FOURTH DOWN
For thirty minutes of actual playing time the Blue of Yardley and the
Green of Broadwood had advanced and retreated up and down the trampled
field of battle. And now the fifteen minute intermission was nearing
its end and the rival cheering sections ceased their songs and the
cheer leaders, megaphones in hand, watched the slope for sight of
the returning warriors. Then the cheers broke forth and the squads
trotted down the hill, Yardley in the lead, and blue flags waved and
green pennants fluttered and pandemonium reigned. On the scoreboard
no chalked figures followed the names of the contenders, for neither
side had scored. Never perhaps in the history of the schools had their
teams waged a closer conflict. Not once had the ball been inside either
twenty-five-yard line in scrimmage, not once had the Blue or the Green
seriously threatened the opposing goal. It had been a hard-fought,
gruelling battle in mid-field, the ball constantly changing hands.
No errors of judgment had given advantage, no fumbles had marred the
almost perfect play. Twice penalties had been exacted, once from each
team. Machine-like smoothness, thorough teamwork had been the order
all through the first two periods, and individual brilliancy had been
subordinated. Both teams seemed loath to break away from the safety of
old-style football, and line-plunges interspersed with dashes outside
tackle had ruled. Once Broadwood had tried a forward-pass, but it had
failed and she had not attempted a second. It was still anybody’s game.
Neither side made any changes as the third period started. For Yardley
the line-up was still as before: Tubb, Fanning, Rose, Simpson,
Casement, Bryan, Halliday, Noyes, Roover, Deering, Snowden. It was
Broadwood’s kick-off and Yardley hustled the ball back to her twenty
and went at the line again. The Green stopped her for seven yards and
Snowden punted to the rival’s twenty-odd. Broadwood tried the left end
and made four, tried the center and lost two, sent her backs at right
tackle and gained three, and punted to Yardley’s forty. Deering caught
and skirted back ten before he was upset. Roover got two past right
tackle and three inside right guard. Deering fought through for two
more. Snowden punted. And so it went while the precious minutes sped.
On the bench, huddled in sweater and blanket, Toby watched anxiously
with the others. And as he watched he strove to keep in mind the lesson
that Curran had been teaching him since an hour before the game. The
new signals were simple, but there were three sequences that wouldn’t
stay put in his mind. Of course, it probably didn’t matter much whether
he remembered them or didn’t, for it was safe to say that the coach
would not let him in until the game was either well won or lost beyond
the possibility of recovery. But it was like Toby to keep hammering
away just the same.
Noyes misjudged a punt, his first error, and for a long and anxious
four minutes Broadwood hovered about the Blue’s thirty-yards, the
ball in her possession. Then the second forward-pass of the game was
intercepted by Tubb, and, although he could not get away, he clung
tightly to it when tackled and a moment later Snowden had again punted
far down the field. Ten minutes had passed of the precious thirty
left. Broadwood, fighting back, piled through Yardley’s center for six
yards and the green pennants waved and Broadwood voices shouted their
triumph. Noyes, limping and white-faced, came off and Winfield took his
place at quarter and the Green made her distance for the third time
that day. But she was still on her own ground. A full-back run ended
disastrously and she punted to Winfield on his own thirty-seven and
that slim youth dodged and weaved his way through half the opposing
team and was only downed when twenty yards lay behind him. Yardley
implored a touchdown in measured chorus. With three to go on fourth
down, Yardley hesitated. Before she had decided the whistle signaled
the end of the quarter.
On the stands the supporters of the Blue spoke sadly or hopefully of
a no-score game. The teams sought the water buckets and lined up once
more. But now there were new faces in the opposing ranks. Both sides
had begun to call on their reserves. Snow went in for Casement and
Candee for Simpson on the Blue team and Broadwood put in a new end and
a new half-back.
Winfield called for the three yards on a double-pass play that sent
Deering outside left tackle and just failed of the distance. Broadwood
opened up her play then. Two forward-passes were tried, of which the
first failed and the second won a short ten yards. A fake-kick, with
the quarter holding the pigskin, added seven more. Yardley rooters
watched in silent agony now. The Green piled through for the rest of
the distance and the Broadwood stands went crazy with joy. But there
was still a long way to go and Yardley found herself again after
another play or two and held for downs when six inches would have given
Broadwood a new life. Then came a wild and thrilling end run by Deering
that took the ball over four white lines and placed it on Broadwood’s
thirty-six. But a fumble by the Blue’s quarter spoiled it and Broadwood
recovered the ball. Three attempts netted little and the ball sailed
back up the field. Winfield again misjudged and the pigskin went over
his head and trickled closer and closer to the Blue’s goal-line,
Deering and Winfield in pursuit and two eager Broadwood ends almost
upon them. It was Arnold who fell on the ball safely just short of his
fifteen-yard-line and who clung to it stoutly while the enemy pounced
down on him.
