Dink returned to his room in a rage against everything and every one,
at Slugger Jones for having submitted the question, at Tough McCarty
for having looked as though he expected a lie, and at himself for ever
having acted as linesman.
If it had not been the last days before the Andover match he would
have found some consolation in rushing over to the Woodhull and
provoking McCarty to the long-deferred fight.
"He thought I'd lie out of it," he said furiously. "He did; I saw it.
I'll settle that with him, too. Now I suppose every one in this
house'll be down on me; but they'd better be mighty careful how they
express it."
For as he had left the field he had heard only too clearly how the
Kennedy eleven, in the unreasoning passion of conflict, had expressed
itself. At present, through the open window, the sounds of violent
words were borne up to him from below. He approached and looked down
upon the furious assembly.
"Damn me up and down, damn me all you want," he said, doubling up his
fists. "Keep it up, but don't come up to me with it."
Suddenly, back of him, the door opened and shut and Dennis de Brian de
Boru Finnegan stood in the room.
"I say, Dink----"
"Get out," said Stover furiously, seizing a pillow.
Finnegan precipitately retired and, placing the door between him and
the danger, opened it slightly and inserted his freckled little nose.
"I say, Dink----"
"Get out, I told you!" The pillow struck the door with a bang. "I
won't have any one snooping around here!"
The next instant Dennis, resolved on martyrdom, stepped inside,
saying:
"I say, old man, if it'll do you any good, take it out on me."
Stover, thus defied, stopped and said:
"Dennis, I don't want to talk about it."
"All right," said Dennis, sitting down.
"And I want to be alone."
"Correct," said Dennis, who didn't budge.
They sat in moody silence, without lighting the lamp.
"Pretty tough," said Dennis at last.
Stover's answer was a grunt.
"You couldn't see it the way the umpire did, could you?"
"No, I couldn't."
"Pretty tough!"
"I suppose," said Dink finally, "the fellows are wild."
"A little--a little excited," said Dennis carefully. "It was
tough--pretty tough!"
"You don't suppose I wanted that gang of muckers to win, do you?" said
Stover.
"I know," said Dennis sympathetically.
The Tennessee Shad now returned from the wars, covered with mud and
the more visible marks of the combat.
"Hello," he said gruffly.
"Hello," said Stover.
The Tennessee Shad went wearily to his corner and stripped for the
bath.
"Well, say it," said Stover, who, in his agitation, had actually
picked up a textbook and started to study. "Jump on me, why don't
you?"
"I'm not going to jump on you," said the Tennessee Shad, who weakly
pulled off the heavy shoes. "Only--well, you couldn't see it as the
umpire did, could you?"
"No!"
"What a day--what an awful day!"
Dennis de Brian de Boru Finnegan, with great tact, rose and hesitated:
"I'm going--I--I've got to get ready for supper," he said desperately.
Then he went lamely over to Stover and held out his hand: "I know how
you feel old man, but--but--I'm glad you did it!"
Whereupon he disappeared in blushing precipitation.
Stover breathed hard and tried to bring his mind to the printed
lesson. The Tennessee Shad, sighing audibly, continued his ablutions,
dressed and sat down.
"Dink."
"What?"
"Why did you do it?"
Then Stover, flinging down his book with an access of rage, cried out:
"Why? Because you all, every damn one of you, expected me to _lie_!"
* * * * *
The next day Stover, who had firmly made up his mind to a sort of
modified ostracism, was amazed to find that over night he had become a
hero. By the next morning the passion and the bitterness of the
struggle having died away, the house looked at the matter in a calmer
mood and one by one came to him and gripped his hand with halting,
blurted words of apology or explanation.
Utterly unprepared for this development, Stover all at once realized
that he had won what neither courage nor wit had been able to bring
him, the something he had always longed for without being quite able
to name it--the respect of his fellows. He felt it in the looks that
followed him as he went over to chapel, in the nodded recognition of
Fifth Formers, who had never before noticed him, in The Roman himself,
who flunked him without satire or aggravation. And not yet knowing
himself, his impulses or the strange things that lay dormant beneath
the surface of his everyday life, Stover was a little ashamed, as
though he did not deserve it all.
