Jimpson sat on the ground, and watched with breathless interest two
charging, tattered, writhing lines of men. Jimpson felt a good deal
like an outcast, and looked like a North American Indian. Only legs
and face were visible; the rest of Jimpson was enveloped in a big gray
blanket with barbaric red borders. Some two dozen counterparts of
Jimpson sat or lay near by, stretching along the side-line in front
of the Harvard section of the grand stand. Behind them a thousand
enthusiastic mortals were shouting pæans to the goddess of victory,
and, unless that lady was deaf, she must have heard the pæans, however
little she approved of them. The most popular one was sung to a
well-known tune:
[Illustration: Jimpson felt like an outcast, and looked like an Indian.]
“As we’re strolling through Fifth Avenue
With an independent air,
The ladies turn and stare,
The chappies shout, ‘Ah, there!’
And the population cries aloud,
‘Now, aren’t they just the swellest crowd,
The men that broke Old Eli at New Haven!’”
And a mighty response swept across the field from where a bank of blue
rose from the green of the field to the lighter blue of the sky. It was
a martial air, with a prophecy of victory:
“Shout aloud the battle-cry
Of Yale, Yale, Yale!
Wave her standard far and high
For Yale, Yale, Yale!
See the foe retreat before us,
Sons of Eli, shout the chorus,
Yale, Yale, Yale, Yale, Yale!”
Harvard and Yale were doing battle once more, and twenty thousand
people were looking on. The score-board announced: Harvard, 4; Yale, 0.
Yale’s ball. 15 minutes to play.
The story of twenty minutes of the first half is soon told. It had been
Yale’s kick-off. Haag had sent the ball down the field to Harvard’s
20-yard line, and Van Brandt had gathered it in his long arms, and,
with Meredith ahead, had landed it back in the middle of the field. But
the fourth down gave it to their opponents after a loss of two yards,
and the pigskin went down again to Harvard’s territory, coming to a
stop at the white line that marked thirty-five yards. Here Harvard’s
new half-back kick had been tried, and the ball went high in air, and
the field went after it; and when the Yale full-back got his hands on
it, he was content with a bare five yards, and it was Yale’s ball on
her 40-yard line. Then happened a piece of ill luck for the wearers of
the blue. On the second down, Kurtz fumbled the pass, the ball rolled
toward Yale’s goal, and Brattle broke through the opposing left tackle
and fell on it.
And while a thunderous roar of joy floated across the field from the
followers of the Crimson, the teams lined up on Yale’s thirty yards.
Twice Meredith tried to go through between center and left guard, and a
bare yard was the reward. Then Van Brandt had run back as for a kick;
the ball was snapped, passed to Sills, Harvard’s right half-back, and,
with it safely under his arm, he had skirted the Yale left, and fallen
and wriggled and squirmed across the goal-line for the first touch-down.
Then ensued five minutes of bedlam, and after the victorious seats had
settled into excited complacency, Van Brandt had tried for goal. But
success was too much to hope for, and the two teams trotted back to
the middle of the field, with the score 4 to 0. Then had the sons of
Eli shown of what they were made, and in the next ten minutes the ball
had progressed with fatal steadiness from the center of the field to
the region of the Crimson’s twenty yards. And now it was Yale’s ball
on the second down, and the silence was so intense that the signal was
heard as plainly by the watchers at the far end of the field as by the
twenty-two stern-faced warriors who faced each other almost under the
shadow of the goal-posts.
“_Twelve, six, twelve, fifty-two!_”
And the backs, led by the guards, hurled their weight against Harvard’s
right tackle; and when the ball was found, Baker held it within a few
inches of the 10-yard line.
The cheers of Yale had now grown continuous; section after section
passed the slogan along. The stand across the field looked to Jimpson
like a field of waving blue gentians. On the Harvard seats the uproar
was less intense, and seemed a trifle forced; and the men near by were
breathing heavily, and restively creeping down the line.
