TASKER GOES OVER
Why, when he had already gone through one Pearsall game, Stuart should
have awakened on the morning of November twentieth with his heart in
his mouth was beyond him. But he did, and all the time he was dressing
and all through breakfast he felt jumpy and scared. He managed to eat
a normal amount of food, although he didn’t want anything but a cup of
coffee, for fear that his table companions might surmise the degrading
fact that he was as nervous as any tyro. It was a relief to get out of
doors afterwards and sit in the sunlight in front of Manning with some
of the fellows and wait for ten o’clock to arrive. At ten he and Steve
Le Gette were to have a final session on the field. He wished now they
had decided to meet earlier.
The weather was well-nigh ideal for football; bright, with scarcely
a suggestion of breeze and the thermometer around fifty. Perhaps by
midday the sun might shine a bit too ardently, but just now it was
very welcome. There were almost no classes this morning; none at all
for the football players; and the holiday feeling was apparent from the
first. Le Gette showed up a quarter of an hour before the appointed
time, to Stuart’s relief, and they went over to the gymnasium and
donned togs very leisurely. There was no hurry now that the tedium
of inactive waiting was past. All either of the boys desired was an
occupation to take their minds from what was scheduled to take place
at two o’clock. They talked freely to-day, and Steve Le Gette found
that there was quite a different side to Stuart Harven from what he
had known. Stuart explained Lantwood’s grievance against Neil and from
that subject the talk slipped to Neil’s appointment as one of the day’s
cheer leaders, Le Gette wondering how he would manage in view of his
dependence on crutches. Stuart was confident that Neil would have no
trouble, though. “He can do about everything any one else can except
walk,” he said. Then, as was fated, the conversation reached the game
and they talked of it all the way over to the field and felt better for
it.
Practice wasn’t very hard this morning. Stuart tried to make Le Gette
more perfect in placement kicking, but it was fairly evident that no
amount of practice would ever bring Le Gette’s place kicks to a par
with his drops. Of the latter he performed several difficult ones,
Stuart placing him at angles such as would probably never occur in
contests. They were not alone this morning, for two or three dozen
fellows wandered over to the field and looked on. Wallace Towne was
one. Towne plainly showed his recent illness, although he told Stuart
that he felt perfectly all right and hoped that Haynes would let him
into the game for a while.
“Wouldn’t mind so much if it wasn’t my last game,” he said. “You’ve got
another year. But I haven’t. Not here.”
“Still you’ve got your letter, old man,” consoled Stuart.
“I know. That isn’t it. I want to smash a couple of ‘Percies.’ Suppose
you’ll get in, eh?”
“I don’t know, Wally. I’m hoping Haynes will let me in for a period.
Guess that’s the best I can expect. I’m playing rotten.”
“Don’t believe it! You couldn’t. You’ll make it. Wish I was half as
certain!”
The advance guard of the enemy had begun to put in an appearance by
the time Stuart and Le Gette got back to the campus, and blue pennants
and arm bands were well in evidence. Luncheon for the players was a
lightweight affair at twelve, at which there was far more talking than
eating. Talk is a splendid outlet for nervousness. After luncheon the
squad went to the gymnasium and walked through half a dozen plays and
listened to a final talk by the coach. Like many of his kind, Mr.
Haynes firmly believed that the team scoring first was the team that
won. Perhaps later he changed his mind, but to-day he still believed
and shared his belief.
“We’re going to get the jump on Pearsall,” he explained. “We’re going
to try mighty hard to score inside the first ten minutes. After we have
scored we’ll play a safe game, but until we have we’re going to take
chances and use every trick that will gain ground. The first punch
is what counts, fellows, and we want to deliver it. I want to see
Pearsall played right off her feet in the first eight or ten minutes.
That means that every one of you must show all the speed and all the
snap you know, and a bit more besides. There’s to be no time called,
no hesitation about signals. Every man must keep on the jump every
minute.”
