The scoreboard still told the same tale, and the third period was
half gone. Down near the St. Matthew’s thirty-yard line the Brown was
charging desperately, and one white streak after another was passing
slowly, but, as it seemed, surely, under the grinding feet of the two
teams. St. Matthew’s was on the defensive indeed, for the intermission
had failed to bring back more than a little of the power and snap
of their early performance. It was with them now only a question of
keeping the Brown at bay, but the Brown was becoming more difficult
every minute. What Coach Worden had said to them in the gymnasium
between the halves will probably always remain a secret, but the result
was plain to all. At last Barnstead was playing as she could play, as
she might have played from the first. But the Fates were still against
her. Over-eagerness had thrice brought penalties for off-side, and
once she had lost a down by the merest fraction of an inch on the tape
measure. But, undismayed, she was fighting royally, pressing the Blue
before her, determined on crossing that last white line. Bob Peel,
disdaining the points a field goal might bring, continued to hurl his
backs against the Blue line, which gave way grudgingly, fighting over
every foot of yielded territory. Carstairs piled through left guard for
four, Dyker made a scant yard off tackle, Norman hurled himself past
left guard for two, Peel got four more around his own right end. The
pigskin was over the twenty-yard line now and the Barnstead cohorts
were shouting themselves hoarse, the cheer leaders waving and leaping,
purple-faced, perspiring, almost voiceless. Coach Worden, squatting
near the thirty yards, felt a hand on his arm and looked around. The
boy beside him had already addressed him twice without result.
“Hello, Danforth! What is it?”
“I’m off probation, Mr. Worden. Please may I play, sir?”
“Eh? Off probation? Why――I don’t know, Danforth. Yes, I guess we can
use you pretty soon. You’re sure you’re all right with the Office?” Mr.
Worden observed him sharply. There had been trouble one year when a
player had allowed his desire to play to get the better of veracity.
“Yes, sir, I’ve just come from Dobs, sir. He said I might.”
“It looks to me as though you’d been playing already. What under the
sun have you been doing to your face? You ought to have something on
that eye, my boy, or it will be a sight by suppertime.” His glance fell
to the hand which rested on the canvas knee beside him. “Hm; I see;
been mixing it up with someone, eh? Think you can do anything if I let
you go in?”
“Yes, sir! I’m all right. Just give me a chance, Mr. Worden.”
The coach nodded. “All right. Warm up a bit. I guess Dyker’s about all
in.”
Mr. Worden turned again to the game, and Harry, shedding his sweater
even more quickly than he had wormed into it at the gymnasium five
minutes before, began to limber up.
Barnstead had thrust her way onward to the Blue’s eight yards in three
plays and a touchdown was imminent. The St. Matthew’s captain entreated
his men to hold, to throw them back. But the Blue was weary and sore
and when, on the next play, Carstairs hit the center of the line it
bent inward like cardboard, and he went sprawling through it and over
the last line for a touchdown. How Barnstead shouted! The players
turned and went leaping back up the field, patting and thumping each
other, turning handsprings in their delight. But two minutes later,
when the blue-stockinged players had ranged themselves along their goal
line and Norman’s toe had sent the ball away from under Peel’s finger,
the joy sensibly diminished, for the pigskin floated yards from its
course and passed to the left of the further upright. St. Matthew’s was
still a point to the good and the blue flags across the field waved
valiantly.
The quarter ended after the kick-off had been received and Norman had
bounded back up the field some twenty yards. Behind the further stand
the sun had dipped long since, and a mellow glow held the world. The
ball was taken to its new location at the other end of the field, the
teams, blanketed, panting, slowly following. Captain Corson was looking
inquiringly, anxiously toward the side line. Then his unspoken question
was answered. Three figures scuttled on to the gridiron; Shallcross
was coming back at left end, Jones was succeeding Bob Peel at quarter
and Danforth was relieving Dyker. Harry’s appearance caused only mild
surprise. Corson and his players had other things to interest them than
the vagaries of the faculty. All Corson said was:
“Good work, Danforth! Who’s out? Dyker? All right. Show us how you do
it, kid! Any instructions?”
