VICTORIOUS NINETY-TWO.
“IF bread is the staff of life, butter is the gold head to the cane,”
remarked Max profoundly, as he waved the butter-knife.
“I say, Max,” inquired Stanley; “how long did it take you to study that
up?”
“I knew he had something on his mind,” added Alex; “he has been
unusually quiet all the morning.”
“None of your impertinence, Alex,” Max was beginning, with mock dignity,
when Louis said, from his seat farther down the table,—
“He made it up last night, before he went to sleep. I was just
dropping off when I heard him mumbling, ‘Bread—staff of
life—butter—hm—butter?—um—yellow—no, gold.’ I fell asleep just then,
and left him still studying on it.”
“You don’t appreciate really good jokes,” said Max loftily; “and if you
tell any more such stories about me, I’ll leave you out of the next lark
I have on foot.”
“You don’t dare,” said Louis, laughing.
“What’s going on?” inquired Stanley curiously, for he had caught a
knowing glance which passed between the room-mates, and felt sure, from
Max’s suppressed excitement, that there was some frolic on hand.
“Nothing more exciting than the game to-morrow,” answered Max evasively,
as he moved away from the table. “I only wish that Leon had been ordered
for extra duty in the afternoon, instead of Frank Osborn. I’m afraid our
side hasn’t much chance, unless two days of arrest have undermined
Leon’s constitution. He’ll make trouble for us, if it hasn’t.”
The boys separated for evening study-hour, and soon afterwards quiet
reigned over Flemming, for the members of the eleven went early to bed,
to be ready for the event of the morrow, while the other boys soon
followed the example of their mates. Long before “lights out” had
sounded and Lieutenant Wilde had made his round, Old Flemming was as
dark and silent as a deserted house, left tenantless even by ghosts.
However, if any ghostly wanderer had been walking the halls of Old
Flemming, that night at midnight, he would have been surprised to see a
door swing slowly open and two boys step stealthily out into the hall,
their shoes in their hands and a great, dark bundle under the arm of one
of them. With long, noiseless steps they moved towards the head of the
stairs, pausing often to listen and peer into the velvety darkness
around them; then they stole down the stairs to the outer door which
they opened as cautiously as they had done the other, closed it behind
them, and passed out into the night. At the foot of the steps leading
from the drive up to the level of the armory door, they dropped down on
the ground and began to put on their shoes.
“All right so far, Wing,” said one of them in a low tone, as he laced up
his shoe and tied the string in a complicated knot. “If we can carry
this thing through, we’re in luck.”
“And if we’re caught, it will be bad for us,” returned Louis gloomily.
“After all, though, the chances are with us, for nobody has ever tried
anything of the kind before now, and they won’t be on the watch to
prevent it.”
“We’re all safe enough till we go in again,” said Max; “as long as we
don’t break our necks,” he added provisionally, as he glanced up at the
armory which was dimly outlined against the starless sky above.
“Fine night for us,” observed Louis. “But come ahead; we don’t want to
waste any time talking.” And he led the way to the buttresses which
flanked the corner of a little wing near the front of the building.
“I’ll go up ahead,” said Max; “and then you hand up the colors. Bother
the fellow that planned this building!” he added petulantly. “I’ve
rubbed all the skin off my knee, trying to get a purchase against this
smooth stone. Why couldn’t he have left it rough, I wonder.”
“He would, if he’d had the interest of ninety-two at heart,” returned
Louis. “But stop scolding and hurry up there.”
Both the boys were as agile as monkeys, and by bracing themselves
against the angle of the buttresses, they had soon climbed up to where
they could gain a slippery footing on the steep roof of the wing. Once
there, their way was easier, for a row of small bars fastened to the
slates, showed where the janitor went up to the ridgepole, in the rare
event of trouble with the lines for raising the colors. At the ridgepole
the boys came to a halt, and seating themselves astride the sharp comb
of the roof, they began to untie the bundle they had so carefully
brought with them. The next moment, the roof at their feet was covered
with something large and dark, which lay in loose folds along the tiles.
“Ready?” asked Max, after a moment of careful adjustment.
“Ready,” answered Louis from his post farther back on the roof.
“Let her go, then!” And there was a sound of rasping cordage, as the
dark mass slowly rose into the air.