That afternoon as Dink was donning his football togs, preparing for
practice, a knock came at the door which opened on a very much
embarrassed delegation from the Woodhull--the Coffee-colored Angel,
Cheyenne Baxter and Tough McCarty.
"I say, is that you, Dink?" said the Coffee-colored Angel.
"It is," said Stover, with as much dignity as the state of his
wardrobe would permit.
"I say, we've come over from the Woodhull, you know," continued the
Coffee-colored Angel, who stopped after this bit of illuminating news.
"Well, what do you want?"
"I say, that's not just it; we're sent by the Woodhull I meant to say,
and we want to say, we want you to know--how white we think it was of
you!"
"Old man," said Cheyenne Baxter, "we want to thank you. What we want
to tell you is how white we think it was of you."
"You needn't thank me," said Stover gruffly, pulling his leg through
the football trousers. "I didn't want to do it."
The delegation stood confused, wondering how to end the painful scene.
"It was awful white!" said the Coffee-colored Angel, tying knots in
his sweater.
"It certainly was," said Cheyenne.
As this brought them no further along the Coffee-colored Angel
exclaimed in alarm:
"I say, Dink, will you shake hands?"
Stover gravely extended his right.
Cheyenne next clung to it, blurting out:
"Say, Dink, I wish I could make you understand--just--just how white
we think it was!"
The two rushed away leaving Tough McCarty to have his say. Both stood
awkwardly, frightened before the possibility of a display of
sentiment.
"Look here," said Tough firmly, and then stopped, drew a long breath
and continued: "Say, you and I have sort of formed up a sort of
vendetta and all that sort of thing, haven't we?"
"We have."
"Now, I'm not going to call that off. I don't suppose you'd want it,
either."
"No, I wouldn't!"
"We've got to have a good, old, slam-bang fight sooner or later and
then, perhaps, it'll be different. I'm not coming around asking you to
be friends, or anything like that sort of rot, you know, but what I
want you to know is this--is this--what I want you to understand is
just how darned _white_ that was of you!"
"All right," said Stover frigidly, because he was tremendously moved
and in terror of showing it.
"That's not what I wanted to say," said Tough, frowning terrifically
and kicking the floor. "I mean--I say, you know what I mean, don't
you?"
"All right," said Stover gruffly.
"And I say," said Tough, remembering only one line of all he had come
prepared to say, "if you'll let me, Stover, I should consider it an
honor to shake your hand."
Dink gave his hand, trembling a little.
"Of course you understand," said Tough who thought he comprehended
Stover's silence, "of course we fight it out some day."
"All right," said Stover gruffly.
Tough McCarty went away. Dink, left alone, clad in his voluminous
football trousers, sat staring at the door, clasping his hands tensely
between his knees, and something inside of him welled up, dangerously
threatening his eyes--something feminine, to be choked instantly down.
He rose angrily, flung back his hair and filled his lungs. Then he
stopped.
"What the deuce are they all making such a fuss for?" he said. "I only
told the truth."
He struggled into his jersey, still trying to answer the problem. In
his abstraction he drew a neat part in his hair before perceiving the
_faux pas_, he hurriedly obliterated the effete mark.
"I guess," he said, standing at the window still pondering over the
new attitude toward himself--"I guess, after all, I don't know it all.
Tough McCarty--well, I'll be damned!"
Saturday came all too soon and with it the arrival of the stocky
Andover eleven. Dink dressed and went slowly across the campus--every
step seemed an effort. Everywhere was an air of seriousness and
apprehension, strangely contrasted to the gay ferment that usually
announced a big game. He felt a hundred eyes on him as he went and
knew what was in every one's mind. What would happen when Ned Banks
would have to retire and he, little Dink Stover, weighing one hundred
and thirty-eight, would have to go forth to stand at the end of the
line. And because Stover had learned the lesson of football, the
sacrifice for an idea, he too felt not fear but a sort of despair that
the hopes of the great school would have to rest upon him, little Dink
Stover, who weighed only one hundred and thirty-eight pounds.
