“ARE YOU READY, NORTH BANK?”
North Bank awoke that Saturday morning to find a dull sky overhead
and a chill, damp breeze blowing from the southeast. “That,” muttered
Jerry, as he looked disapprovingly from the open window and clutched
his pajamas closer, “means a wet ball.”
“Yes,” agreed Tom over his shoulder, “and it means a wet stand. If
there’s one thing I like more than another, it’s sitting on a ten-inch
plank in a rain for two hours, with my knees under my chin and some
one’s feet in the small of my back. It’s just about my idea of a
pleasant way to spend an afternoon!”
“We ain’t had much rain this fall,” continued Jerry thoughtfully, “and
I don’t know will we play so well. Seems like we might have had a good
day, don’t it?”
“Well, as the distance between North Bank and Holly is only about a
dozen miles I guess they haven’t had any more than we have,” replied
Tom. “So it looks to me as if both teams would start even. If you’re
quite through admiring the landscape you might pull the window down.”
By the time breakfast was over Jerry’s fears were realized, for a soft
drizzle was falling, the sort of patient, effortless, insistent rain
that promises to keep on until the wind moves into another quarter
or the moon changes or some other mutation of Nature takes place.
A half dozen of the players gathered at the entrance of the Hall
and gazed disconsolately forth. The school in general was much too
excited to allow a little thing like the weather to affect it, but
with the players it was different. Some of them had got out of bed
that morning with distinctly jumpy hearts and stomachs that rebelled
at the mere thought of food. They felt decidedly low in their minds,
and contemplation of the impending battle brought no exaltation. On a
bright, sunny day they might have borne up fairly cheerfully, or, at
least, might have concealed the fact that they could discern little
that was worth living for, but now, viewing a damp, chill, bedraggled
world, they abandoned all pretense of light-heartedness and became so
many pictures of gloom. These, of course, were the less experienced
fellows, those who had never faced Cumbridge, although it was not
unusual for a veteran to show a distinct indifference for food on the
last day and a distrait countenance. Jerry, perhaps because he had
never seriously considered the importance of victory or the gravity
of the occasion, was not especially disturbed. He had had difficulty
in getting to sleep last night, but that had been less a matter of
nerves than a too-active brain: at midnight he had been still listening
to imaginary signals and translating them into imaginary action.
This morning, save for a mild dissatisfaction over the weather and a
half-formulated wish that recitations hadn’t been abandoned, he felt
much as usual. What he was to do between nine and half-past eleven was
causing him more concern than anything else. Don Sears spoke for all
when, breaking a long silence, he asked in heart-felt and disgusted
tones:
“Isn’t this the doggone limit?”
All those present agreed that it was, but agreed silently. Gray thrust
his hands deeper into his trousers’ pockets and scowled. Corben blew
his nose miserably. Crook made a faint sound in his throat that may
have been meant for a cough but sounded like a sob. James finally found
speech.
“What time’s dinner?” he asked cheerlessly.
Corben shuddered as he answered: “Eleven-thirty, I think.”
“Who wants to eat at that time of day?” growled Crook. “Why don’t they
feed us over at Holly?”
“Ever been in Holly?” inquired Sears meaningly.
“If dinner doesn’t taste any better than breakfast did,” laughed James
mirthlessly, “I pass!”
“Reckon we’ll be hungry enough by then to eat,” said Corben. “I know I
shall.” But that was just bluff, and he knew it and so did the others.
None, however, questioned the statement. They sympathized with his
pathetic effort to sustain his pride, and Lee, who was almost six feet
tall and played tackle, voiced support in a deep bass.
“Sure,” he agreed. “We’ll eat like woodchoppers after being outdoors
all morning.”
“Outdoors!” echoed Corben protestingly. “Where do you get that stuff?
Outdoors in this weather?”
“Sure! Thorne said we were to take a long walk, didn’t he? Gosh, what
else is there to do? I’m going to, anyway. Who wants to come?”
“I’ll go,” said Jerry. “Reckon I’ll have to get some old clothes on,
though.”
“Do you think he meant we were to walk if it rained?” asked Sears
dubiously. “It’s a swell way to catch cold.”
“Put an old sweater on,” suggested James. “Being out will sort of keep
your mind off――――” He stopped in embarrassment.
“Oh, go ahead and say it,” growled Crook. “It’ll make us forget to
be scared to death. That’s what’s the trouble, and I don’t mind
acknowledging it!”
“Honest confession is good for the soul,” laughed Lee, and some of the
others echoed the laugh uncertainly. “Come on, the whole bunch! Get
your sweaters on. The procession moves in ten minutes from Baldwin. And
bring your friends!”