Manning went over to the field at half-past one. Already the stands
were well sprinkled. The townsfolk had showed their allegiance by
turning out in their bravest array, many of them bringing lunch along
so that they might be early on hand and secure the best seats. The
yearly circus and the Manning-Pearsall football game were the only
events capable of inducing Safford citizens outside their doors.
Pearsall romped on a few minutes later, by which time there was a
sufficient number of her adherents in place to give her a rousing
welcome. That event started the cheering which continued without
respite until the teams took the field. Down in front of the Manning
sections, Stearns Wilson, cheer captain, and McColl, Trenholme and Neil
Orr, his lieutenants, swung their big cherry-colored megaphones and
worked hard. The way in which Neil danced about on his crutches and
waved his arms was a wonder and a delight, and it is no exaggeration
to say that, although his section held a goodly number of visitors
sprinkled in with the students, he obtained quite as good results as
any of the other leaders.
The day had turned just a little too warm for the comfort of the
warriors, but the absence of wind was something to be thankful for and
atoned for the excess of temperature. The Pearsall squad, some thirty
strong, looked hard and eager. Statistics gave the visitors a two pound
advantage in the rushline and placed the backfield average at the same
figure. Five minutes before two Captain Brewton led his squad to the
bench and Coach Haynes summoned Stuart.
“Harven,” he announced, “you’re going to start at quarter. I think you
can run the team somewhat faster than Wheaton, and speed is what we
want. You know the plays. Make them go and make them go fast. I want a
score――a touchdown if we can get it, a field goal if we can’t――inside
of ten minutes. If we haven’t got it then, you come out, Harven.”
“If we have got it, sir?”
“You play the half through, barring accidents.”
“All right, sir. We’ll have it if it’s to be had.”
“It _is_ to be had, Harven, and I want you to feel so. There are two
things to keep in mind every minute. One is accuracy and the other is
speed. Get your plays right and then make them go fast. Get the jump
from the kick-off and never lose it!”
“Yes, sir, I’ll do my best.”
“That’s all I ask, Harven. Your best is mighty good!”
But, although Stuart had spoken confidently enough to the coach, he
was filled with misgivings when he trotted out on the gridiron with
a thundering cheer beating against his ears. Ten minutes was but ten
minutes, and, unfortunately, Pearsall had won the toss and given
Manning the kick-off. He was not through being surprised at his good
fortune when Joe Cutts stepped forward and shot the pigskin away
from the tee. He had hoped to get into the game for a little while;
perhaps for a whole period toward the end; but that he should have been
chosen in preference to Wheaton to start the game was something almost
miraculous. Well, there he was, and Haynes looked for a score in the
first ten minutes of playing time, which, thought Stuart as he raced
down the field behind the ball, was a good deal to expect! But that
wasn’t saying it couldn’t be done. No, sir, not by a long shot! Those
chaps weren’t any better than old Manning. Maybe not so good. Haynes
had said that it was spirit that counted――――
Just then Stuart went slam into a Pearsall tackle, a whistle shrilled
and on the Blue’s seventeen yards a carroty-haired half whom Stuart
recognized as Connor rolled off the ball and scrambled to his feet.
Pearsall tested the Manning center for a yard, massed her whole
backfield on Thurston for two more, gained three through Beeman and
then punted. It was Billy Littlefield, playing back with Stuart, who
caught, and Billy reeled off most of ten yards before he was toppled.
Then, with the two teams facing each other across Manning’s forty-five,
the Cherry-and-Gray began an onslaught that became history.
Statistics, if there was such, would show that ninety-nine times in
one hundred the first attack by a team in an important game is made
at the line. Ninety-seven times in a hundred the second play is also
directed at the line. In short, the attempt is almost invariably made
to try out the opposing defense in the first minutes of play. This rule
is almost as inviolable as the law of gravitation. Recently, however,
a famous scientist has shown that even the law of gravitation has its
exceptions, and it is possible that knowledge of this fact may have
emboldened a lesser scientist――for who dares say that football is not
a science?――to conceive of an exception to the rule alluded to. All
that as may have been, the rule was flagrantly disregarded. Instead
of sending a back experimentally against the enemy’s line, Stuart
watched the ball pass by him into the outspread hands of Leo Burns,
saw the whole backfield, from balanced formation, dash to the right,
saw the Pearsall end neatly boxed by Tasker and Littlefield and saw
Burns tearing over the line. I say that Stuart saw all this, but it
would be nearer the facts to say that he saw some of it and sensed the
rest. For Stuart was busy himself. While Whaley blocked the opposing
tackle, Le Gette and Stuart cleaned out a hole that wasn’t used and
met the first onslaught of the enemy’s backs. Burns, running wide and
without interference, took the pigskin over four white marks before he
was pulled down by the Pearsall quarter. The ball was near the enemy’s
forty-three when it came to light again.
