fought for time now, as Fairfield had done before, but went to no undue
lengths to secure it. She was a point to the good and would have been
satisfied had the game ended then and there, but she had also learned
the joy of battle and was willing to fight on. Fairfield came back
with a desperation that for the first few minutes lifted the home team
from her feet. But she rallied on her thirty and took the ball away by
a carefully measured two inches and started back again. She could not
afford to risk anything now and so it was a case of hit the line and
hold the ball. And she did hit it! Moore had to give up, but the eager
substitute who took his place made good. Farnsworth still pegged away,
as mighty as ever, although when play stopped for a moment he could
hardly stand up and Tinker was watching him frowningly from the side of
the field. Ted had more chances and played them through, gaining more
often than not. But he, too, was almost gone it seemed, and Larry was
considerate for what he had already done.
The shadows lengthened and the game drew to its end. Fairfield was
still cheering on the stands, still hopeful on the field. A misjudged
punt brought a groan of dismay from the Staunton adherents and gave
the enemy her opportunity to pull the game from the fire. It was
Stirling, the substitute left half, who erred, and of a sudden the
enemy was pounding at the Staunton gate. From the twenty-six yards to
the fifteen she fought her way in the four downs. There, unwisely,
perhaps, scorning a field goal, she raced against the clicking seconds
of the timekeeper’s watch and plunged on toward a touchdown. Two
yards――three――one――and there were but four to go, with Staunton digging
her cleats into the torn turf of the last defense.
The enemy staged a try-at-goal, but Staunton refused to believe in
it, and, as it was proved, rightly. For the ball went back to a half
instead of the kicker and he sped off toward the left and the line
broke and followed him. His run started near the twenty yards and he
ran in to the fifteen before he began to circle. By that time the
interference was solid about him and when he turned in it seemed
that sheer weight of numbers would carry the ball over. The Staunton
defenders went down battling gamely, the rush slowed but kept moving.
Somewhere in that mêlée was the runner with the precious ball hugged
tightly to his body. They were pushing past the ten-yard line now.
Cries of exhortation, of despair and of triumph arose above the
panting and gasping and the thud of bodies. To the eight yards――to the
seven――――.
[Illustration: SOMEWHERE IN THAT MÊLÉE WAS THE RUNNER WITH THE PRECIOUS
BALL]
A brown-legged player picked himself from the turf with distorted face
and plunged at the struggling mass. Somehow he penetrated it and was
swallowed from sight. And then, wonder of wonders, the forward movement
stopped, the mass swayed, gave before the desperate force of the
defenders and moved back. From somewhere a faint gasp of “_Down!_” was
heard. But already the whistle had blown.
The ball was found just past the six yards. Above it lay a grim-faced
Fairfield half-back and above him, one arm, the right, wrapped
tenaciously about his knees, lay Ted. And, although they had to fairly
pry that arm and its clutching fingers loose, Ted knew nothing about
it, for he had fainted again!
The home team rushed once, kicked out of danger and the game was over
and the crowds overflowed the field, Staunton cheering ecstatically
and wildly as she sought to capture her players. But Ted, over by
the bench, knew very little of that. He felt Tinker’s tenderly cruel
fingers exploring his left shoulder and he groaned. He didn’t mean
to, but he couldn’t help it. And he heard Thornton ask solicitously:
“Break, Tink?”
“Sure. Shoulder blade. A nice clean break, too. He did it when they
tackled him down near their goal that time. He wouldn’t let on and he
had me fooled till I noticed a few minutes ago that he wasn’t using his
left arm much!”
“Hm!” said the coach.
“And that ain’t all of it either,” continued the trainer, his fingers
still at work. “It feels to me like he’d had trouble there before.
There’s a sort of lump――All right, lad, I won’t hurt you any more.
You’re a plucky little divil! I’ll say that for you!”
And last of all Ted heard Jack Groom’s voice from a great distance:
“And that’s the fellow you said was a quitter!”
