THE BITTERNESS OF DEFEAT.
The Johns Hopkins lacrosse team claimed the championship of the United
States, yet in a fast game at Oriole Park, Baltimore, it had been
defeated by Harvard, the score being four to three. One thing that
made the pill doubly bitter was the fact that the Hopkins men had been
inclined to believe before the game began that they would whitewash the
chaps from Cambridge. As if to add to the bitterness, Hopkins made her
three goals before Harvard scored at all, which led her players and
their admirers to believe the game was safely won.
Then the tide turned. Hopkins made two goals in the first half and one
early in the second half. This in spite of the fact that Harvard had
kept the ball in the home team’s territory the greater part of the time
and had repeatedly seemed on the point of scoring. The fine work of the
Hopkins’ cover-point and the brilliant stops made by her goal keeper
had checked Harvard time after time. At last the crimson scored and the
back flow began.
Fred Fillmore, cover-point for Hopkins and captain of the team, had
already recognized the fact that Harvard was a dangerous proposition.
On the Harvard team were several old Hopkins players who added greatly
to the strength of the boys from Cambridge. Their poor success in the
early part of the game did not discourage them in the least, and they
kept up the fast offense play of the team.
Harvard’s greatest player was Herbert Onslaw, captain and first attack.
Onslaw was swift, untiring, cool, and heady. He gave Fillmore no end of
trouble, and the Hopkins captain gradually grew annoyed, for more than
once he was tricked by Onslaw’s rapid and clever playing. He realized
that the crimson leader was showing him up in a bad light, and he was
anxious to get even by turning the tables.
The Hopkins spectators were dismayed by Harvard’s success in scoring,
but they did not foresee the impending danger that was plainly
discerned by Fillmore. The Hopkins captain decided to give more of his
attention to Onslaw.
Shortly after Harvard secured her first goal she again obtained the
ball, which, by good running and clever passing, was delivered to
Onslaw, who rushed it into position to try for goal. The Hopkins goal
tender spoiled the try and cuffed the ball away. A mix-up followed, and
out of the scrambling players the ball was shot.
Onslaw seemed waiting in the proper spot for it, but Fillmore had
chosen to hug him close. Instantly the Harvard captain started, but
Fillmore started at the same time. Onslaw dashed toward the Hopkins
goal. Fillmore was at his side and tried a body check. Onslaw crouched
and came under Fillmore’s hip. As a result, the Hopkins man was sent
flying through the air and struck the ground heavily. He tried to get
up, but fell over on his side and lay twisting on the ground.
The whistle sounded, and it was found that Fillmore’s hip had been
badly hurt, so that he could not then bear his weight on that leg.
Although he insisted that he would be all right in a few minutes, he
did not recover and was obliged to drop out of the game.
Lying on a blanket at one side of the field, Fillmore watched his team
fighting desperately against the swift and determined Harvard men.
His heart was filled with rage and bitterness, for, although his own
attempt at body-checking an opponent had brought about his injury, he
blamed Onslaw. When, a few minutes later, he saw Onslaw shoot the ball
into the net he fairly writhed in mental pain, his injured hip being
forgotten.
Hopkins still had a lead of one goal, and the spectators believed
this lead would be held, for the second half was well along. A bunch
of rooters cheered and cheered to urge the local men at their best
efforts; but a much smaller bunch of Harvard admirers made much more
noise.
Fillmore’s eyes glittered as he watched Onslaw’s swift and graceful
movements.
“I’ll settle with you some day!” muttered the injured captain of the
local team.
He was inclined to be revengeful. Being a fine athlete, a handsome
fellow, and the admired idol of his team, Fillmore was conceited
and spoiled. He was a splendid player, but regarded himself as even
better than he actually was. It had always filled his heart with fiery
bitterness when Hopkins had gone down in defeat before the swift
Canadians, who never failed to show their superiority when Hopkins met
the champions from the North. It had been his ambition to develop at
Hopkins a team that could hold its own with the Canadians, as well as
defeat all opponents in the United States; but now he realized that
unless the Baltimore lads could do better against the Cambridgeites,
they would have very little show with the boys from beyond the northern
border.
It must not be supposed from this that Hopkins was weak in any respect;
instead of that, the team was faster than ever before in all the years
lacrosse had been played in Baltimore. But the former Hopkins men on
the Harvard team had coached their fellows to meet and offset the plays
of the Marylanders, and Harvard had progressed fully as fast as Hopkins.