“Six minutes left,” growled Curran, at Toby’s side. “Why don’t we open
up? Winfield acts as if we hadn’t a play in the bag but line-plunges!”
Noyes, nearby, almost too wearied to hold up his head, grunted.
“They know everything we’ve got, Curran,” he said. “Watch them when
we give the signals. They’re wise to every move! And those backs are
wonders! We can’t get away from ’em.”
“Well, we might try!” retorted Curran savagely. “No use lying down, is
there? There we go, back at the old hammer again! What’s Tom up to?
Oh, Winfield’s coming off. You in again? But you can’t. Who’s Mr. Lyle
after? It’s you, Tucker! Boy, it’s you! Remember those signals and
shake it up, Tucker, shake it up!”
“Tucker! Come on, come on!” Mr. Lyle was calling and beckoning. Toby,
with heart pounding and his throat hot, ran to him on the side-line.
“Here’s your chance. Know the signals? Good! Get in there and put some
punch into that team. Tell Fanning I say he’s got to open up. Tell him
the time’s come to score! Give ’em some running plays, boy. Put ginger
into that bunch. Here, Snow! Go in for Casement. All right, Tucker!
Beat it!”
Cheers and more cheers, cheers for Winfield and for Casement, cheers
for the substitutes speeding on, cheers from across the field, a medley
of mad sound that beat on Toby’s ears like a cataract. Then he was in
the squad, Fanning twitching him aside, Arnold thumping him on the
back, Snowden, white and gasping, patting his shoulder imploringly.
“Let me get at ’em, Tucker, will you? Let me try ’em, will you? Let
me――――”
“Shut up, Larry! What’s the word?” Tom Fanning pulled Toby away. Toby
gave the message.
“All right! Open her up! We’ve tried their line until we’re sick of it!
There’s six minutes yet, nearly. Come on, Yardley! Let’s get it, let’s
get it! We can do it! What do you say?”
“_Signals!_” shrilled Toby, his voice pitching itself up amongst the
clouds as it seemed to him. “_Signals!_”
It was Yardley’s ball on third down near her twenty, with five to go.
Snowden got four of that five and then two more, making it first down
on the twenty-five. Then began a march up the field that is still
spoken of with bated breath at Yardley. It was a march against time.
To the middle of the field went the Blue without a halt. Substitutes
went into the opposing line and back-field, but still Yardley advanced.
Snowden was the hero of that advance, Snowden first and then Deering,
for it was Arnold who got away from Broadwood’s forty-four and plunged
onward to her twenty-six. And after that it was Snowden again and then
Lamson and again Snowden, and the teams were on the twelve yards.
Broadwood was fighting for time, delaying all she dared. The two
minutes had been announced when Toby gave the ball to Snowden for a
final slide off tackle on the left that, if it went right, would place
the ball well in front of the goal. And it did go right, although it
took the last ounce of Snowden’s strength and he had to be literally
carried off the field.
Watson was hustled on in his place and Yardley was cheering wildly,
exultantly for a score. The ball lay just over the ten-yard line now.
Four downs would spell victory or defeat. Less than a minute remained.
Fanning, almost ready to drop in his tracks, whispered hoarsely of a
drop-kick. Toby, seeing his condition, knew he would never make it and
shook his head. Fanning didn’t insist. Perhaps he was a bit relieved
that he need not make the effort.
“We’ll put it over,” declared Toby confidently. “We can do it!”
But Broadwood had massed her defenses solidly and when, fighting now
against time as well as against the enemy’s desperate resistance,
Deering had plunged to the left off tackle with scarcely a yard to show
for it, Toby’s confidence was disturbed. The Broadwood stand cheered
relievedly, exultantly. Tired warriors staggered to position. A babel
of shrill cries arose, the referee’s dominating all.
“_Second, and nine to go!_”
Toby studied the opposing defense, a forward pass in mind, but
Broadwood was set for such a trick. It would never go, and if it failed
the Green would have the ball as sure as shooting. The pigskin was
opposite the left hand goal-post now and, lest a field-goal should
prove the last resort, it must be kept centered. Toby thought hard and
fast and then shrilled his signals. Heming, who had taken Snowden’s
place, hurled himself at the living wall and floundered into it for
nearly two yards. Broadwood and Yardley cheers mingled.