Then, following that beastly habit of his, Ted fainted again!
“PUFF”
Tom Burrill drew up in the shade at the side of the road, jumped from
the car with a wrench in his hand and, lifting the hood, began to
inspect the spark plugs.
He was a healthy, well-built, intelligent-looking boy of seventeen,
with a lean, sunburned face. Clear gray eyes, a straight nose, a mouth
that showed a sense of humor and a chin that indicated determination
were his most noticeable features. He was tall for his years and had
the look of one who spends much time out of doors.
The automobile deserves quite as full a description as its owner.
It was small, low hung and light in weight――more a cycle car than a
full-grown runabout――and was painted a bright red, all except the
wheels, which were painted black. Its name was “Puff.” There was no
doubt about the name, for it was conspicuously painted in black on the
gasoline tank behind the seat.
Tom’s father had proposed calling the car “_E Pluribus Unum_,” since
it was decidedly one out of many! Tom had built it himself; he had
got the parts at secondhand――here, there and anywhere. The small,
two-cylinder, twelve-horse-power engine that supplied the motive power
Tom had picked up for a song at a repair shop in Kingston. The body he
had built himself, and the engine hood he had had made at the local
stamping works. You would never have suspected that under the two coats
of brilliant red paint the hood was nothing more than a fair quality of
zinc!
The car was air-cooled and chain-driven, and when Tom drove it over
rough roads it rattled like half a dozen dish pans. But for all that it
could do its thirty miles an hour, and perhaps better were it permitted
to! Tom had spent most of his spare time that spring in building the
car; but he had had a great deal of pleasure, to say nothing of his
final triumph when he made his first trip through Kingston, to the
confusion of the scoffers who had predicted failure!
But Puff had its troubles, just as larger and more expensive cars have
theirs, and so far that summer much of its life had been spent in the
stable, undergoing repairs. If the truth were told, however, Tom got
almost as much pleasure out of Puff in the stable as he did out of Puff
on the road, for he was never happier than when he was tinkering with
machinery.
This morning he had overhauled the little car with more than ordinary
care, for he was to make the run to Bristol and back, a matter of
forty-eight miles all told. The trip was in the nature of a supreme
test of Puff’s endurance. All had gone well until Kingston lay two
miles behind. Then Puff had begun to skip and lose power, and Tom had
at last been forced to investigate.
The investigation, however, was not very successful; both spark plugs
were bright and appeared to be firing perfectly. With a puzzled shake
of his head, Tom replaced them and began to survey the wiring. It was
at this moment that a sound up the road toward home drew his attention.
He had barely time to raise his head and look before a huge touring car
raced past him in a cloud of dust.
Yet it did not travel so fast that Tom failed to identify the make. It
was a Spalding of the latest model――a big, six-cylinder car painted
battleship gray, with bright red wheels. In the big tonneau sat a
single passenger, a man in a light gray overcoat and a cloth cap. The
chauffeur was in brown livery. All this Tom saw before the car was lost
to sight round a bend in the road. It did not, he was sure, belong in
Kingston, for there was only one six-cylinder automobile in the town,
and that was a Wright. Probably the car belonged in Bristol, for the
Spalding factory was in that city. It was doubtless returning from a
trip to Kingston, he concluded.
He started his engine again and climbed back to the seat. Puff started
off well, and Tom was congratulating himself on having unwittingly
repaired the trouble, when again the engine began to miss fire. It
seemed very puzzling. His errand made it necessary for him to reach
Bristol before the bank closed at twelve, and so he did not dare to
spend too much time on the road. As long as Puff made its twenty miles
an hour――and it was doing that and more, as the small speedometer
showed――he decided that he would keep on. After he had delivered the
envelope that was in his pocket at the bank and thus done his father’s
errand, he would look for the trouble.
