CHAPTER XXIV_Right End Emerson

“WE’VE WON!”

For nearly an hour Russell had sat, blanketed, tense of nerves, on the

narrow bench on the Alton side of the field and watched the fortunes

of battle. There had been no scoring. Twice Kenly’s red-stockinged

warriors had threatened the home team’s goal, once trying a drop-kick

from an almost hopeless distance and once piling up on the twenty-three

yards for three downs and no gain and then hurling a hit-or-miss

forward pass that, fortunately for the defenders, had missed! Once

Alton had rushed as far as Kenly’s eighteen yards where an off-side

play had spoiled her chance of scoring. A desperate fake kick, with

Harmon taking the pigskin around left end, had lost the ball on the

nineteen. For the rest of the time the two teams had edged back and

forth across the almost obliterated fifty-yard line, rushing, passing,

punting, playing somewhat ragged football to be sure, but playing it

very desperately.

Now the Gray-and-Gold was back in the gymnasium, sore and battle-scarred;

weary, too, but not knowing it. And the minutes were ticking away fast

toward the second half. Manager Johnson, watch in hand, pale-faced and

as nervous as a wet hen, walked a sentry beat between the door and the

benches. Coach Cade had said his say, and he and Captain Proctor and Ned

Richards were conferring soberly together.

“Time’s about up, Coach!” called Johnson.

The group of three broke up. The coach nodded to the manager and then

held up his hand. “Same line-up,” he announced, “except Longstreth at

right half and Emerson at right end. All right! You know what to do,

fellows! Let’s get them this time!”

There was a cheer, hoarse, deafening, and then they crowded eagerly

about the door, pushing and shoving good-naturedly, laughing, pranking,

until, outside, they waited for Mart Proctor to take the lead. Then

they trotted back to the gridiron, while the long Alton cheer broke

forth from the stand.

Russell, keeping close beside Jimmy, tugged his sleeve. “Jimmy,” he

asked with dry lips, “Jimmy, did he say me at right end?”

Jimmy turned and laughed at sight of Russell’s face. “Yes, you lucky

dog! For the love of Pete, don’t look like that, Rus! What’s the

matter?” Jimmy knew, but pretended he didn’t. Russell grinned crookedly

and wet his lips with his tongue.

“I--I’m scared!” he croaked.

“Fine stuff! Hand it on! I’ll be with you pretty soon, son, and we’ll

show those red-legs how to play football!”

During the first half of the game McLeod had played left end and Lake

right. Harley had showed himself just as much at home on the left of

the line as in his accustomed position, but Lake, first substitute, had

not equaled him. Lake had been boxed far too often, and, once, when he

had missed a tackle almost under Kenly’s goal, the Cherry-and-Black’s

quarter had dodged his way along the side line to the forty yards

before he had been pulled down by Richards. Coach Cade had determined

to try a new right end for the third quarter. Perhaps when the fourth

period began Lake would go back again. Meanwhile new blood might help.

Kenly kicked off and Longstreth captured the short kick and was brought

down with no gain. From the twenty-eight yards Alton began her journey.

Kenly’s line from guard to guard was impregnable. That had been already

proved. Her tackles, too, were clever and not easily fooled. In short,

gains through the Kenly line were few and far between, and Alton had

recourse now to end runs and occasional forward passes. Russell’s

stage-fright lasted through two plays. Then he forgot to be scared,

forgot everything but his overmastering desire to serve and win. After

all, this was not greatly different from playing against the first.

Those red-legged, red-sleeved opponents seemed no more in earnest than

the old opponents and played no more desperately. The big, square-jawed

tackle who faced him at times was no more formidable than Mart Proctor

had been. In fact, Russell began to think that Mart was the better of

the two, especially after Ned Richards, with a cunningly concealed

ball, whizzed inside the big tackle for four yards.

Like the first half, the second proved the teams too evenly weighted

and skilled for long gains by either side. Two yards, three, two yards

again, and then a punt. Sometimes one or the other managed an end

run that brought a larger gain, but neither team made first down by

straight rushing until the third quarter was almost done. Then Kenly

worked a criss-cross of a pattern as old as the hills and got seven

yards through Stimson, placing the pigskin on Alton’s thirty-eight. Yet

two minutes later the Gray-and-Gold was again in possession and Ned

Richards’ voice was chanting his shrill signals.

Back and forth across the middle of the field went the ball. Penalties

for off-side were many. There were a few for holding. Each team

suffered about equally from these. The quarter came finally to an end

and the rivals drew away and the ball was taken across the field and

deposited close to the forty-five-yard line. Raleigh and Mawson trotted

on, then Linthicum. But Lake did not come back. It didn’t occur to

Russell to give consideration to this fact. The whistle blew again and

the lines once more tensed. On the stands the prospect of a no-score

game was already a favorite topic of discussion. The teams were too

well matched for anything short of a miracle to break the dead-lock.