Pearsall looked bewildered, even stunned. More than that, she looked
hurt and injured, as though Manning had played an unfair trick on her.
She had had her rush line all set, every husky player from tackle to
tackle swinging and crouched, ready to repel the attack. And what
had the enemy done? What, indeed, but outrage and transgress one of
the fundamental rules and precedents and go scurrying off around an
unsuspecting end! Pearsall was surprised, disgruntled and sore. The
thing was never done, and Manning had done it! But the Blue had
scant time to nurse her grievance, for never had a team sped back
to positions and cried its signals as quickly as Manning did in the
ensuing five seconds. The Pearsall quarter fairly had to run to get
back up the field ere the ball again went into play. And in those
few seconds the Manning stand was a bedlam of cheers unmeasured but
thunderous.
Again Stuart sent the ball to Burns on a direct pass and again Burns
crossed to the right. But this time the play went outside the tackle,
and, because Cooper, the Pearsall left end, eluded the interference and
managed to get himself in the way, the down netted but three yards, and
it was Pearsall’s turn to cheer. But that was only a momentary pause in
the advance. Littlefield found a hole awaiting him between guard and
tackle and slashed through for three more, and Tasker, faking a punt,
went hurtling into and over the opposing right tackle and, fighting,
squirming, head-down, took the ball for the rest of the distance before
the secondary defense piled on to him.
Pearsall, confused by the opponent’s speed, tried desperately to stem
the tide, tried to meet speed with speed and failed. She was still
dismayed by that first act of treachery, puzzled by a foe who did the
unexpected and kept on doing it. She had been assured that Manning was
an exponent of old-style football who would buck the line so long as
a foot rewarded her. But Manning didn’t seem to realize that Pearsall
had a center and was apparently only partly aware of the existence of
her guards! There was little time for conferences, for Manning leaped
from the ground to position in a breath and her demoniac quarter began
to cry his signals almost before the whistle had ceased! Pearsall was
as nearly demoralized as it had ever been her fortune to be for several
years.
Inside her thirty-yard line, according to all the rules of the game,
her defense should have strengthened and the enemy’s attack slowed
down. Yet nothing of the sort happened. With Pearsall’s backs close
behind her line, well spread to repel end attacks, Manning again did
the improbable. Le Gette fell back to kicking position and Tasker took
his place in the line. Pearsall believed no try-at-goal would come on
second down, and yet there was no telling what such a crazy opponent
would do, and so the backs tried to be in two places at once and were
quite unprepared for the quick, short heave from Stuart to Muirgart.
A Pearsall back did almost spoil the pass since, scenting an end run,
he had sped out at the last instant, but Muirgart pulled the ball down
safely near the twenty-yard line and reached the fourteen before the
frantic Pearsall back pulled him to earth.
The Blue called for time then, something she might better have done
minutes before, and making no pretense of an injury to a player
gathered in close conclave near the goal. A substitute end was whisked
in from the Pearsall bench and was closely watched by the enemy lest
he divulge instructions from his coach before the next play was over.
Stuart fumed at the two-minute delay but had to put up with it. He
and Jack bent and talked in panting whispers. Back up the field,
the Cherry-and-Gray cohorts were chanting “_Touchdown! Touchdown!
Touchdown!_” From the opposite stand the Pearsall contingent was
equally clamorous with its slogan “_Hold ’em Pearsall! Hold ’em
Pearsall!_” Then the whistle piped again.