“If I can’t find it,” he said to himself with a smile, “maybe I’ll
drop round to the Spalding factory and exchange Puff for one of those
‘six-sixties’! Only,” he added half aloud as he swung round the turn,
“they’ll have to give me something to boot!”
The next instant he was staring ahead with interest. Beyond, drawn up
at the side of the road, stood the big car. The chauffeur was leaning
under the raised hood and the passenger was watching from the car. As
Tom approached he slowed Puff down a little. He would have been less
than human had he not experienced an instant of mild satisfaction. Puff
had cost him something like eighty dollars, whereas the big Spalding,
as Tom well knew, was priced at nearly four thousand dollars; and
certainly, as far as the quality of “get there” was concerned, the big
car was at that moment inferior to the little one.
As Tom approached, he noticed that the man in the gray overcoat looked
cross and irritated, and that the chauffeur was worried. It seemed
rather ridiculous for him to offer assistance, he reflected, but,
nevertheless, he stopped. “I don’t suppose I can be of any help, sir?”
he inquired.
The man in the car shook his head impatiently, with only a glance
toward him; but the chauffeur, casting a quick and wondering look over
the small car and wiping his hands upon a bunch of waste, replied
sarcastically, “Not unless you’ve got a spare cylinder.”
“What!” cried the man in the car. “Cylinder gone?”
“Piston’s broken, sir. Thought maybe it was only the valve was stuck or
something, but I guess it’s the piston, all right.”
“But jumping cats!” snapped the man in the gray coat. “You can’t mend a
broken piston rod!”
“No sir.”
“And she won’t run?”
“No, sir, not to speak of. She’s pushing the charge back into the
carburetor. We might limp along about ten miles an hour, Mr. Fletcher,
but I shouldn’t like to say that we’d not spoil another cylinder.”
“But I’ve got to get back by eleven! Can we get another car round here?”
“There’s a garage at Kingston, sir. Maybe――――”
“How far back is it?”
“A matter of three miles, I guess.”
“About two and a half,” Tom corrected.
The passenger looked at his watch and frowned impatiently.
“I suppose it would take half an hour to get it,” he said. “It’s 10.18
now and my train leaves at 11.04. There’s less than an hour, and I’ve
got to get that train to Chicago. Look here!” He swung round toward
Tom. “Will that thing you’ve got there run?”
“Yes, sir,” answered Tom a little coldly. He did not like to have Puff
called a “thing”!
“Will, eh?” snapped the man. “Well, there’s fifty dollars in it if
you’ll get me to Bristol in time for the 11.04 express. Can you do it?”
Tom shook his head. “No, sir. If it’s 10.18 now, there’s only forty-six
minutes and the distance is twenty-two miles. This car can do thirty on
good roads, but――――”
“Tut! tut! tut! Any car that can do thirty can do thirty-five if you
push it. I tell you I’ll give you fifty dollars if you get me there.
Isn’t that enough?”
“Plenty, thanks,” replied Tom quietly. “But I’m not running very well
to-day. Something wrong with my plugs, I guess; or maybe it’s the
wiring. Anyway――――”
But Mr. Fletcher was already climbing out of his car. “Dennis!” he said
sharply. “Bring some spare spark plugs!”
He was across the road in a second. “Get your plugs out,” he ordered
Tom, “and see if mine will fit. Get a move on, if you want to earn that
fifty.”
Tom hesitated for an instant. Then he said, “I’ll do the best I can,
sir.”
By the time the chauffeur had found the new plugs Tom had taken the old
ones out. Fortunately, the new ones fitted and the chauffeur quickly
screwed them in. As Tom connected the wires, Mr. Fletcher issued
directions to the chauffeur.
“Get my bag, Dennis. Put it between my feet here. You stay with the car
and I’ll send out and have you towed home. Put it in the shop and tell
Morrison to give you something to use while it’s being fixed. Meet the
4.10 to-morrow afternoon. All right, son! Now let’s see what you can
do.” He pulled his watch out again. “You’ve got forty-four minutes!”
