THE PUSH-BALL CONTEST
“Ah, ha, Monsieur George, I would speak with you von leetle minute!”
exclaimed the chauffeur, in a voice that trembled. “Ah, you have not
know what you do--ma foi. No! Monsieur the Colonel, he---- Saire, I
speak not to you,” and Pierre’s black eyes flashed with anger, as
Norman Redfern stepped forward.
“Keep cool, ‘Pouf,’” said Joe, with a grin. “It pays.”
“Von leetle minute, Monsieur George. I stay here last night; I stay
here this morning; and ma foi, you come! You leave these scamps
now--you----”
“Cut it out, Pierre,” broke in George, with an amused glance at the
others. “Is my uncle in town?”
“Yes, Monsieur George--at a hotel. You come?”
“Better go,” counseled Redfern.
“Saire, you say nothing to him. I call you von scamp. I no afraid of
you. In la belle France, I would my glove throw in your face--so!” And
Pierre waved his arm threateningly.
“Cool off,” advised Joe.
“Listen, Pierre”--George spoke in an emphatic tone--“you have made a
mess of things by your stupid meddling. Not another word. We’re all of
us going to see Uncle Dan right now.”
George abruptly turned on his heel, and started off in the direction of
the hotel, while Pierre, with a look of amazement, promptly fell in the
rear of the little group.
When they arrived at the hotel they found that Colonel Ellison was out.
“Let’s go over to Ripley Academy,” proposed George, paying no heed to
the chauffeur’s earnest efforts to attract his attention.
“That’s my idea,” agreed Jack.
“Take my advice, and wait for your uncle,” said Norman.
“No use, when I can see him to-night,” answered George, with a shake of
his head. “I’m going.”
“Wait--wait,” pleaded Pierre Dufour. “Monsieur the Colonel, he say----”
But George pushed promptly by, and, in a moment, was on the street.
Redfern and George both knew the city well, and soon they were standing
before the capitol. It is a very massive building of handsome design.
Joe’s proposition to go in and see the governor was promptly vetoed.
“Don’t see why not,” grumbled Joe. “He has to go to New York once in a
while, and might like to take the trip with us.”
Up one street and down another they went, admiring the neat houses
surrounded by pretty lawns and the rows of substantial dwellings; then
back to the business section, where Jack sent off a dozen picture
postals to little Bobby.
After lunch, it was decided to visit Ripley Academy at once.
Norman Redfern explained that the schools were separated by only half a
mile, and that Ripley, the nearer, was about a mile from town.
The day was pleasant, with a sky full of flying clouds, the country
charming, and the boys, in spite of the thought of meeting the fiery
Colonel, were in high spirits.
Ripley was an older institution than its rival. The building was a
plain, almost austere structure, with a columned entrance and a portico
from which the Hudson was seen between stately elms.
The building occupied by Thornton Preparatory School was of a graceful
modern design, from the polished knob on the front door to the high,
battlemented tower.
Almost midway between the schools was a level field. And it was on this
that many exciting contests for athletic supremacy took place.
When the boys arrived on the Ripley campus, they found it occupied by
a lively crowd of students. An air of excitement prevailed; evidently
some event of great importance was about to take place. Groups had
collected; songs were being sung; and most of these referred to the
unfortunate Thorntons.
“Well, well--my gracious! All the Bills together!” cried a hearty voice.
Bill Stiles, his face flushed with excitement, rushed forward, shook
each of their hands in turn, slapped “Bill number three,” otherwise
Fred Winter, on the back, and called loudly for Roy Pinger.
“Gee whiz! You’re just in time,” cried the latter. “There’s going to be
something doing. Poor Thornton--don’t laugh too hard at ’em. Come on,
Bill; it’s time to skip.” And the two Ripley seniors were off.
“Hello, what are you chaps going to do?” yelled Bob.
“Follow us, and see,” answered Bill.
Crowds of students were now leaving the grounds, and the nine followed
in the rear. As they walked along a wide, shady road, glimpses of the
river and hills beyond were here and there seen.
The Ripley students continued to sing their lively songs, varying the
performance by occasional yells and blasts from Andrews’ tin horn. And
it was not long before other sounds, which they recognized as coming
from the Thorntons, reached their ears.
When the boys arrived at the athletic field, a great crowd had
assembled. In the center was a huge, leather-covered ball.
“Gee whiz!” said Jack. “A push ball.”
“And a Jim-dandy, too; must be six feet high,” put in Aleck Hunt. “Now
I see the scheme. Great, isn’t it?”
“This must be something new,” laughed Redfern. “There goes a
signal--probably the first. They are lining up now--listen to Lon
Bates.”
“You could hear his voice a mile off,” said Bob. “Wonder where the goal
lines are. Ought to be a nice, lively tussle. Wish to goodness we were
in it, eh, Redfern?”
But the latter shook his head.
“Not in my line, Bob,” he answered, dryly.
The boys surveyed the rival groups with interest. The motor boat crews
were apparently the leaders in their respective schools, and each had a
crowd of sturdy followers anxious for the fray.
“All ready, you chaps?” sang out Bates.
“Ready, here!” shouted the Ripleys, in chorus.
The referee raised his megaphone.
“One--two”--it was a tense moment--“three--go!”
“They’re at it,” breathed Jack. “Yell for the Ripleys, fellows!”
The two groups brought up against the huge push ball at the same
instant. It wobbled and shook, and ambled sideways, while defiant
shouts were hurled from camp to camp.
It was a battle full of interest and humor. The erratic movements of
the ball, which was sometimes raised high off the ground, brought forth
peals of laughter.
Suddenly the Thorntons made a combined onslaught, and the ball was
pushed several yards toward the Ripley line.
“There’s nothing back of it,” yelled Bates.
