“CHANGE SIGNALS!”
“You’ve got it right,” said Mr. Dana. “Here, let’s sit down; I want to
talk to you.” He looked toward the bench and one of the Second Team
fellows got up politely and moved to another seat. “Now tell me all
about it. This is your first year, eh? Well, do you like it? Was I
wrong when I used to tell you to come to Yardley?”
“No, sir, I like it very much indeed.”
“That’s good. Getting on all right, are you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“But, look here, Kendall―― By the way, I can’t recall your last name,
my boy. Was it Benson?”
“Burtis, sir.”
“Burtis, of course!” Mr. Dana slapped his knee. “And how are your
folks, Burtis? Father and mother well, I hope? They’re nice people. We
had a bully summer up there that time.”
“Yes, sir, thank you, they’re all well.”
“And the old spotted cow that chased me out of the barnyard one
morning? How’s she getting on?”
“She’s gone,” laughed Kendall. “We made beef of her.”
“How are the mighty fallen!” said Mr. Dana. “Burtis, that cow was
one of the few persons――or things――I was ever afraid of!” He noticed
the blue badge on Kendall’s coat and nodded at it. “What sort of a
decoration is that? What noble deed have you performed to be allowed to
wear that proud insignia?”
“It’s just a badge to get inside the ropes, sir. I was playing football
on the Second Team for a while.”
“Second? Dear me, I thought you’d make the first and kick yourself
to glory and fame, Burtis! Haven’t forgotten all we taught you about
punting and drop-kicking, have you?”
“No, sir. I――I’ve still got that ball.”
“What ball is that?”
“The one you gave me when you left our place, sir.”
“I’d forgotten about it, Burtis. You still have it, you say. It must
be getting a pension now, eh? But, look here, why didn’t you get taken
on to the First Team, Burtis? If there was ever a team in need of a
good punter, to say nothing of a drop-kicker, it’s this one right here.
Why, Payson told me not an hour ago that kicking was their weakest
department.”
“I――I did try, Mr. Dana, but I had――bad luck.” And then Kendall told
about his probation and how he had to give up football and how Dan
Vinton had got him back onto the Second Team at the end of the season.
“Too bad.” Mr. Dana shook his head. “That sort of thing doesn’t pay,
Burtis. Of course, I don’t object to a fellow having his fun, but it’s
a mistake to get the Office down on you. See what it’s cost in your
case. If you hadn’t got on probation you might have made the First and
been out there now winning the game for us.”
“Yes, sir, I know; but it wasn’t really my fault. It――it was a sort of
mistake.”
“Was it?” Mr. Dana smiled. “Well, don’t have too many of them. Mistakes
are costly. Still kick pretty well, do you? We used to have great
hopes of you at the farm, Burtis. Your legs seemed made for kicking a
football and you seemed to get the hang of it remarkably well. Did you
do the punting for the Second?”
“No, sir. I――I didn’t play much, you see.”
“Still, you might have kept in practice, Burtis,” responded Mr. Dana
with a slight frown. “Why didn’t you?”
“I did practice a good deal. I used to come down here in the mornings
between recitations for a while.”
“That sounds more like the boy I used to know,” said the other
approvingly. “You used to have as much stick-at-it as any lad I ever
met. Did you get so you could do your forty yards all right?”
“Yes, sir, and forty-five lots of times. I tried dropping goals a good
deal, though. I did seven out of ten from the thirty-five yard line one
day.”
“That was from placement, of course. But even then it――”
“Oh, no, sir, that was drop-kicking. I’ve made placements from the
forty, and once from the forty-three.”
“What! Look here, Burtis, did anyone see you do it?”
“Why, no, sir. I was alone.”
“And you mean to say that you can go out there and make a place-kick
from, say, the thirty-five yards without trouble?”
Kendall looked doubtful. Mr. Dana’s earnestness made him feel uneasy.
“Why――why, I don’t know, sir. I _could_ do it, but I haven’t kicked
lately. I guess it would soon come back to me.”
“But――why, look here, Burtis! Aren’t you eligible for the team?”
“I suppose so, sir.”
