MR. AUSTIN LOSES HIS TEMPER
Payson’s last words as the fellows trotted out onto the field for the
last half were: “Look out for slugging; don’t give them a chance to get
at you; and whatever happens don’t slug back.”
Then the whistle sounded again.
There had been another change in Yardley’s team. Berwick was out and
Hill was back in his place. Berwick had experienced a lot of rough
handling and looked limp and weary. Clapp was still running the team.
Yardley got the ball on a fumble a few minutes after the half opened
and, according to the campaign mapped out in the dressing room, began
a kicking game. Kapenhysen was easily ten yards better than Brewer’s
punter and Brewer, after two returns of the pigskin, realized the fact
and went at the Yardley line again. But the center was no longer a
vulnerable spot; Hill crumpled up every play directed against him; and
Brewer sought elsewhere for her openings. Finally some success rewarded
her, Folwell, at left tackle, weakening enough to let several plays
go through him. Dan came to his rescue, but was too light to stop the
heavy Brewer backs. It was evident before the half was five minutes
old that Brewer meant to win by fair means or foul. Time and again the
umpire’s attention was called to Brewer’s violations of the rules, but
always he contented himself with cautioning them. Mr. Austin, in his
capacity as field judge, ventured on several occasions to remonstrate.
The umpire was suave and polite, but was unable to see any of the
transgressions.
For ten minutes the ball went back and forth between Brewer’s thirty
yards and Yardley’s forty. Then one of Kapenhysen’s punts went over
the heads of the red-and-white backs and by the time it was recovered
it was down on Brewer’s twelve yards. Brewer kicked on first down, but
the attempt was a miserable failure, the ball going out of bounds at
her thirty yards. It was brought in and Capes reeled off five yards
by running half across the field. A mass attack at center failed of
any gain and Kapenhysen fell back for a placement kick. Clapp kneeled
on the forty yard line and Hill passed straight and true. The Yardley
forwards held strongly and the ball sailed away over the struggling
lines. But the direction wasn’t good and the pigskin passed to the left
of the goal by several yards.
Brewer kicked off from her twenty-five yards, and Folwell, catching the
punt, ran it back behind good interference for twenty yards and it was
Yardley’s first down again near Brewer’s thirty-five. Clapp essayed
a quarter-back kick, but unfortunately it was blocked by the Brewer
right-end who followed it up, recovered it on the run and set off
towards Yardley’s goal. He was a fairly speedy runner, a long-legged,
rangy youth, and before the pursuit was set in motion he had gained a
good start. But it was a long distance to that last white line and long
before he reached it, Dan, who was in the van of the pursuers, brought
him down from behind. After that he managed to squirm another five
or six yards, dragging Dan along with him. That brought the ball to
Yardley’s twenty-two yards and, amidst the wild, encouraging cheers of
their supporters, clustering about the corner of the field and back of
the goal, the Brewer players made ready for a desperate effort.
“Now hold them, fellows!” entreated Colton. “Hold them! Don’t give them
an inch!”
But Brewer, for the first time during the period, had the Blue’s
goal-line within striking distance and hurled themselves frantically
upon the defenders. Folwell was thrust aside and the big backs went
tearing through for four yards. The shouting audience overflowed onto
the field and had to be driven back before play could be resumed. Then
a tandem attack on the other side of the line netted three yards more.
“Hold them!” cried Colton. “Play lower, Folwell! Come in here, Connor!
Don’t give them an inch, I tell you!”
Again Brewer hurled her tandem of backs at the blue line and again the
line wavered and was forced back.
“First down!” cried the referee, and waved the linesmen on.
There was twelve yards to go for a score. A fake plunge at the right
of the line and a quick start by left half with the ball tucked into
his arm fooled the defenders and before the runner was thrown to the
ground he had stolen six of those precious twelve yards! Dan, who had
been tossed aside like a chip, picked himself up, self-condemning and
angry. The gain had been around his end. For once he had lost sight of
the ball and this was the result!
“Second down, four to go,” said the referee.
A plunge at Folwell netted two yards and brought the ball within ten
feet of the side-line. This was an advantage to the defenders, for
there was no fear of Brewer trying their left-end again, since the
runner would be forced over the line, and left-end and tackle could
be used to reinforce the center while the backs clustered behind the
right side of the line. Time had been called and Andy Ryan was working
over Folwell. There were other injuries apparent, too. Colton had a
scalp wound that was bleeding freely and Hadlock was nursing a wrenched
ankle. Smith came trotting out to take Folwell’s place, and the latter,
half supported by the trainer, was led off the field to the cheers of
the little bunch of Yardley supporters and the gibes of the opponents.
Brewer got together, and, with heads in a circle, listened to
instructions which, without a doubt had been brought onto the field by
her water-carrier. Then the whistle blew again. Hadlock jumped up and
limped to his place. Colton brushed the blood away from his eyes.
“Here’s where we get the ball!” he cried hoarsely. “Take it away from
them, fellows! We can do it! Hold them now! Steady, everybody!”