Again the lines were formed. Jimpson could see the tall form of the
gallant Gates settle down into a hunchback, toad-like position to
receive the coming onslaught. Billings, the right tackle, was evidently
expecting another experience like the last. He looked nervous, and
Gates turned his head and spoke to him under cover of the first numbers
of the signal.
The guards were back of the line again, and their elbows almost brushed
as they stood between the half-backs. Silence reigned. The referee
skipped nimbly out of the way.
“_Seven, seventeen, eighty-one, thirty!_”
Again the weakening tackle was thrust aside, and although the Crimson
line held better, the ball was three yards nearer home when the
whistle blew, and Billings, somewhat dazed, had to call for a short
delay.
“First down again,” muttered a brawny sub at Jimpson’s elbow. “Why
doesn’t he take Billings out?”
Again the signal came. Again a jumbled mass of arms and legs for a
moment hid the result. Then the men on the stand overlooking the
goal-line arose _en masse_, and a mighty cheer traveled up the field,
growing in volume until Jimpson could not hear his own groans nor the
loud groans of a big sub. Back of the line, and almost equidistant of
the posts, lay the Yale full-back; and the ball was held tightly to
earth between outstretched hands. The prostrate players were slowly
gaining their feet; but Billings and Sills lay where they had fallen.
Then Brattle stepped toward the side line, holding up his hand. With a
leap Jimpson was on his feet. But the big chap beside him had already
pulled off his sweater, and now, tossing it into Jimpson’s face, he
sped gleefully toward the captain.
Jimpson sat down again in deep disappointment; and a moment later,
Billings, supported on either side, limped from the gridiron, amid the
cheers of the Harvard supporters. Sills was on his feet again, and the
trainer was talking to him. Jimpson could see the plucky fellow shaking
his head. Then, after a moment of indecision, the trainer left him, the
whistle sounded, the Crimson team lined up back of the line, and Kurtz
was poising the ball for a try at goal. The result was scarcely in
doubt, and the ball sailed cleanly between the posts, a good two feet
above the cross-bar; and the score-board said, “Harvard, 4; Yale, 6”;
and there were three minutes more of the half.
Back went the ball to the 55-yard line, and loud arose the cheers of
the triumphant friends of Yale. Gates kicked off, and Warner sent the
ball back again, with a gain of ten yards. Sills caught it and ran, but
was downed well inside Harvard territory, and the half ended with the
ball in Yale’s hands. Jimpson seized his blanket, and trotted after the
eleven to the quarters. He found Gates stripping for a rub-down.
“Well, my lad,” panted the latter, “could you discern from where you
were just what kind of a cyclone struck us?” But Jimpson was too much
interested for such levity.
“Do you think I’ll get in this half, Gates?”
“Can’t say. Take a look at Sills, and judge for yourself.”
That gentleman was having his lame back rubbed by a trainer, but he
appeared to Jimpson good for at least another quarter of an hour.
It seemed but a moment after they had reached the rooms that the word
of “Time’s up, fellows,” was passed, and renewed cheering from without
indorsed the fact. But a moment or two still remained, and that moment
belonged to Brattle. He stood on a bench and addressed the hearers very
quietly:
“We’re going to kick, this half, fellows. I want every man to get down
the field on the instant, without stopping to hold. I don’t think they
can keep us from scoring at least once more; but every man has got to
_work_. When the time comes to put the ball over the line, I expect it
to go over with a rush. Let every man play the best game he knows, but
_play together_. Remember that lack of teamwork has often defeated us.
And now, fellows, three times three for Harvard!”
And what a yell that was! Jimpson went purple in the face, and the head
coach cheered his spectacles off. And then out they all went on a trot,
big Gates doing a coltish handspring in mid-field, to the great delight
of the Crimson’s wearers. The college band played; thirty thousand
people said something all together; and then the great quadrangle was
silent, the whistle piped merrily, and the ball soared into air again.
