CHAPTER XXII_Right Tackle Todd

THE BANDAGED HAND

Back in the gymnasium, in a small room provided for its use, the Alton

team spent eleven tense minutes. Coaches, trainer and rubbers toiled

without let-up. Faults were pointed out by stern-faced assistants and

offenders were taken severely to task. Johnny Cade, one forefinger

tapping Latham’s chest, spoke quietly but earnestly. The pungent odor

of rubbing liniment filled the air. Jake moved briskly and cheerfully

about, unwinding bandage and tape and clipping with his little

blunt-nosed scissors. And finally Manager Woodruff took his eyes from

the dial of his watch and called: “Four minutes!”

On the field Kenly sang and cheered, and Alton, although outnumbered,

was scarcely less vociferous. The big cherry-red flag stood out above

the home stand, snapping briskly in the increasing wind. Chilled

feet were coaxed back to warmth and coats more closely buttoned. The

sunlight had lost its heat now and the breeze was taking on an icier

tang. The minutes passed slowly, but at last the Kenly stand sprang

to its feet with an “Aye-e-e!” as the red-stockinged warriors came

into view again. Then the cheer leaders waved and the long Kenly cheer

swept across the field. Ere it had ended the Alton side was vocal, too,

for a tall, light-haired youth, gray-armed and gray-legged, trotted

into sight. Behind him trailed twenty-nine others of his kind, and

then a little squad of non-combatants. A white-sweatered man moved

into the field, a gray-sweatered man joined him. The cheers continued

deafeningly. Linesmen, blowing on chilled hands, dragged their long

rods down near the thirty-yard line. Alton had to yield the advantage

of the wind this time, but had elected to receive the kick-off.

Three changes in the Kenly team were seen, two in the line and one in

the backfield. For Alton, Latham remained at quarter, Sawyer at right

tackle and Walzer at left guard. With the wind behind it, the ball

sailed almost to the five-yard line before it dropped, and Alton let

it go over. Back on her twenty, the Gray-and-Gold flashed into life.

It seemed that she was showing her true strength for the first time.

Straight down the field she marched, overwhelming Kenly with the speed

of her attack, mingling straight line-jabs, swift dashes around the

tackles and short side passes that led to wide runs. Every shot found

its mark and not once was Alton halted until, almost on Kenly’s thirty,

a wide run went agley and Billy Frost was thrown behind his line for a

five-yard loss.

A short pass across the left of the line was caught by Latham, but the

gain was less than the previous loss. Once more, Tennyson heaved the

ball, this time far toward the side-line, but it was knocked down.

Kenly’s hoarse reiterated appeal of “_Hold ’em, Kenly! Hold ’em,

Kenly!_” was being answered. It was fourth down now and there was

still five yards to gain, with the ball on Kenly’s thirty-one yards. A

goal from the field seemed a hopeless thought, yet that is what Latham

called for. Captain Gus was summoned back and Latham dropped to a knee

in front of him close to the forty-yard line. Shouts of “_Block it!

Block it!_” swept across from the home stand. Cheswick sped the ball

back, Latham caught it and placed it and Gus stepped forward. The lines

heaved and bent. But foot met ball and the pigskin shot forward. Latham

had canted it, as he hoped, so that it would fly low, but after it

had cleared the frantic arms of the oncoming enemy it was caught by a

sudden gust and changed its flight. For an instant it seemed to pause.

Then it went up and up, hung for a breathless moment high in air and

began its descent. Already Kenly was howling its relief, for the ball

was coming down well short of the bar.

It descended close to the five-yard line and it was a red-legged

tackle who caught it to him and sprang forward. But Sam Tennyson

wrapped his long arms about his neck and pulled him back and down. It

was Kenly’s ball on her three yards.

The Kenly kicker stepped back well behind his goal-line and a little

to the left of center, mindful of the nearer post looming dangerously

close, and the silence of suspense fell. Alton’s “_Block that kick!

Block that kick!_” dwindled to a faint, hoarse mutter. Back went

the ball, but low, and the kicker had to step forward to get it.