Tom started the engine, sprang to the seat, threw in the clutch,
changed to high speed and bounded gayly off. The seat was narrow and
low, and Mr. Fletcher, who was of ordinary height and stockily built,
filled his half of it to overflowing.
“Most uncomfortable seat I was ever in!” he exclaimed. “What make of a
car is this, for goodness’ sake?”
“Burrill, two-twelve, Model A,” replied Tom gravely, clinging to the
wheel as the car swung round the next bend in the road.
“Never heard of it,” said the other. “Won’t it go any faster than this?”
The hand on the speedometer was hovering back and forth round thirty.
Tom drew the throttle down another notch and the hand went to
thirty-three. The new spark plugs had evidently done the work, for
there was never a skip now. Puff was running as smoothly as a Spalding
Six!
“That’s better!” grunted the passenger, holding on tight to keep from
being jounced out. “If the thing sticks together we may make it. How
much do they get for these things?”
“It cost me about eighty dollars,” answered Tom, tooting his horn
frantically as he saw a wagon ahead.
“Oh, second-hand, eh?”
“Most of it, sir. I made it myself.”
“Made it yourself!” There was both surprise and admiration in Mr.
Fletcher’s tone. “Well, you’re a mechanic, my boy. I’ll apologize for
any disparaging remarks I may have made. Sorry if I hurt your feelings.”
“That’s all right,” replied Tom, as he swung almost into the ditch to
get round the wagon, the driver of which was fast asleep on the seat.
“It isn’t much of a car, but it does pretty well. And I haven’t broken
any pistons yet!”
“Hum!” said Mr. Fletcher. “Well, send her along, son. If she’ll keep
this up we may make it. By Jove, we’ve got to make it! I wouldn’t miss
that appointment in Chicago for a thousand dollars! Let her out another
notch. You’ve got a straight road.”
But Tom shook his head. “I’d rather not. We can make it this way if
nothing happens.”
Mr. Fletcher grunted. The little car was going at its best speed; to
Tom, who was clutching the wheel with strained muscles and intently
watching the road ahead, it seemed to leap past the fences as if it
were alive.
“So you made this yourself?” Mr. Fletcher said presently. “Must have
been something of a job. I’ve made a few myself, but――――”
There was a sharp _crack_! Mr. Fletcher’s side of the car suddenly
sank, and he grabbed wildly at Tom in an effort to keep his balance. As
Tom set the emergency brake, the car swerved and came to a stop. Tom
leaped out and viewed the damage.
“Spring’s busted,” he reported. “I always thought they were too light.”
“Spring, eh? Well, she’ll run, won’t she?”
“Yes, sir, but it’s going to be uncomfortable, because the body’s right
down on the axle on your side.”
“H’m, I guess a little more discomfort won’t matter! Let’s get on,
let’s get on!”
They went on, with the speedometer wavering round thirty-three miles an
hour. Twice Tom had to slow down: once when the road dipped and turned
sharply under a railway bridge, and again when they passed through the
little village of West Adams. At intervals Mr. Fletcher, carefully
releasing his hold on the car, took out his watch and reported the time.
“Ten thirty-eight,” he said, as they speeded up again beyond West
Adams. “How much farther?”
“About twelve miles. We’ll do it if――――”
“We’ve got to do it!”
A few minutes later Mr. Fletcher sniffed the air. “She’s heating up,
isn’t she? Got water in your radiator?”
“No, sir; she’s air-cooled.”
“Smells like it!”
A long hill rose in front, and Tom pulled down his throttle another
notch or two. Puff took the hill flying, and Mr. Fletcher grunted in
unwilling admiration.
“Lots of power! What’s that?”
A dull pounding noise was coming from under the car.
“Flat tire,” said Tom. “We’ll have to run on the rim.”
“Ten forty-seven!” Mr. Fletcher announced. “Can we do it?”
“If she’ll hold together! It’s only about six miles, I think.”
