad. He'll play as long as he can stand.
Look at that game with Wescott."
"Yes, I know; but I----"
"Now, you stop worrying. You're as bad as a girl. But I guess it's
almost time to begin."
Song after song came from the supporters of the rival colleges. The
grandstands were packed to their capacity, and looked like some vast
chessboard with many colored squares, the dark garments of the boys
mingling with the gay dresses and hats of the girls, and the many-hued
ribbons and flags waving over all.
Captain Cross met and shook hands with Captain Stoddard, of Boxer
Hall, preliminary to the toss-up. They were to play similar
positions--full-back. The coin was sent spinning into the air, and
Captain Stoddard won. He elected to defend the south goal, which gave
the ball to Randall to kick off. The referee, umpire and linesmen held a
final consultation. Captain Cross gathered his men together for a word
of encouragement.
"All I've got to say," he remarked simply, "is to play until you can't
play any more."
"That's right," added the coach. "And don't forget about the possibility
of a change in signals being made in the middle of play; nor about the
sequences. I'll depend on you for that, Clinton."
"All right," responded Phil.
The field was slowly being cleared of stragglers. The newspaper
reporters were getting their paper and pencils ready, and photographers,
with their big box-cameras, were snapping individual players as a sort
of practice for catching lightning-like plays later on.
Across the field, toward the group of Randall players, came a lad. He
walked as if undecided as to his errand.
"Get back," warned Holly Cross.
"I've got a message for a feller named Clinton!" cried the lad.
"There he is over there," and Holly, who was in conversation with the
coach, pointed at Phil. The latter started as he took the envelope from
the messenger.
"Who--who gave you this?" asked the quarter-back huskily.
"Feller outside. Give me a half a dollar fer bringin' it in. Any
answer?"
"Wait," replied Phil. His bronze face was strangely white as he tore the
envelope and hastily read the few words on the paper within. He seemed
to sway, but, with a catch of his breath, he recovered his composure.
He read the message again. A mist seemed to come before his eyes. He
murmured to himself: "I mustn't tell them--until after the game--I--I
must play the game out. But--but can I?" He clenched his hands, and his
jaw became more square with the force of his teeth closing tightly
together.
"Any answer?" asked the lad.
"No!" said Phil in a low voice, and he crushed the telegram in his hand,
and thrust the rustling paper inside his jacket.
The lad turned to go, anxious to get a place where he could view the
game. None of Phil's companions seemed to have noticed that he had
received a message. He looked around at his chums.
"I--I've got to play the game," he murmured.
The next instant the whistle blew.
"Line up!" came the cry, and Snail Looper, holding the new yellow ball,
placed it on a little mound of earth ready for the kick-off.