Over a dozen took part in the walk that, with Jerry and Lee leading,
developed into a cross-country tramp. Once started, it proved real
fun and there was a noticeable rise in spirits. The drizzle continued
remorselessly, but with sweaters pulled high and hands in pockets
none minded it. Their way took them across meadows and fields to the
railroad and then back by the track as far as the little station and
so home over a slippery clay road. They sang football songs and forgot
their depression, and even played larks on each other, and got back
to school at half-past ten or a little after with, as Sears put it,
greatly improved morale.
Jerry found Ted Ingraham awaiting him in Number 7 with Tom and Joe.
Ted was clad for the occasion in a weatherproof trench coat that gave
him quite a swagger appearance and which, perhaps for that reason, he
had resolutely refused to lay off. He was cheerfully optimistic on the
subject of the game and prepared to prove, with only a pencil and paper
for aid, that the Light Blue was good for two scores more than the
Dark. Joe ridiculed the contention but declined to listen to proof.
“I’ll be satisfied if we win,” he said, “and I don’t care if it’s by
only one point, like the Brackett’s game.”
“Either you’ll win by a good, decisive score or you’ll get beaten,”
declared Ted. “Mark my words, Kirkham. There’s no halfway business
possible. Of course, I’m barring flukes.”
Joe laughed derisively. “Oh, sure! Barring flukes! Did you ever see a
game where there weren’t flukes, Ingraham? You can’t bar them, son. I
wish you could. Flukes are what win games――and lose ’em!”
“And a wet field is a grand place for them,” said Tom.
“That’s right,” agreed Joe. “Given a wet field and a slippery ball,
Old Mister Fluke is sure happy! What I hope is, he’ll play on our side!
Feeling fine and fit, Jerry?”
“Me? Yeah, I’m all right.”
“I’m blessed if I don’t believe you are! Anyway, you look it. Guess
you don’t have nerves. I don’t, either, only I’ll be mighty glad when
the game has started! It’s hanging around and thinking about it that
gets my goat. Oh, well, it’ll be all over in five hours, and I should
worry! ‘So it’s rip up the Cumbridge team! Tear up the Cumbridge team!
Smash――――’”
“Have a heart!” begged Tom. “I’ve got to watch you play, Joke, but it
isn’t right I should have to hear you sing!”
“Let me tell you, old son, I can sing tackle just as well as I can play
tenor,” said Joe indignantly. “Speaking of singing, I wish my duties
weren’t going to prevent me from hearing you lead to-day, Tom! Have you
ever heard him try to sing, Jerry? Isn’t it grand? He’s a great little
old cheer and song leader, Tom is!”
Just then Jerry discovered that it was nearly half-past eleven and
Tom’s response was lost. Ted Ingraham intercepted Jerry at the
door and whispered a question, and Jerry, patting a pocket, nodded
affirmatively. “I’ll see you on the train,” he said. “Don’t miss it!”
Dinner went off rather well, after all, although there wasn’t a great
deal of it. Those whose appetites were still uncertain found the
repast hearty enough, while those who could have eaten more consoled
themselves with thoughts of the banquet to come in the evening. At
twelve the school hack made its first trip to the station bearing suit
cases and paraphernalia and, on top of all, Manager Naughton and his
assistant. It was speedily back and was filled again to overflowing,
this time with players only. Two more trips were made, the black
mules dashing up to the platform on their last journey just as the
train arrived. Several of the fellows had, however, elected to walk,
and Jerry was among them. He and Gus Ashley paired off and tramped
cheerfully side by side over the red clay road in the drizzle that, for
the time, was obligingly no more than a heavy mist. Ashley was good
medicine for Jerry, for the latter was inclining toward nervousness in
a mild form and the big right half back had been through the mill and
was blessed with a fine assurance.
“Don’t think anything about who the opponent is, Jerry,” he advised.
“It’s a punk idea to keep telling yourself that you’re up against
Cumbridge, because if you do you get sort of scared if it’s your first
time. Cumbridge isn’t any better than we are. Maybe not so good. Just
play as hard as you can and don’t start out with the idea that the
other fellow is a marvel. It’s a safe bet you won’t have to work any
harder than you’ve worked lots of times against the second. And keep it
in mind, too, that if you’re anxious the other fellow’s anxious. You’ll
get along all right!”
