A HOT SECOND HALF.
“I haven’t found the opening, Tom,” said Fillmore, in a low tone, as he
and Hackett rested during intermission. “It will come, though.”
“Shame they got that goal!”
“That’s right, it was a shame. Know how it happened?”
“Why, Merriwell just run right round the whole of you fellows.”
“I turned my ankle just as I was jumping to check him,” lied Fillmore.
“If it hadn’t been for that he’d never got past me.”
“I thought it was remarkable you should let him dodge you that way.”
The Harvard and Yale students were singing in chorus when the players
returned to the field. They sang:
“For Merry’s a jolly good fellow,
Merry’s a jolly good fellow,
Merry’s a jolly good fellow,
Which nobody can deny.”
“Wouldn’t that make you sick!” growled Fillmore. “Merriwell gave
Harvard more trouble than any other ten Yale men when he was in
college, yet here are those Harvard chaps joining the Yale gang in
singing his praises.”
The teams lined up, and once more Vernell proved his skill at centre
by drawing the ball from Hackett, much to the disgust of the latter.
The first half had been lively; the second half was hot. Both teams
went into it fiercely, straining every nerve. Up and down the field
flew the ball. Woodin made some splendid runs. Fillmore distinguished
himself by taking the ball out of Morgan’s stick just as Dade was on
the point of trying for goal. At times it was difficult to follow all
the rapid plays.
Still it was some time before either side forced the goal guards to
sweat. Hodge was the first one compelled to work hard, and he made five
difficult stops in rapid succession, causing the spectators to cheer
him loudly.
Frank laughed softly.
“Good old Bart!” he muttered. “I knew I had picked the right man to
guard the net. Reckon Onslaw knows it now.”
Onslaw had advised Frank to use Wilson.
It was Ready who passed the ball to Thatcher.
Thatcher tried to advance it, but was pocketed by two of the Hopkins
defenders. Neither Morgan nor Wilkins was in position to take the ball,
so Thatcher was compelled to pass it back to Merriwell.
It was a poor throw, for Mowry was nearer the ball and seemed sure to
get it.
How Frank covered ground so fast no one seemed able to tell, but,
running like the wind, he thrust out his stick and took the ball just
as Mowry was on the point of catching it.
A yell of delight went up from his many admirers.
“Wake up, there, you fellow!” shouted a man. “You didn’t catch it, did
you! Ha! ha! ha!”
Kellogg came at Frank, but Merry easily avoided him, holding his club
high and swaying it as he ran.
Lowe, however, managed to force Merry off to one side.
Frank passed to Onslaw.
A moment later there was a grand scrimmage in front of the Hopkins
goal, in which a number of men of both teams were engaged. Fillmore was
in it, and he found his opportunity. He smashed Onslaw across his bare
shins with the stick, and the Harvard man went down.
The whistle blew.
Fillmore protested regret. Onslaw said nothing. His shins were rubbed
and patched up and he re-entered the game.
Not three minutes later there was another scrimmage, for once more
Frank secured the ball and ran with it to a position where he could
try for goal. Brisbane stopped the ball and drove it away. Players of
both teams went after it and there was a mix-up, Merriwell being in the
midst of it.
Fred Fillmore got into it. They saw a stick sweep through the air. The
blow, as it landed on a player’s head, was heard in the stand.
Again the whistle blew.
Frank Merriwell was prone on the ground with his scalp cut open.
Fillmore had a broken stick, and he was bending over Merriwell,
proclaiming his regret.
Inza Burrage started up, but she saw Frank rise to a sitting posture,
and she sat down again, although her face was deathly white.
“Fred Fillmore did that intentionally,” she exclaimed. “They should put
him out of the game!”
Frank’s injury was quickly dressed. A bandage was tied about his head,
and he continued to play.
“What’s the matter with Merriwell?” yelled a delighted Yale man.
“He’s all right!” answered a hundred voices.
“They’d better put that Hopkins stiff out of the game!” shouted still
another man.
Fillmore was warned by the referee, and the game was resumed.
It was Herb Onslaw who finally shot the ball into the net.
Hopkins was now only one goal in the lead. The local players fought
hard to hold that lead.
The ball was sent into the territory of the Merries, but it did not
remain there long. Starbright shot it back, and Frank took it.
They could not stop him. He carried it down and shot for goal.
Brisbane stopped it, but it fell at his feet.
Wilkins was at hand, and he scooped it into the net.
The score was tied.
Never had Fillmore and his fellows been more desperate. They had
fancied the game safely in their hands; but now they saw it slipping
through their fingers.
It was no use. Again the Hopkins players saw the ball go into
Merriwell’s possession, and again they did their level best to keep
him from reaching a position where he could try for goal.
But, swiftly dodging man after man, Merry wove his way through them
toward the net and the anxious goal keeper.
Brisbane was nervous. He feared he could not stop the ball. That fear
aided in his undoing.
He did not stop it.
Merry cast it deftly into one of the upper corners of the net, and his
team had taken the lead.
After that Hopkins seemed to slump. Had the game lasted a few minutes
more the Merries would have added another score. As it was, it finally
ended four to three, just as the game with Harvard had finished.
The moment the game was over Frank Merriwell walked up to Fred Fillmore.
“You failed in your trick to-day, just as you failed at Hastings’
road house,” he said. “I don’t know how you happened to be chosen the
captain of the Hopkins team. You can play lacrosse, but you are a dirty
fellow.”
“Be careful!” muttered Fillmore. “Be careful what you say!”
“I am very careful. I am going to remain over a few days in Baltimore,
and I shall try to see you again while I am here. If I meet you in a
convenient locality I promise to give you something in return for the
crack on the head that you gave me to-day. That is all.”
That very night Fred Fillmore caught a train at Union Station, bound
for New York. He was not anxious to meet Merriwell again.