He went quietly to the Upper, his eyes on the ground like a guilty
man, picking his way through the crowds of Fifth Formers, who watched
him pass with critical looks, and up the heavy stairs to Garry
Cockrell's room, where the team sat quietly listening to the final
instructions. He took his seat silently in an obscure corner, studying
the stern faces about him, hearing nothing of Mr. Ware's staccato
periods, his eyes irresistibly drawn to his captain, wondering how
suddenly older he looked and grave.
By his side Ned Banks was listening stolidly and Charlie DeSoto,
twisting a paper-weight in his nervous fingers, fidgeting on his chair
with the longing for the fray.
"That's all," said the low voice of Garry Cockrell. "You know what you
have to do. Go down to Charlie's room; I want a few words with
Stover."
They went sternly and quickly, Mr. Ware with them. Dink was alone,
standing stiff and straight, his heart thumping violently, waiting for
his captain to speak.
"How do you feel?"
"I'm ready, sir."
"I don't know when you'll get in the game--probably before the first
half is over," said Cockrell slowly. "We're going to put up to you a
pretty hard proposition, youngster." He came nearer, laying his hand
on Stover's shoulder. "I'm not going to talk nerve to you, young
bulldog, I don't need to. I've watched you and I know the stuff that's
in you."
"Thank you, sir."
"Not but what you'll need it--more than you've ever needed it before.
You've no right in this game."
"I know it, sir."
"Tough McCarty won't be able to help you out much. He's got the
toughest man in the line. Everything's coming at you, my boy, and
you've got to stand it off, somehow. Now, listen once more. It's a
game for the long head, for the cool head. You've got to think
quicker, you've got to out-think every man on the field and you can do
it. And remember this: No matter what happens never let up--get your
man back of the line if you can, get him twenty-five yards beyond you,
get him on the one-yard line,--but get him!"
"Yes, sir."
"And now one thing more. There's all sorts of ways you can play the
game. You can charge in like a bull and kill yourself off in ten
minutes, but that won't do. You can go in and make grandstand plays
and get carried off the field, but that won't do. My boy, you've got
to last out the game."
"I see, sir."
"Remember there's a bigger thing than yourself you're fighting for,
Stover--it's the school, the old school. Now, when you're on the
side-lines don't lose any time; watch your men, find out their tricks,
see if they look up or change their footing when they start for an end
run. Everything is going to count. Now, come on."
They joined the eleven below and presently, in a compact body, went
out and through Memorial and the chapel, where suddenly the field
appeared and a great roar went up from the school.
"All ready," said the captain.
They broke into a trot and swept up to the cheering mass. Dink
remembered seeing the Tennessee Shad, in his shirt sleeves,
frantically leading the school and thinking how funny he looked. Then
some one pulled a blanket over him and he was camped among the
substitutes, peering out at the gridiron where already the two elevens
were sweeping back and forth in vigorous signal drill.
He looked eagerly at the Andover eleven. They were big, rangy fellows
and their team worked with a precision and machine-like rush that the
red and black team did not have.
"Trouble with us is," said the voice of Fatty Harris, at his elbow,
"our team's never gotten together. The fellows would rather slug each
other than the enemy."
"Gee, that fellow at tackle is a monster," said Dink, picking out
McCarty's opponent.
"Look at Turkey Reiter and the Waladoo Bird," continued Fatty Harris.
"Bad blood! And there's Tough McCarty and King Lentz. We're not
together, I tell you! We're hanging apart!"
"Lord, will they ever begin!" said Dink, blowing on his hands that had
suddenly gone limp and clammy.
"We've won the toss," said another voice. "There's a big wind, we'll
take sides."
"Andover's kick-off," said Fatty Harris.
Stover sunk his head in his blanket, waiting for the awful moment to
end. Then a whistle piped and he raised his head again. The ball had
landed short, into the arms of Butcher Stevens, who plunged ahead for
a slight gain and went down under a shock of blue jerseys.
Stover felt the warm blood return, the sinking feeling in the pit of
his stomach left him, he felt, amazed, a great calm settling over
him, as though he had jumped from out his own body.
"If Flash Condit can once get loose," he said quietly, "he'll score.
They ought to try a dash through tackle before the others warm up.
Good!"