The ball was passed back and the lines heaved together. The Brewer
right half and full-back darted toward the left side of their line.
“Fake!” cried Dan. “Over here, fellows!”
The Brewer left half, who had been crouching to keep from sight, leaped
forward, took the ball from quarter who had been hiding it and smashed
against the Yardley left guard. The play was a delayed cross-buck.
Dan’s warning had, however, helped to spoil it, for Yardley’s left side
turned back and stiffened in time. A yard, perhaps two, and the advance
stopped, the runner wavered and was thrust back.
[Illustration: DELAYED CROSS-BUCK]
“Down!” he groaned. “Down!”
The whistle shrilled and slowly the mass of swaying players was
disentangled. As the ball came into sight shouts arose from both sides.
The referee looked a moment and then, leaving the umpire to guard the
ball, he trotted over to the side-line and trotted back again with the
linesmen and the chain.
“First down!” shouted the spectators. “Don’t let him do you, Mulligan!”
“Sure, it’s first down!” “Aw, we got it easy!” “Come back with that
dog chain, youse!” “First down! First down!” “Put it over now, boys!”
But it wasn’t first down, not by half a foot. Brewer protested and
argued and threatened to leave the field, grumbled, swore not a little
and acted as ugly as they dared. But for once the referee was firm and
even stern.
“All right, Brewer?” he asked after several minutes.
“No, we’re not ready yet,” was the angry reply.
“Time’s up,” was the answer. The whistle blew.
“Hey, I told you we wasn’t ready!” protested the Brewer captain. The
referee blew his whistle again, took up the ball and stepped off five
yards.
“Yardley’s ball, first down,” he announced. A renewed howl arose from
Brewer and they demanded to know the why and the wherefor and to have
the rule pointed out to them. Their coach came running out onto the
field, sputtering and waving his hands.
“Off the field, please!” said the referee. “Off the field! You can’t
come on here, and you know it!”
“You’re a robber!” shouted McMannis. “Why don’t you give them the game
and have done with it?” But he stopped and returned to the side-line,
muttering, and for the next minute or two was seen wrathfully fumbling
the leaves of the rules book.
“Will you play or not?” asked the referee. He, too, was getting rather
angry and his eyes were snapping. The Brewer captain growled something
unintelligibly. “If you don’t play I’ll forfeit the game to Yardley,”
declared the referee.
“Aw, what’s the matter with you?” said the Brewer captain. “I said we’d
play. Blow your old whistle!”
So the whistle blew and Kapenhysen fell back some ten yards behind the
goal-line to punt. Brewer was mad clean through, mad and ugly. And
she didn’t quite wait for the ball to be passed before she charged.
By the time Kapenhysen had the ball in his hands the Brewer forwards
were sweeping down upon him. He made a heroic effort to get the ball
off and succeeded, but the kick was high and short, coming to earth on
Yardley’s twenty-yard-line. It bounded up erratically and there was
a wild scramble for it. A Brewer man got it only to have it fly out
of his arms again and bound toward the goal-line. There was a second
confused scramble and then Hill secured it, and, before he could call
“Down,” was forced back over the line for a safety.
Colton appealed to the umpire, declaring that Brewer had started before
the ball was in play, but the umpire refused to allow the protest. The
score was two points to nothing in Brewer’s favor and there remained
seven minutes of playing time. Yardley looked somewhat disconsolate as
it lined up for the kick-off, all save Colton. He was as cheerful as
ever, or seemed to be. Over on the side-lines the triumphant shouts of
the Brewer adherents rang lustily, drowning completely the pathetic
attempts of Yardley’s followers.
Kapenhysen booted the leather and the teams raced back up the field. It
was a splendid kick and covered all of fifty yards, but it was a little
too low and Brewer came charging back with the ball and had regained
fifteen yards before Connor nailed the runner. Brewer now was playing
for time. The ball was near her fifty-yard-line and she began a series
of slow plunges at the line, using up all the time she could. For
nearly twenty yards she made progress, hitting one side of the Blue’s
line after the other. Then came a run around Yardley’s right end that
netted a good ten yards. Mr. Austin walked out and announced that five
minutes remained.
“We’ve got to get the ball, fellows,” cried Colton imploringly as he
limped along the line and clapped the players on the back. “Now hold
them right here!”
The ball was back on Yardley’s thirty-five-yard-line and the watchers
looked for another score. But Yardley braced and after two downs had
gained her but four yards Brewer punted. Clapp caught the ball and
started back through a broken field. For a moment it seemed that he
might get away, but after he had cut off some twenty yards he was
thrown near the middle of the gridiron. The tackle was such a fierce
one that the ball bounded from his arms and went rolling on as though
determined to reach the Brewer goal-line unaided. There was a rush for
it, and Dickenson fell on it, found his feet again and set off. Twice
he was tackled but each time he managed to squirm loose. Ten yards,
fifteen yards, twenty! Then a big Brewer half-back caught up with him
and brought him down. The whistle blew.
