NEIL GOES IN
But what a dismal beginning it was!
Pearse, who had taken Gillam's place at right half-back, misjudged the
long, low kick, just managed to tip the ball with one outstretched hand
as it went over his head, and so had to turn and chase it back to the
goal-line. But Mason had seen the danger and was before him. Seizing the
bouncing pigskin, he was able to reach the ten-yard line ere the
Robinson right end bore him to earth. A moment later the ball went to
the other side as a penalty for holding, and it was Robinson's first
down on Erskine's twelve yards. Neil, watching intently from the bench,
groaned loudly. Stone, beside him, kicked angrily into the turf.
"That settles it," he muttered glumly. "Idiots!"
Pearse it was who met that first fierce onslaught of the Brown's tandem,
and he was new to the play; but Mason was behind him, and he was sent
crashing into the leader like a ball from the mouth of a cannon. The
tandem stopped; a sudden bedlam of voices from the stands broke forth;
there were cries of "Ball! Ball!" and Witter flung himself through,
rolled over a few times, and on the twenty-yard line, with half the
Erskine team striving to pull him on and all the Robinson team trying to
pull him back, groaned a faint "Down!" Robinson's tackle had fumbled the
pass, and for the moment Erskine's goal was out of danger.
"Line up!" shouted Ted Foster. "Signal!"
The men scurried to their places.
"_49--35--23!_"
Back went the ball and Pearse was circling out toward his own left end,
Paul interfering. The north stand leaped to its feet, for it looked for
a moment as though the runner was safely away. But Seider, the Brown's
right half, got him about the knees, and though Pearse struggled and was
dragged fully five yards farther, finally brought him down. Fifteen
yards was netted, and the Erskine supporters found cause for
loud acclaim.
"Bully tackle, that," said Neil. Stone nodded.
"Seems to me we can get around those ends," he muttered; "especially the
left. I don't think Bloch is much of a wonder. There goes Pearse."
The ends were again worked by the two half-backs and the distance thrice
won. The purple banners waved ecstatically and the cheers for Erskine
thundered out. Neil was slapping Stone wildly on the knee.
"Hold on," protested the left end, "try the other. That one's a bit
lame."
"Isn't Pearse a peach?" said Neil. "Oh, but I wish I was out there!"
"You may get a whack at it yet," answered Stone. "There goes a jab at
the line."
"I may," sighed Neil. He paused and watched Mason get a yard through the
Brown's left tackle. "Only, if I don't, I suppose I won't get my E."
"Oh, yes, you will. The Artmouth game counts, you know."
"I wasn't in it."
"That's so, you weren't; I'd forgotten. But I think you'll get it, just
the--Good work, Gale!" Paul had made four yards outside of tackle, and
it was again Erskine's first down on the fifty-five-yard line. The
cheers from the north stand were continuous; Neil and Stone were obliged
to put their heads together to hear what each other said.
For five minutes longer Erskine's wonderful good fortune continued, and
the ball was at length on Robinson's twenty-eight yards near the north
side-line. Foster was waving his hand entreatingly toward the seats,
begging for a chance to make his signals heard. From across the field,
in the sudden comparative stillness of the north stand, thundered the
confident slogan of Robinson. The brown-stockinged captain and
quarter-back was shouting incessantly:
"Steady now, fellows! Break through! Break through! Smash 'em up!" He
ran from one end to the other, thumping each encouragingly on the back,
whispering threats and entreaties into their ears. "Now, then, Robinson,
let's stop 'em right here!"
Foster, red-faced and hoarse, leaned forward, patted Stowell on the
thigh, caught the ball, passed it quickly to Mason as that youth plunged
for the line, and then threw himself into the breach, pushing, heaving,
fighting for every inch that gave under his torn and scuffled shoes.
"Second down; four to gain!"
Robinson was awake now to her danger. Foster saw the futility of further
attempts at the line for the present and called for a run around left
end. The ball went to Pearse, but Bloch for once was ready for him, and,
getting by Kendall, nailed the runner prettily four yards back of the
line to the triumphant pæans of the south stand.
When the teams had again lined up Foster dropped back as though to try a
kick for goal, a somewhat difficult feat considering the angle. The
Robinson captain was alarmed; he was ready to believe that a team who
had already sprung one surprise on him was capable of securing goals
from any angle whatever; his voice arose in hoarse entreaty:
"Get through and block this kick, fellows! Get through! Get through!"
