A THRILLING EXPLOIT
A PLEASANT surprise awaited the boys that evening as they went from the
training table to their rooms. Under the elms in front of their
dormitory, two men were pacing up and down. The close resemblance
between them indicated that they were father and son. As they turned
toward the boys there was an instant recognition, and they hurried
forward in eager greeting.
"Mr. Quinby--Ralph," they cried in chorus.
"We can't tell you how glad we are to see you," said Bert. "What lucky
wind blew you so far from California?"
"Business, as usual," responded Mr. Quinby, evidently pleased by the
warmth of his welcome. "I had to attend a meeting of directors in New
York, and while I was so near, I thought I'd take a day off and run down
here for a look around."
"That's what he says," laughed Ralph, "but, as a matter of fact, Dad
gets hungry to see the old college every once in so often, and I think
he fakes up the 'business' talk just as an excuse."
"Impudent young cub, isn't he?" said Mr. Quinby with mock severity. "But
I refuse to say anything in defense, on the ground that I might
incriminate myself. Anyway, I'm here, and that's the main point. How are
things going with you fellows?"
"Fine," was the response. "But come right on up to our rooms. We're not
going to let you get away from us in a hurry, now that we've laid hands
on you."
"We'll surrender," smiled Mr. Quinby. "Lead on MacDuff." And they
mounted to the rooms that Bert and Dick occupied together, a floor
higher up than Tom.
A flood of memories had swept over Bert at the unexpected meeting. Two
years had passed since they had been closely associated and many things
had happened since that time. Yet all the experiences of that memorable
summer stood out in his mind as clearly as the events of yesterday.
Mr. Quinby had been the owner of a fleet of vessels plying between San
Francisco and China. Needing a wireless operator on one of his ships, he
had applied to the Dean of the college and he had recommended Bert, who
was pursuing a course in electricity and making a specialty of wireless
telegraphy. Tom and Dick had made that trip with him, and it had been
replete with adventure from start to finish. At the very outset, they
had been attacked by a Malay running amuck, and only their quickness
and presence of mind had saved them from sudden death. Soon after
clearing the harbor, they had received the S.O.S. signal, and had been
able thereby to save the passengers of a burning ship. A typhoon had
caught them in its grip and threatened to send them all to Davy Jones.
His flesh crept yet as he recalled the tiger creeping along the deck of
the animal ship after breaking loose from his cage. And, traced on his
memory more deeply perhaps than anything else, was that summer evening
off the Chinese coast when they had been attacked by pirates. Sometimes
even yet in his dreams he saw the yellow faces of that fiendish band and
heard the blows of the iron bars on their shaven skulls, when old Mac
and his husky stokers had jumped into the fray.
How large a part he had played in that repulse he seldom allowed himself
to dwell upon in thought and never referred to it in speech. But the
country had rung with it, and his friends never tired of talking about
it. And none knew better than Mr. Quinby himself that he owed the safety
of his vessel and the lives of all on board to the quick wit of Bert in
sending the electric current from the dynamo into the wires and hurling
the screaming rascals back into their junks. His first words, after
they were settled comfortably in their chairs, showed of what he had
been thinking.
"Have you run up against any more pirates lately, Bert?" he asked.
"Not of the yellow kind," was the laughing response, "but it looks as
though we might meet some white ones before long. They say that the
'Greys' and 'Maroons' are flying the skull and crossbones and
threatening to give no quarter, when they stack up against us on the
gridiron."
"Threatened men live long," said Mr. Quinby drily. "I've heard that talk
before, but I notice that the Blues usually give a good account of
themselves when it comes to an actual fight. It was so in my own college
days. There'd be all sorts of discouraging rumors afloat and the general
public would get the idea that the team was going around on crutches.
But when the day of the game came, they'd go out and wipe up the field
with their opponents. So I'm not worrying much for fear you'll have to
walk the plank."
"You'd have thought so if you had heard the way the coach waded into us
to-day," broke in Tom. "Since I heard him, I've had a new respect for
the English language. I never knew it had such resources."