Jimpson took up his position on the side-line once more, and watched
with envious heart the lucky players. For the great, overwhelming
desire of Jimpson’s soul was to be out there on the torn turf, doing
great deeds, and being trampled under foot. He watched the redoubtable
Sills as a cat watches a mouse. Every falter of that player brought
fresh hope to Jimpson. He would have liked to rise and make an
impassioned speech in the interests of humanity, protesting against
allowing a man in Sills’s condition to remain in the game. Jimpson’s
heart revolted at the cruelty of it.
Some such idea as this he had expressed to Gates, that morning; and the
big center had giggled in deep amusement; in fact, he had refused to
recognize the disinterested character of Jimpson’s protest.
“Don’t you think,” Jimpson had pleaded, “that I might ask Brattle to
give me a show in the second half?”
“No, I don’t,” Gates had answered bluntly. “You’re an unknown quantity,
my boy; as the Frenchies say, you haven’t ‘arrived.’ For a player who
hasn’t ‘arrived’ to try to give the captain points would be shocking
bad taste. That’s how it is. Sills is a good player. As long as he can
hold his head up, he’ll be allowed to play. When he’s laid out, Brattle
will give you a show. He can’t help himself; you’re the only chap that
he can trust in the position. And look here; when that time comes, just
you remember the signals, and _keep your eyes on the ball_. That’s all
you’ll have to do. Don’t take your eyes off the leather, even if the
sky falls!”
Jimpson remembered the conversation, and thought ruefully that it was
easy enough for a fellow who has everything that heart can desire
to spout good advice to chaps on the side-lines. Perhaps if Gates
were in his (Jimpson’s) place he’d not be any too patient himself.
The score-board said fifteen minutes to play. Sills still held up his
stubborn head, and Jimpson’s chances grew dimmer and dimmer as moments
sped.
Harvard’s kicking tactics had netted her long gains time and again, and
twice had she reached Yale’s 10-yard line, only to be grimly held and
hurled back. Yale, on the other hand, had only once reached scoring
distance of their opponent’s goal, and had been successfully held for
downs. Veterans of the game declared enthusiastically, between bets,
that it was “the snappiest game of the decade!” and supporters of
Harvard said among themselves that it was beautifully conducive to
heart-disease. Perhaps never had the two colleges turned out teams so
evenly balanced in both offense and defense. The bets had become “one
to two that Harvard doesn’t score again.”
Harvard’s quarter had given place to a substitute, and her left guard
had retired injured. Yale had fared no better, possibly worse, since
her crack full-back had been forced to yield to a somewhat inferior
sub. And now the hands on the score-board turned again, and only ten
minutes remained.
The ball was down near Harvard’s 40-yard line, and when it was snapped
back, Sills took it for a “round-the-end run.” But Yale’s big left
half-back was waiting for him, and the two went to earth together near
the side-line and almost at Jimpson’s feet. And then it was that that
youth’s heart did queer feats inside him, and seemed trying to get out.
For Sills lay a while where he had fallen, and when he could walk the
doctor had sent him from the field. Brattle beckoned to Jimpson. With
trembling fingers Jimpson struggled with his sweater; but had not a
neighbor come to his assistance, he would never have wriggled out of it
before the game was called.
Brattle met him, and, laying an arm over his shoulder, walked him a few
paces apart. Jimpson’s heart, which had become more normal in action,
threatened another invasion of his throat, and he wondered if everybody
was looking on. Then he stopped speculating, and listened to what the
captain was saying.
“We’ve only eight minutes to play. The ball has _got_ to go over,
Jimpson. I’ve seen you run, and I believe you can make it if you try.
The ball is yours on the second down. Try the right end; don’t be
afraid of swinging out into the field. Whatever you do, don’t let go of
the ball. If Turner puts you through the line, keep your head down, but
jump high. Now, go in, and let’s see what you can do.” He gave Jimpson
an encouraging slap on the back that almost precipitated that youth
into the quarter, and Jimpson saw the broad backs before him settling
down, and heard the labored breathing of the men.