“Oh, my, but this is easy!” cried Ralph Chickers. “Once more!”
“We’ll run ’em right through their own front door!” shouted another.
But the Ripleys hurled themselves against the sphere, pushed, struggled
and panted, a compact mass of determined lads.
Lon Bates, in his eagerness, stumbled, and the huge ball rose awkwardly
over his prostrate form, amidst a storm of laughter from the onlookers.
“Shove it sideways, Bill Stiles,” yelled Bob Somers.
“Strategy versus strength,” remarked Dave Brandon. “Great Scott!”
The Ripleys had followed Bob’s advice with a suddenness that took their
opponents literally off their feet. Before the Thorntons could recover
themselves, the Ripleys had carried the ball five yards to the side,
then pushed it forward and regained all they had lost.
“Hooray!” yelled Jack. “Keep it up, Ripley!”
Cheers, shouts, blasts from the tin horn and megaphone raised a
terrific din, and while the excitement was at its height, George
Clayton touched Bob Somers lightly on the arm.
“See who’s coming,” he said.
Bob turned quickly, murmured, “Well, well,” and nudged Norman Redfern.
In a moment, all were staring at two figures rapidly approaching.
One was Colonel Ellison, and close by his side trotted his faithful
chauffeur.
“Think how this affair must look to your guardian,” observed Redfern,
with an air of great regret.
[Illustration: “SEE WHO’S COMING”]
“Ha, ha!” laughed Joe. “The storm’s coming. Hello! Those Ripley chaps
are gaining again. Hi, hi! Push it right over ’em! Flatten out the
whole crowd, you fellows!”
“Hold on, Joe Preston,” remonstrated Fred Winter. “The Colonel will
have a fine opinion of you.”
Colonel Ellison had never appeared more dignified and stern. His brow
was wrinkled; and he glared over the rim of his glasses at his ward and
nephew in a truly terrible manner.
“Ah, ha, young man!” he began; “so I see you at last, eh? What have you
to say for yourself?”
“Plenty, Uncle Dan,” answered George, calmly and in a respectful
manner. “But I would prefer to talk somewhere else, sir.”
“Ma foi, what sang froid,” murmured Pierre.
“Norman Redfern,” exclaimed the Colonel, paying no heed to the
attention his appearance and words attracted, “you and I must have an
accounting. You deliberately defied me. Through you, my nephew’s name
has appeared in the papers as a scapegrace. Your misguided influence
has made him recklessly disregard my wishes and actually defy the
authorities; and yet you still seek to----”
“Stop, Colonel Ellison!” interrupted Redfern. His look of embarrassment
was succeeded by a flush of anger; his voice trembled, but not from
nervousness. “Stop--you are going too far.”
“Sir?” thundered Colonel Ellison.
“Ma foi, ma foi! I hope it is not the fight that has come,” muttered
Pierre.
“You must hear me,” went on Redfern, resolutely. “I shall stand no
further accusations. George Clayton,” he added, turning toward the rich
boy, “did I ever influence you----”
“Look out--look out!”
So absorbed had the participants in this conversation become that they
failed to notice how events were going on the battle-field.
Up to this time, neither side had gained any especial advantage; but
Thornton, by clever strategy, suddenly sent the ball off at an angle.
The crowd melted away, but the Colonel and Redfern heard the warning
cry too late.
A mass of struggling boys bore furiously down upon them, and Uncle
Dan, taken altogether by surprise, toppled unceremoniously over, while
the lighter Redfern sprawled full length on the sward.
“The young scamps--the----”
But the remainder of the Colonel’s sentence was lost in a roar of
sound. A wave of shouts had arisen; the boy with the megaphone used it
with the utmost abandon; and Owen Andrews again succeeded in proving
the superior nature of his treasured tin horn.
In the general excitement, the Colonel’s mishap had attracted but
little attention. Bob Somers and the astounded chauffeur jumped to his
assistance, but were waved unceremoniously aside.
When the others again looked around, they saw Colonel Ellison standing
erect, his tall form towering above Redfern, who had also regained his
feet. Close to him stood the excited Pierre and George Clayton.
The latter seemed more interested in the finish of the game than
anything else, and the boys didn’t wonder at it. They saw immediately
that the Colonel and Redfern had not been hurt.
It was a moment of the utmost confusion, and the Ripleys, quick as
a flash, saw their advantage. The push ball, like a thing of life,
whirled off at right angles, then forward again. Ralph Chickers
slipped, and several other Thornton lads fell over him.
With an irresistible rush, the Ripleys once more hurled themselves upon
the ball.
The Thorntons fought desperately, but the attempt was as useless as
trying to stop the tides. Lon Bates frantically commanded and stormed,
only to find that his followers could not be rallied.
Fifteen feet from the goal--ten.
With their eyes fixed on the white line, the Ripleys, inspired by that
spirit of determination and aggressiveness which victory almost won
carries with it, continued the battle. Only five feet now separated
them from the coveted goal.
In a voice that was strong and clear, Bill Stiles commanded:
“All together--Ripley forever!”
And the others chimed in loudly:
“Ripley forever--now all together!”
Before an irresistible rush, the discouraged Thorntons fell back, and
the big ball rolled over the line.
As the cheers from Ripley and their adherents rang out, a flag was run
up on the pole at the end of the field, and, as it fluttered out on the
breeze, “Ripley,” in big blue letters, appeared on the silken surface.
The house-boat boys yelled loud and long.
“That old rag will come down yet,” grumbled the disconsolate Bates. “I
can tell you that!”
Just at this juncture, and quite unnoticed, a slight man of dignified
bearing briskly approached.
As his eyes lighted on the ex-tutor, he rushed with outstretched arms
toward him.
“Norman Redfern!” he exclaimed, in a tone of surprise and pleasure.