"There was a certain honeyed sweetness about it that was almost
cloying," grinned Bert.
"'Twas all very well to dissemble his love,
But why did he kick us downstairs?"
added Dick.
Mr. Quinby laughed reminiscently.
"I've heard coaches talk," he said, "and I know that some of them are
artists when it comes to skinning a man alive. They'd cut through the
hide of a rhinoceros. But that is part of the game, and if a man is
over-sensitive, he doesn't want to try to make a football team. I'll
wager just the same that it did you fellows good."
"We licked the scrubs by 54 to 0," answered Tom. "We felt so sore that
we had to take it out on somebody."
"Sure thing," commented Mr. Quinby. "Just what the coach wanted. He gets
you fighting mad, until when you go out you are 'seeing red' and looking
for a victim. I've been there myself and I know."
"Did you ever play on the football team while you were an undergrad?"
asked Tom.
"No, I wasn't heavy enough. They needed beef in those days more than
they do now. You wouldn't think it, perhaps," with a glance at his
present generous girth, "but I was a slender young sprout at that time,
and I had to content my athletic ambitions with track work and baseball.
But I was crazy over football, and I was always there to root and yell
for the team when the big games were pulled off. And many a time since
I've traveled from San Francisco all the way to New York to see a
Thanksgiving Day game. Sometimes, the result has made me want to go away
somewhere and hide, but more often the good old Blue has come out on
top, and then I've been so hoarse from yelling that I haven't been able
to talk above a whisper for a week. Of course it wouldn't be a good
thing for the game if one team won all the time, and as long as we cop
about two out of three, I'm not doing any kicking. It isn't often that
we lose two years in succession, and I'm looking for you fellows now to
come across with a victory."
"We'll do our best not to disappoint you," said Bert. "It's a sure thing
that we haven't as heavy a line as we've had in other years, and for
that reason we'll have to play more of an open game. But we've got a
dandy new shift that will give the other fellows something to think
about when we spring it on them, and probably Hendricks has one or two
aces up his sleeve. I heard him tell Reddy the other day that he was
planning a variation of the forward pass that he thought would be a
corker."
"Well," said Mr. Quinby, "we'll hope so. It's almost as hard to forecast
results in football as it is in baseball. The game's never over until
the referee blows his whistle. I've seen teams touted as certain winners
go all to pieces on the day of the game. Then, again, there have been
times when the team didn't seem to have as much of a chance as a blind
man in a dark room hunting for a black cat that wasn't there. But they'd
go out just the same and stand the other fellows on their heads."
"You must have seen a lot of sparkling plays in your time," remarked Tom
enviously.
"I surely have," assented Mr. Quinby. "Perhaps the best of all was one
that thrills me now when I think of it, although I didn't enjoy it so
much at the time, because it did the Blues out of a victory just when
they thought they had it tucked away safely."
"Tell us about it," came in a chorus from the boys.
"Well, it was this way," and he lighted a fresh cigar as he settled back
for a "fanning bee." "The 'Greys' came up to meet us that year with one
of the best teams they ever turned out. They seemed to have everything,
weight and strength and speed, and, on the 'dope,' we didn't have a
chance in the world. They had gone through their schedule with the
smaller colleges like a prairie fire, and the scores they piled up had
been amazing. Their goal line hadn't been crossed all season, and all
the newspaper writers tipped them to slaughter us.
"We had a dandy captain that year, though, and he, together with the
coaches, had done wonders with the material on hand. The old Blue spirit
that never knows when it is licked was there too. The game was on our
grounds and although the 'Greys' had an immense delegation in their
stands, we outnumbered and outyelled them. Say, maybe we didn't give the
boys a send-off when they trotted through the gates and began passing
and falling on the ball in practice. If we felt any doubts, that yell
didn't show it.
"From the time the ball was kicked off it was a fight for blood. And you
can imagine whether we fellows went crazy when we saw that our team was
winning. We got off to a flying start, and, instead of having to defend
our own goal, we took the offensive and kept the ball in the enemy's
territory most of the time. We scored a goal from the field, and
although the 'Greys' fought desperately, we seemed to have their number.
