A BROKEN PROMISE AND A VICTORY.
Despite his sprained ankle, Merriwell kicked the goal, straight and
true, and the teams lined up again. But that run had been a last
desperate attempt to wrest victory from defeat.
Unable to count longer on Dick, who, though he was still able to play,
could not be expected to continue the extraordinary efforts which had
made him an object of wonder to every man on the field, the team went to
pieces as nearly as any Yale team can.
They played despairingly, doggedly, disputing every inch on the part of
the Princeton organization, but for all that being borne slowly down the
field.
The ginger was gone out of them. They had no life, and their playing had
become more or less machinelike.
Bob Hollister realized this swiftly. He knew the signs only too well.
“They can’t do it!” he almost sobbed. “They can’t beat them that way!”
If he could only go into the game. Just for that last quarter. Surely it
could not do any harm. He must do it. He could not sit there and see the
fellows beaten.
The third quarter was nearly over when he leaped to his feet, his face
white and determined, and ran swiftly toward the house. Dashing inside,
he encountered Keran, his face a network of scowling lines, his fists
clenched, and one foot tied up in bandages.
“Gimme your clothes!” Hollister exclaimed. “Quick!”
“What——” gasped Keran.
“Blazes!” ripped out the excited fellow. “Your clothes, I tell you! Get
’em off! Mine aren’t here!”
With an exclamation of joy, the other realized what he meant to do.
Snatching off his jacket and jersey, he tossed them to Bob, who was
already half undressed.
“Glory be!” he cried. “You’re going to play! You’ll brace ’em up!”
Hollister made no answer. His eyes were gleaming. One thought only was
in his mind. He must get into those togs and back to the field before
the beginning of the last quarter. He meant to play if he never did
another thing in all his life. His promise to Merriwell was forgotten.
He thought of nothing but that line of gasping, tattered men out there,
striving vainly against black defeat.
With eager, trembling fingers, Keran helped him lace his jacket. Rudolph
Rose staggered up from where he lay full length on a bench, and,
dropping down on the floor, laced up his shoes. Neither of them spoke a
word, for words were unnecessary. They understood.
In a miraculously short time Bob was ready, and, snatching up a nose
guard, he tore out of the house.
Bill Fullerton, his face black as a thundercloud, was talking to Tempest
on the side lines. The brief intermission was almost over as Bob dashed
up to them.
“I want to go in, Don!” he exclaimed.
Both men looked at him in astonishment.
“I thought——” Tempest began.
“Never mind that,” Hollister interrupted. “I’ve got to go in! That’s the
only way. The fellows have gone all to pieces since Merriwell hurt
himself!”
Still the captain of the varsity hesitated. He knew quite well of the
promise Hollister had made Merriwell that he would not play football
again during his college course.
“I swear to you, Don, by all that’s holy,” Bob said earnestly, “that if
you let me play out this game I’ll never touch football again! It’s only
fifteen minutes, Don! Just fifteen little minutes! If I sit here
watching it, I shall go mad. Let me play, Don.”
His pleading voice quivered with the emotion which was tearing him.
Tempest was in somewhat of a quandary. He wanted to put Hollister in,
for he felt that it was barely possible that Bob might succeed in
putting spirit into the jaded, discouraged men. He was fresh, too, and
wrought up to a white heat of enthusiasm. It would be strange if he did
not accomplish something. Don glanced at Fullerton questioningly.
The coach nodded emphatically.
“It’s the only thing that can possible save the day,” he said decidedly.
“Better let him in.”
“Who——”
“Blake, of course!” Fullerton said tersely. “He’s rotten!”
Hollister’s face lit up joyfully as he listened to this brief
conversation. Then the signal came, and there was a general movement to
get out on the field.
Tempest walked rapidly to Blake’s side and said a few words to him in a
low tone. The big, blond fellow flushed scarlet and darted a venomous
glance at Bob. Then, without a word, he turned on his heel and walked
rapidly toward the athletic house, his face sullen, and the angry flush
still in his cheeks.
