CHAPTER XXVI_Change Signals: A Story of the New Football

KENDALL MAKES THE FIRST

As Mr. Dana, followed by Kendall, had gone around the end of the stand

the Yardley players had come crowding past. Behind them, talking to

Dan, was Mr. Payson, and the coach, observing the football in Mr.

Dana’s hand, had stopped a moment.

“You’ll be lame to-morrow if you do,” he said with a smile.

“Not me,” replied Mr. Dana; “I know better. I’m going to try to solve a

mystery, Payson.”

The coach nodded and went on, and Mr. Dana and Kendall skirted the back

of the stand until they reached the edge of the links. Then Mr. Dana

turned to Kendall.

“Now pull your coat and vest off, turn up your trousers and show me,

Burtis!”

“Kick it, sir?” asked Kendall wonderingly.

“Kick the stuffing out of it! See how near you can come to putting it

over there by that red flag.”

Kendall threw aside coat and vest, took a good reef in his precious

gray trousers at the bottoms and took the ball. “Drop-kick, sir?” he

asked.

“Yes.”

Kendall poised the ball in his hands, judged distance and direction,

took a step, dropped the pigskin and met it fairly with his toe. It was

a fairly good kick, the ball traveling some thirty-five yards or more

before it struck, but it landed twenty or thirty feet away from the

flag. He turned apologetically to Mr. Dana.

“That wasn’t very good, but you see I haven’t kicked for two or three

weeks. Shall I try it again?”

“Yes, try a placement.”

Mr. Dana led the way with long strides to where the ball lay and

picked it up. “I’ll hold it for you,” he said. “Make it straight and

goal-high, Burtis. Suppose you were kicking from the thirty yards.” Mr.

Dana dropped his cane, tossed his hat beside it and stretched himself

out on the turf. Then with the ball lengthwise between his hands he

waited directions.

“I――I never had anyone hold it for me,” said Kendall dubiously. “Will

you put it more that way, please?”

“How’s that?”

“All right, I guess.” Kendall stepped forward, swung and the ball

shot away, turning on its shortened axis, straight and true. Mr.

Dana, poised on one knee, watched. Had there been a crossbar within

thirty-five yards that ball would have gone over it with room to spare.

Mr. Dana arose, brushed his knees and elbows lightly and shook his

head. Kendall saw and was humble.

“It’s awfully hard to judge, Mr. Dana, when there aren’t any lines to

go by. I’ll try again, if you like.”

Mr. Dana eyed him thoughtfully. Finally,

“I’ll tell you frankly, Burtis, that your form is miserable, but that’s

something that can be easily mended. If you swung freer from your hip,

kept your knee locked tightly, you’d get another ten yards, I believe.

But I’m not finding any fault, my boy. I used to be a pretty good

kicker in my day, but I couldn’t have equaled that last one before my

freshman year in college. Let’s try a couple more if you’re not tired.”

“I’m not tired at all,” Kendall answered, trying to hide the pleasure

he felt, “but I’m a little stiff yet.”

“All right; we’ll get rid of some of that stiffness.”

Ten minutes later Mr. Dana, satisfied, told Kendall to get his coat

and vest. Then they went back to the field. On the way Mr. Dana said:

“Burtis, I ought to apologize to you. When you told me you’d done

seven out of ten from the thirty-five-yard line I――well, frankly, I

thought you were spreading it a bit thick. After what you’ve shown

me, though, I don’t doubt it. The one thing I don’t understand is why

Payson hasn’t had you in training. Well, I wonder how the fortunes of

war are going. You go back to your bench, Burtis, and have a rest. I

want to see Payson.”

He found the coach down opposite the play, crouching low and pulling

gently on a pipe that had long since gone out. Broadwood had kicked her

goal and Yardley had the ball near the Green’s forty yards. Mr. Payson

looked up as the other knelt beside him.

“Hello,” he said. “Have you noticed that quarter-back of theirs, Dana?

He’s going to make the All-American some day if he keeps on the way

he’s started.”

“That so? I hadn’t noticed him especially.” Yardley lost the ball on

downs and Broadwood punted. “Think we can do the trick, Payson?”

“I doubt it. Our fellows are getting pretty tired. Watch this now.

Simms has got it.” The little quarter-back skirted the end and made

his twenty-yard gain, while the stand behind them shrieked wildly.

Then Fayette got through for twelve, and the coach took his pipe from

his mouth, tapped the ashes out carefully and replaced it between his

teeth. Mr. Dana, watching sympathetically, smiled. He knew pretty well

how the coach was feeling just then, for he had been through it himself.

A minute or two later came Fayette’s fumble, Broadwood’s punt and

Stearns’s clever run after the catch.

“Time must be getting short,” said Mr. Dana. The coach nodded.

“I guess so. Not more than five or six minutes, I suppose. A clean

forward pass might help now.”

But Simms was using his backs and Broadwood was steadily losing ground.

Then came Simms’s run around the left end of the line and the ball

lay on the thirty-five yards. Seven more by plunges, and time out for

Stearns. Mr. Payson looked, walked up the line and called “Greene!

Hurry up!” When the substitute ran up to him he only said: “All right.

Send Stearns out. You know what to do. Tell Simms to plug away.”

“Wouldn’t it be a good idea to try a field goal?” asked Mr. Dana.

“There can’t be more than a couple of minutes left.”

“Haven’t a man who could come within twenty feet of the bar,” replied

Mr. Payson shortly.

“Not out there you haven’t,” said Mr. Dana. “But there’s a chap back

there on the bench who could probably do it for you.”