“_Ninety-one, twenty-eight, seventy-three, sixty-four--six!_”
Jimpson suddenly found himself pushing the left half-back against a
surging wall of tattered blue. Then some one seized him about the
waist, and he picked himself up from the ground eight feet away from
the scene of battle.
“That’s what comes of being so small and light,” he growled to himself,
as he trotted back. But the thirst of battle was in Jimpson’s soul,
and he marked the Yale end who had treated him so contemptuously.
The try between right tackle and end had netted a bare yard, and
Jimpson tried to look self-possessed while his back was running with
little chills and his throat was dry as dust. The next chance was his,
and he waited the signal anxiously, to learn whether the pass was
direct or double. The other half-back imperceptibly dropped back a
foot. The quarter looked around. The lines swayed and heaved.
“_Twenty-seven, sixty-three, forty-five, seventy-two--five!_”
Jimpson leaped forward; the left half-back darted across him, the
quarter passed neatly, and, with the Harvard left end beside him, he
was sweeping down to the right and into the field. The Yale end went
down before the mighty Cowper; and Jimpson, sighting a clear space,
sped through. He could feel the field trailing after him, and could
hear the sounds of the falling men. Before him in the distance, a
little to the left, came the Yale full-back. Almost upon him was the
Yale left half, looking big and ugly. But, with a final spurt, Van
Brandt ran even, and gave the shoulder to the enemy; and as they went
down together, Jimpson leaped free, and, running on, knew that at last
he was left to shift for himself. Of the foes behind he had no fear; of
the full-back running cautiously down on him he feared everything. But
he clutched the ball tighter, and raced on straight as an arrow toward
the only player between him and the goal that loomed so far down the
field.
He heard now the mighty sound of voices cheering him on, saw without
looking the crowded stands to the right; and then something whispered
of danger from behind, and, scarcely daring to do so, lest he trip and
fall, glanced hurriedly over his shoulder into the staring eyes of a
runner. And now he could hear the other’s short, labored gasps. Before
him but a scant ten yards was the full-back. Jimpson’s mind was made
up on the instant. Easing his pace the least bit, he swung abruptly to
the left. He well knew the risk he ran, but he judged himself capable
of making up the lost ground. As he had thought, the pursuer was
little expecting such a deliberate divergence from the course, and,
as a result, he overran, and then turned clumsily, striking for a
point between Jimpson and the left goal-post. The full-back had noted
the change, of course, on the instant, and was now running for about
the same intersecting point as the other. The three runners formed a
triangle. For the moment the pursuer was out of reckoning, and Jimpson
could give all his skill to eluding the full-back, who faced him, ready
for a tackle.
And here Jimpson’s lighter weight stood him in good stead. Clutching
the ball tightly, he made a feint to the left, and then flung himself
quickly to the right. As he did so he spun around. The full-back’s hand
reached his canvas jacket, slipped, and found a slight hold upon his
trousers; and Jimpson, scarcely recovered from his turn, fell on one
knee, the full-back also falling in his effort to hold. At that moment
the pursuer reached the spot, and sprang toward Jimpson.
The shouts had ceased, and thirty thousand persons were holding their
breath. The next moment a shout of triumph went up, and Jimpson was
speeding on toward the Yale goal. For as the last man had thrown
himself forward, Jimpson had struggled to his feet, the full-back
following, and the two Yale men had crashed together with a shock that
left the full-back prostrate upon the turf. The other had regained
himself quickly, and taken up the pursuit; but Jimpson was already
almost ten yards to the good, and, although his breath was coming in
short, painful gasps, and the white lines seemed rods apart, the goal
became nearer and nearer. But the blue-stockinged runner was not done,
and the cries of the Crimson well-wishers were stilled as the little
space between the two runners grew perceptibly less.