“Then――then I’m blest if I understand it,” muttered Mr. Dana. “Payson
must be crazy!” He looked around him. Then, he took a firm hold on
Kendall’s sleeve and pulled him to his feet. “You come with me,” he
commanded. Kendall, wondering, followed. Mr. Dana reached down and
scooped up a football with one hand and ducked under the rope. Kendall
went after. Curious glances followed them to the corner of the stand,
but in the next moment they were forgotten, for the Yardley team came
trotting out onto the field and the Yardley cheer leaders scuttled to
their places and seized their big blue megaphones.
“Now, fellows! Regular cheer for the Team! And everyone get into it.
Ready! One! Two! Thr――”
Then off bounced the discarded megaphones, arms waved and the stand
rocked with the burst of sound that followed. Blue flags fluttered and
tossed against the rising bank of shouting youths and down below the
big drum _boom-boomed_ an accompaniment. Oh, Yardley wasn’t defeated
yet, nor disheartened! The game was still to be won! So everybody into
it! Make ’em hear you! Louder! Cheer, you fellows up there! _Boom,
boom, boom, boom, boom!_
“Give ’em the Can-Can, fellows!” shouted a leader.
“_Who_ can, can, can? _We_ can, can, can! _Anybody_ can, can beat old
Broadwood! _Who_ can, can, can? _We_ can, can, can! _Anybody_ can, can
beat old Broadwood!”
But Broadwood’s supporters were not idle. The deep, booming cheers of
the Green thundered across from the opposite stand and it was not until
the whistle had blown and the ball was in the air that comparative
quiet fell.
Yardley had made one change in her line-up. Jensen had replaced Stark
at right tackle. Broadwood held Yardley for two downs; took a penalty
for off-side play and wrested the ball away almost in midfield. Then
she began her real attack. Reid and Rhodes, the heavy artillery,
crashed into and through the Blue line for short gains, and Raynor,
lighter and first cousin to a streak of lightning, broke around tackle
and past the wings for yards at a time. Broadwood’s adherents shouted
themselves hoarse with joy. Down past the thirty yards went the enemy,
Yardley fighting stubbornly and contesting every foot of ground but
yielding nevertheless. It was a terrific onslaught and Those Who Knew
on the Yardley side looked grave. But down on the twenty-five the
defense grew firmer, the gains shorter. The secondary defense, playing
close up, stopped what leaked past the outer breastworks. A yard now;
then two; then――
“Third down; seven to go!” cried the umpire.
Yardley stood up to a man on the boards and shouted imploringly:
“_Hold_ ’em! _Hold_ ’em! _Hold_ ’em!” And from across the trampled
field came the frenzied cries of the enemy; “_Touchdown! Touchdown!
Touchdown!_”
Broadwood meant to try a forward pass, but the ball went back badly,
trickled away from the quarter and was pounced on by Fogg. How Yardley
yelled when they saw the Green’s quarter trot up the field with hanging
head! Norton dropped back as if to kick, but Dan, running behind the
line, took the ball at a toss from Simms and cut through between tackle
and end. He was clean away before the play was solved, and then it
was up to Saunders, the Green’s quarter to prevent a score. But near
the forty-yard line Dan swung sharply past him as he dived, shook off
a detaining hand and streaked straight down the field and under the
crossbar for a touchdown, a half-dozen Broadwood pursuers trailing
behind!
What a pandemonium broke loose then on the Yardley stand! Caps flew
into the air, the big drum boomed, flags darted and snapped! Beyond the
rope two cheer leaders, clasped closely together, danced and cavorted,
and the Second Team fellows were jumping around like maniacs. Near at
hand, Mr. Payson strolling along the line, pulled his pipe from his
pocket, filled it with steady fingers and took his first smoke that
day. Even the fact that Hammel missed the goal failed to leaven the joy.
But Broadwood wasn’t ready to acknowledge defeat. Back she went as
savagely as ever, but Yardley seemed to have found herself now and,
while she couldn’t always stop the Green, she made the going much more
difficult. Broadwood lost the ball presently on a fumble and Yardley
started back the way she had come. Simms was holding nothing back now.