Mr. Payson turned with a frown. “Who do you mean?” he asked.

“Burtis, of the Second.”

“Never heard of him. Someone’s been stringing you. Three fresh men for

Broadwood, eh?” He puffed hard at his empty pipe. The whistle blew and

the lines crouched again.

“No, I know what I’m talking about,” continued Mr. Dana quietly. “He’s

sort of a protégé of mine. I’ve just had him back of the stand and he

made two or three drops and placements of anywhere from thirty-five to

forty-five, Payson.”

“What! Are you crazy, Dana?”

“No.”

The coach took his eyes from the scrimmage for one short moment. “Bring

him here,” he said curtly.

Mr. Dana hurried back to the center of the field, his gaze searching

the benches for Kendall. But Kendall was not to be seen.

“I’m looking for Burtis,” he said anxiously to some of the substitutes.

“The coach wants him.”

The fellows shook their heads. “Don’t know him, sir. What’s he like?”

asked one, eager to assist.

“He was on the Second,” replied Mr. Dana impatiently.

The boy who had spoken hurried down to where the Second Team men sat.

“Any of you fellows know who Burtis is?” he demanded.

“Burtis! Yes, he was here a while ago. Want him?”

“He went up into the stand about five minutes ago,” volunteered

another. He stood up and turned toward the crowd beyond the rope.

“Burtis!” he bellowed at the top of his lungs. “Burtis wanted!”

In the middle of the stand a boy arose uncertainly and looked down. Mr.

Dana saw him and beckoned impatiently. And when Kendall had wormed his

way to the bottom he was over the rope and was pulling him along.

“Payson wants you,” he said. “Here, pull off that coat and vest. Who’s

got a sweater to loan?” Several of the substitutes jumped to their feet.

“Take this, sir!”

“Thanks!” Mr. Dana selected one and tossed it to Kendall. “Get into

it,” he said quickly. “Look after these things, somebody.” He tossed

Kendall’s beloved gray coat and vest helter-skelter in the direction of

the bench. “Come on,” he said.

Simms had just been buried under the big form of the Broadwood left

guard when they reached Mr. Payson.

“Here’s your man, Payson,” announced Mr. Dana.

The coach took his eyes from the inert form of Simms for a moment and

looked Kendall up and down.

“Dana says you can kick,” he said inquiringly.

“Yes, sir, some.”

“Were you on the Second?”

“Yes, sir, for awhile.”

“Think you could go in there now and put that ball over the goal for

us?”

Kendall looked and shook his head slowly.

“I――I don’t believe so, sir,” he faltered.

Mr. Payson shrugged his shoulders and glanced at Mr. Dana.

“Thought so,” he said.

“Wait a minute,” said Mr. Dana as the coach turned his attention to the

field again. “What do you mean, Kendall?” he asked sternly. “The ball’s

on the twenty-eight yards. That’s not a hard kick.”

“No, sir, only I――I’ve never tried to kick in a real game, and――”

“You’re afraid!” sneered Mr. Dana. “I thought you had some spunk!”

Kendall colored and stared miserably before him. “Do you mean that

you’d rather see Broadwood win than go out there and try to make an

easy goal like that!”

“No, sir,” replied Kendall. “I’ll try.”

Mr. Dana looked at the coach. Mr. Payson hesitated for a moment. Then

he took his pipe from his month and dropped it into his pocket.

“All right,” he said. “Go in there, send Greene out and tell Simms I

say you’re to kick a goal. And you _do_ it, do you hear?”

“I’ll try, sir,” replied Kendall.

“Report to the referee first, Burtis,” said Mr. Dana, clapping him on

the back. “And just forget that there’s anyone near you. Make believe

you’re kicking just to show me what you can do, my boy. Never mind

what’s ahead of you. Watch the ball and boost it a good one!”

And Kendall, very frightened, ran onto the field.

“_Change signals!_” cried Simms. “_Kick formation!_”

Kendall stepped back slowly, measuring the distance, and dug his heel

in the turf. Simms scuttled back and dropped to the ground.

“Hold hard now!” cried Dan.

There was a great silence. The stands held their breath and even the

players settled into quiet. Only the sound of their labored breathing

came to Kendall as he dropped further back.

“Thirty-one! Sixty-four!” cried Simms. “Seventeen! Eight――”

Back came the ball to his hands. He turned it end up, canted it a

trifle, settled it to earth. Kendall stepped forward. He had forgotten

that the enemy, desperate and determined, were waiting to throw

themselves upon him. He only saw the ball and, dimly, the whitewashed

posts straight ahead. The lines broke. Broadwood came rushing through.

Canvas rasped against canvas. Inarticulate cries filled the air.

Kendall’s toe met the ball squarely below the lacing. Somebody plunged

against him and he went over backward.

But the ball went true, safe over the upstretched hands of the leaping

Broadwood forwards, straight up and up, turning leisurely in its

flight, over the crossbar!

Later, when Kendall, somewhat dazed, sat again on the bench with a

dozen fellows questioning and laughing about him, the game paused a

moment and Arthur Thompson, throwing off his blanket and sweater,

limped onto the field to play the final thirty seconds and win his Y.

And then it was all over, and Yardley, triumphant, dizzy with joy,

cavorted over the battleground and tossed hats and caps over the

crossbars, while the Greenburg Band thumped out a brazen march of

victory!

THE END

By RALPH HENRY BARBOUR

YARDLEY HALL SCHOOL STORIES

Forward Pass!