"_Signal_!" cried Foster. "_44--18--23!_"
The ball flew back from Stowell and Foster caught it breast-high. The
Erskine line held for a moment, then the blue-clad warriors came
plunging through desperately, and had Foster attempted a kick the ball
would never have gone ten feet; but Foster, who knew his limitations in
the kicking line as well as any one else, had entertained no such idea.
The pigskin, fast clutched to Paul's breast, was already circling the
Brown's left end. Devoe had put his opponent out of the play, thereby
revenging himself for like treatment in the first half, and Pearse, a
veritable whirlwind, had bowled over the Robinson left half. There is,
perhaps, no prettier play than a fake kick, when it succeeds, and the
friends of Erskine recognized the fact and showed their appreciation in
a way that threatened to shake the stand from its foundations.
Paul and Pearse were circling well out in the middle of the field toward
the Robinson goal, now some thirty yards distant measured by white
lines, but far more than that by the course they were taking. Behind
them streamed a handful of desperate runners; before them, rapidly
getting between them and the goal, sped White, the Robinson captain and
quarter. To the spectators a touch-down looked certain, for it was one
man against two; the pursuit was not dangerous. But to Paul it seemed at
each plunge a more forlorn attempt. So far he had borne more than his
share of the punishment sustained by the tackle-tandem defense; he had
worked hard on offense since the present half began, and now, wearied
and aching in every bone and muscle, he found himself scarce able to
keep pace with his interference.
He would have yielded the ball to Pearse had he been able to tell the
other to take it; but his breath was too far gone for speech. So he
plunged onward, each step slower than that before, his eyes fixed on the
farthest white streak. From three sides of the great field poured forth
the resonance of twelve thousand voices, triumphant, despairing,
appealing, inciting, the very acme of sound.
Yet Paul vows that he heard nothing save the beat of Pearse's footsteps
and the awful pounding of his own heart.
On the fifteen-yard line, just to the left of the goal, the critical
moment came. White, with clutching, outstretched hands, strove to evade
Pearse's shoulder, and did so. But the effort cost him what he gained,
for, dodging Pearse and striving to make a sudden turn toward Paul, his
foot slipped and he measured his length on the turf; and ere he had
regained his feet the pursuit passed over him. Pearse met the first
runner squarely and both went down. At the same instant Paul threw up
one hand blindly and fell across the last line.
On the north stand hats and flags sailed through the air. The south
stand was silent.
Paul lay unmoving where he had fallen. Simson was at his side in a
moment. Neil, his heart thumping with joy, watched anxiously from the
bench. Presently the group dissolved and Paul emerged between Simson and
Browning, white of face and stumbling weakly on his legs, but grinning
like a jovial satyr. Mills turned to the bench and Neil's heart jumped
into his throat; but it was Smith and not he who struggled feverishly
out of his sweater, donned a head-harness, and sped on to the field.
Neil sighed and sank back.
"Next time," said Stone sympathetically. But Neil shook his head.
"I guess there isn't going to be any 'next time,'" he said dolefully.
"Time's nearly up."
"Not a bit of it; the last ten minutes is longer than all the rest of
the game," answered Stone. "I wonder who'll try the goal."
"We've got to have it," said Neil. "Surely Devoe can kick an easy one
like that! Why, it's dead in the center!" Stone shook his head.
"I know, but Bob's got a bad way of getting nervous times like this. He
knows that if he misses we've lost the game, unless we can manage to
score again, which isn't likely; and it's dollars to doughnuts he
doesn't come anywhere near it!"
Paul staggered up to the bench, Simson carefully wrapping a blanket
about him, and the fellows made room for him a little way from where
Neil sat. He stretched his long legs out gingerly because of the aches,
sighed contentedly, and looked about him. His eyes fell on Neil.
"Hello, chum!" he said weakly. "Haven't you gone in yet?"
"Not yet," answered Neil cheerfully. "How are you feeling?"
"Oh, I'm--ouch!--I'm all right; a bit sore here and there."
"Devoe's going to kick," said Stone uneasily.
The ball had been brought out, and now Foster was holding it directly in
front of the center of the cross-bar. The south stand was cheering and
singing wildly in a desperate attempt to rattle the Erskine captain. The
latter looked around once, and the Robinson supporters, taking that as a
sign of nervousness, redoubled their noise.
