MONTY GOES OVER
Coach Bonner ran in five substitutes, Bowen at right guard, Peet at
right tackle, Hanser at right half, Barnes at full and Weston at
quarter. Monty, one of the blanket-wrapped line on the bench, witnessed
Bowen’s departure for the trampled battle field with disappointment.
He had been hoping that Mr. Bonner would decide on him for the place.
But Bowen was an old hand and a better player, and, in spite of
disappointment, Monty acknowledged the wisdom of the coach’s choice.
Kinley was still holding down the right guard position and would
certainly come out before long, but when he did there was Hersum ready,
or, if not Hersum, then Little. Monty couldn’t see where he came into
it today.
Middleton made no more changes in her line-up. Grafton’s new backfield
worked less smoothly than the old and the last quarter was but three
plays old when Hanser was driven far back when attempting a wide end
run and there pulled to earth by two desperate opponents. It was then
fourth down, with nearly eighteen to go, and Weston kicked from close
behind the line. The ball was sent away too low and a Middleton forward
knocked it down and most of the twenty-two players went after it. When
it finally came to a stop it was smuggled under the canvas jacket of a
Middleton tackle on Grafton’s eighteen yards.
It was the home team’s time to celebrate. A fine hubbub broke forth in
the stand and along one side of the field as the two teams lined up
almost under the shadow of the north goal. Grafton made a desperate
defence of that goal, but some of the second-string fellows were found
wanting. She staved off that touchdown as long as she could and twice
the distance had to be measured, but in the end――it took Middleton her
full allowance of eight plays to do it――an obnoxious halfback bored
through and when the tangle of squirming bodies was pulled or hurled
aside he was found to have placed the ball just two inches over the
line!
An equally obnoxious tackle added another point to the six and Grafton
kicked off to Middleton. There was still something like eight minutes
of the period remaining and the Grafton supporters had lost their
feeling of security. Middleton came back hard. In the first mix-up
Weston was hurt and Blake came back to quarter. Middleton began at
the wings again and tried hard to reach scoring distance of the
Scarlet-and-Gray’s goal. Several plays netted good gains, but a fumble
and a penalty equalized matters. A desperately long forward-pass that
ought never to have succeeded did succeed and again Grafton found
herself almost under her goal. The Middleton rooters were cheering
and shouting wildly now. Coach Bonner sent Musgrave back to center
and Winslow to left half. Another forward heave struck the ground.
Middleton began a hard battering of the right side of the enemy’s line
and made short gains there. Grafton held fast on her twenty-one yards
and kicked on second down. Middleton started back from the middle of
the field and came fast. An end run went around Bellows for a dozen
yards and Bowen was punctured again for six. Hanrihan stopped the next
attack and sustained injuries. Gordon replaced him. A forward-pass
netted a short gain for Middleton and then the fullback banged at Bowen
again and romped through for first down.
Monty, watching dubiously, heard his name called. Mr. Bonner was
curling a finger toward him. “Go on in,” said the coach briefly. “Send
Bowen out. You can stop those gains if you get the jump, Crail. Tell
Blake to play his backfield deeper on the shifts. Keep your eyes open,
Crail, and show your mettle.”
The coach shoved him toward the field and Monty hurried in, pulling his
head protector down.
“Report to the referee,” cautioned Tray as he passed, and Monty sought
that official.
“Right guard, sir,” he announced.
“All right, Crail,” greeted Winslow breathlessly. “Who’s off?”
“Bowen. Where’s Blake?”
“Here! What is it?” And then, when Monty had delivered his message:
“All right,” he said. “Come on now, Grafton! Get down and under ’em and
heave ’em back! Let’s take that ball away!”
Monty stepped in between Musgrave and Gordon and faced his opponent,
a square-shouldered youth with a dirt-stained face and a grimly set
mouth. Middleton tried him out on the first play and Monty proved that
time no better than Bowen. But the secondary defence backed up and the
gain was short. Then an end run was stopped for a loss.
“Watch this, Tom!” counseled Winslow. “Look out on the right there!
