the ball to him as he ran. He shot the ball on a quick lateral toss to
Frank and fairly sobbed his relief when he saw that the toss couldn't
have been better. Frank faded, holding the pigskin ready to pass, as
Mack now turned his attention to helping block Pomeroy men who were
trying to get through at him. In this he was successful, going down
under two Pomeroy linesmen as Frank shot a pass low and to the
right--over the end zone. There--racing into the end zone, was right
end Eddie Miller. He touched the ball with his finger tips, juggled
and caught it, being almost immediately buried beneath an avalanche of
tacklers.
"Yea!" roared the Grinnell stands. "A touchdown!"
Pomeroy, a greatly sobered team, lined up in front of its own goal
posts. The team charged viciously and Frank, with Bert upending the
ball, again missed the place-kick for extra point.
Score: Pomeroy, 14; Grinnell, 12.
"Well, we might as well lose by two points as one," philosophized a
Grinnell supporter. "Nice comeback we staged ... but too late to do us
much good. Only four minutes left to play."
Grim-faced Grinnell warriors eyed each other. Could they possibly
regain possession of the ball and drive down the field for a third
touchdown and snatch a victory from almost certain defeat? The odds
were overwhelmingly against them. It had been a most spectacular and
pulsating game from the standpoint of spectator and player alike. Both
teams were now near exhaustion from their offensive and defensive
efforts.
"Brother Carl will certainly know his team's been in a ball game,"
thought Mack, feeling somewhat relieved that he had at last performed
creditably after several wretched blunders. Inwardly, however, there
lurked a condemning conscience which impressed upon him that no
performance save one which might lead to a Grinnell victory could ever
suffice. This feeling took precedence over a flash of satisfaction
that his brother was apparently to retain his coaching position, if it
actually had hung upon the outcome of this game. "But I mustn't think
of this at all!" Mack told himself at once. "My attitude has got to be
like Dave suggested. I've simply got to forget any family tics. I'm
playing to beat Pomeroy ... not my brother!"
Grinnell kicked off to Pomeroy and the visitors indicated at once that
they intended to retain possession of the ball until the end of the
game if they possibly could. Several first downs in succession ate up
valuable seconds and took the ball to Grinnell's forty-five yard line.
"Hold 'em!" begged and ranted quarterback Bert Henley. "What's the
matter with you guys? Gone to pieces?... Get in there and _hold that
line_!"
More reserves came dashing out from the side lines to help bolster a
Grinnell forward wall which had taken plenty of punishment. These
fresh men drove into the Pomeroy line on the first play and opened a
hole through which Mack Carver darted. He hit an interferer, sent him
spinning and broke up a pass behind the line. The ball went wild with
Mack following into Pomeroy's backfield after it. Three wide-eyed
Pomeroy men were on his heels as he dived for the pigskin and rolled
over with it clutched against his stomach. The three Pomeroy men
landed on him almost together.
"Grinnell's ball on Pomeroy's forty yard line!" announced the referee,
and Grinnell supporters went crazy.
"Great stuff, Mack!" shouted Coach Edward from the sidelines, and Mack,
hearing, could only gulp his joy. The game might be lost but if Coach
Edward only could believe he'd done his best despite the two glaring
misplays ... errors, at least, which he, himself, could never excuse...!
"Your kid brother's playing quite a game out there!" observed a faculty
member to Pomeroy's coach who fidgeted nervously.
"_Quite_ a game?" was the response. "A whale of a game!... I never
saw a kid play in worse luck the first three quarters ... but now he's
making his own breaks ... and am I glad there's only a minute left to
play...?!!"
Mack was thumped joyously on the back by fellow players as he staggered
back in position, holding his side. He had held onto the ball at all
costs and despite a scrambled attempt on the ground to wrest it away
from him.
With only time for about two plays, Quarterback Henley called for a
pass. Frank Meade faded back and shot a long one. Mack, breaking
through with other possible receivers, had not expected to be singled
out, but wheeled just in time--after getting free--to hear the crowd
yell and see the pigskin coming straight at him. He reached up and
picked it out of the air on Pomeroy's twenty-five yard line, being hit
before he could move by Dizzy Fox.
"Yea, Carver!" yelled the stands.
Mack, all but bewildered by the way plays had revolved about him, was
pushed into the huddle as time-keepers consulted their watches.
"What'll it be?" demanded Bert. "Shall we chance another pass?"
"A field goal would do it?" cried Steve, with a glance at the
scoreboard. "But Frank's toe hasn't been so hot today!"