As if in obedience to his thought Flash Condit came rushing through
the line, between end and tackle, but the Andover left half-back, who
was alert, caught him and brought him to the ground after a gain of
ten yards.
"Pretty fast, that chap," thought Dink. "Too bad, Flash was almost
clear."
"Who tackled him?" asked Fatty Harris.
"Goodhue," came the answer from somewhere. "They say he runs the
hundred in ten and a fifth."
The next try was not so fortunate, the blue line charged quicker and
stopped Cheyenne Baxter without a gain. Charlie DeSoto tried a
quarter-back run and some one broke through between the Waladoo Bird
and Turkey Reiter.
"Not together--not together," said the dismal voice of Fatty Harris.
The signal was given for a punt and the ball lifted in the air went
soaring down the field on the force of the wind. It was too long a
punt for the ends to cover, and the Andover back with a good start
came twisting through the territory of Ned Banks who had been blocked
off by his opponent.
"Watch that Andover end, Stover," said Mr. Ware. "Study out his
methods."
"All right, sir," said Dink, who had watched no one else.
He waited breathless for the first shock of the Andover attack. It
came with a rush, compact and solid, and swept back the Lawrenceville
left side for a good eight yards.
"Good-by!" said Harris in a whisper.
Dink began to whistle, moving down the field, watching the backs.
Another machine-like advance and another big gain succeeded.
"They'll wake up," said Dink solemnly to himself. "They'll stop 'em in
a minute."
But they did not stop. Rush by rush, irresistibly the blue left their
own territory and passed the forty-five yard line of Lawrenceville.
Then a fumble occurred and the ball went again with the gale far out
of danger, over the heads of the Andover backs who had misjudged its
treacherous course.
"Lucky we've got the wind," said Dink, calm amid the roaring cheers
about him. "Gee, that Andover attack's going to be hard to stop. Banks
is beginning to limp."
The blue, after a few quick advances, formed and swept out toward
Garry Cockrell's end.
"Three yards lost," said Dink grimly. "They won't try him often. Funny
they're not onto Banks. Lord, how they can gain through the center of
the line. First down again." Substitute and coach, the frantic school,
alumni over from Princeton, kept up a constant storm of shouts and
entreaties:
"Oh, get together!"
"Throw 'em back!"
"Hold 'em!"
"First down again!"
"Hold 'em, Lawrenceville!"
"Don't let them carry it seventy yards!"
"Get the jump!"
"There they go again!"
"Ten yards around Banks!"
Stover alone, squatting opposite the line of play, moving as it moved,
coldly critical, studied each individuality.
"Funny nervous little tricks that Goodhue's got--blows on his
hands--does that mean he takes the ball? No, all a bluff. What's he do
when he does take it? Quiet and looks at the ground. When he doesn't
take it he tries to pretend he does. I'll tuck that away. He's my man.
Seems to switch in just as the interference strikes the end about ten
feet beyond tackle, running low--Banks is playing too high; better,
perhaps, to run in on 'em now and then before they get started.
There's going to be trouble there in a minute. The fellows aren't up
on their toes yet--what is the matter, anyhow? Tough's getting boxed
right along, he ought to play out further, I should think. Hello, some
one fumbled again. Who's got it? Looks like Garry. No, they recovered
it themselves--no, they didn't. Lord, what a butter-fingered lot--why
doesn't he get it? He has--Charlie DeSoto--clear field--can he make
it?--he ought to--where's that Goodhue?--looks like a safe lead; he'll
make the twenty-yard line at least--yes, fully that, if he doesn't
stumble--there's that Goodhue now--some one ought to block him off,
good work--that's it--that makes the touchdown--lucky--very lucky!"
Some one hit him a terrific clap on the shoulder. He looked up in
surprise to behold Fatty Harris dancing about like a crazed man. The
air seemed all arms, hats were rising like startled coveys of birds.
Some one flung his arms around him and hugged him. He flung him off
almost indignantly. What were they thinking of--that was only one
touchdown--four points--what was that against that blue team and the
wind at their backs, too. One touchdown wasn't going to win the game.
"Why do they get so excited?" said Dink Stover to John Stover,
watching deliberately the ball soaring between the goalposts; "6 to
0--they think it's all over. Now's the rub."