Recovering, he saw the left of his line torn apart as Alton burst

through. There was no time now for a punt. Tucking the ball under his

arm, he started away to the right, seeking to pass behind the goal and

find a safe path out of his dilemma. And for a second success seemed

to await him. But just as he swung back toward the field, Jake Borden

swept down on him. Jake missed his tackle, but he stopped the runner

long enough for Roice to reach him and the two went down together a

yard behind the goal-line.

Alton roared in triumph and a figure 2 went up for the visitors. It was

not much of a score, but it was something, and the faint-hearted among

the Alton adherents were jubilant. At least, the Gray-and-Gold had not

been shut-out! The ball went out to the thirty yards and play began

once more. Kenly twice failed to advance a runner and then kicked.

Latham caught and was downed instantly. Alton began another march,

but it ended at her own forty-yard line and there Latham punted short

to the enemy’s thirty-eight. Kenly sprang a long forward-pass that

almost but not quite succeeded. A shorter attempt went for six yards

and two slams at the line gave her first down on the fifty-yard line.

Then followed Kenly’s moment of power, for she plunged and battered

her way forward for two first downs and placed the ball on Alton’s

twenty-eight. Walzer was hurt and Hick Powers went back to left guard

position. Kenly tried a full-back run that would have netted her twelve

yards had not an end been off-side. As it was, she was set back to the

thirty-three, and two plunges were stopped and a third down gained

but three yards off left tackle. Kenly set herself as for a try at a

field goal but, instead, hurled a long pass diagonally toward the right

corner of the field. The wind both aided and hindered that throw. It

added distance but it also swept the ball away from the waiting end and

into the outstretched hands of Sam Tennyson. Sam dodged and wriggled

and fought back to the seventeen before force of numbers laid him low.

Presently Latham again punted and, although the kick failed of

distance, the Kenly back who caught was dropped the instant the pigskin

was in his hands. From Alton’s forty-six yards, Kenly began another

advance. This time she reached only the thirty-two yards, where,

with three downs gone, she decided to take what was offered her. Her

kicker was squarely on the forty-yard line when he booted, and this

time the Kenly line held fast. But the ball, while it had both height

and distance, passed outside the left-hand upright; although it was

not until a moment had passed and the figure 3 on the scoreboard was

not changed that the spectators knew whether or not the goal had been

kicked. Then Alton voiced her relief in hearty fashion. Two more plays

laid the pigskin on Alton’s twenty-four yards and the whistle blew for

the last intermission.

Three to two and still anybody’s game!

That either team would be able to put over a touchdown looked

improbable. One or the other might win in the last quarter by a

field-goal, but it seemed a safe wager that neither Gray-and-Gold

nor Cherry-and-Black had enough strength to cross her opponent’s

goal-line. Both in attack and defense the rivals had shown themselves

well matched. What Kenly possessed of superiority in weight was offset

by Alton’s speed, while Alton’s speed was not a sufficient asset to

win her passage over the last five lines. But with the favoring wind

behind her now Alton might, thought the more hopeful of the visitors,

bring some trick into play that would decide the contest in her favor.

Among the hopeful was Clem, shivering between Imbrie and Landorf, high

on the Alton stand. Clem’s shivers were due more to excitement than

cold, however, and that excitement was heightened when, as the teams

gathered again, two forms ran on from the visitors’ side-line. One was

Pep Kinsey. The other was Jim Todd. Clem arose to his feet and shouted

madly.

“_Atta boy, Jim! Atta boy! Atta boy! Atta--_”

Landorf pulled him down to his seat. Those around laughed and cheered

him. Then the leaders called for short cheers for Latham and Sawyer,

and then for Kinsey and Todd. Clem was babbling incoherently and not

until the cheers were over did Landorf sense what he was saying.

“That’s why Johnny took him out in the third,” Clem was exclaiming.

“Must have hurt his hand pretty badly.”

“Who hurt his hand?” asked Art.

“Jim. Look at it. Wait till he turns--there! His left hand is all

bandaged up!”

It certainly was. Against the soiled khaki of his pants his left hand

shone like an Easter lily against dark foliage. The four fingers were

bound separately with clean white gauze and looked oddly conspicuous,

Landorf thought. “Funny he managed to get ’em all hurt,” he said.

“That’s what I call hogging it!”

