II

All that happened on Saturday afternoon. Monday morning Tommy sought

George Marquis at recess and asked him to let him play on the football

team. “If you do,” he said earnestly, “I’ll win the game for you.”

George laughed amusedly. “How’ll you do it, kid?” he asked, with a wink

at Harold Newman, the quarterback.

Tommy flushed. “I――I can’t tell you that,” he stammered. “It――it’s a

secret. But I can do it, George; honest and truly, black and bluely!

Just let me show you, won’t you?”

“Oh, shucks,” said the captain, “if you know how to win the game you

can tell me about it, can’t you? Anyway, I guess we can win it without

you and your secrets, Tommy.”

But Tommy looked so disappointed that George, who was kind-hearted

after all, said soothingly: “I tell you what I will do, Tommy. If

we’re ahead at the end of the third period, I’ll let you go in at half.

How’s that?”

“You won’t be,” replied Tommy glumly. “If you really want to lick

Meadowville, George, you’d better let me play. If you don’t you’ll be

sorry for it. I can win that game for you, and I don’t believe anyone

else can.”

George’s good nature took flight. “Oh, you run away, kid!” he said

impatiently. “Anyone to hear you talk would think you were a regular

wonder! You’re too fresh!”

“That’s all right,” said Tommy to himself as George went off scowling,

“but you’ll have to let me play whether you want to or not! Unless,” he

added doubtfully, “that fairy is just a――a fakir after all!”

But that didn’t seem probable, for there was the magic football, and

the magic football did just as the fairy had said it would. That

afternoon when he was let out of school half an hour late――Tommy’s head

was so filled with football these days that there was almost no room

in it for lessons and he was kept after school as a result――he hurried

home, unlocked the closet door in his bedroom and took the magic

football down from the shelf. It looked just like any other football.

There was the name of a well-known maker stamped on the clean leather

and no one would have ever suspected that there was anything unusual

about it. But there certainly was, as Tommy proceeded to prove when,

the ball under his arm, he reached the vacant lot behind the dye works

in the next street. The dye works had no windows on the back, there was

a tumble-down board fence around the other three sides of the lot and

Tommy was safe from observation.

When he had crawled through a hole in the fence he placed the football

on the ground, swung his leg gently and said, “Og!” softly as his foot

struck the ball. He hardly more than touched it with the toe of his

scuffed shoe, but the ball flew up and away as straight as an arrow and

bounced away from the fence at the further end of the lot. Tommy looked

carefully about him. No one was within sight, and so he said, “Come!”

very softly, and the ball began rolling toward him along the ground.

That was too slow, and so Tommy said, “Come!” once more and a little

louder. Whereupon the ball left the ground and arched itself toward

him. Tommy held out his hands, and the ball settled into them.

That day and every afternoon until Thursday Tommy continued his

practice with the magic football until finally he was able to judge

just how to address it to get the results he wanted. For a short kick

or pass one “Og,” not very loud, was enough. For a longer kick a single

“Og” spoken loudly accomplished the purpose. For a very long kick, say

thirty or thirty-five yards, beyond which Tommy had never tried to kick

a ball, three “Og’s” were sufficient. And the same rule worked when he

wanted the ball to come to him. He could make it just trickle toward

him slowly across the turf or he could make it come slam-banging to

him so hard that as often as not he jumped out of its way so it would

not knock him down. When he did that the ball, instead of going past,

stopped short in the air and dropped to the ground. In fact, Tommy

learned what the fairy had called “ography” and “comeology.”

A funny thing happened the next day. When he got home after school――he

wasn’t kept in that afternoon, for there was a teacher’s council in

the Superintendent’s office――it occurred to him that perhaps it wasn’t

necessary for him to go up and get the ball, even though it was in the

closet with the door locked. At all events, he thought, there was no

harm in trying it. So he said “Come!” very loudly and waited halfway

up the front path. But nothing happened; not even when he said “Come!”

again, very much louder. But when, for the third time, he said “Come!

Come!” almost at the top of his lungs, something did happen. There

was a frightful noise at the top of the house, a scream from Tilda,

the maid, and a grunt from Tommy himself! When Tommy picked himself

up, gasping for breath, he was six feet nearer the front gate and the

football was bobbing up and down in front of him. It had taken him

squarely in the stomach!

When he went into the house Tilda was sitting halfway up the stairs

having hysterics, an overturned pail beside her and a flood of soapy

water trickling down the steps. Something, declared Tilda, when she

had been calmed by the use of smelling salts and other restoratives,

something had flown at her as she was going upstairs and clean knocked

the feet from under her! Just what the something was Tilda couldn’t

say, but she was sure that it had been “as big as a washtub, mum, and

kind of yellow, with two big glaring eyes!” Tommy, hiding the magic

football behind him, crept up to his room. In the top of the closet

door was a big jagged hole and the floor was littered with splinters!

