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BERT WILSON ON THE GRIDIRON
BY J. W. DUFFIELD
AUTHOR OF "BERT WILSON AT THE WHEEL,"
"WIRELESS OPERATOR," "FADEAWAY BALL,"
"MARATHON WINNER," "AT PANAMA."
NEW YORK
GEORGE SULLY & COMPANY
PUBLISHERS
Copyright, 1914, By
SULLY AND KLEINTEICH
_All rights reserved._
Published and Printed, 1924, by
Western Printing & Lithographing Company
Racine, Wisconsin
Printed in U.S.A.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. NEVER SAY DIE 1
II. RAKED, FORE AND AFT 20
III. A THRILLING EXPLOIT 32
IV. BREAKING THE RULES 52
V. TACKLING THE ARMY 62
VI. REDDY'S RECOLLECTIONS 82
VII. THE LION'S ESCAPE 90
VIII. ON THE TOBOGGAN 108
IX. HAMMERED INTO SHAPE 127
X. IN THE ENEMY'S COUNTRY 140
XI. A DESPERATE FIGHT 153
XII. THE COACH ROBBERY 171
XIII. AN UNEXPECTED MEETING 186
XIV. A PLOT THAT FAILED 195
XV. THE DASH FOR THE GOAL 209
BERT WILSON ON THE GRIDIRON
CHAPTER I
NEVER SAY DIE
"HOLD 'em! Hold 'em! Buck up, fellows. Don't give an inch!"
A storm of cheers swept over the field, as it was seen that the scrubs
were holding the 'Varsity on their ten-yard line.
Three times in succession the 'Varsity players plunged like enraged
bulls against the defenders of the goal, only to be thrown back without
a gain. One more fierce attempt, and the ball went to the scrubs on
downs.
It was unprecedented. It was revolutionary. It shrieked unto heaven. The
poor, despised scrubs were actually holding the haughty 'Varsity men on
even terms. More than that; they even threatened to win. They seemed to
forget that they were doormats for the "regulars," mere "sparring
partners," to be straightened up with one punch and knocked down by the
next. The "forlorn hope" had suddenly become a triumphant hope. The
worm had turned, and turned with a vengeance. Pale and panting,
plastered with mud and drenched with sweat, with "blood in their eyes"
and here and there a little on their features, they faced the "big
fellows" and gave as good as they took.
Reddy, the college trainer, danced up and down on the side lines and
sputtered incoherently. "Bull" Hendricks, the head coach, stamped and
stormed and yelled to his charges to "put it over." The things he said
may not be set down here, but he gave the recording angel a busy
afternoon. His words stung like whips, and under the lash of them the
'Varsity men braced themselves desperately. They burned with shame and
rage. Were they to have a defeat "slapped" upon them by the scrubs? The
college would ring with it, and it would be the sensation of the season.
But the scrubs were not to be denied. They had caught the 'Varsity "off
its stride," and they fought like tigers to clinch their advantage.
Every ounce of strength and determination that they possessed was called
to the front by the prospect of impending victory. A daring run around
the left end netted them twenty yards, and they gained fifteen more on
downs. An easy forward pass was fumbled by the regulars, who were
becoming so demoralized that the men fell all over themselves. The
panic was growing into a rout that promised to end in a Waterloo.
The referee was poising his whistle and looking at his watch, ready to
blow the signal that marked the end of play. There was but one chance
left--a goal from the field. On the 'Varsity team only two men had
seemed to keep their heads. The quarterback and fullback had sought to
stem the tide, but in the general melting away of the defence had been
able to do but little. The ball was now on the scrubs' forty-yard line.
The player who had it fumbled in his eagerness to advance it, and the
'Varsity quarterback pounced on it like a hawk. With almost the same
motion he passed it to the fullback. The opposing line bore down upon
him frantically, but too late. One mighty kick and the pigskin rose in
the air like a bird, soared over the bar between the goal posts, and the
'Varsity was three points to the good. An instant later and the whistle
blew. The game was over.
The hearts of the scrubs went down into their boots. Another minute and
the game would have ended with the ball in the middle of the field, and
the score a tie; and a tie on the part of the scrubs was equivalent to a
victory. But that last kick had dashed their hopes into ruin.