_Get that man!_” The attack on the line was a fake and the quarter was
stealing out on the left, looking for an opening. Monty shook himself
free of the mêlée and started across in the wake of Gordon. Tray was
out of it now and the Middleton interference swept in. Gordon went
down, taking his attacker with him, and Monty, stumbling over the two
forms, strained for the runner. Winslow was beside him, and it was
Winslow who made the tackle. Down went the runner like a keg of nails,
the Grafton captain’s arms closing like vises about his legs. Monty
had slewed aside and had poised himself to drop in front of the runner
when something big and dirty-brown leaped in front of him. It was the
ball. It bounded once erratically and then Monty had it, had tucked
it into the crook of his left arm, had wheeled and was leaping up the
field.
But the enemy hedged him in and he had scarcely struck his gait when
the first striped-legged player dove at him. Monty swerved, stumbled,
but got by. Then the enemy were all about him, it seemed, and he
could only clutch the ball more desperately and wait for the tackle,
meanwhile, however, plunging straight ahead, right arm thrusting at
eager bodies, grimly resolved to gain every inch possible before he
went crashing to earth. Cries of friend and foe arose about it. One of
his own men leaped in front of him, smashed into a Middleton player and
went down. Monty leaped over the writhing legs, tore loose from hands
that tried to grasp his knees, staggered and recovered. Before him was
open field, but behind him came pounding feet.
Not until that instant did he measure the distance that lay between
him and success. The play had begun near Grafton’s twenty-five-yard
line and Monty had captured the ball at about the twenty. Now he was
crossing the thirty-five, and nearly two-thirds of the field stretched
before him. He was no sprinter, was Monty, but he could set a good
pace and keep it up for a long while, and now he had the advantage
of being fresh and untired. His leg and back muscles had felt stiff
and sore when he had trotted onto the field a few moments since, but
he had quickly forgotten the fact, and now it was only a knowledge of
his inability to run fast that troubled him. Had he been Winslow or
Ordway or Nick Blake he might have left the pack behind without much
difficulty, but as it was he feared every moment to feel arms wrap
themselves about him. He dared not look back directly, but, near the
forty-five yards, he stole a sidewise glace. A confusion of moving
bodies rewarded the fleeting look. He got the impression that one was
dangerously near and the rest well behind. He was heading straight
for the goal-posts, and in doing so, since he had started his race
from well toward the side of the gridiron, he was, perhaps, giving his
pursuers a slight advantage, traveling a few feet further than they in
case they had begun the pursuit nearer the middle of the field. The
difference could be only slight as to distance, but it might mean just
the fraction of a second that would defeat him. He straightened his
course and no longer focussed eager eyes on the goal. Breathing hurt
him now and the muscles down the front of his legs ached as he forced
himself on at a pace he had never before attempted.
He was well past the middle of the field before he heard the shouting
from the stand and the side lines. He realized now that the shouting
had been going on from the first, but it had been only a meaningless
roar in his ears. Now he mentally pictured the tense faces on the
crowded stand and along the ropes and felt an alien sympathy for the
hundred who were shouting their throats dry in encouragement of his
pursuers. For he knew that only a tithe of that uproar meant a desire
for his success. It was those behind whom the cries acclaimed. The
runner’s strained face twisted in a grim smile as he realized it, and,
smiling, he found new resolution to win his race. It is generally the
under dog who fights hardest.
Past the enemy’s forty now, and still free! The footsteps pounded
behind on the frosty turf and yet seemed scarce nearer. If only he
could hold on a few moments longer! Barely more than a half dozen
trampled white lines remained to be crossed. If only he dared look
behind! His head was falling back now with every plunge, the arm that
held the ball seemed nerveless. Once he stumbled slightly, enough to
throw him out of his stride, and it seemed whole minutes to him before
he had settled back into the dogged pace. His steps were shorter now.
His feet were leaden and every lift was made at a greater effort. Once,
near the twenty-five yards, he heard his name called gaspingly, but
he knew better than to heed. It was a trick of the enemy. It was only
later that he realized the error of that reasoning.
On and still on! Across the twenty-yard-line, over the fifteen! The
footsteps behind sounded farther away, but he would take no chances.
The lime lines were an interminable distance apart. It seemed to Monty
that he spent minutes between one and another and that he lifted his
aching knees a dozen times. He wondered why the pursuers failed to
reach him, for he was sure that he was moving no faster than a walk!