Tommy looked and gasped. Then he stared at the magic football. “I

guess,” he muttered, “I won’t try that again!”

On Wednesday he went out to see practice. What he saw didn’t impress

him greatly. Hillside didn’t play like a team that was going to win on

the morrow. The scrub eleven held the School Team to one touchdown and

a very lucky field goal, and, when practice was over, the supporters of

the home team came back looking very dejected. Tommy waited for George

Marquis at the gate.

“George,” he said, twitching the captain’s sleeve, “don’t forget what I

told you!”

Captain Marquis pulled his arm away and scowled angrily at the

youngster. “Oh, dry up, Tommy,” he muttered. “You make me tired! I’ve

got enough troubles without having to listen to your nonsense!”

Tommy went home and wondered for the hundredth time whether that fairy

was putting up a game on him. Suppose, after all, the fairy had just

been poking fun at him! If George didn’t let him play how was he ever

going to win the game for Hillside? It was all well enough to have

a magic football that would come or go just as you wanted it to and

that would break its way through closet doors and scare folks into

hysterics, but if you didn’t get into the game what good were a dozen

such things? Tommy was sad and doubtful and pessimistic that evening.

But the next morning he felt more hopeful. To reassure himself he went

over to the vacant lot with the football and put it through its paces

to his entire satisfaction. And then, since it was Thanksgiving Day

and the big game was to start at half past ten, he tucked the magic

football in the hollow of his arm and joined the crowd that was wending

its way to the field. He passed Billy Blue’s house on the way, and, in

answer to his whistle, Billy appeared at an upstairs window with his

face swathed in cotton batting and linen and waved to him sadly.

“Where’d you get the football?” mumbled Billy enviously.

“A fair――a fellow gave it to me,” answered Tommy. “Or maybe he just

loaned it to me. It――it’s a wonder!”

“Going to the game?”

“Yep. Wish you were, Billy.”

“So do I! We’ll get licked, though.”

“Bet you we don’t! Bet you we win!”

Billy tried to say “Yah!” but it hurt too much and so he contented

himself with shaking his head and looking sarcastic. “Yes, we will!” he

mumbled. “Like fun!”

“We will, though, and, Billy――――” Tommy sank his voice so the passers

wouldn’t hear. “Want me to tell you something nobody else knows?”

Billy nodded.

“I’m going to win it for ’em!” confided Tommy in a stage whisper. Then,

with a magnificent wave of his hand, he went on, pursued by Billy’s

cruel and incredulous, if much smothered, laughter.

We needn’t dwell on that first thirty minutes of the game. From the

point of view of Hillside it was a sad affair. Meadowville outrushed,

outpunted, outgeneraled her opponent. The Hillside line couldn’t hold

against the swift, hard attack of the visitors, and the Hillside ends

were no match for the fast backs of the Meadowville team. When the

first fifteen-minute period was at an end the score was 6 to 0. When

the half was over and the rival teams trotted off the gridiron, the

score stood Meadowville, 17; Hillside, 0!

Tommy, hunched up on a seat in the grandstand, the magic football

clasped to his breast, watched and worried and almost wept. The fairy’s

promise wasn’t coming true after all! He wasn’t to have his wish! All

his lessons in “ography” and “comeology” were to be wasted! The magic

football might just as well be back on the closet shelf, or, for that

matter, back in Fairyland! Tommy felt very sorry for himself, very

disappointed.

But he made one last, final appeal before yielding to the inevitable.

He left his seat and squirmed through the crowd to the home team’s

bench when Captain Marquis and his players came back, blankets and

spirits both trailing. He got George’s attention for a minute finally,

and reminded him of his promise. George was cross and impatient. “You

again?” he exclaimed. “Promise? What promise? Oh, that? Well, I said if

we were ahead, didn’t I? We aren’t ahead, so that settles that. Now get

off the field, Tommy.”

Tommy didn’t, though. He carried his football to the bench and seated

himself on it, unchallenged, among the substitutes. They were all too

discouraged to care what Tommy did. Then the whistle sounded again

and the game went on. The pigskin floated in air, was caught by a

fleet-footed Meadowville player and brought back for many yards, the

Hillside ends failing lamentably to stop the runner. A plunge at the

line and another five-yard mark was passed. A wide end run and two more

were traversed. Meadowville was literally eating up the ground, while

from across the field came the triumphant shouting of her supporters.

