the first half it persisted, shining brightest when fanned most by the
tempest, and standing out as a bulwark which Delmar, with all her
relentless battering, could not surmount. Time upon time Delmar
pounded dangerously near Elliott's goal yet each time the Elliott spark
of resistance was somehow equal to the occasion with Tim Mooney's toe
doing Herculean work toward driving the invaders well back into their
own territory from whence they were forced to begin all over again.
Gradually there stole upon the eighty thousand humans the throbbing
realization that they were witnessing a sample of raw-handed courage
such as men display only when under some great, compelling
influence--an influence inspired by a necessity equalling a Marne or an
Argonne to them--an influence which cried out above the bruising tide
of battle, "They shall not pass! They shall not pass!"
Between halves the stands arose and stood two minutes, with heads
uncovered and bowed, as a tribute to Coach John Brown's memory. The
tribute was of involuntary nature, started by students in the Elliott
section and quickly copied by the crowd.
"You're a great team today, boys," was Red Murdock's greeting as the
Elliott warriors lurched drunkenly into the clubhouse for their
precious ten minutes of rest. The players eyed him soberly, chests
heaving, shirts mud-grimed and torn, bodies sore and weary from
blocking the path of the Delmar tornado. And Red Murdock, looking them
over, felt how hollow would be the saying of another word. He devoted
attention instead to treating their various minor hurts and giving an
encouraging slap here and there to the back of a man whose shoulders
inclined to droop.
Furious at having been held to one lone and practically fluke
touchdown, Delmar opened the second half with a drive of even greater
power, calculated to put Elliott speedily to rout. The cream of the
country's football teams had hammered steadily enough at Elliot's line
to have worn it to shreds by now. No other eleven had stood up so long
under Delmar's terrific charging and John Brown's team must crack wide
open soon. But all through the third quarter, calling upon an almost
uncanny reserve force, Elliott managed to stave the enemy off. True,
whenever Elliott came into possession of the ball she found herself
unable to launch an offensive of her own. This was due to a Delmar
line of equal stone-wall quality--a line which had not permitted a
touchdown to be scored against it that season. And Elliott was not
going to be the first team to do it either. There was humiliation
enough for Delmar in the fact that victory was being won by so small a
margin.
Going into the last quarter, the stands could notice a perceptible
wilting of the Elliott team. There were no expressions of surprise at
the sight, only wonderment that John Brown's eleven had withstood the
gruelling attack that long. A wave of sympathetic feeling passed over
the stadium. The crowd did not care to see the pathetic spectacle of a
team which had acquitted itself so nobly in the face of odds, crumbling
in the final fifteen minutes of play and falling a helpless, exhausted
victim to the ravages of a foe already maddened at having been so
bitterly repulsed.
Now, as the vast throng looked through half-closed eyes, it saw the
mighty Delmar slowly corning into her own. Taking the ball on her
forty-two yard mark, Delmar sent her backfield men galloping through
holes which began to yawn open in the Elliott defense. Five, ten,
fifteen yards were reeled off on every play. Time was called while the
Elliott line was patched up by three substitutes. But with play
resumed, the Delmar steam roller continued unaffected on its way,
rumbling and pounding over the ground which separated it from the
Elliott goal. Six minutes of play remained as the country's leading
football eleven drew up for a first down on their stubborn opponent's
ten yard line.
"Touchdown, Delmar!" called its six thousand rooters, uttering the
first real blast of sound which had come from the stands all day.
Up in the Elliott section a white-lipped girl strained forward,
silently intreating. Her face was tear-streaked. There was something
desperately compelling about her attitude. The spectre of defeat to
her was as grim as the spectre of death. Almost unconsciously her lips
parted and she started to sing in a low, wavering voice:
"John Brown's body lies a mould'ring in the grave ..."
Spectators on either side of her looked at the girl queerly as if they
thought she had suddenly gone out of her head.
"John Brown's body lies a mould'ring in the grave,"
Now some of the people near her became conscious of a strange, tingling
sensation that seemed to cut to their very marrow as the voice, gaining
in strength so that it carried out over the stand, repeated once more:
"John Brown's body lies a mouldering in the grave,"
And, in a magnetic sort of way there arose a spontaneous response of
voices from all parts of the stand, joining in on the next line:
"His soul goes marching on!"
Down on the gridiron, their bodies weary from battle, crouched the
battered Elliott eleven. The players glanced up curiously as the first
swells of the song reached them. Then they were seen to stiffen as the
chorus, gaining volume, chanted out to them:
"Glory, glory hallelujah!
Glory, glory, glory hallelujah!
Glory, glory hallelujah!
His soul is marching on."
The Delmar line crashed forward and the man with the ball dashed around
the end. But he got little more than started when it seemed as though
the entire Elliott team had torn through and nabbed him. There was a
roar in the stands and the great crowd was on its feet, men with their
heads uncovered, while the song leaped to the lips of all and welled
into a mighty dirge as the girl--lifted to the shoulders of those
nearby--led by a waving of her arms.