Therefore Fillmore was doomed to see the crimson players keep at it
with such earnestness and skill that, three minutes before the time of
the second half elapsed, another goal was made and the Southerners were
tied.
But no one seemed prepared for what followed. Hopkins took the ball on
the face-off, carried it down to Harvard’s end, tried three times to
score, lost the ball, saw it sail up the field, saw Onslaw take it in,
and try to score, saw it driven back, secured, passed to Onslaw again,
and then Onslaw sent it whizzing into the net!
Almost immediately the whistle sounded, and the game was over.
Fillmore fell back and covered his eyes with his hands, biting his lip
to keep from cursing the fates. He was white as death, and a comrade
who was near fancied he must be suffering fearful pain from his injured
hip. It was, however, mental anguish which drove the blood from his
face, bodily pain being entirely forgotten for the time.
“Onslaw did it!” he whispered, with blue lips. “He knocked me out on
purpose! I’ll get even with him if I live long enough! I’ll find a way!”
It seemed that Fillmore’s longing for revenge was destined to go
ungratified for an indefinite period. Harvard played no second game
with Hopkins that season, and Onslaw was a senior who would leave
college before the two teams could meet again.
One warm spring evening Fillmore sauntered up McCulloh Street and
paused at the steps of a students’ boarding house, on which a number of
young fellows were sitting. He was hailed by several of them and paused
to chat with his particular chum, Tom Hackett, who played centre on the
lacrosse team.
“Haven’t seen you for several days to more than chirp at you,” said
Hackett. “Where have you been keeping yourself?”
“Home.”
“Must be plugging hard. You missed lots of fun last night. Party of us
went down to the Monumental. Hot show there this week. Say, there are
actually some pretty girls in the bunch. One is a peach.”
“Oh, they give me lassitude!” retorted Fillmore. “They’re too cheap.
Picked out of the slums. When you get to talking with ’em, and see just
how coarse they are they make you sick. I’ve been seeing something more
interesting. Speaking of dark-eyed girls, I’d like to show you one
stopping over at my sister’s, where I board.”
“What’s that?” cried Hackett. “Ah! so that’s why you’ve been under
cover lately! Ah-ha! The cat is out!”
“I suppose that has had something to do with it,” admitted the captain
of the lacrosse team honestly. “This one is something entirely
different from the kind you were talking about. Better drop over and
see her. There’s another one there, a blonde; but she’s been ill, and
she’s far from well now. The brunette and the blonde are great friends.
The blonde is some distant relative of John Loder, my sister’s husband.
I should say she ought to be a daisy when she’s well, for she’s pretty
now, although she hasn’t any color. Got a bad cold last winter and
had to go South. The brunette went with her. They’re staying here in
Baltimore until the weather gets settled so that the blonde can go
farther North without danger.”
“Oh, you sly dog!” laughed Hackett. “Supposed you were plugging, and
you’ve been lingering near two pretty girls. Thought it strange you
broke away so suddenly after practice the last few days. I suppose
you’ll find time to play Saturday?”
“You know I will. I’m not as far gone as that, although the black eyes
of Inza have rather upset me.”
“Inza—that’s her name?”
“Yes. Hack, she’s the most beautiful girl I have ever seen. She’s a
real queen, and no mistake. She’s cultured, and she’s traveled a great
deal in this country and foreign lands. She’s so sympathetic, too. You
should see how she cares for Elsie.”
“Elsie—she’s the invalid?”
“Yes. She’s a sort of invalid, although she won’t acknowledge it, and
she’s the bravest little creature in the world. Inza told me that
Elsie was very ill this winter, but she wouldn’t acknowledge it to any
one. Just drop round to-morrow evening and I’ll present you to both
girls, though I warn you not to get smashed on Inza. It won’t do any
good, and it may make you uncomfortable.”
“Oh, I see; you’re going to make a set for her yourself. Come, come,
Fillmore! I didn’t think you’d go daft over any girl.”
“Rot! I haven’t. It’s no use. I know better than that, old man. She’s
good company, and I like her; but she is the kind to hold a fellow off
and wither him with her eyes if he gets a bit fresh. I wouldn’t dare
attempt to make love to her. I’d get a call quicker than lightning.”
