THE WINNING TOUCHDOWN
Wild cries of delight, victorious shouts, the shrill voices of the
girls, mingling with the hoarser tones of the men and youths, the waving
of flags and banners, the shaking of canes adorned with the Blue Hill
colors, showed the appreciation of the first gain in the battle.
"Yah! I thought your team was such a much!" yelled an ardent Blue Hill
supporter to some Kentfield cadets in the stand next to him.
"So it is," was the cool answer, though there was a sore heart back of
it. "We never play our best until the other team gets a touchdown.
That's the only look-in your fellows will have."
"Oh, it is; eh?" demanded the other with a hoarse laugh. "Well, just
watch our boys rip you all to pieces from now on."
The goal was kicked, making the score six to nothing against our
friends, and Dick saw dubious looks on the faces of his chums.
"This is nothing!" he cried gaily. "It's the only taste of the honey-pot
that we'll let them have. Come on now, we've got time to make a
touchdown this half."
Play was resumed after the kick-off, and an exchange of punts followed,
both sides seeming willing to take this method of regaining their
strength, which had been almost played out.
When Blue Hill got the ball after a series of brilliant kicks that had
delighted the spectators, she once more began her rushing tactics. But
either some of her men were careless, or they were too eager, for they
got off side, and there was some slugging which the alert umpire saw,
and as a penalty the ball went to Dick's side.
"Now rush it up," he called eagerly, and then began such a whirlwind
attack that Blue Hill was fairly carried off her feet. Right up the
field from her own thirty-five yard line did Dick's men carry the
pigskin, until on Blue Hill's twenty yard mark the young millionaire
decided for a try for a field goal. It was a magnificent attempt but
failed, and before any more playing could be started the whistle blew,
ending the half.
Rather dejectedly Dick and his team filed to the dressing rooms. The two
coaches met them.
"It's all right! It's all right!" cried Mr. Spencer. "You boys couldn't
do better. You haven't made any mistakes. Keep on the same way next half
and you'll have them."
"I hope so," murmured Dick.
"I know it!" declared Mr. Martin with conviction. "They can't keep up
their pace, and they haven't any good subs to put in."
"That's right," agreed his colleague. "The way you carried the ball up
the field after their touchdown showed what you could do. If there had
been time you'd have scored. They can't stand that smashing attacking
business, but you can hold them if you try. Then, at the right time, get
the ball and take it up. One touchdown and goal will tie the score, and
another touchdown will win the championship for you."
"Boys, will we do it?" cried Dick, turning to his cadets as they
surrounded him in the dressing rooms under the grandstand.
"Will we?" cried Innis Beeby. "Will a duck eat corn meal, boys?"
"Sure!" came the enthusiastic answer.
Back again on the gridiron trotted the twenty-two sturdy lads to indulge
in a little limbering-up practice before the second half should start.
Then came the warning whistle.
"They'll kick off this time," said Dick to his men, "and that will give
us the ball. We want to rush it right up the field without giving 'em
time to catch their breaths. Try the sequence plays again, they worked
well."
With a resounding "pung" the leather sailed into Kentfield territory.
Beeby caught it and began a rush back that was not destined to last
long, for with great fierceness he was tackled by Lem Gordon, and
heavily thrown. But Beeby was as hard as nails, and arose smiling,
keeping his foot on the ball.
"Now boys, play like mustard," called Dick, as a signal for the
sequence plays, none other being given. The successive rushes that
followed fairly carried the Blue Hill players off their feet, and so
impetuously did Dick and his men smash into the line, going through
centre, between guards and tackles, and around the ends that, inside of
five minutes of play, the ball was on Blue Hill's ten yard line.
"Wow! Wow! Wow!" yelled enthusiastic Kentfield "rooters," and from being
glum they were now wild with delight and eagerness.
"Touchdown! Touchdown!" came the imperative demand.
"Hold! Hold 'em!" pleaded the Blue Hill throng.
"They ought to make it now or never," said a gray-haired man as he half
rose to watch the next play. "They must shove it over if they work as
they have all the way up the field."
Dick paused for a moment. He was deciding on the next play. Blue Hill
was frantic and might take any unfair advantage. The Kentfield men were
like hounds after a stag--it seemed that nothing could keep them back.
Dick sent Ray Dutton through centre for five yards.
He came back into the line gasping, for he had been tackled hard.
"Only a little more now, fellows!" yelled the captain. "Nothing can stop
us now."
"Yes, we can!" cried Haskell in desperation. "Don't let 'em through,
boys!"
His half-wild players managed to stop Stiver with the ball after a three
yard gain. But two more yards were needed--six feet.
Dick gave the signal for big Beeby to take the ball, and the next
instant the sturdy guard had hurled himself into the gap made for him.
For a second or two it seemed that he could not make it, so fiercely did
Blue Hill brace. Then, slowly but surely they began giving way under the
terrific pressure of the eager Kentfield cadets, and then came a wild
yell from Beeby, who was half smothered under a mass of players.