"We've only time for one more play," reminded Bert. "Can you fellows
hold that line? Seems to me a kick's a little better than another
pass. We're almost dead in front of the goal posts!"
"I'll try it if you say so!" volunteered Frank. "Mack--you've got to
block 'em off until I toe that ball! They mustn't get through at me
this time!"
"Okay!" said Mack, jaws tightening. Here was the test. A successful
kick meant defeat for his brother ... no, defeat for _Pomeroy_! It
meant that all scores against him would be wiped out ... his misplays
forgotten...! ... But how about his brother's coaching position?...
He mustn't think about that!... His mother--her support!... No,
no!... Whatever happened would be all right.... He must do his part
... he must be loyal to Grinnell. He'd picked this school with the
hope of someday helping to beat Pomeroy ... and here was his chance!...
He must do his part to the uttermost limit ... and then--if the kick
failed ... well--nobody could say he hadn't tried...!
"Kick formation!" Bert was calling.
A murmur of surprise swept through the stands and a pall of silence
fell. Grinnell--attempting a field goal as a last resort ...
attempting to pull a lost cause out of the fire!
"Hold 'em, gang!" begged Bert. "You've got to hold 'em!"
Grinnell's quarterback was kneeling, ready to upend the ball. Steve
and Mack were stationed at the side and in front. They exchange
determined glances.
"No one gets past us!" said Steve.
Mack, too full for words, nodded, fingers twitching, eyeing the enemy
line.
Coach Carl Carver, pulling nervously at the rim of his hat, sized up
the distance between the teams and the goal posts.
"It's one chance in a...!" he started.
The ball flashed back and the two lines came together in a desperate
upheaval. Grinnell's line wavered and snapped. As it did so, Bert
caught the pigskin and placed its nose on the ground, sighting the
distant goal posts. Frank started running forward.
"You get those two--I'll stop these babies!" fullback Steve shouted to
Mack as he blocked off frenzied Pomeroy linesmen, rushing through in a
mad attempt to spoil the kick.
"Right with you!" echoed Mack, obliterating from his mind all thoughts
of possible consequences ... intent only upon doing the job assigned
him. His body halted the plunge of the Pomeroy left end and guard ...
and resulted in a third Pomeroy player piling atop. As he went down he
caught a fleeting glimpse of the pigskin passing over his head. A
moment of breathless, very terrible suspense, broken only by the sharp
crack of the timer's gun, signalling that the game was technically
over. Then a tremendous roar! Mack freed himself from the mass of
arms and legs just in time to see the ball settling over the bar and to
see the scoreboard change its figures to read:
GRINNELL--15
POMEROY--14
Unaccountable things happened after that. More pandemonium than a
fellow, playing his first full game for Grinnell had thought existed in
the world. Joy-crazed students surrounding him as he suddenly gave
vent to his feelings and, to the amazement of fellow team-mates, broke
into uncontrolled sobs.
"What the heck are you crying about?" Frank Meade was demanding.
"Because," he choked, "Pomeroy lost!"
A great shout of laughter went up at this from all except those who
realized the predicament Grinnell's substitute back had been in.
"Cheer up, kid!" called a familiar voice, and Mack beheld Coach Carver
fighting his way through to him in company with Coach Edward.
"But you lost your job?" Mack wanted to know, still somewhat dazed by
it all.
"I sure did!" grinned Brother Carl, gripping him by the shoulder. "You
knocked me out of that!... I always said you couldn't play football!"
"And now he knows it!" smiled Coach Edward. "I'm taking your brother's
place at Pomeroy next year--so he tells me!... In fact, he recommended
me!"
"What?" gasped Mack.
"Why not?" rejoined Carl, his eyes twinkling. "I've signed up to coach
Great Western next year at ... guess what salary...?" Carl looked
about him, cautiously. "I don't want any newspaper guys to hear
this--it's ... er ... just something to be kept in the family."
Whereupon Carl cupped his hand between his mouth and Mack's ear and
whispered a figure.
"No?" cried Mack, overjoyed, and--forthwith leaped atop his brother's
back, bearing him to earth for a down which was not recorded in the
game!
A CASE OF NERVES
"Look at that guy--he hasn't been eating enough to keep a canary alive
for the last three days!"
"You know what's the trouble, don't you?"
"Indigestion?"
"Yeah--nervous indigestion? Speed's on edge over the big game next
Saturday against Hamilton!"
"No kidding?"
Kinky Doyle, who sat at the Second Team's training table, stared at his
informant unbelievingly.