Alton accepted the likelihood with better grace than Kenly, for Alton,

until a few days since, had looked for defeat, and anything short of

that was to be accepted with thanksgiving. Kenly, however, knowing of

her ancient rival’s long-continued slump and realizing her own powers,

had come to Alton looking not only for victory but a decisive and

glorious one. Of the two forces it was Kenly Hall who saw the time

shortening and the game drawing to an inconclusive end with the less

satisfaction.

Once, soon after the last period started, Ned Richards brought the

Alton stand to its feet with a thirty-yard run that, for one ecstatic

moment seemed to spell a touchdown. But he was spilled on Kenly’s

twenty-four, and, although Alton chanted lustily for a score, two

rushes made no headway, a forward-pass grounded and Linthicum’s effort

at a drop-kick was a sad performance. Coach Cade began on his reserves

then, and from that moment new men appeared at short intervals. Jimmy

joined soon after the period started, and afterwards came Cravath and

Johnston and Smedley and still others.

Russell had long since proved Coach Cade’s wisdom. Harley McLeod was no

more fleet of foot under kicks than Russell, nor were there more gains

at Russell’s end of the line than at the other. At tackling Russell

showed himself earnest and certain, and no Kenly back, having caught

the booted ball, moved after Russell’s arms had clutched him. He was

streaked of face, sore of muscles, lame of leg, but gloriously happy.

Kenly was becoming almost hysterical now in her mad efforts to score.

Forward-passes that were on the face of them forlorn hopes sailed

through the air. Twice the Cherry-and-Black almost made them good,

but once Captain Proctor saved the day and once it was Russell who at

the last moment shouldered the expectant catcher aside. Alton tried

her best to win, but she indulged in no risky plays. To keep the ball

and get a back away inside or outside tackle was now her only hope

until she could reach a point inside the enemy’s thirty yards. Once

there, she would try a field-goal. But the backs couldn’t get away, at

least, not far. Kenly watched Harmon, and subsequently Mawson, as a cat

watches a mouse. So, as through the former periods, the ball remained

well inside the two thirty-five-yard lines and, so far as scoring was

concerned, the game was already evidently at an end.

The time-keeper announced four minutes, then two. The stands were

emptying. Kenly, who had risked all on her first-string men until now,

began to hurl new warriors into her army. Every other moment the pauses

were prolonged by the appearances of hurrying, eager substitutes. The

shadows were deepening about the field and over on the Alton stand the

hundreds of voices were singing the spirited pæan that is reserved for

victory. The ball was on Alton’s forty-six yards and it was the third

down. Linthicum took the pass from Richards and hurled himself at right

tackle for one scant yard. It was fourth down and five to go now. Jimmy

stepped back slowly, held forth his hands. Four times he had punted far

and true, but this time it was to be different. Cries of “Hold ’em,

Alton!” and cries of “Get through, Kenly! Block this kick!” broke forth

hoarsely. Then the lines swayed, were torn into fragments. A Kenly

forward hurled himself high in air and met the kicked ball against his

helmet. The pigskin bounded back up the field toward the Alton goal.

Half a dozen players tried for it and missed. Then, in the blue haze of

twilight, the watchers saw a figure detach itself from the mêlée and

cut across toward the side line. Shouts of warning, of joy, of despair

floated up from the field. The scattered forms there, like hounds on

the track of the fox, sped helter-skelter after the fleeing player. Now

he was blocked, now he had broken free again! Past midfield he went,

heading in again toward the center of the trampled expanse. Friend

and foe were about him and his flight seemed ended a dozen times.

Yet always, by a sudden turn, a wrenching to left or right, a quick

thrust of a straight arm, he managed to break away. Now he was out

of the confusion, the field was trailing astern. He was passing the

thirty-five yards under flying feet. Between him and the nearing goal

no enemy lurked, for Kenly’s quarter had been drawn out of position

by the blocked kick. But that quarter was in hot pursuit a half-dozen

strides behind. Back of him the rest of the players were strung out for

many yards.

The fox faltered once near the twenty, and the nearer hound lessened

the intervening space, but a third actor had joined them now. Close

to the fifteen yards he made his final desperate effort. Drawing even

with the red-legged pursuer, he launched himself sidewise. Together

the two went down and rolled over, and the fox ran free! Another white

line passed under his feet, and another. Bedlam had broken loose on

the Alton stand and that last faint streak was crossed to the wild

exultation of victory! And having crossed the line, Russell set the

ball down and set himself down beside it. Then he closed his eyes while

the nearer goal-post swayed like the mast of a vessel in a heavy sea!

It was Jimmy who reached him first, Jimmy who, panting and exhausted,

threw an arm about his shoulders and rubbed streaming eyes against a

dirty sleeve. “Oh, Rus!” muttered Jimmy. “Bless your heart, son! We’ve

won! Do you get it, Rus? We’ve won the old ball game!”

THE END

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