"The stars of heaven are looking kindly down,
"The stars of heaven are looking kindly down,
The stars of heaven are looking kindly down,
On the grave of old John Brown."
A great cheer went up as Elliott, suddenly transformed into men of
steel, took the ball on downs and snapped into its first play. Another
cheer as Tim Mooney tore through the hitherto invincible Delmar line
for fourteen yards. On the next play Mooney charged through for five
more.
"Glory, glory hallelujah...!"
As though there had come into each Elliott player a superhuman force,
the Delmar team was pushed back and back, resisting stubbornly but
ineffectively. It was a driving offensive against time. If Elliott
could go over for a touchdown in the three minutes left and kick goal,
it could at least earn a tie with the mighty Delmar. On its seventeen
yard line Delmar braced desperately. Thirty valuable seconds were
taken in two setbacks for a four yard loss. Then Mooney broke through
for a run that carried the ball over the goal line. Feverishly the
teams lined up for the kick after touchdown.
"He's gone to be a soldier in the army of the Lord,
He's gone to be a soldier in the army of the Lord,
He's gone to be a soldier in the army of the Lord,
His soul........"
And Mooney missed the attempt at goal after touchdown! The song broke
into a great heart-broken moan. Score--Delmar 7; Elliott 6. The one
stupendously inspired chance gone.
The teams lined up again for the kick-off with Mooney sobbing like a
baby at his failure. Delmar kicked ... and the ball settled into
Mooney's arms. He started down the field with a grimness born of
despair. Past chalk mark after chalk mark he ran while the words of
the song, now sung in frenzied fashion, roared in his ears:
"Glory, glory hallelujah!'
His soul is marching on ..."
At Delmar's forty yard line Mooney was stopped. He was thrown heavily
after having completed the longest run of the game--fifty yards. The
time-keepers consulted their watches. Mooney shouted hysterically at
the quarterback ... the quarterback barked a signal ... Mooney lunged
back and planted his feet in the rough sod, holding out his hands...
"John Brown's knapsack is strapped upon his back,
John Brown's knapsack is strapped upon his back,
John Brown's knapsack is strapped upon his back,
His soul is marching on!"
Standing on Delmar's forty yard line, as charging Delmar linesmen broke
through and plunged at him, Mooney's toe swung up and booted the ball.
As the ball took the air there came the shrill shriek of the
time-keeper's whistle.
Then the throbbing notes of the song, swelling on in a burst of fervent
hope as the ball turned end over end, straight for the goal posts....
"Glory, glory hallelujah!
Glory, glory, glory hallelujah!"
A moment more and the Elliott players fell upon Mooney, hugging and
kissing him with mad joy, while the song roared into a mighty harmony
of heart-bursting sound:
"GLORY, GLORY HALLELUJAH!"
And then, as if with a sudden thought of overwhelming reverence, the
voices died into a soft refrain:
"His soul is marching on!"
The eighty thousand spectators poured from the stands with a solemnity
which bespoke their attendance at a memorial service. They had just
looked upon and been party to a miracle. The last second field goal
from the forty yard line had given Elliott a 9 to 7 victory over the
great Delmar eleven.
At the corner of the field a girl cried happily, her head unashamedly
against Mooney's shoulder.
"Whatever made you think of that?" Mooney asked her, tenderly.
"I--I don't really know," she answered, looking up at him with just a
trace of embarrassment, "but somehow ... you'll think I'm foolish for
saying this ... I had the feeling it was John Brown!"
****
ALL AMERICAN SPORT SERIES
Harold M. Sherman, one of the most popular authors of boys' books needs
no introduction to the vast majority of young readers.
To boys who like, as every red-blooded boy must, these high type sport
stories, we dedicate this series.
FOOTBALL . . . . . INTERFERENCE
FOOTBALL . . . . . ITS A PASS!
FOOTBALL . . . . . OVER THE LINE
BASKETBALL . . . . UNDER THE BASKET
ICE HOCKEY . . . . DOWN THE ICE
BASE BALL . . . . STRIKE HIM OUT
TENNIS . . . . . . THE TENNIS TERROR
FOOTBALL . . . . . CAPT. OF THE ELEVEN
The Goldsmith Publishing Co.
CHICAGO
Books by
HAROLD M. SHERMAN
IT'S A PASS
INTERFERENCE
DOWN THE ICE
OVER THE LINE
STRIKE HIM OUT
UNDER THE BASKET
THE TENNIS TERROR
CAPTAIN OF THE ELEVEN
TAHARA--BOY MYSTIC OF INDIA
TAHARA--AMONG AFRICAN TRIBES
TAHARA--BOY KING OF THE DESERT
TAHARA--IN THE LAND OF YUCATAN
THE FUN LOVING GANG--IN WRONG RIGHT
THE FUN LOVING GANG--ALWAYS UP TO SOMETHING