"It was the same in the second half. We downed them when they tried to
rush us, blocked when they kicked, and stopped them in their attempt to
skirt the ends. It was near the end of the last half, and there was only
five minutes left to play. It looked as though it were 'all over but
the shouting,' and you can bet that we were doing enough of that. The
Blue stands were a good imitation of a lunatic asylum.
"But here Fate took a hand, and two minutes later we wanted to die. The
ball was in our hands, halfway down the field. As we had already made
one score, while the 'Greys' had nothing, all we had to do was to play
safe and the game was ours.
"Peters, our captain, was a splendid fellow and a 'dead game sport.' It
seemed to him a little like 'babying' to fritter away the few minutes
remaining in safety play. The more generous instinct prevailed, and he
'took a chance.' He shot the ball back to the quarter. He in turn passed
it to the back, who got in a perfect kick that sent it far down the
field and close to the enemy's goal. One of the 'Greys' made a grab at
it, but it was one of those twisting deceptive punts and bounded out of
his hands down toward the southern line. One of his mates was just
behind him and, quick as lightning, he caught the ball on the bound,
tucked it under his arm and scooted down the field toward our goal line.
"Our forwards of course had run down under the kick and had got past the
ball, expecting to pick it up when they saw that it had been muffed. So
the 'Grey' runner was well past them before they could stop their
momentum and turn in their tracks. The back who had kicked the ball was
near the northern side, too far away to interfere, and Lamar, the
runner, covering the ground like a deer, hugged the southern line.
"There were only two men in his way, and they made the mistake of
keeping too close together, so that, as Lamar neared them, he made a
superb dodge and slipped by both of them at once. Now he had a clear
field before him, but with forty yards yet to go.
"How he ran! He had lost some time in the dodging and twisting, and now
the whole Blue eleven were thundering at his heels. He could hear their
panting as they sought to close in on him. The nearest one was not more
than five feet away. He let out a link and fairly flew. The white lines
of the field fell away behind him. One more tremendous effort by pursuer
and pursued, and just as eager hands reached out to grasp him, he
flashed over the goal line for a touchdown. Suddenly, brilliantly,
inconceivably, the 'Greys' had won the game.
"Were we sore? We felt like draping the college buildings with crepe. To
have had victory right within our reach and then to have had it snatched
away in that fashion! Poor old Peters was fairly sick over it. I suppose
to this day he has never forgiven himself for that sportsmanlike
instinct.
"But nobody blamed him. The crowd took their medicine. Strictly
speaking, I suppose it was foolish. As was said of the charge of the
Light Brigade that 'it was magnificent but it was not war,' so, no
doubt, many thought of Peters' move that although generous it was not
football. Still the finest things in human life are often the 'foolish'
things. At any rate, it enriched the history of the game with one of the
most dashing and spectacular plays ever made.
"Those pesky 'Greys'," he mused. "They were always doing things like
that. They had a fellow once that was always starting the fireworks. Poe
was his name--a relative, by the way, of Edgar Allan Poe. I remember
once, when with just one minute left to play and the ball thirty yards
from our goal line, he dropped back for a kick and sent the ball sailing
over the line for the goal that won the game. You've heard no doubt the
song that the gloating 'Greys' made to immortalize a run down the field
that he made on another famous occasion:
& never mortale Manne shall knowe
How ye Thynge came about--
But from yt close-pressed Masse of Menne
Ye Feet Balle poppeth oute.
& Poe hath rushed within ye Breache--
Towards Erthe one Second kneeled--
He tuckes ye Balle benethe hys Arme,
& Saunteres down ye Fielde.
Ye Elis tear in fierce pursuite;
But Poe eludes yem alle;
He rushes 'twixt ye quyvverynge Postes
& sytteth on ye Balle.
But Arthur Poe hathe kyckt ye balle
(Oh woefulle, woefulle Daye.)
As straighte as myghte Dewey's Gunnes
upon ye fyrste of Maye."
"They're foemen worthy of our steel, all right," laughed Dick.