Still, they were not wholly cast down. They had deserved success, if
they had not actually won it. They had really played the better game and
beaten their foes to a standstill. The nominal victory of the 'Varsity
was a virtual defeat.
And the 'Varsity knew it. For an instant they felt an immense relief, as
they crowded around Wilson, the fullback, and clapped him on the
shoulder. But their momentary exultation was replaced by chagrin, as
they filed past the coach on the way to the shower baths, and their eyes
fell before the steely gleam in his.
"I won't say anything to you dubs, just now," he announced with ominous
calmness, as they shambled along wearily and shamefacedly. "I don't dare
to. What I'd have to say wouldn't be fit for the ears of young ladies
like you. Besides, I don't want to commit murder. But I may have a few
quiet remarks to make before practice to-morrow."
"A few quiet remarks," muttered Ellis, when they got beyond earshot.
"Gee. I'll bet life in a boiler factory would be peaceful compared with
the training quarters when he once gets going."
"I've always thought deafness an affliction," said Drake, "but I think
I'd welcome it for the next twenty-four hours."
"Ten to one that's why they call a football field a gridiron," grumbled
Axtell. "The fellows that play on it get such a fearful roasting."
Just then, Morley, the captain of the scrubs, came along with a broad
grin on his face.
"Buck up, you fellows," he joshed, "the worst is yet to come. I can see
just where you 'false alarms' get off. Your epitaph will be that of the
office boy."
"What was that?" queried Martin, biting at the bait.
"Monday, hired-Tuesday, tired-Wednesday, fired," retorted Morley.
"Don't you worry about epitaphs," snapped Tom Henderson. "We're not dead
ones yet, as you'll find out the next time we take your measure."
"What was that Satan said," asked Dick Trent, "about rather reigning in
hell than serving in heaven? I'd rather be a boob on the 'Varsity than
king of the scrubs."
"O, well," laughed Morley, "if you want to put yourself on a level with
Satan, there's no one to prevent you. As for me, I'm a little particular
about _my_ company;" and with this Parthian shot he rejoined his
exulting mates.
It was a disgruntled group of athletes that plunged into the tank and
stood beneath the shower. And when it came to the rubdown, Reddy and
his helpers seemed to take a fiendish delight in picking out the sore
spots and getting even for the day's poor showing. But such vigorous
health and splendid condition as theirs could not be long a prey to
gloom, and when, refreshed and glowing, they wended their way to the
training table, they were inclined to take a more cheerful view of life.
They ate like famished wolves, and when they had made away with
everything in sight, even the promised raking from "Bull" Hendricks had
lost some of its terrors.
"O, well," remarked Tom, "while there's life there's hope. We won't be
shot at sunrise, anyway, even if we deserve to be."
"No," assented Dick, yielding to his irrepressible habit of quotation:
"Somewhere 'tis always morning, and above
The wakening continents from shore to shore,
Somewhere the birds are singing evermore."
"The only bird you'll hear to-morrow," said practical Bert Wilson, "will
be a crow. Poe's raven won't have a thing on Hendricks when he starts
croaking."
One would have had to go far to find a finer group of young fellows than
this trio, as they sauntered over the campus to the college buildings.
They were tall, well-knit and muscular, and no one, looking at them,
would "despair of the Republic," as long as she produced such sons.
Outdoor life, clean living and vigorous exercise had left their stamp on
face and frame. They were immensely popular in the college, leaders in
fun and frolic, and in the very front rank as athletes. Each had won the
right to wear the college jersey with the coveted "initial," proving
that on hard fought fields they had brought glory to their Alma Mater.
This was preeminently the case in college baseball. Tom at third and
Dick at first had starred in their positions, while Bert in the
pitcher's box with his masterly "fadeaway" had cinched the pennant,
after a heartbreaking struggle with the "Greys" and "Maroons," their
leading rivals. The story of how he had plucked victory from defeat in
that memorable fight was already a classic and had made his name famous
in the college world. And now, in the early fall, the three comrades
were seeking to win further laurels on the gridiron as they had
previously won them on the diamond.