“Jones has them,” replied Harry, running on to report to the officials.
The whistle summoned the teams again. Jones, his face alight with the
inspiration given him by the coach the moment before, sang out his
signals cheerily.
“Now, then, Barnstead! Every fellow into it hard! We’ve got the game
for the asking! Second formation! Get up there, Jimmy!”
“Ready, St. Matthew’s? Ready, Barnstead?”
“All right, sir!” The whistle shrilled. “Second formation!
21――54――76――98! 21――54――――”
Carstairs had the ball and was sliding off right tackle.
“Second down! Six to go!” called the referee.
Past the center of the field Barnstead worked her way, Carstairs,
Norman and Harry hitting the line or slanting off the tackles for
short and certain gains, and Jones twice making his way on wide end
runs. It seemed that St. Matthew’s was always on the point of going to
pieces, and yet time and again she responded to the hoarse commands and
implorations of her quarter or captain and held her adversary to short
gains. But that march down the field took time. St. Matthew’s used up
the moments as best she could with injuries and substitutions. She had
almost a new team in the field when the last period was half gone, but
the new men, if fresher, were less skillful.
On the forty yards Norman fumbled on the third down and Carstairs was
forced to punt. St. Matthew’s made a fair catch, taking no risks
now, tried an end run and failed, gained a few yards on a forward
pass and then kicked to the middle of the field. There Harry, playing
back, caught the punt and wormed his way along past three white marks
before he was thrown. Then the advance began again. Only seven minutes
remained now and the ball was a long ways from the Blue’s goal. On the
forty yards an off-side penalty set Barnstead back again, and a groan
went up from the stand. Then a wide end run from a fake forward pass
regained the penalty distance and four yards besides. Norman was hurt
and went off, and Belding took his place. A new center went in at the
same time, Surber, who had played a wonderful game, being relieved by
White.
Belding’s first try at the line resulted in a fumble, and although
Jones fell on the ball Barnstead had lost seven yards. Carstairs, who
was weakening noticeably now, failed at a skin-tackle play, and it was
fourth down with six to go. Corson looked discouraged, and went back
to confer with Jones, while the panting St. Matthew’s players gibed.
Whatever it was that Corson suggested Jones shook his head at. It was
the quarter himself who made the required distance, running twenty
yards across the field to do it and only finding his opening at the
last moment, when Harry, forming his interference, bowled over an
opposing end.
Then the line-smashing began again. Past the thirty yards went the
Brown, past the twenty-five, past the twenty. There were three minutes
left. Corson wanted to try a field goal, but Jones again resisted.
Harry got through between left guard and tackle and made three yards
before he was smothered. Belding redeemed himself by making four
outside of right tackle. Carstairs gained a scant yard at center.
With two to go on the fourth down, the ball close to the ten-yard
line, Jones himself cut through for the distance. They had to use
the tape again, but the verdict went to the Brown. Two minutes,
said the timekeeper. St. Matthew’s called for time. A guard had his
hand rebandaged and a new fullback, primed with advice from the St.
Matthew’s coach, loped on. Then the teams lined up again for the final
effort.
Carstairs was called on to get past left tackle, but he was caught
back of the line for a yard’s loss. Then Jones noticed something. With
the advent of the new fullback the Blue was drawing her line closer
and the fullback and the two halves were playing up behind it. Jones
did some quick thinking then. The ball was almost on the ten-yard
line, it was second down and there was eleven to gain. And less than
a minute and a half of playing time remained. He might hammer his
way through as before for a touchdown, he might try a field goal, he
might attempt a forward pass. Any of these would be looked for by the
enemy. Of the three the forward pass promised to succeed best since
the Blue was playing her backfield up close to the line. But there was
one play that had not been used during the game. It had been devised
for use around the middle of the field, but Jones, scanning its
possibilities, couldn’t see why it should not do as well here under
the shadow of the goal. At least it had the merit of unexpectedness,
and the enemy’s present formation on defense promised success. At all
events, he decided, he would try the line once more. So, calling for
Third Formation, which put both tackles at the left of the line and
placed the left halfback at the end of the rush line on the right, the
end falling in and back, he sent Carstairs plunging at right tackle.