"Muckers!" groaned Neil. Stone grinned.
"Everything goes with them," he said.
The referee's hand went down, Devoe stepped forward, the blue-clad line
leaped into the field, and the ball sped upward. As it fell Neil turned
to Stone and the two stared at each other in doubt. From both stands
arose a confused roar. Then their eyes sought the score-board at the
west end of the field and they groaned in unison.
"NO GOAL."
"What beastly luck!" muttered Stone.
Neil was silent. Mills and Jones were standing near by and looking
toward the bench and Neil imagined they were discussing him. He watched
breathlessly, then his heart gave a suffocating leap and he was racing
toward the two coaches.
"Warm up, Fletcher."
That was all, but it was all Neil asked for. In a twinkling he was
trotting along the line, stretching his cramped legs and arms. As he
passed the bench he tried to look unconcerned, but the row of kindly,
grinning faces told him that his delight was common property. Paul
silently applauded.
Meanwhile the teams had again faced each other. Twelve minutes of play
remained and the score-board said: Erskine 5, Opponents 6. Both elevens
had made changes. For Erskine, Graham, immense of bulk but slow, had
replaced Stowell at center, and Reardon was in Foster's position.
Robinson had put in new men at left tackle, right end, and full-back.
The game went on again.
Devoe got the kick-off and brought the ball back to his thirty yards;
but he was injured when thrown and Bell took his place. Smith and Mason
each made two yards around the ends and Pearse got through left-guard
for one. Then a plunge at right tackle resulted disastrously, Mason
being forced back three yards, and Smith took the pigskin for a try
outside of right tackle. He was stopped easily and Mason kicked.
Robinson got the ball on her fifty yards and ran it back to Erskine's
forty-three. Once more the tackle-tandem was brought into play. Smith
failed to stop it, and the head of the defense was given to Pearse; but
Robinson's new left tackle was a good man, and yard by yard Erskine was
borne back toward her goal. The south stand blossomed anew with brown
silk and bunting.
On her thirty yards Erskine was penalized for off-side and the ball was
almost under her goal. The first fierce plunge of the tandem broke the
Purple line in twain and the backs went through for three yards. Mason
was hurt and the whistle shrilled. A cheer arose from the north stand
and a youth running into the field from the side-line heard it with
fast-beating heart.
"_Erskine! Erskine! Erskine! Rah-rah-rah, rah-rah-rah, rah-rah-rah!
Fletcher! Fletcher! Fletcher!_"
Mason was taken off, protesting feebly, and on the next plunge of the
tackle-tandem Neil, with Pearse behind him, brought hope back to Erskine
hearts, for the "antidote" worked to perfection again. All the pent-up
strength and enthusiasm of Neil's body and heart were turned loose, and
he played, as he had known he could if given the opportunity, as he had
never played before, either at Erskine or Hillton. The spirit of battle
held him; he was perfectly happy, and every knock and bruise brought him
joy rather than pain. His chance had come to prove to both the coaches
and the fellows that their first estimate of him was the correct one.
Robinson made her distance and gained the twenty-yard line by a trick
play outside of left tackle; but that was all she did on that occasion,
for in the next three downs she failed to advance the ball a single
inch, and it went to Erskine. Neil dropped back and the pigskin settled
into his ready hands. When it next touched earth it was in Robinson's
possession on her own fifty yards. That punt brought a burst of applause
from the north seats. Robinson tried tackle-tandem again and Neil and
Pearse stopped it short. Again, and again there was no advance; but when
Neil picked himself out of the pile-up he made the discovery that
something was radically wrong with his right arm and shoulder. He sat
down on the trampled turf to think it over and closed his eyes. He heard
the whistle and Reardon's voice above him:
"Hurt?"
Neil looked up and shook his head. His gaze fell on Simson headed toward
him followed by the water-carrier. He staggered to his feet, Reardon's
arm about him.
"Keep 'Baldy' away," he muttered. "I'm all right; but don't let him get
to me."
Reardon looked at his white face for a second in doubt. Simson was
almost up to them. He wanted to win, did Reardon, and--
"All right here," he cried.
Neil went to his place, Simson retreated, suspicion written all over his
face, and the whistle sounded.
Neil met the next attack with his left shoulder fore-most. And it was
Erskine's ball on Robinson's fifty-yards.