Provisionally, they had been placed by the keen-eyed coach on the
'Varsity team. Tom's quickness and adroitness had singled him out as
especially fitted for quarterback. Dick, who had been the leading
slugger on the nine, was peculiarly qualified by his "beef" and
strength for the position of center. Bert's lightning speed--he had made
the hundred yards in ten seconds, flat, and won a Marathon at the
Olympic Games--together with his phenomenal kicking ability, made him
the leading candidate for fullback.
So far, the results had seemed to indicate that no mistake had been
made. But no one knew better than they how insecure their positions
were, and how desperate a fight they would have to wage in order to hold
their places. The competition was fierce, and the least sign of wavering
on their part might send them back to the scrubs. Bull Hendricks played
no favorites. He was "from Missouri" and "had to be shown." His eagle
eye was always looking for the weak places in the armor of his players,
and no one was quicker to detect the least touch of "yellow." He had no
use for any one but a winner. He watched unceasingly for any failure of
body or spirit and pounced upon it as a cat upon a mouse. Nor could any
past success atone for present "flunking."
Not that he acted hastily or upon impulse. Had he done so, he would have
been unfitted for his position. He knew that everybody had his "off
days." The speediest thoroughbred will sometimes run like a cart horse.
No one can be always at the "top of his form." But after making all
allowances for human weakness and occasional lapses, when he once
reached a definite conclusion he was as abrupt and remorseless as a
guillotine. Many a hopeful athlete had been decapitated so swiftly and
neatly, that, like the man in the fable, he did not know his head was
off until he tried to sneeze.
It was a sharp but wholesome discipline, and kept his men "on their
toes" all the time. It gave hope and energy also to the scrubs. They
knew that they had a chance to "make" the 'Varsity team, if they could
prove themselves better than the men opposed to them. The scrub of
to-day might be the regular of to-morrow. They felt like the soldiers in
Napoleon's army where it was said that "every private carried a
marshal's baton in his knapsack." So they fought like tigers, and many a
battle between them and the 'Varsity was worthy of a vaster audience
than the yelling crowds of students that watched it rage up and down the
field.
But the rivalry, though bitter, was also generous. There was nothing
mean or petty about it. After all, it was "all in the family."
Everybody, scrub or 'Varsity, was crazy to win from the other colleges.
If it could be shown that the team could be strengthened thereby, any
'Varsity man would go back to the scrubs without grumbling and "root"
just as hard as ever for the team to make good. It was a pure democracy
where only merit counted and where the individual effaced himself for
the common good of all. So that while the 'Varsity and scrubs were
bitter enemies on the gridiron, they were chums as soon as they had shed
their football "togs."
"We certainly did put up a rotten game to-day," ruminated Tom. "I don't
wonder that the coach was sore. We ought to have eaten those fellows up,
but they walked all over us. What was the matter with us, anyway?"
"Aw," snorted Dick, disgustedly, "why is it that an elephant runs away
from a mouse? They simply threw a scare into us and we lost our nerve.
We can thank our stars it was only a practice game."
"It goes that way sometimes," said Bert philosophically. "It's just the
same in other games. I've seen the Giants and Athletics play like a lot
of schoolboys. One fellow will muff an easy fly and then the whole
infield will go to pieces. They'll fumble and boot anything that comes
along."
"Yes," assented Tom, "and the pitchers get theirs too. There's Matty,
the king of them all. There are days, when even Ty Cobb, if he were
batting against him, couldn't do anything but fan. Then again, there
are other days when he hasn't anything on the ball but his glove. I saw
him in an opening game in New York before thirty-five thousand people,
when he was batted out of the box like any bush leaguer."
"Even Homer sometimes nods and Milton droops his wing," quoted Dick. "If
our playing is rank sometimes, it's a comfort to feel that we have lots
of company. But speaking of baseball, fellows, how do you think it
compares with chasing the pigskin?"
"Well," said Bert slowly, "it's hard to tell. They're both glorious
games, and personally I'm like the donkey between the two bundles of
hay. I wouldn't know which to nibble at first."
"Of course," he went on, "they're so different that it's hard to compare
them. Both of them demand every bit of speed and nerve a fellow has, if
he plays them right. And a bonehead can't make good in either. There are
lots of times in each game when a man has to think like lightning. As
for courage, it's about a stand off. With three men on bases in the
ninth, nobody out, and only one run needed to win, it's a sure enough
test of pluck for either nine. But it needs just as much for a losing
eleven to buck its way up the field and carry the ball over the goal
line, when there's only three minutes left of playing time. Both games
take out of a fellow all there is in him. As for brute strength, there's
no doubt that football makes the greater demand. But when it comes to
saying which I prefer, I'm up a tree. I'd rather play either one than
eat."