"Straight dope!" replied Sober Watkins, quarterback of the Scrubs, with
a glance toward the Varsity training table nearby and star half-back
Speed Bartlett, toying with his meal. "Speed had the same kind of
stagefright last season ... lost so much appetite and sleep and got so
high strung that he fumbled in the Hamilton game and handed them the
victory on a platter!"
"That's funny," said Kinky, after a pause. "He hasn't been this way up
to the last few days. He's played through the whole year...!"
"Sure--the big game's the only one that bothers him this way," grinned
Sober. "You know, some fellows can stand every kind of flower but
goldenrod ... and that knocks them for a flock of sneezes. Well, for
some reason, Speed has the feeling that Hamilton's not to be sniffed
at. All the other games are just dress rehearsals but this contest is
the real thing!"
"That's bad," declared Kinky, seriously. "Bad for Speed and bad for
the team. The other fellows can't help but be depressed by the way
he's taking it. And after what happened last year it'll be a wonder if
Speed don't have the whole eleven on edge."
"You said it," agreed Sober. "But what can we do about it? That's a
neat little problem for Coach Brock to solve!"
Could the two squad members have known it, the Coach was even at that
moment turning a rather drastic plan over in his mind. Something
certainly had to be done. Practically every fellow at the Varsity and
Second Team training tables had observed the sudden funereal atmosphere
being radiated by one Speed Bartlett. His sad and solemn conduct had
begun to descend like a pall upon a heretofore gay and carefree dining
hall. Just why this climax to a Medford season should have such a
nervous effect upon her star halfback was as difficult to determine as
why some folks got short of breath in the proximity of a cat. "Cat
asthma", this was called. There weren't any words exactly descriptive
of Speed's disorder for he was courageous to a fault. In the heat of
battle he played with an abandon and a drive that usually carried him
through to his objectives. It wasn't, then, a matter of his actually
being "afraid" of anything. But, still, the seeming mere anticipation
of the big game with Hamilton produced a nerve-shattering reaction.
"I can't let this go on," Coach Brock decided, "or I won't have any
morale left. Hamilton has a strong eleven this year and we'll need all
the fighting spirit we've got. Now if I can just figure out some way
to suspend Speed from the team--tell him he's out of the big
game--relieve him of his nerve tension and then shove him in the
contest at the last minute ... that might turn the trick!"
Phil Doran and Milt Gleeson were as rabid Medford supporters as could
be found in college. More than this--they were close chums of Speed
Bartlett. Between them they owned a little runabout in which they
travelled to the various college towns where Medford's eleven might be
playing. The coming Hamilton game, however, was to be played at
Medford and, since it was to be the last contest of the season, the
boys' football trips were over.
"What do you suppose Coach Brock's sent for us about?" Phil asked Milt
as the two were on the way to the athletic director's office.
"Haven't the slightest idea," grinned Milt. "But maybe he wants us to
help him work out some new plays to spring against Hamilton!"
"Only play I could suggest would be for him to put in the first and
second teams at the same time," declared Phil. "Then we might have a
chance to win by sheer weight of numbers!"
"Oh, it's not as bad as that," replied Milt, defensively. "If Speed
just holds to his regular form this year, he'll give Hamilton plenty of
trouble. He's crazy to make up for his fumble in last season's game.
Have you seen him lately?"
"Not in three days. Have you?"
"No. I called around at his dorm yesterday but he wasn't in. About
time we got together again. Speed's a great guy."
"And a mighty sweet football player," complimented Phil. "Well, here
we are--outside the sanctum of the man who controls the destinies of
Medford pigskin chasers. Shall I rap?"
"Sure--don't you see it says 'private'?"
A voice bade the callers to "come in!" and Phil and Milt presently
found themselves standing before the genial-faced coach.
"Sit down!" Coach Brock invited, motioning to chairs. And when the two
wondering visitors were seated, he came straight to the point with: "I
understand you fellows know Speed Bartlett very well?"
Phil and Milt exchanged glances.
"Well ... er ... yes, sir ... we ...!"
"We're _pretty_ good friends," temporized Milt. "Why--what's ... er
... happened?... Is Speed in trouble?"
Coach Brock smiled, amusedly. "Yes, as a matter of fact, he is. Not
necessarily serious trouble," he hastened to assure as Phil and Milt
looked their concern, "but I want to guard against it getting any
worse."
"Good grief!" exclaimed Milt, anxiously. "What's Speed done?"
"We haven't been out with him for some time," volunteered Phil, "so we
wouldn't know anything."