The play netted three yards. The timekeeper was slowly walking nearer,
watch in hand and eyes on the dial. Then:
“Same formation!” called Jones. “37――39――164――28!” A puzzled glance
from Captain Corson rewarded him, and Belding cried “Signals!” in a
panicky voice. Jones whispered to him, shot a reassuring look at Corson
and repeated:
“37――39――164――28! 37――39――164――――”
Carstairs dropped back a good twelve yards behind center, Jones stepped
back mid-way between him and the line and the ball shot to Carstairs.
As it settled into his hands he poised it as though to throw it forward
and to the left. The St. Matthew’s line had concentrated on its right,
and now it struggled to break through, while the backfield started
around to intercept the pass. The Blue’s left end plunged straight
across, dodging the opposing end, and made for the fullback. Just as
he leaped forward, however, Carstairs sidestepped, passed the ball at
a quick toss to Jones, who had run back to take it, and threw himself
in front of the Blue’s end. They went down together. Jones, the ball
tucked under his arm, wheeled across the field for a dozen yards, and
then, pausing suddenly, raised the ball and sent it hurtling further
out to where, some fifteen feet from the side line, Harry awaited it.
Too late the St. Matthew’s players saw the trick. Yards separated their
nearest player from Harry as the latter, catching the well-aimed pass
coolly, romped unmolested over the line in three strides and, dodging a
blue-legged enemy, placed it fairly between the posts!
[Illustration: “Harry ... catching the well-aimed pass coolly, romped
unmolested over the line.”]
Two minutes later, after Corson had attempted the goal and failed and
after the scoreboard had changed its figures to 15 to 10, and after
the final whistle had shrilled, a delirious mob took possession of
Barnstead Field. Brown flags snapped and waved, caps flew into air and
rained earthward and hundreds of hoarse throats cheered and shouted.
And Harry, swaying rather dizzily about on the shoulders of two
enthusiastic admirers, following the confused line that wound its way
around the gridiron, caught sight of a grinning face in the throng
beside him and waved a hand.
Perry Vose’s grin broadened.
“Who gave you the black eye, kid?” he called.
“Oh, a friend of mine,” laughed Harry. “Who spoiled your nose for you?”
“A friend of mine!” chuckled Perry. Then, thrusting his way forward,
“Here,” he said to one of Harry’s bearers, “let me get there. You’re
too small for this job. Why, you’ve got the biggest fellow in school
there! Didn’t you know that? Vamoose, I tell you!”
And the youth, looking doubtfully into Perry’s grinning countenance,
with its battered nose and swollen lip, finally yielded his place. It
didn’t do to make Perry Vose angry!
“BLACK-ON-BLUE”
I
“Willard!”
Mrs. Morris’s rebuke sounded only half-hearted, and she shot an
apologetic glance at Willard’s father. But for once Mr. Morris, the
sternest of disciplinarians, chose to be deaf. After all, the boy’s
disappointment was keen, and so his criticism of Grandma Pierson
elicited only the perfunctory warning from his mother. The boy’s
disappointment was shared to a scarcely lesser extent by his parents,
but they had learned to bear disappointment in silence. Willard,
waiting for his father’s reprimand, sat with downcast eyes fixed on
his untasted breakfast. Finally, however, as the storm did not break,
Willard took courage and went on, but with more caution.
“Well, I can’t help it,” he insisted, with a gulp. “She’d ought never
to have promised if she didn’t mean to keep it!”
“I’m certain, Will,” responded Mrs. Morris soothingly, “that your
Grandma Pierson fully meant to keep it. Mother was never the sort to
say a thing and not mean it.”