“And that makes her all the more interesting and attractive. Oh, yes
it does! All the girls have been mashed on you, and you’ve turned up
your aristocratic nose at them. Now you happen to find one who doesn’t
think you are the luminary of the world, and the result is that you’re
a goner. Well, well, well!”
“Not very well, thank you,” returned Fillmore. “Don’t get a notion that
you’re a Solomon. I’m playing my own game with the young lady of the
dark eyes. She can’t fool me a great deal, Tom. It’s rather interesting
sport. I’m taking care not to let myself get too far gone, for I know
it’s hopeless. She’s engaged and soon to be married.”
Hackett whistled.
“Engaged, eh? But then you know more than one engagement has been
smashed. You might cut the fellow out. Who is he?”
“None other than Frank Merriwell, the former great Yale athlete.”
Hackett whistled again.
“That fellow, eh? I’ve met some chaps who seemed to think him the
wizard of the world. Let me see, hasn’t he been touring lately with an
athletic team and simply eating everything up that he came across?”
“Yes, he’s been covering himself with glory in every department of
sport. What do you think he’s doing now?”
“Give it up.”
“Organizing a lacrosse team, with the idea of going after the amateur
championship of the United States. He wants a game with us. Of course
we don’t have to play him, but I understand he expects to have Onslaw
and several other Harvard players on his team.”
A third time Hackett whistled.
“What do you say to that? Do you want to play him, Fred?”
“I don’t mind. His team will be easy for us, and it might give us a
chance to rub it into those Harvard chaps some. Besides that, I’ve been
thinking, if he really gets Onslaw, it might make an opening for me to
even up with that duffer.”
“Sure thing, old man! You’ve been pining for such a chance. But the
success of Merriwell in other things seems to proclaim it possible that
he will succeed at lacrosse.”
“Don’t be silly, Hack! Do you fancy a picked-up team can beat us? I
guess not! It takes teamwork to play the game, and a team, in order to
be great, must work together a long time. We’re at our best now. If we
were to go against Harvard again we’d whitewash ’em.”
“I believe that.”
“I know it. Oh, I don’t fear Merriwell’s team in the least. He’ll have
some dubs on it. One fellow is Bart Hodge, who is engaged to Elsie
Bellwood, the invalid. She hasn’t wanted him to know anything about
her illness, and so it has been kept from him. She thought he would
leave Frank, and she says Merriwell can’t get along without Hodge as a
catcher in all baseball games, so she kept her illness quiet.”
“It’s plain you’re decidedly in favor of playing Merriwell’s team.”
“Rather.”
“Well, I think what you say about it will go. Have you any positive
reason to believe he wants a game with Hopkins?”
“Why, yes; Inza—or, Miss Burrage—told me he wrote expressing such a
desire. She is anxious for us to give him a game.”
“And that has a great deal to do with your feelings,” laughed Hackett.
“Oh, I wouldn’t mind beating Mr. Merriwell, just to take some of the
confidence out of Miss Inza. It would please me to show him up before
her.”
“Go ahead. I think you can fix it.”
“If I knew he’d have Onslaw I wouldn’t hesitate. Just as soon as I
find out Onslaw will play with Merriwell’s team I’ll inform Miss
Burrage that we’re simply waiting for a challenge or a proposition from
Merriwell.”
“That will be all right!” exclaimed Hackett. “I wouldn’t mind getting
against Mr. Merriwell at something and rubbing it into him. I’m tired
of hearing him proclaimed the greatest all-round wonder the United
States has produced.”
“So am I. And Miss Burrage has an idea that he cannot be downed. She
smiles scornfully when I hint that Merriwell has had luck and might
meet with just as many defeats if his luck turned. Then Miss Bellwood
is equally confident.”
“Say, old man, I’m going to accept your invitation and come round to
get a look at these girls.”
“All right, but remember my warning about the black-eyed one. She’ll
take your fancy, but that won’t do you any good.”
“Oh, I don’t know!” said Hackett teasingly. “I think I see through
your little game. You’re planning to get on the inside track and push
Merriwell out. Better keep me away. I might steal a march on you, old
man.”
Fillmore flushed.
“I’m not worrying about that,” he declared, as he rose to leave.
“You’re hit hard,” chuckled Hackett, also rising. “I’ll walk down the
street with you. This Inza must be a peach to upset level-headed Fred
Fillmore after such a fashion.”