"All the more credit in licking them," chimed in Tom.
"The percentage is on our side, after all," added Bert. "We've won about
two-thirds of all the games we have played together."
"Some funny things happen in the course of a game," went on Mr. Quinby,
who in this congenial company was feeling the years drop away from him
and was enjoying himself immensely. "I remember once when our boys
played Trinity in Hartford. At that time, the woolen jersey was part of
the regulation football suit. This made tackling too easy, as one could
get a good grip on the jersey, especially after it had been stretched in
the course of the game. There had been some talk of substituting other
material for it, but nothing had been done. You can imagine our surprise
then when, on the day of the game, the Trinity men came out on the field
in a full uniform of canvas. It was stiff and shiny and you couldn't get
a good grip on it to save your life. That was bad enough, but, in
addition, the Trinity boys had covered their uniforms with grease. Our
fellows didn't tumble to it until after the game was under way and the
enemy were wriggling away from us like so many eels. It was a time for
quick thinking, but the Blues rose to the occasion. They sent out a
hurry call for a bag of sand, and when it came, they grabbed handsful of
it and so were able to get more or less of a grip on their slippery
opponents. A rule was made later on forbidding the use of grease. The
canvas uniforms, however, proved so much superior to the older style
that it was officially adopted and has been in use ever since."
"How did the trick work?" asked Ralph. "Did they get away with the
game?"
"No, we beat them all right, but by a close score and it certainly
played hob with our tackling and interfering.
"Speaking of tricks, I remember one played by the Carlisle Indians. In
addition to being crack football players, those 'noble red men' are
about as smooth propositions as you'll find anywhere. The bland Ah Sin
was a piker compared with them. You have to keep your eye peeled all the
time. They were playing Harvard and the Indians got the ball on a kick
off. There was a scrimmage, and when the crowd was untangled, the ball
had disappeared. Suddenly, Dillon, of the Indians, darted out and made
for the Harvard goal. But he didn't have the ball under his arm, and,
after starting in pursuit, the Harvard boys thought it was a mere feint
to draw them after him and turned back to see who really had it. Dillon
went 105 yards down the field, running like the wind, and crossed the
Harvard goal for a touchdown, and then they saw that he had the ball.
And where do you think it had been all the time? Tucked up the back of
his jersey. It had been enlarged especially for that purpose before the
game began, and the first chance they had they worked the trick. The
Harvard fellows raged, but there was nothing in the rules to forbid it
and the touchdown counted. Since then the rules have been amended, and
now the ball has to be in sight outside the clothing."
"He must have had a hunch that he would win," murmured Tom.
"Yes," assented Mr. Quinby. "A hunch on his back and a hunch in his
heart. The Harvard boys had to stand for an awful joshing on the way
they had been outwitted by 'Lo! the poor Indian with untutored mind.'
"But brain work and quick thinking aren't confined to the redskins. I
recall a game played between the Army and Navy. You know there's always
a fierce rivalry between those branches of Uncle Sam's service, and this
game was being played for all it was worth. The Army had the ball and
the fullback punted it to the center of the field. The Navy quarter
tried to make a fair catch, but it slipped from his fingers. The Army
center had run down under the kick and was close to the ball when it
fell to the ground. The Navy men were so close behind that they would
have piled on top of him if he had stooped to pick up the ball. So he
kicked the ball ahead of him, following it up and ready to reach down
and pick it up the minute he had the chance. But the Navy was so close
that he had to keep dribbling it along and he kept this up until with
one last kick he sent it over the goal and fell upon it for a touchdown.
It was a new wrinkle in the game, and one of the hardest things in the
world to get away with. They've tried it repeatedly since, but that
feat of the Army man still stands as the star play of the 'dribbling'
game.