A whistle blew and Pep Kinsey’s voice piped out sharply. Whittier took

the ball as it sped back from center and dashed toward the left. Kinsey

caught it at a short pass and sped along the line to the right. Jim

had a hole there. Tennyson went through, clearing it out and crashing

against a Kenly back, and Pep followed. Three yards gain. Fourth down

and three to go. Again the ball went to Whittier and with two short

strides toward his line he punted high. Down went the ends and down

went Jim, racing them to the enemy’s eighteen. Above them sailed

the ball, turning lazily over and over. A Kenly back edged forward,

paused, turned and raced backward. He caught on his eighteen yards and

it was Jim who closed his arms about his thighs, lifted him back and

deposited him on his sixteen. A hard-hearted referee put the ball on

the eighteen, waved a hand and slipped out of the way. Kenly started

toward the Alton goal once more.

Failing, at last, near mid-field to gain at the line, she passed across

the center and made eight. But a moment later she was again forced to

kick. Frost pulled the ball down on his twenty-two, side-stepped a

Kenly end, whirled from the grasp of a Kenly tackle and went plunging

in and out until the enemy closed in about him on the thirty-six. An

off-side penalty put Alton back to the thirty-one, and two plays later

Whittier again punted, from his thirty-five. Once more the Kenly back

was thrown in his tracks and once more Kenly set her face toward the

distant goal. Then came a punt from her thirty-nine that went almost

straight in air and dropped out-of-bounds at Alton’s forty-three.

Ever since the beginning of the quarter Jim had been listening for a

certain signal and now it came. “Formation L!” called the quarter. Jake

Borden swung out and trotted to the left of the line, taking position

between Roice and Levering. “Signals! Fifteen, thirty-seven, twelve!

Fifteen, thirty-seven--”

The ball went back and Alton flew into action. It was the signal Jim

had been awaiting, yet it was not the play, for although Sam had

started before the ball and raced off and backward to the left, and

although Whittier, with ball poised high, was following him slowly,

stepping back warily and apparently searching for an uncovered

receiver, Jim knew that Play 37 was to go for a run the first time

it was called. So, instead of wandering away to the right and trying

to look as if he was searching for four-leaf clovers or had lost his

pocket-knife and was trying to find it, Jim threw himself into the

opposing tackle, twisted past and slammed around behind the opposing

line. Whittier turned and tossed to Tennyson and Sam sprang forward.

Kinsey laid low the Kenly right half and Sam was going hard when he

gained the line, well outside, but the entire Kenly backfield had

been drawn to its right, and so had every other member of the team,

and the best Tennyson could do was fight his way to the forty-seven

for a four-yard gain. But the play had proved itself. Kenly had first

suspected a forward-pass and guarded against it, her backs spreading

and waiting. Then, when Whittier had made the on-side toss to Tennyson,

she had concluded that it meant a run and had moved, almost as one man,

across to meet it. And now Jim waited eagerly to hear the “37” again.

But it didn’t come. Alton made her way to the enemy’s thirty-seven

only to lose the ball when Frost fumbled when tackled. A few minutes

later she was back on her own thirty-five, the ball in her possession

after a Kenly punt. Kenly was now satisfied, it seemed, to play for

time and trust to fortune to bring her another scoring opportunity. If

that failed her, she was still certain of victory if she could keep

Alton from adding to that insufficient 2. Twice she punted out of

danger and back into Alton territory. Alton was using every play she

knew now, but Kenly was resisting desperately. New men were running on

for her and old and wearied ones were stumbling off. Alton, too, made

changes, though fewer. Tate and Kruger went in at the ends of the line

and Cheswick, thoroughly played out, gave place to Benning. The end was

drawing nigh. Seven minutes became six and six minutes dwindled to five.

It was Alton’s ball again, following a punt, on her thirty-four.

Tennyson made four outside tackles on a delayed buck, Whittier gained

three straight ahead between center and right guard and Frost made it

first down on a slide off left tackle. Tennyson passed to Whittier and

the latter scampered around the short end for seven more and put the

ball over the center line. Frost lost two, got three and made it first

down again. So it went, Kenly fighting but yielding. On the enemy’s

thirty-eight, on fourth down, Whittier faked a kick and tossed to Frost

and Frost ran to the left and got his distance on a wide run behind

fine interference. The ball was close to the left side-line now and

on the next play Whittier shot off to the right on a wide sweep that

gained only a yard. And then Jim, achingly impatient, heard what he had

been longing to hear once more.