Hollister followed the other men with a springy step and a heart fairly
bursting with joy. At last he was back with the boys. It seemed almost
as if he had never left them. He did not worry over the fact that, after
these brief, fleeting minutes were over, he could never play again. He
only knew that the team was in a bad way and needed him, and he resolved
that he would play as he had never played before.
One after the other the fellows recognized him and greeted him with
short, hurried words, which were an odd blending of surprise, joy, and
relief; but all had such a ring of sincerity and truth that Hollister
was more touched than he would have thought possible.
He dared not meet Merriwell’s glance. He had broken his promise, and he
was not sorry; he hated to think of what Dick’s opinion of him would be
from this time forth.
Then, as he crouched in his place, he forgot Merriwell, forgot
everything but the fact that he was back in the line again.
“Are you all ready?” asked the referee.
There was no reply. Only here and there a foot moved uneasily as weights
were thrown forward, and there was a general, almost imperceptible,
tightening of nerves and muscles.
Then the whistle shrilled.
Those who watched the game that day said afterward that, in all their
experience, they had never seen such an amazing rallying on the part of
any team as was shown by the Yale eleven during that last quarter.
Three minutes before they had gone off the field with dragging steps and
gloomy, discouraged faces. The followers of the blue, who crowded the
stands, felt a wave of despair sweep over them as they thought of what
might happen in that last fifteen minutes. Many of them fully expected
to see Princeton make another touchdown, if not two, and they waited
with perfunctory, mechanical cheers, and swiftly ebbing spirit for the
beginning of the end.
But the sudden, totally unexpected appearance of Hollister seemed to
work almost a miracle.
Bob responded nobly. Never had he put up such a game before. Tireless,
never failing, swift as lightning, with his brain in splendid working
order, he seemed to be all over the field at once. Dodging, slipping
through holes in the line where one would not have thought any advance
possible, blocking, cutting off opposing runners, and interfering for
runners of his own team, it seemed as if all the pent-up, thwarted
energy of the last few days of deprivation was being poured out now in
this brief, brilliant exhibition.
His work thrilled the other men with a new hope, and stirred them to
fresh endeavor, so that they were with him heart and soul; and the
pigskin was rushed down the field swiftly and irresistibly, until the
forty-yard line was reached.
Here the orange-and-black fellows seemed to recover, and, rallying,
presented such a solid line that two downs brought barely six yards; and
Yale had to resort to a drop kick, which sent the ball forward thirty
yards, but gave it to Princeton.
Then the great struggle of the day began. Inspired by the brilliant
Hollister, Yale made a strenuous, dogged effort to score, while her
opponents were equally determined that she should not. Back and forth
surged the lines of men, never reaching within kicking distance of
either goal, and using up the precious minutes in fiercely contesting
every inch of progress.
It was a battle royal, and the spectators were so thrilled with interest
and excitement that they almost forgot to cheer.
At last, when there were but six minutes left to play, Kenny decided to
make use of one of the most intricate and most daring of the
combinations of double plays and crisscrossing which the coaches had
worked out from Hollister’s suggestion. It was only to be used as a last
resort, and Kenny decided that the time had come.
“Sixty-seven—twenty-four—thirty-two——”
Kenny paused. Merriwell sprang back a yard. Buckhart crept a few feet
in.
“Fifty-four—seventeen!” finished Kenny swiftly.
The ball was snapped, Brad ran forward three strides, Kenny turned, and
the pigskin flew back. The next instant Merriwell had the ball, and sped
toward the right end of the line. The quarter crossed in front of him;
the tackle and guard thrust back their opponents; the Princeton line
surged forward with a rush.
Hollister plunged forward, too, as if he were intent only on interfering
in Merriwell’s behalf; but he had a more important duty than that to
perform. Swiftly, before their opponents realized what was being done,
he and Dick changed places, Merriwell was blocking with all his might,
while Hollister, the ball clutched tightly to him, sped round, shot
through and out onto the field, leaving a mass of waving legs and arms
many yards behind.
Joy was the supreme sensation in Bob’s breast. Only the Princeton full
back threatened. The ball was safely clutched in his right arm, his
breath came easily, his legs were strong, and the goal posts loomed down
the field and beckoned him on. This, he thought exultingly, was the best
moment that life could give.