Mr. Ware passed near him. He was quiet, too, seeing far ahead.
"Better keep warmed up, Stover," he said.
"Biting his nails, that's a funny trick for a master," thought Dink.
"He oughtn't to be nervous. That doesn't do any good."
The shouts of exultation were soon hushed; with the advantage of the
wind the game quickly assumed a different complexion. Andover had
found the weak end and sent play after play at Banks, driving him back
for long advances.
"Take off your sweater," said Mr. Ware.
Dink flung it off, running up and down the side-lines, springing from
his toes.
"Why don't they take him out?" he thought angrily, with almost a
hatred of the fellow who was fighting it out in vain. "Can't they see
it? Ten yards more, oh, Lord! This ends it."
With a final rush the Andover interference swung at Banks, brushed him
aside and swept over the remaining fifteen yards for the touchdown. A
minute later the goal was kicked and the elevens again changed sides.
The suddenness with which the score had been tied impressed every
one--the school team seemed to have no defense against the well-massed
attacks of the opponents.
"Holes as big as a house," said Fatty Harris. "Asleep! They're all
asleep!"
Dink, pacing up and down, waited the word from Mr. Ware, rebelling
because it did not come.
Again the scrimmage began, a short advance from the loosely-knit
school eleven, a long punt with the wind and then a quick,
business-like line-up of the blue team and another rush at the
vulnerable end.
"Ten yards more; oh, it's giving it away!" said Fatty Harris.
Stover knelt and tried his shoelaces and rising, tightened his belt.
"I'll be out there in a moment," he said to himself.
Another gain at Banks' end and suddenly from the elevens across the
field the figure of the captain rose and waved a signal.
"Go in, Stover," said Mr. Ware.
He ran out across the long stretch to where the players were moving
restlessly, their clothes flinging out clouds of steam. Back of him
something was roaring, cheering for him, perhaps, hoping against hope.
Then he was in the midst of the contestants, Garry Cockrell's arm
about his shoulders, whispering something in his ear about keeping
cool, breaking up the interference if he couldn't get his man,
following up the play. He went to his position, noticing the sullen
expressions of his teammates, angry with the consciousness that they
were not doing their best. Then taking his stand beyond Tough McCarty,
he saw the Andover quarter and the backs turn and study him curiously.
He noticed the half-back nearest him, a stocky, close-cropped,
red-haired fellow, with brawny arms under his rolled-up jersey, whose
duty it would be to send him rolling on the first rush.
"All ready?" cried the voice of the umpire. "First down."
The whistle blew, the two lines strained opposite each other. Stover
knew what the play would be--there was no question of that.
Fortunately the last two rushes had carried the play well over to his
side--the boundary was only fifteen yards away. Dink had thought out
quickly what he would do. He crept in closer than an end usually plays
and at the snap of the ball rushed straight into the starting
interference before it could gather dangerous momentum. The back,
seeing him thus drawn in, instinctively swerved wide around his
interference, forced slightly back. Before he could turn forward his
own speed and the necessity of distancing Stover and Condit drove him
out of bounds for a four-yard loss.
"Second down, nine yards to go!" came the verdict.
"Rather risky going in like that," said Flash Condit, who backed up
his side.
"Wanted to force him out of bounds," said Stover.
"Oh--look out for something between tackle and guard now."
"No--they'll try the other side now to get a clean sweep at me," said
Stover.
The red-haired half-back disappeared in the opposite side and, well
protected, kept his feet for five yards.
"Third down, four to gain."
"Now for a kick," said Stover, as the Andover end came out opposite
him. "What the deuce am I going to do to this coot to mix him up. He
looks more as though he'd like to tackle me than to get past." He
looked over and caught a glance from the Andover quarter. "I wonder.
Why not a fake kick? They've sized me up for green. I'll play it
carefully."
At the play, instead of blocking, he jumped back and to one side,
escaping the end who dove at his knees. Then, rushing ahead, he
stalled off the half and caught the fullback with a tackle that
brought him to his feet, rubbing his side.
"Lawrenceville's ball. Time up for first half."
Dink had not thought of the time. Amazed, he scrambled to his feet,
half angry at the interruption, and following the team went over to
the room to be talked to by the captain and the coach.