"A good deal of the rough stuff has been cut out of the game and I'm
glad of it, but in my college days almost everything 'went,' provided
the referee wasn't looking. There was a lot of slugging and jiu-jitsu
work, and more fellows had to be taken out of the game because of
injuries than at present. Often a concerted effort was made to 'get'
some especially efficient man on the other side, and they weren't always
scrupulous about the way they did it. I remember one time we were
playing a big game, and 'Butch' Allaire, the best player on the Blue
team, had his knee badly hurt. We were short of good substitutes, and he
felt that he had to continue playing, if it were at all possible. So,
after a short wait, he came limping out again to his position, with a
white bandage tied round his knee outside his uniform. To the other
side, that bandage was like a red rag to a bull. They lunged against
him, piled on top of him, and in every scrimmage they pressed heavily on
that wounded knee. But, despite all their efforts, he played out the
game, and we came out winners. After the excitement was over, the
captain said to him:
"'Great work, Butch, but why in thunder did you wear that bandage on
your knee? They knew just what to go for.'"
Butch grinned. "I tied it round the well knee," he said.
The boys laughed.
"Well," remarked Dick, "some of the prize-fighting tactics may have been
rooted out of the game, but I'll bet the coaching is just as rough as it
used to be."
"I'm not at all sure about that," said Mr. Quinby dubiously. "I'll admit
that 'Bull' Hendricks is a finished workman when it comes to the use of
pet names, after he's been stirred up by some bonehead play. But, after
all, he doesn't use the paddle."
"Paddle!" came the exclamation in chorus.
"That's what I said. Paddle. In my day it was used by almost all the
coaches, as an aid to quick thinking. Some advocate it even yet. The
coach would take up his position right behind some line man when the
ball was about to be put into play in practice.
"'Now, my son,' he would say, 'the minute the ball is snapped back I'm
going to give you a fearful whack with this paddle. It's up to you to
jump so fast that the paddle won't find anything to hit.'
"Did it work? I should say it did. Sometimes the paddle would catch him
and sometimes it wouldn't, but after a few days of that the slowest of
them would be off like a flash the instant the ball was snapped back.
After that it wouldn't be necessary. They'd got the habit of a quick
start. And you fellows know that that is the secret of good football, as
it is of almost everything else--to get the jump on the other fellows.
"Nowadays, the methods are more often mental than physical. One coach I
know works it something like this:
"'I want you to imagine that I have a loaded shotgun in my hand and that
I am going to pull the trigger when the ball is snapped, and that you
must get out of range before I fill you full of shot.'
"No doubt both methods help in the development of speed, but as between
the two, my money goes on the paddle.
"But now," he said, as he made a motion to rise, "I'll have to go. I've
had a bully good time with you fellows, but I'm keeping you from your
studies and then, too, there are one or two of the old Profs I want to
see before I turn in. I'll see you again before I go and I'll be there
with bells on where the big games are pulled off. Good luck," and
although they urged him to stay longer, he and Ralph took their leave.
"Great old sport, isn't he?" said Tom, when they were left alone.
"All to the good," replied Bert heartily.
"Let's hope that last 'good luck' of his was prophetic," remarked Dick.
"It's up to us to make it so," said Bert thoughtfully. "Of course there
is such a thing as luck, but I've usually noticed that luck and pluck go
together."
"O, I don't know," said skeptical Tom. "Sometimes a 'jinx' follows a man
or a team, and everything goes against them. You've heard of the man
Whose horse went dead and his mule went lame,
And he lost his cow in a poker game,
And a cyclone came on a summer day
And blew the house where he lived away.
Then an earthquake came when that was done,
And swallowed the ground that the house stood on.
Then a tax collector, he came round
And charged him up with the hole in the ground."
"Some hard luck story, sure enough," grinned Bert. "Heaven forbid that
any such hoodoo get after us. But, somehow, the result of the game
to-day and Mr. Quinby's talk have braced me up, and I feel a mighty
sight more hopeful than I did yesterday."
"Same here," acquiesced Dick. "I've a hunch that we're due to give the
'Greys' and 'Maroons' a great big licking. At any rate, if we lose,
they'll know they've been in a fight, and we'll try to take our medicine
gracefully."
"Spoken like a sport, old man," cried Bert, clapping him on the
shoulder. "God loves a cheerful giver, but the whole world loves a
cheerful loser."