Behind, although he could not hear it for the din of shouting from the
stands, he knew the pursuit to be in full cry. He edged farther out from
the dangerous touch line and sped on. The Princeton full back had been
deceived by the play, and had gone farther up the field for a kick, and
now down he came at full speed.
Hollister seemed to hesitate and falter. The full back prepared to
tackle. His broad back was bent far over, his sturdy legs squared
themselves, and, when Bob was almost within his reach, he dove forward.
There was a sudden gasp from the spectators, a breathless hush, and then
a thunderous roar of joy, as Hollister leaped high in the air, cleared
the hooking arms, stumbled, got his balance again, and ran on, free, the
ball still cupped in the curve of his arm.
The momentary pause had served to bring the foremost of the other
pursuers almost to Bob’s heels.
And now the plucky end began to feel the effects of his strenuous work.
His breath came irregularly, his throat was parching, his legs ached
with every bound, but still he never wavered. Behind him sounded the
thud of relentless feet. He dared not look back lest he stumble. Every
second he expected to feel the clutch of the enemy. Presently he gave up
trying to breathe; it was too hard. His head was swimming and his lungs
seemed bursting.
Then his wandering faculties rushed back at a bound as he fancied he
felt a touch—just the lightest fingering—and, gathering all his
remaining strength, he increased his pace for a few steps.
The ten-yard line passed, slowly, reluctantly.
“One more,” he thought. “Only one more!”
The great stands were hoarse with shouting, for here ended the game.
Nearer and nearer crept the five-yard line; nearer and nearer crept the
pursuers. Once more Hollister called upon his strength, and tried to
draw away, but it was useless. And, with the goal line but four yards
distant, stout arms were clasped tightly around his waist.
One—two—three strides he made. The goal line writhed before his dizzy
sight. Relentlessly the clutching grasp fastened tighter and tighter
about him like bands of steel, and settled lower and lower until his
legs were clasped and he could move no farther. Despairingly he thrust
the ball out at arm’s length, and tried to throw himself forward; the
trampled turf rose to meet him, and then blackness came.
Bob’s first waking thought was that he must be back on the rocky shores
of Maine, where he had spent the past summer. Surely those were breakers
which roared and thundered in his ears. Then he opened his eyes, and
found that he was lying on the sod, a sweater under his head, and
several vaguely familiar faces swimming above him.
A moment later he knew that it was not surf, but the wild yelling and
cheering of excited, enthusiastic thousands. Back and forth rolled the
mighty torrents of sound, breaking and crashing in reverberations.
Suddenly there was a pause, and then a fresh outburst, this time
deliberate and controlled:
“Rah, rah rah! Rah, rah, rah! Rah, rah, rah! Hollister! Hollister!
Hollister!”
No need to tell him in so many words that the ball had gone over. This
was enough. They were cheering for him, and, as he opened his eyes
again, something like a mist came over them. Presently this cleared
away, and he found himself looking into Merriwell’s face.
“How are you feeling, old fellow?” the senior asked anxiously. “Hurt any
place? Or is it just wind you want?”
Hollister smiled.
“That’s all,” he said quickly. “Be all right in a minute.”
He hesitated for an instant.
“Say, Dick.”
Merriwell bent lower.
“Yes?” he questioned.
“I couldn’t help it, old man,” Bob said in a low tone. “I broke my
promise, and I reckon you must think me an awful rotter. I held out as
long as I could; but you needed me, Dick, and I couldn’t sit there and
see the fellows licked. But it’s the last time.”
“Do you really mean that, Bob?” Merriwell asked slowly. “Don’t you think
that the next game you see will tempt you just as you have been tempted
to-day?”
Hollister shook his head decidedly.
“No, sir!” he said emphatically. “I’m through. This is the last. I’ll be
content now to cut it out for good. I’ve shown what I could do, and——”
Another thunderous burst of cheering came from the stands.
“Hollister! Hollister! Hollister!”
“Not even for that would I break my word to you again, Merriwell. You
believe me, don’t you, old fellow?”
For an instant Dick gazed keenly into the anxious eyes of his friend.
Then his face cleared and a smile curved the corners of his mouth.
“Sure,” he said simply.
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