And then, not three minutes after the third quarter began, a strange

thing happened.

The football in use, a perfectly good, brand-new football, supplied

by the home team at a vast expense, began to become deflated. A halt

was called and the lacings were undone and they tried to blow it up

again. But the air wouldn’t stay in it! It was most perplexing and most

annoying. No one had ever seen a football act so before. But there was

only one thing to do, and that was to find another ball. Of course,

Hillside ought to have had another one, but she didn’t; at least, not

at the field. There was an old football at George’s house, but George’s

house was a good mile and a half away. So it devolved on Meadowville to

loan her practice ball and the Meadowville captain, after sarcastically

stating what he thought of the stinginess of Hillside, consented to

have the ball used. But when they went to look for it, it couldn’t

be found! It had been there a half hour before; they were all quite

certain of that; but it wasn’t there now. Boys searched everywhere,

even behind the stand, but to no avail. And then, just when Captain

Marquis concluded that he would have to dispatch a messenger to his

house for the old football, someone brought word that Tommy Piper had

a football and that he was sitting on the bench at that moment. Over

hurried George.

“Let’s take your ball, Tommy,” he said genially. “Ours is busted.”

Tommy smiled and shook his head. George blustered.

“Come on! We’ll pay you for it, if you won’t lend it! Don’t be a meany!”

“I’ll lend it to you for nothing if you’ll let me play left halfback,”

said Tommy. A howl of derision went up from the players and

substitutes. George scowled angrily.

“What’s the use of being a hog?” he demanded. “Come on, let’s have it!”

But Tommy shook his head. George grabbed the ball and tried to tug it

away. Tommy said “Come!” very softly under his breath and, although

Harold Newman and Bert Jones and Gus Neely all helped their captain,

not an inch would that ball budge! They had to give it up.

“Oh, let him play,” said Harold, very much out of breath. “It won’t

matter, George. We’re beaten anyway.”

George, very angry, hesitated and finally yielded. “All right,” he said

gruffly. “You can play. Give us the ball. Gus, you’re off.”

Tommy, the recipient of a look of deadly hatred from the deposed Gus,

trotted joyfully into the field and took his place. Harold whispered

the signal code into his ear. “You won’t be able to remember it,” he

added, “but you won’t get the ball, so that doesn’t matter!”

Then the game began again. Meadowville was on her second down, with

four yards to go. The quarterback called his signals, the two lines

heaved together and――――

“Ball! Ball!” shouted half the players. The Meadowville quarter had

fumbled and, strange to say, it was Tommy who dropped to the turf

and snuggled the ball to him. For almost the first time the Hillside

supports had something to cheer about and they made good use of the

chance. And half the Hillside team patted Tommy on the back as he was

pulled to his feet. Of course, it was only an accident, but Tommy

deserved credit just the same!

Hillside was on her forty-yard line when she got the pigskin and Harold

Newman elected to have Bert Jones, the big fullback, take it for a try

through right tackle. And so he called the signals, and the players

crouched in their places and the ball was snapped. And then, as Bert

leaped forward to take the pass from quarter, Tommy whispered, “Come!”

Such a befuddled-looking backfield as that was for an instant! Bert,

expecting the pigskin, clasped empty air to his stomach and hove

himself at the line. The other backs stood and stared; all, that is,

save Tommy. Tommy was very busy. Already, with the ball snuggled in the

bend of his arm, he had crossed two white lines and he was very intent

on crossing the rest of them. That he didn’t was only because the

opposing quarterback outguessed him and brought him to earth.

But twenty-five yards was not to be sneezed at, especially when

theretofore the most that Hillside had made in one try was a scant

six! George Marquis stopped scolding Harold and hugged Tommy instead.

Harold, too, thumped him delightedly on the back, but the quarter had

a dazed look on his face. He could have sworn that he had tossed the

ball toward Bert Jones!

Slightly demoralized, Meadowville lined up again in front of her foe.

This time she watched Tommy as a cat watches a mouse, but when Tommy,

disregarding the play, scuttled yards across the field, the rival backs

decided that he was faking an end run and paid scant attention to him.

A moment after they saw their mistake, for the ball went to Tommy on

one of the prettiest passes ever seen, and Tommy, almost unopposed,

streaked straight for the Meadowville goal line! Only an end came near

him and Tommy eluded the end deftly. Tommy was really a clever runner,

say what you like. The opposing quarter tried desperately to intercept

Tommy before he reached the goal line, but he failed and the best he

could do was to tackle him behind and prevent him from centering the

ball.

You can imagine how Hillside cheered then! It was deafening, terrific!