"It's nothing like that," declared the Coach. "Speed's simply going to
pieces over thoughts of the Hamilton game. I've got to break him of
this or he's going to have himself in such a mental stew by game-time
that he'll be next to useless."
"Oh--then you want us to brighten him up?" divined Phil.
Coach Brock shook his head. "No, there's only one thing that can have
any effect upon Speed," he said, decisively. "He's got to be told that
he can't play on Saturday. This will bitterly disappoint him, of
course, but it will relieve him at the same time. But the fly in the
ointment is how to make Speed believe that he's really not going to
play. He knows very well that I wouldn't remove the star of the team
without definite reason. Obviously, then, the only way we can put one
over on Speed is to catch him breaking one of the strict rules I've
laid down for members of the squad."
"Now I 'get' you," cried Phil, eagerly. "You want us to help get Speed
in bad!"
"That's precisely it," agreed the coach. "And here's how you can do
it. Take him over to Ashby in your car to catch the early evening
show. There's a Knute Rockne two-reeler showing at the picture house
that I'll recommend be seen. As you fellows know, my orders are for
every man on the squad to be in his room and in bed by ten o'clock.
Ashby is a good twenty miles from here and, after stalling for time you
start back to Medford with just time enough left to get Speed to his
dorm within the ten o'clock law. Unfortunately, however, your car
breaks down and you are delayed getting back until after midnight."
"Quite a thrilling plot," agreed Milt.
"It calls for some real acting," opined Phil. "And if Speed ever
caught on he'd darn near kill us!"
"Aren't you willing to die for your college?"
smiled Coach Brock. "I'll be within sight of the dorm so that I can
manage to be passing when you drive up, several hours late, with Speed.
What happens after that will be regrettable but hardly any fault of
yours. Automobiles do break down ... even in the best of families!"
Phil and Milt grinned.
"But what if Speed doesn't care to see this picture?" queried Milt.
"I think he'll jump at the chance after the send-off I give to it this
afternoon at practice," said the coach. "But I'll insist that all
fellows who do make arrangements to take in the show, make a point of
getting back by their accustomed hour."
"Okay!" accepted Phil. "We'll tackle Speed on the proposition after
practice ... tell him we've just learned of the football program ...
and that we're leaving in time to catch the seven o'clock show.
Wouldn't he like to go along?"
"That's right," Coach Brock approved. "You can explain to Speed that
the seven o'clock show will be over around nine o'clock which gives you
a whole hour to drive the twenty miles back. Let me know, for sure, if
you can make arrangements, and I'll be ready to do my part."
"We'll try our darndest," promised Phil.
"And, of course," the coach added, warningly, "it goes without saying
that you are to keep this little matter strictly confidential. You are
doing this, remember, for the team!"
Phil and Milt stiffened with a sense of their responsibility.
"You can trust us," they assured.
Speed Bartlett was quite innocent of any plot against him and quite
glad to accept the invitation of his two friends to attend the show.
In fact, he welcomed the opportunity as a means of possible relaxation.
Coach Brock had spoken highly of the Knute Rockne short
subject--declaring it to be extremely educational, particularly as
pertained to open field running. Since this was supposed to be Speed's
specialty, his curiosity was aroused.
"Strange you fellows should be interested in seeing this same show,"
mused Speed, on the way over. "It's a good break for me since I'm
supposed to see it, anyway."
"Listen, Speed," declared Phil. "We're nuts over football. We'd go
almost anywhere within reason to see a game or something interesting
about it. And when we read in the paper that one of Knute Rockne's
pictures was there ... well, that was enough for us!"
"Clever bird, this fellow, Knute," kidded Milt. "I'd place him next to
Coach Brock."
Arriving at Ashby, Phil and Milt parked their car on a side street and
were surprised to find a crowd waiting to get seats.
"Hello--they're doing some real business. Must be a great show!"
exclaimed Milt, with a wink at Phil.
"Ten minutes after seven," said Speed, a bit disturbed.
"Oh, there's plenty of time," said Phil, "but I've got so in the habit
of sitting that I hate to stand."
It was seven-thirty before the three patrons from Medford were escorted
to seats and then it was to discover that the Knute Rockne feature had
just finished.
"Tough luck," Milt whispered. "But it'll start the next show. We're
all right."
The three then settled down to enjoy the feature picture and time sped
quickly. It was ten after nine that the Knute Rockne short subject
next flashed on the screen and its interest was compelling from the
start. The two-reeler was over at nine-forty, much to Speed's concern
when he discovered the time.
"Holy smoke!" he cried. "We've got twenty minutes to drive twenty
miles. You fellows'll never make it!"
