As the Norwich Academy game drew near the school rose rapidly toward
the zenith of football enthusiasm. Studies suffered, as they always
do at such times, and the faculty, made wise by experience, was as
lenient as possible. It was less the players and substitutes themselves
who made sorry showings in the classrooms than the school at large.
It was the non-combatants whose minds refused to mix football with
study, to the detriment of study. They not only had to watch and
speculate upon the local football situation, but must keep close tab
on the progress of the college teams as well. Nearly every preparatory
schoolboy is for one reason or another an enthusiastic partisan of
one or other of the universities. Usually he has selected his college
by the end of his first year at school and from then on, or until he
changes his inclination, he follows the fortunes of the football heroes
representing his future alma mater with breathless interest. So it can
readily be seen that the months of October and November constitute a
busy season for the schoolboy, with the interest and excitement drawing
to a breathless crisis about the middle of November. Barnstead Academy
talked football, read football and dreamed football. It had football
for breakfast, dinner and supper, and nibbled on it between meals! City
newspapers with accounts of the college and big school gridiron doings
were at a premium, while illustrated weeklies, picturing and describing
recent contests, were passed around from room to room and read and
re-read until torn and tattered.
Tracey Colgan, who had heretofore been as little enthusiastic about
football as anyone in school, became so deeply interested that he
journeyed day after day to the field to watch the play of Harry and,
incidentally, the rest of the team. One can’t room with a football
player and listen to his talk without eventually becoming at least
mildly enthusiastic. Harry was very glad of his chum’s new-found
interest, since it gave him someone to talk things over with, someone
sympathetic. And Harry was grateful for sympathy just then, for things
weren’t going any too well and there were many hours of discouragement.
But while sympathetic, Tracey was also sane.
“Look here,” he would say, “what’s the use of getting yourself all
stirred up about it? Supposing you don’t keep your place until the
St. Matthew’s game. What’s it going to matter a year or two from now?
There’s no use getting white hairs and wrinkles over it as far as I can
see.”
“That’s because you’ve never played,” replied Harry mournfully. “If you
had you’d――you’d understand.”
“I understand that you football chaps are a lot of crazy idiots for two
months every year,” answered Tracey. “Great Scott, anyone would think
that your blessed lives depended on your making the first team! Suppose
you just stop a bit and consider the fact that there are about two
hundred fellows here who never looked a football in the lacings!”
“There aren’t; there are only two hundred and forty fellows in school
and I guess half of them have played football at some time or other.”
“Well, I was speaking――er――approximately,” replied Tracey, undisturbed.
“What I’m trying to make you see is that you and the rest of your tribe
are taking the whole thing much too seriously and that the world’s
going to keep right on humming around whether you get a black eye in
the St. Matthew’s game or look on from the grandstand.”
“That’s all well enough for you,” objected Harry, “but you don’t see it
the way we do. If you――――”
“Or _you_ don’t see it the way the rest of us do,” laughed Tracey.
“All right. Go ahead and have your conniption fits. But if you keep on
worrying the way you’re worrying nowadays you’ll not only lose your
place on the team, but you’ll fill an early grave. And flowers are
expensive this time of year.”
“I’m not worrying,” replied Harry a trifle resentfully.
“Oh, no, not at all! You’ve been sitting there with that book in front
of you for forty-five minutes and you haven’t looked into it once. Bet
you don’t even know whether it’s an algebra or a French dictionary!”
“I do, too! It’s”――Harry stole a glance at it――“it’s Cicero.”
“Good stuff! Emulate our old friend then. Bet you Cicero never lost his
head over football.”
“He never lost his head over anything,” grumbled Harry, “except his
silly old orations.”
“He was a wise old party,” returned Tracey, who had taken a volume of
Shakespeare’s Works and was hunting through the pages. “And I wouldn’t
be surprised if he knew something about football, either. Here it is.
Listen to this. Mr. Cicero is speaking to Casca. ‘Indeed, it is a
strange-disposed time; but men may construe things after their fashion,
clean from the purpose of the things themselves.’ Yes, sir, I guess
they played football where Cicero went to school!”
“That’s nonsense. Besides, Cicero didn’t say that; Shakespeare said it.”
“Makes it more probable, then, that the remark refers to football,”
replied Tracey untroubledly. “For, if I remember right, they played
football in William’s time.”