“When you get this side of town, where the two roads branch at the
powder factory, take the right. It’s a poor road, but it’s a mile
shorter and goes straight to the station.”
_Bumpity-bump!_ went the body against the axle! _Thumpity-thump!_ went
the wheel with the flat tire. _Honk! honk!_ went the horn. The little
car tore along. Five minutes later the smoke pall above Bristol was in
sight. The road grew rougher and wagons began to dispute the way. At
the powder factory Tom swung to the right on a road that was rutted by
heavy teaming.
“Just fifty-seven!” shouted Mr. Fletcher above the noise.
Tom nodded. Ahead of them the city, with its tall chimneys belching
smoke, was now in plain sight. Puff jumped and careened, but kept its
pace. Three miles more and seven minutes left!
Suddenly an exclamation of dismay from his companion sent Tom’s gaze
traveling far up the road. A quarter of a mile ahead a drawbridge
spanned a river, and approaching it from downstream was a tugboat. Even
as Tom looked little puffs of gray steam rose from the tug, and an
instant later the whistle blasts from it reached him. She was signaling
for the draw; the tender already had begun to swing the gates.
“That settles it!” groaned Mr. Fletcher.
Tom calculated the distance, pulled down the throttle, and Puff sprang
madly forward.
“Reach past me and blow the horn!” Tom gasped.
Mr. Fletcher obeyed. _Honk! honk! honk!_ shrieked the little car. The
bridge tender had closed one of the two gates on the farther side and
was hurrying toward the other. _Honk! honk! honk!_ Then he heard,
paused, looked from car to tugboat and, raising a hand, warned them
back.
But Tom never hesitated. On rushed the car. The bridge was only a
hundred feet away now, and Mr. Fletcher shouting unintelligible words,
was working the horn madly. The bridge tender had half closed the
second gate, when he changed his mind and hastily swung it open. There
was a roar of planks under flying wheels, a swerve, the sound of a
rear hub glancing from the end of the closed gate, and they were over.
Behind them a wrathful tender shook his fist in the air!
[Illustration: THE BRIDGE TENDER HAD HALF CLOSED THE SECOND GATE]
“Three minutes past!” gasped Mr. Fletcher.
But the station was in sight, beside the platform stood the long
express. Still honking wildly, Puff dashed through the slow-moving
traffic and pulled up with a jerk at the platform. Waving at the
engineer, Mr. Fletcher tumbled out.
“Bag!” he cried.
Tom pushed it across with one foot.
“Thanks! I’ll have to send――that fifty. What’s――the name?”
“Tom Burrill, sir, but I don’t want any money.”
“All abo-o-oard!” called the conductor.
“Nonsense! Tom Burrill? Live in Kingston? You’ll hear from me――day or
two! By!”
Mr. Fletcher rushed away, and was half pushed up the steps of a parlor
car as the train moved off. Ten minutes later, at the bank, Tom put a
question to the man at the window:
“Is there a Mr. Fletcher who lives here in Bristol, sir?”
“Fletcher? Certainly. Mr. Henry L. Fletcher lives here.”
“And――and what does he do, please?”
“Do? Why, makes automobiles, of course! haven’t you ever heard of the
Spalding car?”
“Oh!” murmured Tom.
“Made right here in Bristol. A fine car, my boy.”
“Not bad,” replied Tom carelessly as he turned away. “Weak in the
cylinders, though.”
Four days later at breakfast Tom received a letter in an envelope that
bore the words, “Spalding Automobile Company, Bristol.”
The inclosure was brief. He read:
DEAR SIR: We are instructed by the President, Mr. Henry L.
Fletcher, to deliver to you or your order one of our Model 14
Runabouts, fully equipped. The car is here at your disposal.
Kindly call or send for it at your early convenience. Awaiting
your instructions, we remain,
Respectfully yours,
SPALDING AUTOMOBILE COMPANY,
per W. W. MORRISON, Manager.