It was first down, the ball a scant yard past the fifteen and well to
the left of the goal. Stuart, dripping perspiration, his heart thumping
hard, reasoned that Pearsall would look for one of two things, a run
around the left on the short side of the field or an attack to the
right to center the ball in case a try-at-goal became necessary. What
she would doubtless least expect was a straight smash at the left of
the line. And so that is what Stuart called for and that is what Tasker
performed. A fullback split-buck through left of center, with Tasker
taking the ball from Stuart at a hand pass, with Burns and Littlefield
charging to the right, with Brewton and Beeman putting the opposing
guard out and Cutts heaving at the center, took the ball to the eight
yards. Pearsall was shouting hoarsely, frantically, digging her cleats.
The substitute end whispered his order as Stuart yelped for action.
“Come on, Manning! Play fast! Get in there, Thirsty! Signals!”
Again the ball went to Tasker, but this time a scant yard rewarded an
off-tackle play on the right. Pearsall found encouragement and, when
the stick was seen to move but a few feet along the side-line, a wild
shout of acclaim arose from the blue-decked stand.
“Third down!” shouted the referee. “About three to go!”
“Let’s have it!” cried Stuart. “Hard, fellows, _hard_! Here we go! Le
Gette back! Signals!”
“Bust that up!” shrieked the Pearsall captain. “Block that kick! Get
through, Pearsall!”
“Watch for a fake!” shouted the Blue’s quarter anxiously.
Back went the ball, but although Le Gette swung his long leg, it was
Billy Littlefield who snuggled the pigskin to his stomach, put his
head down and dashed like a battering-ram into the line. Before him
went Burns, behind him Stuart and Le Gette. Straight at the Pearsall
right guard he dashed, stopped with a grunt, dug his toes and went on
again. Shouts, grunts, wild confusion of sound and movement, and then,
suddenly, a wavering of the Blue defense! The line buckled, gave! Then
the secondary defense piled in behind it, and the advance paused,
stopped. A whistle blew.
Littlefield, void of breath but grinning, was pulled to his feet.
“Fourth down! About half a yard to go!” droned the referee.
“Let’s have it!” yelled Stuart hoarsely. “Kick formation! Hold that
line, Manning!” Stuart trotted back to kicking position. “Signals!”
Then they came, and Cutts passed the ball back to Tasker and the big
fullback ran out to the left, Burns beside him, Littlefield behind.
Then came Stuart’s frantic “_In! In!_” and Tasker swerved to the right,
Littlefield sent a Pearsall tackle toppling out of the path and, with
the enemy all about him, yet, as though by a miracle, eluding them,
Howdy Tasker――Fame beckoning him on――spun and twisted, dodged and
side-stepped and, finally, with half the Pearsall team clutching and
dragging, spurned the last line and went over!
Almost before the whistle had blown Stuart was sprinting toward the
side line. “How much time is there, sir?” he demanded breathlessly of
the linesman.
“Oh, you’ve got seven minutes yet!” was the reply.
Seven minutes! Then they had scored in eight, well under the coach’s
allowance of ten! Stuart swung his head guard in triumph as he hurried
back. Now if only he could kick the goal! Le Gette picked up the ball
and took it out to the twenty-yard line, Stuart following, and slowly
and cautiously lowered himself to the ground. They were still cheering,
still shrieking back there on the Manning side, and for an instant
the sound worried Stuart. Then he cast an anxious look at Le Gette.
Save that that youth’s lungs were pumping hard, he showed no sign of
perturbation.
“This ought to be easy, Stuart,” panted Le Gette reassuringly, as he
pointed the ball.
“Yes,” agreed Stuart. But there was a noticeable lack of enthusiasm in
that assent. He was wishing with all his heart that he might exchange
places with the other. The old self doubt was back and he was horribly
afraid. Yet he instructed Le Gette with apparent confidence, took a
last look at the bar, stepped forward and kicked. Then he closed his
eyes for an instant, not daring to watch the flight of the ball, and
opened them only when a mighty cheer burst forth from the Manning
stand!