Even staid and serious-minded elderly gentlemen shouted and thumped

the stand with their gold-headed sticks. Girls screamed their pretty

throats hoarse and boys――well, boys threw their hats in air and

behaved like joyous lunatics! As for the Hillside players, they turned

handsprings and tripped each other up and behaved quite ridiculously.

All save Tommy. Tommy, a little breathless, but wearing his honors

modestly, yielded the ball and trotted back up the field amid a shower

of congratulations. And not until Bert Jones was directing the pointing

of the pigskin did it occur to George Marquis to demand of Harold why

he had signaled one thing and done another! And poor Harold, looking

very white and worried, could only shake his head and gaze fascinatedly

at Tommy!

But why go into further details of that last half? At the end of the

third quarter Hillside was two points ahead of Meadowville, and Tommy

Piper had only to turn his head or lift his hand to have the Hillside

stand rise to its feet and cheer itself hoarse! Such runs as Tommy

made! Ten yards, twenty, even once a full thirty-five! Never was such

brilliant running and dodging seen before! Tommy could have played

that whole game alone had he wished it, but he didn’t. With the

assurance that his team would emerge victor in the end, Tommy let the

other backs have their chances. And when they were stopped in their

tracks or pushed back for a loss, then the ball went to the infallible

Thomas Piper and said Thomas reeled off a dozen yards, or two dozen,

perchance; and everything was lovely.

When the last quarter began Meadowville was showing the strain. So was

the Hillside quarterback! Poor Harold was beginning to think that he

had gone crazy. Time after time when he tried to pass the ball to one

of the other backs or even carry it himself, he found that, for some

strange reason, without wanting to do it, he had thrown it to Tommy.

Of course, Tommy always gained and that made it all right. Only――well,

Harold was certainly worried!

A run the entire length of the field, barring ten yards, was Tommy’s

heart-stirring contribution at the beginning of the final period, and

from that time on until, within only a minute to spare and the ball on

Hillside’s thirty-two yards, he ended the game in a final blaze of

glory, Tommy performed like a――well, like a magician. I can think of no

better word!

But the last feat of all was the most astounding. It went down in

history, I can tell you! Even yet no other player has ever come within

at the least twenty yards of duplicating Tommy’s performance. The score

was 36 to 17 when the final sixty seconds began to tick themselves

away. Hillside had the game safe, and it didn’t matter very much what

happened then. So when Tommy said to Harold: “Let me try a field goal

from here, Harold,” the quarterback only stared and didn’t tell him he

was crazy. He only grinned. And then, since they all owed the victory

to Tommy, he consented. What did it matter how the contest ended? As

well one way as another. And he’d be pleasing the redoubtable Tommy. So

Tommy walked back to near the twenty-five-yard line and held out his

hands, and everyone stared in surprise. For why, with everything her

own way, should Hillside punt and lose possession of the ball?

Tommy was ambitious to outdo all his previous feats, and he could think

of but one way to gain that end, and that was to make a wonderful

field goal. But when, with poised arms, he awaited the ball and looked

far down the field at the distant goal posts he began to have doubts.

Perhaps the magic football couldn’t go so far. It was an appalling

distance. But just then the ball was snapped and Tommy said, “Come!”

Straight and true it sped into his hands. Tommy measured distance and

direction again, dropped the ball and, as it bounded, hit it smartly

with his instep. And as he did so he said, “Og!” very loudly, and then,

to make very certain, he said, “Og!” again and again and many times,

and kept on saying it until the enemy came swarming down on him and

sent him sprawling on his back.

But he was up again in a second, watching the flight of the ball, and,

lest it might falter on its journey, he said, “Og!” once more, or,

perhaps, the fifteenth time.

Friend and foe alike turned and watched the football. Everyone held

his breath. Surely it would never travel so far! And yet it kept on

going, getting higher and higher until, by the time it reached the end

of the field, it was yards and yards and yards above the goal posts. A

great awe hushed the field. You could have heard a pin drop. And then a

great cry of amazement started and spread, for the magic football kept

on going up and up and up and getting smaller and smaller and smaller

until, at last, it was just a speck against the blue and then――why,

then it wasn’t anything at all! It had just floated out of sight like a

runaway toy balloon!

But everyone agreed that it had passed exactly over the center of the

Meadowville goal, and so what did it matter if the ball was lost?

Tommy, being borne off the field on the shoulders of enthusiastic

admirers, cheered and waved at, smiled modestly. But under that smile

was a sorrow. The magic football was lost to him!

“I guess,” said Tommy, sadly, to himself, “I must have said ‘Og!’ seven

times!”