The tiny shelter that did duty as a station was lost from sight in
the crowd that surrounded it. There was a later train that would get
its passengers to Holly in time for the beginning of the game, but it
appeared that every one had elected to go by the earlier one, and in
consequence there was standing room only after the members of the team
and a very few lucky noncombatants had been seated. Jerry yielded his
seat to Trumbull and went back on a search for Ted Ingraham. He found
him at last wedged into a corner of the platform on the rear car and
there was a whispered conference that lasted until the destination
was almost reached. Whispered isn’t exactly the right word, either,
for with nearly two hundred fellows singing, cheering or, at the very
least, laughing and talking, and the cars bounding and jouncing over
the rails, their whispers often became hoarse shouts.
At the Holly station three automobiles engulfed the players and the
rest of the throng formed four abreast and, with light blue banners
waving, marched in procession through the little town and out to the
school. The team went directly to the gymnasium, where a corner of the
floor had been curtained off for their use, and changed into togs. When
all were ready they gathered about the coach and listened to his final
instructions.
“There’s nothing much to say to you fellows,” said Mr. Thorne soberly.
“You’ve learned your lesson and all that’s left is to apply it. You can
win this afternoon if you play the game as you can play it. And I feel
perfectly certain that you’re going to win. I want every one of you
to feel that way, too. I want you to start in with the knowledge that
a victory is ripe to your hand. It isn’t going to fall into your lap.
You’ve got to work for it. But it’s got your name on it. It’s yours for
the plucking. You’ve got a score to settle with the enemy, fellows.
Last year they beat you when they had no license to. I’m not going into
the why of that. You and I know what happened last year. We both made
mistakes during the season and we got licked. Things are different this
year, I’m glad to say. We’ve all pulled together and we’re going to
reap the benefit of it. And we’re going to take revenge. We’re going to
fight clean; remember that; but, oh, boy! we’re going to fight hard!
When the last whistle blows Cumbridge is going to be licked, and she’s
going to know it! And she isn’t going to have enough kick left to steal
the ball from us, either!”
There was a wild shout then, a shout that held laughter, but laughter
that was grim. Mansfield called for a cheer for the coach, and it
was given thunderously, and then they piled through the doorway and
trotted down the sloping field to the gridiron, twenty-six blue-armed,
blue-legged warriors eager for battle. Behind them, with slower steps,
came the coaches and the managers and the trainer, the army behind the
army. From the stand came the Light Blue’s welcome to the team, at
first quick and sharp, at the end slow and deep, the “regular cheer”:
Ray, ray, ray! Ray, ray, ray!
North Bank! North Bank! Ray, hurray!
Ho-o-o-rah! Ho-o-o-rah! No-o-rth Bank!
Two squads took the field and ran through formations, and Jerry,
Duveen, Omstead and Keller started kicking, the last two practicing
goals. Cumbridge followed onto the field a few minutes later and
again a mighty cheer arose. It was closely followed by a second from
the North Bank side as the visitors cheered the enemy, returning a
compliment already paid to the Light Blue. Cumbridge and North Bank
mingled on the gridiron and cheer answered cheer from the stands.
The drizzle had turned to a brisk shower and the banks of spectators
looked drab and colorless under raincoats and umbrellas save when they
momentarily blossomed with blue. Tom Hartley and Sanford, the crew
captain, white-sweatered, bare-headed, swung pale-blue megaphones or
sent them bounding to earth as they led the cheers and songs. Now North
Bank was booming forth its most sanguinary anthem, feet beating time on
the wet boards.
Rush them, crush them back to their goal!
We’re fighting Cumbridge to-day!
Hit them, split them, open a hole!
Drive back the foe in dismay!
Break them, take them right off their feet
Just as you’ve done it before!
Crash them, dash them, slash them, smash them!
Pile up a real North Bank score!
As the song ended in a long-drawn appeal the two teams trotted back to
the sides and blue blankets were donned as the benches filled. Out in
midfield a youth with dark blue stockings and a youth with light blue
stockings watched a coin spin upward and fall to the wet sod. A murmur
of satisfaction swelled to a cheer as Captain Mansfield turned and
waved his hand. North Bank had won the toss!
A last brief conference between coach, captain and quarter back, and
then Mansfield called to the bench: “On the run, fellows! Cumbridge
kicks off from the west goal. Let’s go!”
The Light Blue cheered and stamped as the eleven warriors trotted
away, and light blue banners waved. Umbrellas were furled, sometimes
protestingly, and the rain fell remorselessly on friend and enemy while
Cumbridge lined up for the kick-off and North Bank spread her players
over the field. Then, clear in the sudden silence, came the voice of
the referee:
“_Are you ready, North Bank?_”
“_Are you ready, Cumbridge?_”
A whistle blew shrilly!