“If she hadn’t died, she’d have done just as she said she’d do,” said
Mr. Morris. “I guess she expected to live a good many years yet.
Eighty-one isn’t very old; leastways, it wasn’t for her; she was such
an active old lady. When were we out there before this time, mother?”
“Three years ago Christmas. That was when she made the promise. I sort
of wish she hadn’t, seeing it’s turned out as it has.”
“She might have known she’d have to die sometime,” said Willard
rebelliously. “Seems as though she might have made a new will after she
promised what she did.”
“Maybe she put it off, thinking there’d be more money later,” replied
Mr. Morris. “Cousin Joe writes that the whole estate won’t amount to
much more than five thousand dollars; and some of that’s in a mortgage
that’ll take a lot of handling to realize on. Fact is, mother, I don’t
just see where she expected to get the money for Will, anyway, do you?”
Mrs. Morris shook her head thoughtfully. “Perhaps she thought that by
the time Will was ready for college she’d have the money. She certainly
meant to do something for him, George. She’d always been especially
fond of Will.”
“Oh, she meant it, I’m sure. She asked me how much it would take to see
him through college, and I told her two thousand. It was her own idea.
There wasn’t anything actually said to that effect, mother, but I think
it was sort of understood that Will was to have that money and that we
weren’t to expect anything more. And there wasn’t any reason why we
should. She’d have done quite enough for us if――if she’d done that. As
it is, Clara and Alice get it all.”
“I suppose that’s my fault, George. You see, I always wanted her to
think we had――had plenty. Mother was always pretty hard on folks that
couldn’t get along. And then Clara and Alice both marrying men that
couldn’t support them――――”
“I know. I’m glad you did. And I’m not begrudging the money to your
sisters. They need it more’n we do, even if―――― Anyway, we’ve always
managed to get along pretty fair so far, haven’t we? Maybe we haven’t
had many luxuries, Jenny, but we’ve managed, eh?”
“Of course we have. You and I don’t need luxuries. I’ve always had
everything I really wanted, George. I’d have liked Will to go to
college, seeing he’s set his heart on it, but maybe this is for the
best, too. Maybe he will be more help to you in the shop.”
Willard, staring distastefully at his plate, frowned impatiently.
“That’s fine, isn’t it?” he demanded. “Here I’ve been telling all
the fellows that I was going to college in the fall; and I’ve gone
and taken the college course, too; and Mr. Chase has been helping me
with my Greek! And now――now I can’t go after all! I think it’s”――he
gulped――“too bad!”
“Maybe you’ll get there, son, although I don’t see much chance of it
next fall. Maybe, though, if business picks up――――”
He stopped with a hopeless shake of his head. Willard scowled.
“I’ve heard that before,” he muttered, “about business picking up. It
never has, and I guess it never will.”
“Son, you’ve said about enough,” replied his father sternly. “If I can
find the money to send you to college, you’ll go. If I can’t, you’ll
have to buckle down at the shop. There’s plenty of men doing well who
never went to college. I wanted you should go, but maybe it wasn’t
intended so.”
“Well, I’m going, sir! When I get through high school next Spring I’m
going to find some work and make enough money to start, anyway! If I
can make good on the football team this year maybe I’ll get an offer
and college won’t cost me anything.”
“You let me hear of you doing anything like that,” said Mr. Morris
grimly, “and I’ll take you out in the shed as I used to and just about
take the hide off you. You ain’t too big yet, my boy!”
“He wouldn’t do a thing like that, father. He was just fooling, weren’t
you, Will?”
“Lots of fellows do it,” muttered Willard.
“But you’re not to be one of them,” returned his father decisively.
“Here, let me see those envelopes.”
Willard passed the packet across to him and watched glumly while his
father slid off the faded blue ribbon that held the envelopes together.
One by one Mr. Morris held them up and peered into them for the third
or fourth time.
