IN THE LAST QUARTER
As Dale scrambled to his feet and sought his place again, his face
was flaming. He had a feeling that he must be partly to blame for the
failure. Perhaps he had been a bit too quick in his forward lunge. As
he crouched in the line, head low and shoulders bent, his hands clenched
themselves tightly. It mustn't happen again, he told himself.
But swiftly it was borne upon him that the blame did not lie on his
shoulders. A try around right end brought them barely a yard. Something
had gone wrong there, too. He could not tell just what it was, but it
seemed as if Slater and Torrance had failed somehow to back up Ted
MacIlvaine as they should have done. The tackle's teeth grated, and a
flood of impotent anger surged over him. They were playing as they had
played in practice, each fellow for himself, without even an effort to
get together and tighten up.
With the inevitable kick which gave the ball to Troop One, this fact
became even more apparent. Solid and compact, the blue line swept down
the field with a machine-like rush that carried everything before it.
They seemed to find holes everywhere in the opposing line, and only
the handicap of a high wind and the brilliant work of three or four
individuals kept them from scoring in the first quarter.
That such a calamity could be long prevented seemed impossible to Dale.
He greeted the intermission with a sigh of thankfulness. Brief as it
was, it was a respite. Sherman's bitter, stinging onslaught on the team
passed almost unheeded by the anxious tackle. He was thinking of the
three remaining quarters with a foreboding that made him oblivious to
all else.
To be sure, when play was resumed, the fellows seemed to show a slightly
better spirit. It was as if the first dim realization of their errors
was being forced upon them. But they had been split apart so long that
they seemed to have forgotten how to work together in that close-knit,
united manner which alone could make any head against these particular
opponents. Time and time again they were driven back to the very
shadow of their goal-posts, where, stung by shame or the lashing
tongue of their captain, they rallied long enough to hurl back the
attack a little, only to lapse again when the pressing, vital need
was past.
Then, toward the very end of that second quarter, when Tompkins was
just beginning to hope again, the thing he had dreaded came suddenly
and unexpectedly. Some one blundered, whether Slater, or Torrance,
or Ted MacIlvaine, the boy did not know. With a last swift rush the
blue-clad interference charged at the right wing, through it, over it,
and, hurling aside all opposition, swept resistlessly over the last
six yards for a touchdown. They missed the goal by a hair, but that did
not lessen the sense of shock and sharp dismay which quivered through
the line of their opponents.
Dale Tompkins took his place after the long intermission, a dull, bitter,
impotent anger consuming him. He was furious with the fellows who by
their incredible stupidity were practically throwing away the game.
He even hated himself for seeming to accomplish so little; but most of
all he raged at the blond chap next to him. Some of the others were at
least trying to get together, though their lack of practice made the
effort almost negligible. But Ranny Phelps remained as coldly aloof,
as markedly determined to withhold support and play his game alone as he
had been in the beginning.
It made a hole in the line which could not escape the attention of the
opposing quarter-back. Already he had sent his formation through it
more than once, but now he seemed to concentrate the attack on that weak
spot. Time and time again Dale flung himself to meet the rush, only to
be overwhelmed and hurled back by sheer numbers. Sometimes Sanson pulled
him out of the scrimmage, more often he scrambled up unaided to find
his place, sweat-blinded and with breath coming in gasps, and brace
himself for the next onset.
Silently, doggedly, he took his punishment, and presently, under the
strain, he began to lose track of the broader features of the game.
Vaguely he realized that they had been forced back again and again
almost against their own goal-posts, and there had rallied, tearing
formations to shreds and hurling back the enemy with the strength of
despair. Dimly he heard the voice of Ward, or Court Parker's shriller
notes, urging them in sharp, broken phrases to get together. But the
real, the dominating thing was that forward plunge, the tensing of
muscles, the crash of meeting bodies, the heaving, straining struggle,
the slow, heartrending process of being crushed back by overwhelming
weight--that and the sense of emptiness upon his left.
Then came a time when things went black for an instant before his eyes.
He did not quite lose consciousness, for he knew when the weight above
was lifted and two arms slid around him, dragging him to his feet. It
was Sanson, he thought hazily--good old Frank! Then he turned his head a
little and through the wavering mists looked straight into the eyes of
Ranny Phelps!