"We'll try!" declared Phil, optimistically, as they rushed for the car.
"Gosh, where did that time go to?"
"Won't make much diff if we are a few minutes late," said Milt,
reassuringly. "Coach won't hold you to account on this."
"But he made a point of saying we had to be back on time if we went,"
Speed recalled.
"Sure--he's got to keep his discipline up," rejoined Phil, sliding
behind the wheel and working the starter. "What's the matter with this
thing? Have I flooded the carburetor?"
The engine had refused to respond.
"That's probably what's the trouble," diagnosed Milt. "Turn off your
gas entirely."
"Good grief!" groaned Speed, "Get going, you guys! I don't want to be
any later than I have to!"
"Keep your shirt on!" soothed Milt. "There she spits! She'll catch
hold in a minute. This little old bus hasn't failed us yet."
Another valuable minute shot past ... and another.
"Say--there goes the interurban!" said Medford's star halfback,
nervously. "It makes Medford by ten-thirty. I'd better catch it!"
"Don't be foolish!" cried Milt, grabbing Speed and holding him in the
car. "We'll be back in Medford before that traction! It's a concrete
road most all the way!"
"Here we go!" announced Phil as the engine finally took hold.
"Now--just as soon as we get beyond the city limits...!"
At ten o'clock, when all good little football players were supposed to
be tucked in their beds or, at least, safe in their rooms, a runabout
containing the outstanding star of Medford's eleven was whizzing along
the highway with the indicator wavering between fifty and fifty five
miles an hour.
"Nine miles in fifteen minutes!" figured Phil, eyes intent on the road
ahead. "At that rate we'll be in Medford around ten-sixteen. You
don't see that interurban do you?"
"It's just about leaving Ashby now!" grinned Milt. "How's this for
traveling, Speed? This is just a little faster than you go down the
field. Say--what did you think of that Rockne picture anyhow? Pick up
any pointers?"
"Very interesting," admitted Speed. "But what's that I hear--is it a
knock in the motor?"
"Careful, Phil!" warned Milt. "The old engine's getting too hot again.
Better slow up!"
"What's the matter?" asked Speed, anxiously.
"Nothing much," answered Milt, "Only we can't hit it up too fast for
too long a time. Might burn out a bearing or something!"
Phil reduced the speed from fifty to twenty miles an hour and still the
knocking persisted.
"Sounds like it's almost out of gas," said Speed. "It's commencing to
cough now!"
"Maybe it caught cold standing out there to-night," suggested Milt.
"It _is_ acting strangely. Wouldn't you say so, Phil?"
"Something's gone wrong," was Phil's grave comment. "I think there's
some foreign substance clogging the carburetor!"
Pulling to the side of the road, Phil stopped the car.
"Now what?" gasped Speed, glancing at his watch.
"Have to take a look," said Phil, getting out and raising the hood.
"Pass out the flashlight, Milt!"
"Which seat is it under?" asked the confederate in the dire conspiracy.
"How do I know?" was Phil's rejoinder.
A half hour of tinkering with the engine followed, during which an
agitated Speed Bartlett paced up and down the highway, returning every
few minutes to inquire the progress made.
"We can't even get the engine started now," was Milt's cheerful report.
"It's a good thing we stopped when he did!"
"That's where you made your mistake," said Speed, irritably. "You
never should have stopped!"
"No!" retorted Phil, caustically. "You should burn out a bearing on
_your_ car!"
"I haven't any car!" replied Speed, sharply.
"That's just the point!" returned Milt, smothering a chuckle. "But,
don't worry, Speed, we'll explain to the Coach! Have a chocolate
bar--there's one in my coat in the car."
"I can't eat anything," was Speed's glum rejoinder. "My stomach's on
the blink."
A flashing headlight suddenly appeared from around a curve in the road.
"Heigho!" exclaimed Phil. "Here comes the interurban!"
"Quick--your flashlight!" cried Speed, with sudden resolution. "I'll
flag it!"
Medford's football star dashed forward but Milt fumbled the flashlight
in handing it over and by the time Speed got hold of it the interurban
was whizzing past.
"I knew I ought to have gone home by traction!" he lamented, loudly.
"Something told me not to go back with you guys! This is terrible!"
"Listen, Speed--you're getting all worked up over this," consoled Milt.
"You crawl in the car there and curl up on the seat and get your sleep.
That's why the Coach wants you to turn in at ten--so you'll get the
right amount of sleep. If he should find out about this, we'll tell
him you got your sleep just the same!"