It was a hang-dog crowd that gathered there, quailing under the
scornful lashing of Garry Cockrell. He spared no one, he omitted no
names. Dink, listening, lowered his eyes, ashamed to look upon the
face of the team. One or two cried out:
"Oh, I say, Garry!"
"That's too much!"
"Too much, too much, is it?" cried their captain, walking up and down,
striking the flat of his hand with the clenched fist. "By heavens,
it's nothing to what they're saying of us out there. They're ashamed
of us, one and all! Listen to the cheering if you don't believe it!
They'll cheer a losing team, a team that is being driven back foot by
foot. There's something glorious in that, but a team that stands up to
be pushed over, a team that lies down and quits, a team that hasn't
one bit of red fighting blood in it, they won't cheer; they're ashamed
of you! Now, I'll tell you what's going to happen to you. You're going
to be run down the field for just about four touchdowns. Here's Lentz
being tossed around by a fellow that weighs forty pounds less. Why,
he's the joke of the game. McCarty hasn't stopped a play, not one!
Waladoo's so easy that they rest up walking through him. But that's
not the worst, you're playing wide apart as though there wasn't a man
within ten miles of you; not one of you is helping out the other. The
only time you've taken the ball from them is when a little shaver
comes in and uses his head. Now, you're not going to win this game,
but by the Almighty you're going out there and going to hold that
Andover team! You've got the wind against you; you've got everything
against you; you've got to fight on your own goal line, not once, but
twenty times. But you've got to hold 'em; you're going to make good;
you're going to wipe out that disgraceful, cowardly first half! You're
going out there to stand those fellows off! You're going to make the
school cheer for you again as though they believed in you, as though
they were proud of you! You're going to do a bigger thing than beat a
weaker team! You're going to fight off defeat and show that, if you
can't win, you can't be beaten!"
Mr. Ware, in a professional way, passed from one to another with a
word of advice: "Play lower, get the jump--don't be drawn in by a fake
plunge--watch Goodhue."
But Dink heard nothing; he sat in his corner, clasping and unclasping
his hands, suffering with the moments that separated him from the
fray. Then all at once he was back on the field, catching the force of
the wind that blew the hair about his temples, hearing the
half-hearted welcome that went up from the school.
"Hear that cheer!" said Garry Cockrell bitterly.
From Butcher Stevens' boot the ball went twisting and veering down the
field. Stover went down, dodging instinctively, hardly knowing what he
did. Then as he started to spring at the runner an interferer from
behind flung himself on him and sent him sprawling, but not until one
arm had caught and checked his man.
McCarty had stopped the runner, when Dink sprang to his feet, wild
with the rage of having missed his tackle.
"Steady!" cried the voice of his captain.
He lined up hurriedly, seeing red. The interference started for him,
he flung himself at it blindly and was buried under the body of the
red-haired half. Powerless to move, humiliatingly held under the
sturdy body, the passion of fighting rose in him again. He tried to
throw him off, doubling up his fist, waiting until his arm was free.
"Why, you're easy, kid," said a mocking voice. "We'll come again."
The taunt suddenly chilled him. Without knowing how it happened, he
laughed.
"That's the last time you get me, old rooster," he said, in a voice
that did not belong to him.
He glanced back. Andover had gained fifteen yards.
"That comes from losing my head," he said quietly. "That's over."
It had come, the cold consciousness of which Cockrell had spoken,
strange as the second wind that surprises the distressed runner.
"I've got to teach that red-haired coot a lesson," he said. "He's a
little too confident. I'll shake him up a bit."
The opportunity came on the third play, with another attack on his
end. He ran forward a few steps and stood still, leaning a little
forward, waiting for the red-haired back who came plunging at him.
Suddenly Dink dropped to his knees, the interferer went violently over
his back, something struck Stover in the shoulder and his arms closed
with the fierce thrill of holding his man.
"Second down, seven yards to gain," came the welcome sound.
Time was taken out for the red-haired half-back, who had had the wind
knocked out of him.
"Now he'll be more respectful," said Dink, and as soon as he caught
his eye he grinned. "Red hair--I'll see if I can't get his temper."