“Formation L!”

“Seventeen, thirty-seven, eleven! Seventeen--”

Tennyson was off, running hard, to the left.

“--Thirty-seven!”

Jim engaged the opposing end, blocked him for an instant and then let

him through inside. Kenly was crying “Watch a pass!” and “Fake!” and

“End run on right!” Jim ambled around his end, the enemy moving before

him. The Kenly defensive back was edging to his right, well down the

field. Jim swung aside and sped toward the side of the field. Then,

turning, he faced the confusion he had left behind. He was alone and

unnoted as yet. Up went his long left arm and the four white-bandaged

fingers made a startling beacon against the dark hues of the stand

behind him. Whittier had tossed to Sam and Sam was peering across the

confusion of leaping, struggling forms. They were closing in on him

fast. A Kenly lineman had trickled through and Whittier met him square

and sent him reeling aside. But the whole Cherry-and-Black team was

bearing down now and Sam, scorning further subterfuge, raised the ball

in his right hand, faced the distant white signal, drew his arm back

and threw!

Then he was out of sight behind leaping figures, and Jim, his gaze

on the speeding ball, knew that the tide had set back his way. Forms

sensed rather than seen grew larger and larger as they raced toward

him. Frantic cries of warning and shouts of alarm came to him. He had

himself ready now, though, and the ball, sent low and hard and

straight, was shooting at him, a brown missile that grew ever larger.

Then he met it with his hands, gave one step to ease the catch, tucked

the ball under his right hand and sped away.

He had been just over Kenly’s forty-yard line when he had caught, and

some twelve yards from the side-line. When he had put one more white

streak underfoot he turned to the left, the nearer upright of the goal

his destination. But that course was not to be held long. Already

a fleet-footed Kenly quarter-back was speeding to meet him, while

steps pounded hard behind and to the right. Jim eased away toward the

side-line and pushed the thirty-yard mark behind him. Then the quarter

was on him, coming straight from the side. Jim thought quick, dug one

heel and spun to the left. A hand slapped at his thigh and a red-clad

arm swept upward, but the quarter fell past, clutching vainly, and Jim

Todd went on, friend and foe racing and falling behind him, on past

the twenty yards and the fifteen and to the ten. There the enemy made

its last appeal to Fortune. A Kenly end hurled himself forward and

his fingers seized about Jim’s left leg. Jim faltered, then went on a

stride, dropped to a knee, struggled erect again and again advanced. A

stride--another-- Figures were all about him now and suddenly he could

go no farther. He plunged forward, face-down, the ball, firmly grasped,

held at arms’ length. A ton of weight fell on him.

[Illustration: Jim dropped to a knee, struggled erect again and again

advanced.]

Some one was tugging at the ball, but Jim held it in a death grip. A

voice was calling: “Get up! Get up!” Then a white sweater sleeve came

into his vision and his fingers released their hold. The weight was

gone and arms were pulling him to his feet. He stood erect, breathless,

anxious, and looked about. Gus Fingal was grinning as well as a cut and

swollen lip would allow. So was Hick Powers. The rest of his team were

gathering along the five-yard line and Kenly, suddenly strangely weary

and discouraged-looking, was assembling between them and the goal. Then

Jim understood. His own grin answered the others.

“Gee, I guess it was over, wasn’t it?” he panted.

“Two feet over,” said Captain Gus. “Come on and let’s finish it up,

Slim. Only forty seconds more!”

Slim went back to his place, the lines heaved, a thud followed and

again wild, triumphant cheers burst from the Alton stand. On the

scoreboard an 8 was changed to a 9.

Half a minute later, having joined in a hoarse cheer for the defeated

rival, Slim fought his way toward the bench. But there wasn’t much

fight left now and he was soon captured. From the shoulders of two

shouting, maniacal schoolmates he looked down over a sea of bobbing

heads. He felt rather tired, very happy and--extremely foolish!

THE END

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