Then, abruptly, but one white mark lay ahead, and a sudden certainty
of triumph filled him with joy. Even if he was caught now, he could,
he told himself, struggle on for that last five yards. Already two
were gone and the goal line dragged itself to meet him. Another stride
and another and the line passed waveringly underfoot. Instinctively he
turned to the right toward the posts, but the turning mixed his feet
up and he fell to his knees. Weakly he arose once more and went on. He
was dimly aware of the thud of meeting bodies nearby. He covered the
last twenty feet fairly in the act of falling, so that when the nearest
goal-post swam past his misty sight he had only time to put his arm out
before he stretched his length on the sod.
But oh, the delicious feel of that ground under him! He wondered if one
felt as he did before one fainted. If only he could get air into his
empty lungs! He tried hard to take long breaths, but could only pant,
and the breath seemed to get no further than his throat. The inside
of his head was swirling around and around curiously and he couldn’t
see. Then he found that he had closed his eyes, which explained the
darkness, and opened them weakly and saw a blur of russet-green. That
was the grass. Perhaps if he turned over on his back――――
The question was settled for him, for someone laid hands on his
shoulders and turned him face upwards. And someone shouted “Water!”
in a perfectly thunderous voice, and Monty wondered if he would ever
be able to shout like that! The next moment he was snatched back from
semi-consciousness by hands tugging at his left arm. They were trying
to get the ball away from him! And he had thought them friends! He
resisted with every ounce of strength left him and opened his eyes to a
glare of blue sky that pained him and said as loud and defiantly as he
could: “_Down!_”
The person beside him heard the whisper and laughed pantingly. “All
right, Crail,” he said. “Drop the ball and give me that arm.”
Monty looked up and saw the face of Hobo Ordway bending over him. He
sighed and released his tense muscles. Ordway began pumping his arms
and Monty shook his head weakly. “I’m all right――now, partner,” he
murmured. “Just――a little――short of breath.”
Further speech was impossible, for something very cold and dripping
obliterated speech and sight. Monty squirmed and said “_Ugh!_” and
wrested an arm away from Ordway. “Gosh! Want to drown a fellow?” he
demanded.
“Lie still,” replied a callous voice. The sponge went on sopping and
Monty decided that, after the first shock, it felt rather pleasant. He
was breathing more easily now, although his lungs still felt hot and
scraped, but when he raised his knees he had to groan.
“Where is it?” asked Davy Richards.
“Just my legs, thanks,” explained Monty, very elaborately since he had
an idea that his voice was not yet in good working order. “They are
awfully tired.”
“I’ll fix ’em!” The sponge left his face and went sopping down on the
fronts of his pants. It took a moment or two for the water to penetrate
the canvas and the padding, but when it did it felt wonderful against
those aching legs. “How’s that?” asked the trainer.
“Great, thanks! I guess I’ll get up.”
“No hurry. You’re not wanted.”
“Not wanted? Why not?”
“Williams is in.”
“Williams! In my place? What for?” Monty sat up very suddenly and
stared amazedly toward the field. At the farther end the game was going
on without him! Monty gave a lunge that almost sent Davy on his face
and struggled to his feet. “Here,” he cried, “I’m in that!”
“No, you’re not, lad. You’re off. You did your share. Come on across to
the bench and get a blanket on you.”
“But――but I made the touchdown, didn’t I?” demanded Monty anxiously.
“Sure you did. And Winslow kicked goal. Come on now.”
“But――when? Where was I? Do you mean they kicked goal while I was lying
there?”
“They did. Maybe you wanted them to wait for you,” said the trainer
sarcastically.
“Oh!” Monty suffered Davy to put an arm under his elbow and lead him
across the corner of the gridiron. “He might have let me play it out,”
he added after a moment.
“Sure, you’d be playin’ a fine game, wouldn’t you? There’s only a
minute or two more, lad. Let the other fellow have his chance.”
As they neared the bench a smattering of applause met him, but Monty
scarcely heard it. “How far behind was the other fellow when I crossed
the goal line?” he asked Davy.
“Do you mean Ordway?”
“No, I mean the――the Middleton fellow; the one who chased me all the
way down.”
“There wasn’t any Middleton feller,” replied Davy. “They never had a
chance.”
“_What!_” Monty sank to the bench, wide-eyed, open-mouthed. “Do you
mean to tell me that I was running away from one of our fellows?”
“Ay,” answered Davy, with a chuckle. “It was you and Ordway alone after
the forty yards, and you gained on him all the way!”
“Snakes!” groaned Monty.