“Unless she meant to put some money or a check in one of these,” he
murmured, “I can’t understand it.” He laid the six envelopes in a row
on the cloth and shook his head over them. Then he took up the papers
which, with the strange and disappointing legacy, had arrived from the
West by the morning’s mail, but they told him nothing new. Grandmother
Pierson’s will, a copy of which Cousin Joe had sent, was short and
definite. There was a legacy of some personal trinkets and a small sum
of money to an old family servant, and “To my grandson, Willard Morris,
the contents of the packet inscribed with his name, which will be found
in the mahogany workbox on the table in my bedchamber.” The rest of
the estate, real and personal, was bequeathed in equal shares to Mrs.
Morris’s two sisters. Cousin Joe’s letter was brief. In pursuance of
his duties as executor of the estate, he was forwarding the legacy
mentioned in the will; also a copy of the instrument in case they had
forgotten its provisions. Willard was to sign the accompanying receipt;
and Cousin Joe hoped they were all well.
The package had been done up in a piece of brown paper and tied with
a white string――what Grandma Pierson would have called “tie yarn.” On
the outside, in the old lady’s shaky writing, was the legend, “For my
Grandson, Willard Morris.” Inside they had found six envelopes which,
once white, had yellowed with age. The inscription on each was the
same: “Miss Ellen Hilliard, Fayle’s Court House, Virginia,” and the
postmarks showed various dates in the years 1850 and 1851. In the upper
right-hand corner of each envelope was a stamp quite unlike any Mr.
Morris had ever seen. Five were buff and one was blue. Each was round
and about the size of a silver half dollar. They were printed in faded
black. A circlet of stars ran around the outer edge and inside was
the inscription, “Postoffice, Alexandria.” In the center was the word
“Paid,” and under it a figure “5.”
“You say these were your father’s love letters, Jenny?” asked Mr.
Morris.
“Yes. I have seen them many times. Mother read me parts of them, too,
sometimes. He wrote beautifully, father did. Mother always kept those
letters in that old workbox with the green velvet lining; the one the
will speaks about. It was her treasure box, and it was always kept
locked. I remember there were three or four daguerreotypes there, and
some clippings from newspapers and such things.”
“She was careful to take the letters out,” mused Mr. Morris.
“Maybe she had a feeling that she wouldn’t get well. I suppose she
destroyed the letters. She wouldn’t want anyone reading them afterward,
you see, mother wouldn’t. Of course, it might be that her mind wandered
a little toward the end and she thought she was really doing something
for Will when she put his name on the package.”
“But Cousin Joe says the will was made almost a year before she died,”
objected Mr. Morris. “I guess her mind was all right then. Well, it’s
plumb funny.” He arose from the table with a sigh. “That’s what it is,
plumb funny.” He pulled out a big silver watch and looked at it. “Son,
I guess it’s time we were hiking along.”
Willard pushed his chair back disconsolately and arose. He was
seventeen, rather tall for his age, and had strong, broad shoulders
like his father’s, or as his father’s had been before constant bending
over desk and bench had stooped them. The boy had a good-looking, frank
face and nice eyes, but just at present the brown eyes were gloomy and
the face expressed discontent.
“Better take those envelopes before they get lost, Will,” counseled his
mother. He regarded them with a scowl of contempt.
“I don’t want the old things,” he muttered as he left the room. Mr.
Morris, looking after him, frowned and then sighed. Mrs. Morris echoed
the sigh.
“I guess this settles it, Jenny,” said Mr. Morris, tucking the
Audelsville _Morning Times_ in his pocket. “If I could get hold of the
money any way, he should have it, but I don’t know where to turn for
it, and that’s a fact.”
“Never mind, dear,” said Mrs. Morris as her husband stooped over her
chair to kiss her. “There’s almost a year yet and something may turn
up. You never can tell.”
“Well, might as well look on the bright side, I suppose,” returned Mr.
Morris, “although things haven’t been turning up my way much of late,
Jenny.”
His gaze encountered the envelopes again, and he stared at them a
moment. Then, with a puzzled shake of his head, he passed out.