“And what,” inquired Tom’s father a little later, “will you call this
new automobile of yours? E Pluribus Fletcher?”
Tom did not hesitate. “I guess,” said he loyally, “I’ll call it Puff
the Second.”
“PSYCHOLOGY STUFF”
Joe Talmadge came to Hollins from some fresh-water college out in
Wisconsin. Anyway, they called it a college, but Joe had hard work
getting into the upper middle class at Hollins, and Hollins is only a
prep school, so it seems that his college, which was called Eureka or
Excelsior or something like that, couldn’t have ranked with Yale or
Princeton. His father had died the spring before. He had been in the
lumber business in a place called Green Bay and had made a pile of
money, I guess. They had opened an office or agency or something in
Philadelphia a year or so before and when Mr. Talmadge died the other
men in the company decided that Joe was to finish getting an education
right away and take charge of the Philadelphia end of the business. It
was Joe’s idea to finish up somewhere in the East, because, as he said,
folks back East were different and he’d ought to learn their ways.
That’s how he came to duck his Excelsior place and come to Hollins.
The first time I saw him was the evening of the day before the Fall
term began. They’d made me proctor on the third floor of Hyde Hall and
after supper that night I was unpacking in number forty-three when I
heard a beast of a rumpus down the corridor and hiked out to see what
was doing. It seemed that they’d put Joe in thirty-seven with a fellow
named Prentice, who hails from Detroit. Prentice was all right except
that his dad had made money too quickly. He had invented a patent brake
lining or something for automobiles and everyone wanted it and he had
made a pile of money in about six years and it had sort of gone to Tom
Prentice’s head. He wasn’t a bad sort, Tom wasn’t, but he could be
beastly offensive if he set out to. When I knocked at thirty-seven no
one inside heard me because there was too much noise. So I just walked
in. The study table was lying on its side and the gas drop light――we
didn’t have electricity in Hyde then――was dangling a couple of inches
from the floor at the end of its green tube. Tom Prentice was lying on
his neck on one of the beds with his heels near the ceiling and Joe was
standing over him waiting for him to come back to earth. Joe didn’t
look mad, but he looked mighty earnest.
He was seventeen, but big for his years, wide-shouldered and powerful
looking. He had a nice sort of face, with gray eyes and very dark hair
and a good deal of sunburn. His hair needed trimming and some of it was
dangling down over his forehead, making him look sort of desperate,
and I wondered what would happen to me if I had to step in between
them. But I didn’t. Joe stopped knocking Tom around for a minute and I
explained that I was proctor and accountable for the peace and quiet
of that floor. By that time Tom was sitting on the bed looking dazed
and holding one hand to his jaw. I never did find out what had actually
started the riot, but it was something that Tom had said about the
sovereign State of Wisconsin, I think. I persuaded them to shake hands
and forget it and Tom said he hadn’t meant whatever it was just the way
Joe had taken it, and when I went out Joe was fussing around Tom with
arnica and wet towels.
* * * * *
They got on all right together after that first show-down. Maybe Tom
realized that he was no match for Joe. Tom wasn’t any frail lad,
either. He weighed about a hundred and sixty and was eighteen years old
and played left guard on the Eleven. It was Tom who induced Joe to go
out for football. Joe had played a little out West, but had never taken
it seriously, and didn’t show any enthusiasm for it now, only Tom kept
at him, I guess. Anyway, I saw Joe working with the dubs a day or two
after the term began. They had him going through the motions at center
on the fourth or fifth scrub. I remember saying to Larry Keets, who was
assistant manager that Fall, that “that guy Talmadge was built for the
part, all right.” Keets looked across and grinned.
“Yeah, he’s built for it, maybe, but he handles the ball like it
was a basket of eggs. Morgan”――Morgan was our coach――“was eying him
yesterday, but he’s still where he is. Anyway, we’ve got centers and
guards and tackles to burn. It’s back field men we need, Zach, and a
couple of good ends.”