Wide, dilated, almost black with strain and excitement, they stared
at him from out the grimy face with a strange mingling of shame and
admiration that sent a thrill through the tenderfoot and made him pull
himself together.
"Take it easy," came in gruff, unnatural accents. "You want to get your
wind--old fellow."
"I--I'm all right," muttered the tenderfoot.
He passed one hand vaguely across his forehead. Some one brought a
tin dipper, from which he rinsed his mouth mechanically. His head was
clearing, but he couldn't seem to understand whether the transformation
in the chap beside him was real or only a creation of his bewildered
brain. But when he took his place again and dropped his shoulders
instinctively, another shoulder pressed against him on the left, and
that same hoarse, unfamiliar voice sounded in his ears:
"Together now, kid; we'll stop 'em this time!"
The words seemed to give Dale a new strength. Stirred to the very fiber
of his being, he dived forward to meet the onward rush. Still with
that new, stimulating sense of support where none had been before, his
outstretched hands gripped like tentacles around sturdy legs. There was
a heaving, churning motion; then the compact mass of players toppled
over, and he knew that they had succeeded.
Nor was it a solitary advantage. Unobserved by Tompkins, the whole line
had been slowly stiffening. Slowly, gradually, the other holes had
been closed up and the advance checked. When the kick put the ball in
their possession, a new spirit animated Troop Five. Scattered no longer,
but welded by stern necessity into a single unit, they forgot their
handicap, forgot that the minutes of the final quarter were speeding
in mad flight, forgot everything but the vital need of breaking through
that line of blue and carrying the fight toward those distant goal-posts
that loomed so far away.
Forming up swiftly, they swept forward for a gain of eight yards.
Before the opposition recovered from their surprise, they had passed
the fifty-yard line.
Here the blues rallied, and for a space the two lines surged back and
forth in the middle of the field. It was a period of small gains and
frequent punts, when neither side held the ball long, nor the advantage.
Thrilled by their success, exhilarated by that strange new sense of
comradeship with the boy beside him, Dale fought fiercely, heedless
of the shock of bodies, of pain, of weariness, of blinding sweat, or
hard-won breath. His only worry was a growing fear that they would not
have time to score, and this had only just begun to dominate him when the
unexpected happened.
They were battling on the enemy's forty-yard line. It was Troop One's
ball, and they had tried to force a gain through center. Shoulder to
shoulder, Ranny and Dale plunged forward to meet the rush. The advance
checked, Tompkins gained his feet swiftly and thrilled to see the
precious ball rolling free not a dozen feet away.
With a gasp he lunged for it and scooped it up without slackening speed.
At almost the same instant Ranny Phelps shot out of the scrimmage as if
propelled from a catapult, and a moment later the two were thudding down
the field, a stream of players trailing in their wake.
Dale caught his breath with the stinging realization that their chance
had come--their only chance! There were but two men between them and the
coveted goal, the full-back, and nearer, another player bearing swiftly
down on them, who must instantly be reckoned with. That would be Ranny's
task. He must stop the fellow, while Dale took his chance alone with the
other.
Dale glanced sideways at his companion, and his heart leaped into his
throat. Phelps was limping; something had happened to him in that last
scrimmage. His face showed white even through the grime and tan; his
under lip was flecked with crimson.
"Ranny!" gasped Dale, in a panic. "What-- Can you--"
"Don't--worry--about--me," came indistinctly through the other's clenched
teeth. "I'll--block--this fellow--somehow. You get the other--you've got
to!"
Taking a fresh grip on the ball, Dale spurted on. He was aware that Ranny
had sheered off a little to the right, and knew that he meant to stop
the boy racing up from that direction. But actually he saw nothing, and
even the crash of meeting bodies came to him as something far away and
unimportant. His clearing brain was fixed on the looming figure ahead,
the full-back, who alone stood between him and victory.
He must be passed--but how? A thought of hurdling flashed into his mind,
to be dismissed as too hazardous. There was only one way left. Without
slackening speed, he tore on, his heart thumping like a trip-hammer.
To the breathless onlookers it seemed as if he meant actually to run down
the opposing player. Then, in a flash, when he was almost within reach
of the hooking arms, he swerved suddenly to one side, whirled, darted
the other way, eluded the other's frantic clutch by the merest hair,
and with a sob of joy ran on, free, the ball still cupped in the curve
of his arm.