Thus checked and to use the advantage of the wind Andover elected to
kick. The ball went twisting, and, changing its course in the
strengthening wind, escaped the clutches of Macnooder and went
bounding toward the goal where Charlie DeSoto saved it on the
twenty-five-yard line. In an instant the overwhelming disparity of the
sides was apparent.
A return kick at best could gain but twenty-five or thirty yards. From
now on they would be on the defensive.
Dink came in to support his traditional enemy, Tough McCarty. The
quick, nervous voice of Charlie DeSoto rose in a shriek: "Now,
Lawrenceville, get into this, 7--52--3."
Dink swept around for a smash on the opposite tackle, head down, eyes
fastened on the back before him, feeling the shock of resistance and
the yielding response as he thrust forward, pushing, heaving on, until
everything piled up before him. Four yards gained.
A second time they repeated the play, making the first down.
"Time to spring a quick one through us," he thought.
But again DeSoto elected the same play.
"What's he trying to do?" said Dink. "Why don't he vary it?"
Some one hauled him out of the tangled pile. It was Tough McCarty.
"Say, our tackle's a stiff one," he said, with his mouth to Stover's
ear. "You take his knees; I'll take him above this time."
Their signal came at last. Dink dove, trying to meet the shifting
knees and throw him off his balance. The next moment a powerful arm
caught him as he left the ground and swept him aside.
"Any gain?" he asked anxiously as he came up.
"Only a yard," said McCarty. "He got through and smeered the play."
"I know how to get him next time," said Dink.
The play was repeated. This time Stover made a feint and then dove
successfully after the big arm had swept fruitlessly past. Flash
Condit, darting through the line, was tackled by Goodhue and fell
forward for a gain.
"How much?" said Stover, rising joyfully.
"They're measuring."
The distance was tried and found to be two feet short of the necessary
five yards. The risk was too great, a kick was signaled and the ball
was Andover's, just inside the center of the field.
"Now, Lawrenceville," cried the captain, "show what you're made of."
The test came quickly, a plunge between McCarty and Lentz yielded
three yards, a second four. The Andover attack, with the same
precision as before, struck anywhere between the tackles and found
holes. Dink, at the bottom of almost every pile, raged at Tough
McCarty.
"He's doing nothing, he isn't fighting," he said angrily. "He doesn't
know what it is to fight. Why doesn't he break up that interference
for me?"
When the attack struck his end now it turned in, slicing off tackle,
the runner well screened by close interference that held him up when
Stover tackled, dragging him on for the precious yards. Three and four
yards at a time, the blue advance rolled its way irresistibly toward
the red and black goal. They were inside the twenty-yard line now.
Cockrell was pleading with them. Little Charlie DeSoto was running
along the line, slapping their backs, calling frantically on them to
throw the blue back.
And gradually the line did stiffen, slowly but perceptibly the advance
was cut down. Enmities were forgotten with the shadow of the
goalposts looming at their backs. Waladoo and Turkey Reiter were
fighting side by side, calling to each other. Tough McCarty was
hauling Stover out of desperate scrimmages, patting him on the back
and calling him "good old Dink." The fighting blood that Garry
Cockrell had called upon was at last there--the line had closed and
fought together.
And yet they were borne back to their fifteen-yard line, two yards at
a time, just losing the fourth down.
Stover at end was trembling like a blooded terrier, on edge for each
play, shrieking:
"Oh, Tough, get through--you must get through!"
He was playing by intuition now, no time to plan. He knew just who had
the ball and where it was going. Out or in, the attack was
concentrating on his end--only McCarty and he could stop it. He was
getting his man, but they were dragging him on, fighting now for
inches.
"Third down, one yard to gain!"
"Watch my end," he shouted to Flash Condit, and hurling himself
forward at the starting backs dove under the knees, and grabbing the
legs about him went down buried under the mass he had upset.
It seemed hours before the crushing bodies were pulled off and some
one's arm brought him to his feet and some one hugged him, shouting in
his ear:
"You saved it, Dink, you saved it!"
Some one rushed up with a sponge and began dabbing his face.
"What the deuce are they doing that for?" he said angrily.