“Roover back!” yelped Toby. “67――33――21!” He looked about at the drawn,
intense faces of the three backs. “Make it good! 67――33――21――111――――”
Toby slapped the ball into Roover’s arms, dug in behind him and
followed, floundering, pushing, panting. The Green’s defense wavered,
gave, held again. Grunts and groans and hoarse breathings filled the
air, and through them the shrill piping of the whistle came.
“_Third and seven to go!_”
The fake-kick had failed to fool the enemy. Toby looked almost
despairingly along the line, searching for some telltale sign in a
Broadwood countenance that would hint of failing strength, but he saw
none. Distress there was in plenty, but grim determination as well.
Seven yards still to go and but two downs left! If only Snowden had
remained to try the field-goal! Roover might do it, but Roover was
spent and reeling. A horrid fear that failure was to be their portion
took possession of Toby for an instant and his heart sank. But the
instant passed and he raised his voice cheerfully, encouragingly:
“That’s the stuff, Yardley! One more like that and we’re over! They’re
quitting! Get into this hard! Here’s where we win! Signals!”
Heming again, with Roover once more back in kicking position, Heming
smashing at the opposing right guard, stopping, edging on, and again
stopping, with every Broadwood defender massed before him, thrusting,
grunting, fighting like mad. And again the whistle and the quick voice
of the referee.
“_Fourth down! Five and a half to go!_”
“_Twelve seconds!_” shouted some one.
“Come on, Yardley!” shrieked Toby. “Get in there, Snow! Let’s finish
it! You’ve got to do it this time! It’s your last chance, fellows! Hold
that line now! Hold it! Roover back!”
The Broadwood defense widened, the backs spread, the ends poised to
dash around on the kicker. And Toby, noting, was triumphant. Something
had called back to memory that day when, volunteering to play quarter
on the second and finding his mind blank of plays, he had unwittingly
sent a half straight into the line and made the distance. It was
the unexpected that won then, he reflected, and now it must be the
unexpected to win again. Broadwood was certain that the enemy would not
waste her last chance on a line assault with more than five yards to
go. Broadwood looked for a try-at-goal or, failing that, a short, quick
heave over the line. Toby looked around. A half must take the ball, for
the play must go fast. He wanted Arnold, but Arnold was not fit for
the task. Heming, fresher, his young face white with excitement and
longing under the streaks of dirt, must make the attempt. Toby called
the signals. The tense bodies stiffened. The ball shot back from center
to Heming. Roover feigned to catch and kick. The Broadwood ends came
racing in. Confusion reigned, and in the very center of it, plunging,
fighting, the Yardley ends and backs behind him, was Heming.
Straight at center he had gone. There was no hole awaiting him, but
the assault was so sudden, so unexpected that the enemy gave and he
went smashing through. Then the Broadwood backs threw themselves to
the rescue and the line held. For a moment the advance paused and the
referee’s whistle went to his lips, and in that moment Roover charged
in behind the struggling wedge, the mass moved forward again, a foot,
a yard, faster, and yet faster! And then, suddenly the defense fell
to pieces and Heming, his head and shoulders well above the sea of
writhing bodies, shot forward and down and was gone from sight. And
from the Yardley stands arose a straining shout that reached even Toby,
buried deep in the wake of the victory!
* * * * *
A few minutes later, when goal had been tried for and missed, when
cheers were hurtling up at a shadowing sky and the field of battle was
a mad scene of Yardley rejoicing, Toby, rather the worse for wear, got
to his feet, assisted by Arnold and Tubb, while about them an impatient
mob waited to seize them and carry them off. He cast an apologetic
look at Arnold.
“I’m awfully sorry, Arn,” he panted.
“Sorry for what?” demanded the other.
“That fourth down. I wanted you to have the ball, Arn, but I didn’t
dare. You were too done up. It had to be Heming, honest!”
“Oh, forget it, old dear! Of course it had to be Heming! What do you
suppose I care? We won, didn’t we?”
“Did we?” exclaimed Tubb exultantly. “_Did we!_ Why, say――――”
“Then that’s all right,” said Toby happily. “I was afraid――――”
But Toby’s fear was never voiced then, for the waiting mob descended on
them and rude hands hoisted them aloft, and Toby, bobbing about above
the heads of the laughing, shouting, pushing throng, knew for a moment
a joy of triumph as great as Alexander’s after the Battle of Issus!
THE END
Transcriber’s Notes:
――Text in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_).
――Printer’s, punctuation and spelling inaccuracies were silently
corrected.
――Archaic and variable spelling has been preserved.
――Variations in hyphenation and compound words have been preserved.