Back near the center of the field Clapp was rolling and kicking. Andy
Ryan was beside him in a moment, sponge in hand, and presently he was
led off the field, weak and limp, protesting feebly. The little band of
Yardley supporters cheered him gloriously, and then, the next instant,
were cheering again, this time for Loring, who, fitting his head-guard
in place, was running toward his team. What a reception he got from
them! Colton hugged him and Hadlock beat him weakly on the shoulders.
The others grinned wearily at him and straightened their aching backs
again. Loring and Folsom whispered together. Then the team was drawn
back and, amidst the hoots of the enemy, stood for a minute closely
clustered and listened to Loring’s words. Finally,
“All right now, fellows!” called Loring cheerfully, clapping his hands.
“Let’s have a touchdown out of this. They’re half dead already! Look at
’em! Come on now and get busy!”
The ball was near Brewer’s thirty yards. A plunge through tackle made
it twenty-eight. Then Connor was sent outside of right tackle with
the whole field of backs behind him and shoved and fought his way
through for six yards more. Third down and two to go. Full-back and the
two halves lined up as though for a tandem on right guard, the ball
was passed, the backs plunged forward and Loring set off around the
opponent’s left end with the ball tucked under his arm. Dickenson put
the opposing end out of business and then sped after Loring. The run
was short but it netted seven yards, and when the Brewer left half had
been pulled off of him Loring jumped up with a shake of his head and
piped the next signal.
“First down,” said the referee.
Only fifteen yards between them and a score! And only two minutes to
play!
Kapenhysen was sent hurtling against the left of the Brewer line, but
Brewer was desperate now and a scant yard was the best he could do.
Again the signals and again the backs took their places. But this
time the ball went past Loring and into the hands of Capes. Loring,
Kapenhysen and Connor set off around their own right end. The Brewer
backs started to intercept them. And so no one paid much attention to a
slim blue figure that slipped between the Brewer right end and tackle
and was now trotting with upraised hand five yards back of their line.
Then, “_Forward pass!_” shouted the Brewer quarter frantically. But
already the ball was in flight, for Capes, after feinting to the
right, had turned and run to the left until behind his tackle and from
there had made a low throw across the line to where Dan awaited.
[Illustration: “ONE MAN” FORWARD PASS]
The Brewer right half saw his error and turned back, but he was too
late. The ball fell, lazily revolving, into Dan’s arms, and, tucking it
away, Dan sprang toward the goal-line, but a few short strides away. A
despairing effort by the Brewer quarter sent Dan staggering aside, but
the next moment he was over the line, over it and still circling toward
the goal-posts. He never quite centered the ball, for three Brewer
players tackled him together and brought him heavily to earth. But,
although his head was filled for an instant with a multitude of stars,
he held the ball and cried “Down” as loudly as he could with several
hundred pounds of dead weight on top of him and someone’s elbow boring
itself viciously into his face.
He heard Loring crying: “Get off of him, you brutes! Get off, get off!”
and then there was daylight once more and he rolled over on his back
and fought for breath. Loring stooped over him and pumped his arms and
Dan smiled as cheerfully as he might and finally managed to assure the
quarter that he was “all right, thanks.”
What if Kapenhysen did miss as easy a goal as one could wish? The
game was won! Five to two was as much a victory as heart could desire
that day! There was an exchange of punts, a scramble down the field by
Connor that put thirty-five yards behind him, and then the whistle!
“Let’s get out of here as quick as we can,” panted Colton. There was a
cheer for Brewer and then they raced for the dressing room. And glad
they were to reach it, for the Brewerites were disappointed and angry
and quite ready for mischief. By the time they were dressed, the field
was well-nigh empty and only around the gates were any hostilities
hinted at. A crowd of loiterers jeered them as they climbed into the
coach and, just as they moved away, a piece of wood was thrown. It
wasn’t very large but it happened to hit Mr. Austin on the side of the
head. Stevie forgot his decorum on the instant, forgot that he was a
“chaperone,” forgot that he was there to maintain order. Before Mr.
Payson could interfere Stevie was out of the coach and striding back
toward the group at the gate.
“Fool!” muttered Payson as he leaped out after him.
The players yelled to the driver to stop and one after another they
tumbled out and ran back. But, strange to say, the group at the gate
was no longer there. It had dissolved as though by magic. Here and
there were to be seen figures ambling disinterestedly away, but at the
gate was only Stevie, looking disappointedly about him, and Payson,
trying to drag him back.
“He was a red-faced fellow in a green sweater!” the instructor was
declaring when Dan reached the scene. “I saw him and if I could get my
hands on him--”
“Well, he’s gone,” laughed Payson. “Come on or we’ll miss the train.”
The instructor turned and saw the boys around him. He colored, smiled
uncertainly and walked back to the waiting coach. When he had taken his
place again and they were once more jouncing along toward the station,
he said:
“That was a very foolish thing to do, fellows. I--I feel like
apologizing to you. I hope you’ll forget it.”
“Yes, sir, we will,” replied Colton gravely.