“You ought to join the Debating Society,” grunted Harry. “Shut up now,
will you, and let me study.”
Harry’s uneasiness was due to the fact that a youth named Dyker,
familiarly known as Dutch, was pressing him closely for the position
of left halfback. Dyker had played two years on the second and had won
promotion that Fall to the first team as substitute. Just at present
Harry and Dyker were alternating in the coveted position and Harry’s
heart was filled with fear. Dyker had the advantage of years, being
seventeen, and, besides, was a rather clever punter, something which
Harry made no claim to be. Harry used to dream about this time that
he had sprained an ankle or broken an arm and that Dyker had ousted
him for the rest of the season, and groan so loudly in his sleep that
Tracey would shy a pillow across at him and beg him to turn over.
For my part I think that many of Harry’s fears were groundless and
that in pitting the two boys against each other Worden was only
trying to develop each to the utmost. Harry’s dashing brilliancy in a
broken field kept him head and shoulders above his rival, who, even
if he could punt well and might be needed in the big game for that
accomplishment, was only a fair ground-gainer after all. But Harry
didn’t realize that and there were moments, when, as it seemed to him,
Dyker was pressing him closely for his place, that Harry could almost
find it in his heart to wish that Dutch would bust something and retire
from the struggle.
Work grew very strenuous that last fortnight. The dummy was resurrected
and hung again on his twenty-foot railway, and for three days the first
team fellows went back to first principles, throwing themselves upon
the stuffed and headless figure at the end of the chain, falling on
wabbling, elusive balls and chasing them across the turf to catch them
on their erratic bounds. And with this primary instruction went final
polishing in signal work and the development of the attack. And almost
before anyone realized it, it was Saturday and the day of the Norwich
contest, beyond which lay but four days of practice before the final
struggle of the football season.
Barnstead turned out to a boy that afternoon, in spite of a drizzling
rain, and practiced the songs that were to be sung at the St. Matthew’s
game and cheered on the slightest provocation at the behest of eight
tireless, merciless cheer leaders who, armed with brown megaphones,
waved their arms and shook their fists and demanded “A regular cheer,
fellows, and make it good!” on the slightest provocation. Norwich sent
over a small but determinedly noisy group of youths, who answered every
vocal challenge from across the wet field.
Harry started the game at left half, and provided the first sensation
when, two minutes after the kick-off, he stole a forward pass and
dodged and squirmed his way through the ruck of players and sped
across seven white lines for the first score of the game. When, having
placed the pigskin squarely back of the posts with practically no
opposition, he scrambled to his feet, eight discarded brown megaphones
were tumbling about the turf in front of the stand and eight red-faced
cheer leaders were leaping and gesticulating, while from some two
hundred eager throats a vast and deafening roar of sound was sweeping
across the field.
Later, in the second twelve-minute period, Harry again brought the
stand to its feet when, from a double pass behind the line, he got
safely away around his own right end and reeled off almost thirty yards
before he was pulled down into a puddle. But the most encouraging
feature of that game was the work of Captain Corson at right guard and
of Carstairs at fullback. Corson was as steady as a wall against the
strong attack of Norwich, while Carstairs, in a position he had played
but a few days, shone brilliantly. The first half ended with the score
7 to 6, Norwich having failed to kick goal after her touchdown in the
second period.
Worden made several changes in the line-up when the second half began.
A new left tackle went in, a substitute center was tried, Jones took
Peel’s place at quarter and both halfbacks were fresh men. Harry viewed
Dyker’s substitution with misgiving as he drew a blanket about him and
settled down to watch the contest from the bench. He was a little
bit angry with the coach and looked so glum that Bob Peel, squeezing
himself into a seat between Harry and a substitute end, ventured
consolation.
“Cheer up, Danforth,” said the quarter, kicking him good-naturedly on
the ankle. “You don’t know when you’re well off. All we have to do is
sit here and see those poor chaps work. It’s fine!”
Harry smiled faintly. “That’s all right for you, Peel. You’re sure of
your place. I’m not. Just when I get going fairly well Worden yanks me
out and puts in Dyker.”
“Oh, I guess he wants Dyker to help with the punting. It’s up to
Carstairs, and it won’t do to work him too hard to-day. As for being
sure of your place”――Peel shrugged his shoulders――“there’s no such
thing, Danforth. Any of us may wrench a knee or an ankle or something,
and then where are we? Why, it’s the uncertainty that makes half the
fun!”