"How happy could I be with either, were 'tother dear charmer away,"
laughed Dick.
"Well," remarked Tom, "it's lucky that they come at different seasons so
that we can play both. But when you speak of 'brute' strength, Bert,
you're giving 'aid and comfort' to the enemies of football. That's just
the point they make. It's so 'awfully brutal'," he mimicked, in a high
falsetto voice.
"Nonsense," retorted Bert. "Of course, no fellow can be a 'perfect lady'
and play the game. Even a militant suffragette might find it too rough.
There are plenty of hard knocks to be taken and given. It's no game for
prigs or dudes. But for healthy, strong young fellows with good red
blood in their veins, there's no finer game in the world to develop
pluck and determination and self-control and all the other qualities
that make a man successful in life. He has to keep himself in
first-class physical condition, and cut out all booze and dissipation.
He must learn to keep his temper, under great provocation. He must
forget his selfish interests for the good of the team. And above all he
has to fight, fight, fight,--fight to the last minute, fight to the last
ditch, fight to the last ounce. It's a case of 'the Old Guard dies, but
never surrenders.' He's like old General Couch at the battle of Kenesaw
Mountain, who, when Sherman asked him if he could hold out a little
longer, sent back word that 'he'd lost one eye and a piece of his ear,
but he could lick all Hades yet.'"
"Hear, hear," cried Tom. "Listen, ladies and gentlemen, to our eloquent
young Demosthenes, the only one in captivity."
He skilfully dodged the pass made at him and Bert went on:
"I don't deny that there was a time when the game was a little too
rough, but most of that has been done away with. There has been progress
in football as in everything else. There's no wholesale slugging as in
the early days, when the football field was more like a prize ring than
a gridiron. Of course, once in a while, even now, you'll be handed a
nifty little uppercut, if the referee isn't looking. But if they catch
on to it, the fellow is yanked out of the game and his team loses half
the distance to its goal line as a penalty. So that it doesn't pay to
take chances. Then, too, a fellow used to strain himself by trying to
creep along even when the whole eleven was piled on him. They've cut
that out. Making it four downs instead of three has led to a more open
game, and the flying wedge has been done away with altogether. The game
is just as fierce, but the open play has put a premium on speed instead
of mass plays, and made it more interesting for the spectators and less
dangerous for the players. And the most timid of mothers and anxious of
aunties needn't go into hysterics for fear that their Algernon or
Percival may try to 'make' the team."
"This seems to be quite an animated discussion," said a pleasant voice
behind them; and wheeling about they saw Professor Benton, who held the
chair of History in the college.
They greeted him cordially. Although a scholar of international
reputation, he was genial and approachable, and a great favorite with
the students. In connection with his other duties, he was also a member
of the Athletic Association and took a keen interest in college sports.
He himself had been a famous left end in his undergraduate days, and his
enthusiasm for the game had not lessened with the passing of the years
and the piling up of scholastic honors.
"We were talking about football, Professor," explained Bert, "and
agreeing that many of the rough edges had been planed off in the last
few years."
"I could have guessed that you weren't talking about your studies," said
the Professor quizzically. "You fellows seldom betray undue enthusiasm
about those. But you are right about the changes brought in by the new
rules. It surely was a bone-breaking, back-breaking game during my own
student days.
"And yet," he went on with a reminiscent smile, "even that was child's
play compared with what it was a thousand years ago."
"What!" cried Dick. "Is the game as old as that?"
"Much older," was the reply. "The Greeks and Romans played it two or
three thousand years ago. But I was referring especially to the
beginning of the game in England. In the tenth century, they commenced
by using human skulls as footballs."
"What!" exclaimed the boys in chorus.
"It's a fact beyond all question," reaffirmed the Professor. "In the
year 962, when the Danes were invading England, a resident of Chester
captured a Dane, cut off his head and kicked it around the streets. The
gentle populace of that time took a huge liking to the game and the idea
spread like wildfire. You see, it didn't cost much to run a football
team in those days. Whenever they ran short of material, they could go
out and kill a Dane, and there were always plenty swarming about."