"Down!" he gasped, and with his last strength cried "Touchdown!"
The heap of players slowly dissolved. For a moment the spectators were
in doubt, and then, as the meaning of the joyous dancing about of
Kentfield, and the glum appearance of her opponents was borne to them,
the sympathizers of Dick's team burst into a frenzy of shouts and cheers
while the flags and banners were riotously waved in the maze of color.
The score was tied a moment later as the goal was kicked. Who would make
the next points?
Quickly the ball was put into play again, and there followed an exchange
of punts--a grateful relief from the line-smashing tactics that had
carried the pigskin over the goal mark. It was a rest for both sides for
Blue Hill had been played almost to a standstill and Dick's men were
panting and gasping from their terrific efforts. But it seemed worth all
it cost.
Seldom had there been such a situation in the annals of the Military
League. Two of the best teams that had ever been represented playing
such fast football, and the score tied at such a critical moment meant
something. Add to it that the elevens were not on the most friendly
feeling, because of what had taken place early in the season, and there
was a situation that would make even a blasé football enthusiast "sit up
and take notice," as Innis Beeby said.
The slightest turn of events might send the scale up or down now,
bringing victory or defeat. For a time both sides played warily, taking
no chances for the championship hung on the next few minutes.
Then, as Dick's side got the spheroid, he called for some more of the
terrific playing. Nobly his men responded and eagerly. Almost too
eagerly it seemed for there was a fumble at a critical point and one of
the Blue Hill men seized the ball. Back toward the Kentfield goal he
sprinted with it, and for a moment Dick nearly had "heart disease" as he
said afterward. But this time Teddy Naylor, who had gone in to replace
Hal Foster at full, because Hal's weak ankle went back on him, tackled
the man, and the danger was over. But Blue Hill had the ball, and took
advantage of it by kicking it far enough away so that Kentfield would
have to work hard to regain the lost ground.
"Smash 'em! Smash 'em!" ordered Dick, as his men lined up. So fierce was
the attack and the offense that Paul Drew was knocked out, and could not
come back in time to play. Ford Baker went in.
This was rather a blow to Dick, and when John Stiver keeled over a
little later, from a blow on the head, the chances of Kentfield were not
improved. Sam Wilson went in at left half, and his playing was a
distinct revelation, for he jumped into the line with such energy that
he tore off ten yards on his first play.
"Good!" cried Dick. "A few more like that and we'll have the game."
The half was nearing a close. There had been more kicking, and several
scrimmages. Then Blue Hill had the ball, and Haskell called on his
cadets for a last desperate effort. They responded nobly, and Dick's
team, weakened as they were by the extraordinary hard pace, began to
give way.
Up the field they were shoved until they made a stand on their twenty
yard line.
"We've got to hold if we want the championship," said Dick simply, but
his words meant much.
And then came one of the surprises of football. The people on the stands
were holding their breaths in anxiety, each individual almost praying
for his particular team. It looked bad for Kentfield, as she was being
steadily shoved back, and the time was fast passing. It seemed that she
would either be beaten, or that a tie game would result, necessitating
another conflict.
Haskell gave orders for a fake kick, and so often had he worked that
play during the game that Dick's men at once were aware of what was
going to happen. Around the end of the line came smashing the Blue Hill
full-back who had taken the ball from his left half-back. Right around
he came, but Dick was there to tackle him. With all the fierceness and
energy of which he was capable the young millionaire sprang at his man.
They came down together.
The ball rolled from the full-back's arms at his impact with the earth,
and like a flash Dick saw his chance. He was up in an instant, had
grabbed the leather, tucked it under his arm and was racing down the
field toward the goal of his enemies.
He had a ninety yard run ahead of him, and the Blue Hill full back was
waiting for him with open arms. How he got past Dick never knew, but
those watching saw him fiercely bowl over his opponent like a tenpin.
Then on and on he sprinted, while a wild riot of yells from the
grandstands urged him forward.
On and on he ran--on and on. His breath was rasping through his clenched
teeth--his legs seemed like sticks of wood, that were somehow actuated
by springs which were fast losing their power.
"Can I do it?" he gasped. Then he answered himself. "I'm _going to do
it_!"
He heard the pounding of feet behind him, but he dared not look back. On
he kept. Chalk mark after chalk mark passed beneath his vision. At last
he ceased to see them. He looked for the goal posts. They seemed miles
away, but were gradually coming nearer through a mist.
He felt someone touch him from behind. He heard the panting breath of a
runner--he felt his jacket scraped by eager fingers, but he kept on.
Then, when he had no more breath left; when it was all black before his
eyes, he crossed the last line--fairly staggered over it and fell with
the ball in the final touchdown--the score that won the game--for the
whistle blew as his men and their enemies were running up.
Dick had won the championship.