Every play he knew was called on. But the opponents were well blessed
with that football sense that enables a team to “size up” a play even
while it is getting under way, and few of Payson’s pet tricks netted
real gains. It was elemental football that won the most ground for
Yardley, plays in which Roeder or Hammel banged, smashed and wormed
themselves through the opposing line. Stearns, too, found his holes
and did his best. Forty-eight yards went the Blue without a pause,
just winning their distance time and again by inches only. Then came a
mix-up of signals and Roeder was thrown heavily three yards behind his
line.
It took him a minute or two to get his breath back and the Yardley
supporters waited anxiously. But presently he was up again, shaking his
head like a bulldog who has had the worst of a battle, and a wild shout
of joy hurtled across to him. A forward pass, Simms to Norton, gained
seven yards, and the whistle blew for the end of the quarter.
The ball was carried to the other end of the field and in a minute or
two later they were at it again. It was Yardley’s ball on Broadwood’s
seventeen-yard line and nothing, it seemed, could prevent a second
score for the Blue. But something did. Something turned a decisive
victory into a probable defeat. With four yards to go on second down,
Roeder fumbled. Simms fell on the ball. It was third down and eight
to go. Roeder plunged straight at right tackle, the line wavered and
gave, cries and tumult filled the air. The whistle blew. Somewhere at
the bottom of a pile of players lay the ball――and Tom Roeder. When they
found the former it lacked a foot of being where it should have been
for a first down, and when they found Tom they turned him over and held
him quiet while the doctor ran onto the field. It was a blow on the
head, or possibly a kick, and Tom was of no more use that day. He was
borne off between two substitutes, his head lolling on his shoulder,
the little doctor striding along briskly behind, while a great cheer
went up for “_Roeder! Roeder! Roeder!_”
In sped Fayette to take his place. But Fortune had dealt hardly with
the Blue. She had lost her best back and she had lost the ball on
that play. Broadwood got through for six yards on a fake kick, gained
two more around Norton’s end and made her distance through Jensen.
But on the next play she was thrown back, and, as the ball was still
perilously close to her goal-line, Captain Bishop dropped back and
got off a wonderful punt. Down went the Broadwood ends, with Dan and
Norton blocking them off. Dan disposed of his man, Scott, right tackle,
but Furniss got away from Norton and by the time Simms was under the
ball Furniss was ready for Simms. Bishop, meanwhile, had followed
his kick very closely, and when the ball descended into Simms’s arms
Furniss tackled savagely. The pigskin bounded away. Dan and Bishop both
made for it, but Bishop was nearer. The Broadwood captain took it on
the bound, squirmed past Dan, and streaked for the goal-line, thirty
yards away. It was a close race, and had the distance been forty yards
instead of thirty Dan would have brought down his quarry. But as it was
Bishop plunged over the last white mark just before Dan’s arms wrapped
themselves about him, and the score was tied!
It was Broadwood’s moment and she made the most of it. She had no band
to help her, but she didn’t need it! And while the wild cheers were
still thundering out, the Yardley players drew up in line under the
crossbar, Simms with tears streaming down his tired face, and Bishop
himself directed the canting of the ball held by Saunders.
A strange stillness settled over the field. If Bishop kicked the
goal――and it was not a difficult one――it would probably spell a
Broadwood victory, for the last quarter was fully half over. There were
plenty of white faces on the Yardley stand just then and more than one
fellow, his clenched hands thrust into his pockets, settled back into
his seat and refused to look.
Very leisurely, Bishop, still fighting for breath after his run,
directed Saunders. Finally he stepped back, hitched his trousers at the
waist, cast a glance at the goal, and――kicked.
Up went the ball, straight for the bar. One brief instant of suspense,
and then――bedlam on the Broadwood side and deep gloom across the field!
On the score board Broadwood’s 5 changed to a 6.
“How much time?” cried Simms as the teams trotted back to their
places. The timer held up one outstretched hand and two fingers of the
other.
“Seven minutes, Dan,” panted Simms. “There’s time to kill ’em yet.”
“All right! Hard into it, fellows!” cried Dan.