"Those good old days of yore," quoted Dick.
"Plenty of bonehead plays in those days as well as now," murmured Tom.
"Of course," resumed the Professor, "that sort of thing couldn't go on
forever. The Danes withdrew, and naturally no Englishman was sport
enough to offer his own head for the good of the game. So they
substituted a leather ball. But the game itself was about as rough as
ever. It was usually played in the streets, and very often, when some
dispute arose about the rules, it developed into a battle royal, and the
players chased each other all over the town with ready fists and readier
clubs. Heads were broken and lives lost, and the King issued an edict
forbidding the game. But under other rulers it was resumed, though in a
somewhat milder form, and has continued up to the present.
"No longer ago than yesterday," he added, taking out his memorandum
book, "I ran across a criticism of the game, by an Englishman named
Stubbs, way back in 1583. He goes for it right and left, so bitterly and
yet so quaintly, that I thought it worth while preserving, old-fashioned
spelling and all. Here's the way it goes:
"'As concerning footballe, I protest unto you it may rather be called a
friendlie kind of a fight than a play or recreation, a bloody and
murthering practice than a felowy sort of pastime. For doth not every
one lie in wait for his adversary, seeking to overthrow him and kicke
him on the nose, though it be on hard stones or ditch or dale, or valley
or hill, so he has him down, and he that can serve the most of this
fashion is counted the only fellow, and who but he, so that by this
means their necks are broken, sometimes their backs, sometimes their
arms, sometimes their noses gush forth with blood, sometimes their eyes
start out; for they have the sleights to mix one between two, to dash
him against the heart with their elbows, to butt him under the short
ribs with their gripped fists, and with their knees to catch him on the
hip and kicke him on his neck with a hundred murthering devices.'"
"Phew," said Tom, "that's a hot one right off the bat."
"He hits straight from the shoulder," agreed Dick. "I'll bet the old boy
himself would have been a dandy football rusher, if he'd ever got into
the game."
"He certainly leaves no doubt as to where he stands on the question,"
assented the Professor, "and I think we'll admit, after that, that the
game has improved. The most rabid critic of to-day wouldn't go so far
as this old Briton. The game as played to-day offers very little danger
to life and not much more to limb. Of course, accidents happen now and
then, but that's true of every game. The old French proverb says that
'he who risks nothing, has nothing.' The element of risk in football is
more than counterbalanced by the character it develops. The whole secret
of success in life is to 'never say die.' And I don't know of any game
that teaches this as well as football. But I must be going," he
concluded, with a glance at his watch; and, turning off to the right
with a farewell wave of the hand, he left the boys to finish their
interrupted stroll.
"The Prof's all right," said Tom emphatically.
"They say that he was the bright particular star on his football team,"
contributed Dick.
"And he's starred just as brightly in his profession since then," chimed
in Bert.
"I guess that 'never say die' motto has stuck by him all the time,"
mused Tom. "It's a bully motto, too. By the way, have you fellows ever
heard the story of the mouse that fell in the milk pail?"
They stared at him suspiciously. Long experience with that facetious
youth had taught them the folly of biting too quickly, when he put a
question.
"No catch," protested Tom. "This is on the level."
"Well," said Dick, "if a crook like you _can_ be on the level, shoot."
"It was this way," continued Tom, cheerfully accepting the reflection on
his character. "Two mice fell into a bucket of milk. They swam about for
a while and then one of them gave it up and sank. The other one, though,
was made of different stuff and wouldn't give up. He kept on kicking
until he had churned the milk into butter. Then he climbed on top of it,
made a flying leap for the edge of the bucket and got away. You see, he
was a kicker from Kickersville and his motto was 'Never say die'."
They looked at him reproachfully, but Tom never "batted an eye."
"That mouse was a smooth proposition," murmured Dick softly.
"A slippery customer," echoed Bert. "But, Tom," he asked, in mock
innocence, "is that story true?"
"True?" snorted Tom, "you'd butter believe that it's true. Why----"
But this crowning outrage on the English language was too much, and he
took to his heels, barely escaping a flying tackle as they launched
themselves toward him.