On the first try around the Brown's left end Smith took the leather
twenty yards, catching Bloch napping. The north stand was on its feet in
an instant. Cheer after cheer broke forth encouraging the Purple
warriors to fight their way across those six remaining white lines and
wrest victory from defeat. But there was no time to struggle over the
thirty yards that intervened. A long run might bring a touch-down if
Erskine could again get a back around an end, but two minutes was too
short a time for line-bucking; and, besides, Reardon had his orders.
On the side-line the timekeeper was keeping a careful eye upon his
stop-watch.
A try by Neil outside of right tackle netted but a yard and left him
half fainting on the ground. Pearse set off for the left end of the line
on the next play, but never reached it; the Robinson right tackle got
through on to him and stopped him well back of his line.
"Third down," called the referee, "five to gain!"
The teams were lined up about half-way between the Robinson goal and the
south side of the field, the ball just inside the thirty-yard line.
Reardon had been directed to try for a field-goal as soon as he got
inside the twenty-five yards. This was only the thirty yards, and the
angle was severe. There was perhaps one chance in three of making a goal
from placement; a drop-kick was out of the question. Moreover, to make
matters more desperate, Neil was injured; just how badly Reardon didn't
know, but the other's white, drawn face told its own story. If the
attempt failed he would be held to blame by the coaches, if it succeeded
he would be praised for good generalship; it was a way coaches had. His
consideration of the problem lasted but a fraction of a minute. He
glanced at Neil and their eyes met. The quarter-back's mind was made up
on the instant.
"_Signal_!" he cried. "_Steady, fellows; we want this; every one hold
hard_!"
He trotted back to the thirty-five-yard line and dropped to his knees,
directly behind and almost facing center. Neil took up his position
three yards from him and facing the goal. Pearse and Smith stood guard
between him and the line. The Robinson right half turned and sped back
to join the quarter, whose commands to "Get through and stop this kick!"
were being shouted lustily from his position near the goal-line.
"Signal!" Reardon repeated. Graham stooped over the ball. Neil, pale but
with a little smile about his mouth, measured his distance. Victory
depended upon him. From where Reardon knelt to the goal was nearly forty
yards on a straight line and the angle was severe. If he made it, well
and good; if he missed--He recalled what Mills had told him ere he
sent him in:
"I think you can win this for us, Fletcher. Once inside their
twenty-five Reardon will give you the ball for a kick from drop or
placement, as you think best. Whatever happens, don't let your nerves
get the best of you. If you miss, why, you've missed, that's all. Don't
think the world's coming to an end because we've been beaten. A hundred
years from now, when you and I aren't even memories, Erskine will still
be turning out football teams. But if we can, we want to win. Just keep
cool and do your level best, that's all we ask. Now get in there."
Neil took a deep breath. He'd do his best. If the line held, the ball
ought to go over. He was cool enough now, and although his shoulder
seemed on fire, the smile about his mouth deepened and grew confident.
Reardon stretched forth his hands.
"_Signal!_" he cried for the third time; but no signal was forthcoming.
Instead Graham sped the ball back to him, steady and true, and the
Robinson line, almost caught napping, failed to charge until the oval
had settled into Reardon's hands and had been placed upon the ground
well cocked at the goal. Then the Brown's warriors broke through and
bore down, big and ugly, upon Pearse and Smith; but Neil was stepping
toward the ball; a long stride, a short one, a long one, and toe and
pigskin came together. Pearse was down and Smith was shouldering
valiantly at a big guard. Two blue-clad arms swept upward almost into
the path of the rising ball; there was a confused sound of crashing
bodies and rasping canvas, and then a Robinson man bounded against Neil
and sent him reeling to earth.
For an instant the desire to lie still and close his eyes was strong.
But there was the ball! He rolled half over, and raising himself on his
left hand looked eagerly toward the posts. The pigskin, turning lazily
over and over, was still in flight. Straight for the goal it was
speeding, but now it had begun to drop. Neil's heart stood still. Would
it clear the cross-bar? It seemed scarcely possible, but even as despair
seized him, for an instant the bar came between his straining eyes and
the dropping ball!
A figure with tattered purple sleeves near at hand leaped into the air,
waving his arms wildly. On the stand across the field pandemonium
broke loose.
Neil closed his eyes.
A moment later Simson found him there, sitting on the thirty-five-yard
line, one arm hanging limply over his knee, his eyes closed, and his
white face wreathed in smiles.
Erskine 10, Opponents 6, said the score-board.