“Is it?” muttered Harry without enthusiasm.
“Sure. What the dickens is Carstairs doing off there? He’s way out of
position if that’s a delayed pass. Thought so! Lost a yard! I suppose I
ought to be sort of pleased when Jones slips up like that, but I’m not.
He’s a good old sort, Jones. That’s better! Right through left guard
for three! If Dyker would put his head down and forget to slow up every
time he strikes the line he’d do a heap better. Let’s see how he boots
this. Not bad. Nearly forty yards, I guess. Seems to me if Worden took
him in hand he could make a real punter out of Dutch. He’s got another
year, hasn’t he?”
“I think so,” answered Harry. “He does punt well, doesn’t he? Gets them
off quickly, too.”
“Yes, if he could plunge as well as he can kick he’d get a place. As
it is I guess you’re pretty certain to start the game next week. Here
comes that delayed pass again. That’s a lot better. We ought to have a
score coming to us pretty soon.”
Barnstead was down on Norwich’s thirty-three yards, and it was first
down again. Carstairs swept around the left of the Norwich line for
six yards or so, made two through center and then fell back as though
to try a drop-kick. But the ball went to Simmons, who was playing right
half, and Simmons wormed past left tackle for the necessary gain.
From the twenty-two-yard line the home team carried the pigskin to
the threshold of a score, only to lose it a yard from the last line.
Norwich held beautifully. After kicking from behind its goal line the
visiting eleven got the ball on a fumble near mid-field and started
toward Barnstead’s goal. The Brown’s defense was pretty thoroughly
tested during the ensuing five or six minutes and Norwich made the
thirty yards without losing possession of the pigskin once. There,
however, the Brown stiffened and, after two tries that netted but five
yards, Norwich made a forward pass that worked finely and took the ball
half the distance to the goal. But the Brown line was pretty tight now,
and after being thrice repulsed Norwich tried a desperate place kick
from a difficult angle and missed. With the ball back in mid-field the
quarter ended.
“I wonder,” mused Bob Peel, “if Worden’s going to be satisfied with
what we’ve got. It’s taking chances, I say.”
Apparently the coach had determined to play on the defensive for the
remainder of the game and made no change in the line-up. Harry, who had
hoped to get in again, scowled at Coach Worden’s back as the latter
strolled past the bench. Peel, seeing, laughed.
“Isn’t he the mean old thing, Danforth?” he asked. “Good thing, though,
he didn’t turn around just then and see your expression. He might have
sacked you for calling him names!”
“I wasn’t,” answered Harry, grinning in spite of himself.
“Thinking names, then. It’s the same thing.”
“Well, I do think he might let me play,” said the other. “You, too.”
“Me? Oh, I don’t mind. You see, Danforth, he’s keeping us out of it
because we’re too precious to take chances with. Looking at it in that
way, you see, it’s a fine old compliment to our worth and abilities.”
“I don’t look at it that way,” murmured Harry.
“Might as well. Hello! Look at that!”
A Norwich back, the ball tucked into the corner of his left arm, was
streaking down the field, evading player after player of the opposing
team and crossing one white line after another, while the stands broke
into wild, unintelligible tumult! Only Jones, playing well back,
stood between the Norwich runner and the goal, and hundreds of voices
died into silence as the two forms, one speeding desperately and one
advancing alertly and cautiously, drew near. Then a great shout of
triumph and relief from the supporters of the home team broke forth,
and Peel murmured: “Good old Jonesy! Tackled like a man!”
For Jones had brought down the runner on the twenty-four-yard line with
as pretty a tackle as had been seen all season, and Norwich’s hope of
winning the game died a sudden death. Coach Worden hurried a new end
into the field in place of Shallcross, and the teams lined up on the
twenty-four yards. But Norwich’s bolt had been sped. Three attempts
at the tackles gained but six yards, and when the left half fell back
to kicking position and held his hands for the ball nearly half the
Barnstead forwards came rushing through upon him and the ball, striking
a leaping figure, went bounding back up the field. The substitute end
fell on it near the forty yards, and Dyker punted down the field and
out of bounds at Norwich’s thirty-yard line. Three minutes later the
game was over, and Barnstead had won by the narrow margin of one point.
Harry, trotting back to the gymnasium in the wake of the players,
forgot his enmity against the coach in the satisfaction of victory.