Then he noticed that an arm was under his and he turned curiously to
the face near him. It was Tough McCarty's.
"Whose ball is it?" he said.
"Ours."
He looked to the other side. Garry Cockrell was supporting him.
"What's the matter?" he said, trying to draw his head away from the
sponge that was dripping water down his throat.
"Just a little wind knocked out, youngster--coming to?"
"I'm all right."
He walked a few steps alone and then took his place. Things were in a
daze on the horizon, but not there in the field. Everything else was
shut out except his duty there.
Charlie DeSoto's voice rose shrill:
"Now, Lawrenceville, up the field with it. This team's just begun to
play. We've got together, boys. Let her rip!"
No longer scattered, but a unit, all differences forgot, fighting for
the same idea, the team rose up and crashed through the Andover line,
every man in the play, ten--fifteen yards ahead.
"Again!" came the strident cry.
Without a pause the line sprang into place, formed and swept forward.
It was a privilege to be in such a game, to feel the common frenzy,
the awakened glance of battle that showed down the line. Dink, side by
side with Tough McCarty, thrilled with the same thrill, plunging ahead
with the same motion, fighting the same fight; no longer alone and
desperate, but nerved with the consciousness of a partner whose
gameness matched his own.
For thirty yards they carried the ball down the field, before the
stronger Andover team, thrown off its feet by the unexpected frenzy,
could rally and stand them off. Then an exchange of punts once more
drove them back to their twenty-five-yard line.
A second time the Andover advance set out from the fifty-yard line and
slowly fought its way to surrender the ball in the shadow of the
goalposts.
Stover played on in a daze, remembering nothing of the confused shock
of bodies that had gone before, wondering how much longer he could
hold out--to last out the game as the captain had told him. He was
groggy, from time to time he felt the sponge's cold touch on his face
or heard the voice of Tough McCarty in his ear.
"Good old Dink, die game!"
How he loved McCarty fighting there by his side, whispering to him:
"You and I, Dink! What if he is an old elephant, we'll put him out the
play."
Still, flesh and blood could not last forever. The half must be nearly
up.
"Two minutes more time."
"What was that?" he said groggily to Flash Condit.
"Two minutes more. Hold 'em now!"
It was Andover's ball. He glanced around. They were down near the
twenty-five-yard line somewhere. He looked at McCarty, whose frantic
head showed against the sky.
"Break it up, Tough," he said, and struggled toward him.
A cry went up, the play was halted.
"He's groggy," he heard voices say, and then came the welcome splash
of the sponge.
Slowly his vision cleared to the anxious faces around him.
"Can you last?" said the captain.
"I'm all right," he said gruffly.
"Things cleared up now?"
"Fine!"
McCarty put his arm about him and walked with him.
"Oh, Dink, you will last, won't you?"
"You bet I will, Tough!"
"It's the last stand, old boy!"
"The last."
"Only two minutes more we've got to hold 'em! The last ditch, Dink."
"I'll last."
He looked up and saw the school crouching along the line--tense drawn
faces. For the first time he realized they were there, calling on him
to stand steadfast.
He went back, meeting the rush that came his way, half-knocked aside,
half-getting his man, dragged again until assistance came. DeSoto's
stinging hand slapped his back and the sting was good, clearing his
brain.
Things came into clear outline once more. He saw down the line and to
the end where Garry Cockrell stood.
"Good old captain," he said. "They'll not get by me, not now."
He was in every play it seemed to him, wondering why Andover was
always keeping the ball, always coming at his end. Suddenly he had a
shock. Over his shoulder were the goalposts, the line he stood on was
the line of his own goal.
He gave a hoarse cry and went forward like a madman, parting the
interference. Some one else was through; Tough was through; the whole
line was through flinging back the runner. He went down clinging to
Goodhue, buried under a mass of his own tacklers. Then, through the
frenzy, he heard the shrill call of time.
He struggled to his feet. The ball lay scarcely four yards away from
the glorious goalposts. Then, before the school could sweep them up;
panting, exhausted, they gathered in a circle with incredulous,
delirious faces, and leaning heavily, wearily on one another gave the
cheer for Andover. And the touch of Stover's arm on McCarty's shoulder
was like an embrace.