Mr. Payson sent in Sayer for Norton and Plant for Mitchell, and the
game went on. Broadwood resumed the defensive now. Yardley got the ball
as far as the Green’s thirty-eight yards only to lose it on downs, and
Broadwood promptly booted the leather far up the field again. Simms
got away for a twenty-yard run once, and Fayette, who, if he was not
Roeder’s equal, was fresh and untired and eager, pulled off a wonderful
plunge through the left of the Green’s line and squirmed and pulled
himself――and three opponents――along for twelve yards! Hammel pounded
the line for gains and Stearns knifed himself through for a yard or two
at a time. Then came a fumble by Fayette and a Broadwood player pounced
on the ball. Once more Broadwood kicked. Stearns caught the punt on the
run, the interference formed about him, and he came pounding back for
nearly twenty yards.
Again Yardley took up the journey, but the time was growing perilously
short. Past the middle of the field she worked; Hammel; Fayette;
Stearns; then Hammel again. Finally an end run by Simms that laid the
pigskin on the thirty-five-yard line. A plunge by Fayette netted a
scant yard and Stearns tried a skin-tackle play and made six. But he
was hurt and Greene took his place. Broadwood seized the opportunity
to put three fresh men into her line. Greene was given the ball on the
next play and tore off three yards, making it first down again. Only
two minutes and a half remained. Simms, hoarse, almost staggering,
called signals, changed them and then looked appealingly at Dan.
“It’s all right!” yelled Dan savagely. “Go ahead!”
But it wasn’t all right. Fayette should have had the ball, and Fayette
wasn’t there. Simms was still clutching it when the Broadwood left
guard hurled himself through and slammed Simms to earth. Simms gave
up then for a minute. Ryan came on with the pail and the big sponge,
and Dan and Ridge talked together while the quarter struggled for his
breath.
“We’d better have Holmes, hadn’t we?” asked Ridge through two swollen
lips.
Dan shook his head, looking doubtfully at the side-line.
“No, Simms can do it if it can be done. Why, oh, why, Hal, haven’t we
a fellow who can kick that ball over from here? I’d try it myself if
there was a ghost of a chance. Even Norton’s off now, and he’s about
the only one――”
He broke off and hurried over to Simms. The quarter was on his feet and
staring rather dazedly around him.
“What’s the down, Dan?” he whispered huskily.
“Second; twelve to gain. Come back here.” He led him away. “What do you
think? Forward pass? Or Number 24? Or shall we try to smash it out, Al?”
“Smashing’s――no good――now,” panted Simms. “Roeder’s the only
fellow――who could get us by. Better try a forward, Dan; it’s the only
chance. Isn’t it? What else can we do, Dan? There’s only a couple of
minutes more, and it’s second down. Gee, Dan, I don’t want to lose this
game!” Simms was almost whimpering now.
“Cut out the weeps,” said Dan brutally. “Brace up, Al. Try a forward.
Give it to me and I’ll get through with it somehow!”
Simms dug a dirty knuckle into one eye, took a long breath and said
quietly: “All right, Cap. We’ll get ’em yet!”
“Hurry up,” said the referee impatiently.
“You’ve got two minutes more,” cried the timer, running up, watch in
hand.
“All right here,” said Dan. “Now, fellows, get into this and make it
go! You’ve got to do it! They’re half dead already! They can’t stop
you! They can’t stop you! Look at them! They’re beaten now and they
know it!”
“We’d be dead for sure if bluff counted,” growled Bishop, as he edged
along in front of Dan.
The whistle blew.
Simms laid his hand on Fogg’s back and raised his voice huskily:
“Twenty-seven――twenty-one――fifteen――thirty-three――”
“Hold on!” cried Greene. “Here’s a sub coming!”
Simms straightened up again. Onto the field raced a youth in a pair of
long gray trousers and a blue sweater.
“What’s the matter?” cried Dan impatiently. Simms nodded.
“Substitute for right half, sir!” cried the newcomer.
“Who the dickens――” began Greene in disgust as he tore off his
headgear. Dan hurried back, frowning.
“Here, who sent you on?”
“Mr. Payson.”
“Hurry up, please!” cried the referee.
But Dan and Simms and the newcomer were whispering together and paid no
heed.
“I’ll penalize you for delay if you don’t start,” threatened the
referee.
“All right, fellows!” cried Dan, springing back to his place, and,
“_Change signals!_” shouted Simms.