Jimpson, with his eyes fixed in agony upon the last white line under
the goal-posts, struggled on. One ankle had been wrenched in his rapid
turn, and it pained frightfully as it took the ground. He could hear
the steps of the pursuing foe almost at his heels, and, try as he
might, he could not cover the ground any faster. His brain reeled, and
he thought each moment that he must fall.
But the thought of what that touch-down meant, and the recollection of
the captain’s words, nerved him afresh. The goal-line was plain before
him now; ten yards only remained. The air was filled with cheers; but
to Jimpson everything save that little white line and the sound of the
pounding steps behind him was obliterated.
Success seemed assured, when a touch on his shoulder made the landscape
reel before his eyes. It was not a clutch--just fingers grasping at his
smooth jacket, unable as yet to find a hold.
The last white line but one passed haltingly, slowly, under his feet.
The fingers traveled upward, and suddenly a firm grasp settled upon
his shoulder. He tried to swing free, faltered, stumbled, recovered
himself with a last supreme effort, and, holding the ball at arm’s
length, threw himself forward, face down. And as the enemy crashed upon
him, Jimpson tried hard to gasp “Down!” but found he couldn’t, and
then--didn’t care at all.
When he came to he found a crowd of players about him. Faces almost
strange to him were smiling, and the captain was holding his head. His
right foot pained frantically, and the doctor and rubbers were busy
over him.
“Was it--was it over?” he asked weakly.
“Easy, old chap--with an inch to spare,” replied the lips above.
“Listen!”
Jimpson tried to raise his head, but it felt so funny that he gave up
the effort. But, despite the woolen sweater bunched up for a pillow, he
heard a deep roar that sounded like the breakers on the beach at home.
Then he smiled, and fainted once more.
But the score-board had changed its figures again: Harvard, 8; Yale, 6.
Touch-down. Harvard’s ball. 3 minutes to play.
And the deep, exultant roar went on, resolving itself into “H-a-r-vard!
H-a-r-vard!”
* * * * *
The band was playing Washington Post. Harvard Square was bright under
a lurid glow of red fire. Cheering humanity was packed tight from the
street to the balustrade of Matthews, and from there up and across
the yard. Cannon crackers punctuated the blare of noise with sharp
detonations. The college was out in full force to welcome home the
football heroes, and staid and prim old Cambridge lent her quota to the
throng. From the back of Grays the cheering grew louder, and the crowd
surged toward the avenue. The band broke ranks and skeltered after. A
four-horse barge drew up slowly at the curb, and, one after another,
the men dropped out, tightly clutching their bags, and strove to slip
away through the throng. But each was eventually captured, his luggage
confiscated, and himself raised to the shoulders of riotous admirers.
When all were out and up, the band started the strains of Fair Harvard,
and thousands of voices joined in. The procession moved. Jimpson, proud
and happy and somewhat embarrassed, was well up in the line. When the
corner was turned and the yard reached the roar increased in volume.
Cheers for the eleven, for Harvard, for Brattle, were filling the air.
And then suddenly Jimpson’s heart leaped at the sound of his own name
from thousands of throats.
“Now, fellows, three long Harvards, and three times three for Jimpson!”
In the roar that followed Jimpson addressed his bearers.
“Won’t you please let me go now? I--I’m not feeling very well, and--and
I’m only a sub, you know.”
The plea of illness moved his captors, and Jimpson was dropped to
earth, and his valise restored. There was no notice taken of him as he
slipped stealthfully through the outskirts of the throng, and as he
reached the corner of Holden Chapel he paused and listened.
To the dark heavens arose a prolonged, impatient demand from thousands
of Harvard throats. The listener heard, and then fled toward the dark
building across the street, and, reaching his room, locked the door
behind him. But still he could hear the cries, loudly and impatiently
repeated: “We--want--Jimp-son! We--want--Jimp-son! Jimp-son!”