“Catch hold of me, while I make this fast,” said Max. Then he bent
forward over the edge of the roof, for a moment. “Now,” he continued, as
he cautiously rose to a perpendicular once more, “if they don’t stare
to-morrow morning, when they go to put up the colors, my name’s not Max
Eliot.”
“Won’t Paul be wild, though, to think that none of his men were bright
enough to think of it?” said Louis, with a chuckle, as he prepared to
descend.
Max followed him at a little distance, and half their way was safely
accomplished when Louis heard a sudden slip, followed by a heavy thud
and a suppressed exclamation from Max.
“What’s the matter?” he asked, in the same low tone in which all their
conversation had been carried on.
“Missed one of the steps and sat down,” replied Max wrathfully. “I
wouldn’t mind the thump; but I hit on one of these beastly nails and I
felt something give out. If I’ve torn a hole in my coat, it will give
the whole thing away. I could build a better armory than this, myself,”
he added, as he scrambled to his feet again.
“Safe!” ejaculated Louis, when the door of their room had once more
closed behind them. “We’ve put the thing through, Max, and I don’t see
how we can get caught.”
“Unless my coat tells the story,” said Max ruefully, as he pulled off
the offending garment and felt up and down the back. “Here ’tis,” he
continued; “a great three-cornered tear, large enough to put my head
through. However am I going to mend it, so it won’t show?”
“You can pin it up,” said Louis hopefully. “If you can just get through
the morning, you can let it go that was torn in a scrimmage. But do go
to bed, for we mustn’t be sleepy in the morning.”
Louis’s warning was unnecessary, for the excitement of their escapade
and of the coming game kept the boys from sleeping soundly during the
few remaining hours of the night; and the first light of the morning
found Max, partly dressed, sitting on the edge of his bed, with his
mouth full of pins, as he tried to repair the damages wrought by his
fall.
“How does this go, Wing?” he asked, slipping on the coat and turning his
back to Louis who was still in bed.
“Like time,” responded Louis promptly and concisely. “It’s all puckered
up and looks worse than the hole.”
“Then what can I do?” asked Max desperately. “I never could sew it up,
even if I had the tackle; and it can’t go as ’tis, for ’t would tell the
whole thing. If I only had another fatigue coat! Help me out, there’s a
good fellow, for you’re in it as badly as I am.”
“Let’s see,” said Louis, raising himself on his elbow to contemplate the
task before him; “my sister mends her gloves with plaster; why not
doctor up your coat the same way?”
“Good scheme!” said Max approvingly, as he dived into his pocket for a
tiny silver case.
Then, possessing himself of the one pair of scissors which the room
afforded, he settled himself to his novel tailoring with such good
success that he was enabled to put in a prompt appearance at the
breakfast-table, with but little trace of his adventure of the previous
night.
It was the unvarying custom of the school to have the colors raised on
the armory, every morning at the hour for guard-mounting; but on this
particular morning, the eyes of the early stragglers about the grounds
were met by a new feature in the landscape. From the top of the flagpole
on the armory, a flag was already waving in the morning wind; but
instead of the familiar stars and bars of the national tricolor, there
flaunted a huge blue cambric banner, inscribed in golden letters with
the legend: ’92 AND ’94. The new colors were promptly hauled down, but
not before most of the cadets had gathered around the armory to look and
laugh, and speculate as to the perpetrators of the joke; but neither the
boys’ speculations, nor the doctor’s efforts to discover the offenders,
ever succeeded in bringing to light the mystery of the midnight
expedition of the loyal juniors.
The long-anticipated Saturday before Thanksgiving was a cold, clear,
bracing day, as if especially designed for the annual football match.
According to the regular habit of the school, lessons were over at
eleven that morning, and a light lunch was served immediately
afterwards. Promptly at two o’clock the procession formed in front of
the armory, headed by the school band who banged and tooted away in
their best style. Back of them walked the two elevens, gorgeous in their
uniforms, the white jerseys of one side adorned with a huge scarlet F.
on the chest, while the others wore a blue letter modestly surrounded
with a halo of little golden stars. This impressive body was followed by
the twenty or thirty cadets who had no active part in the proceedings,
but went merely in the light of spectators. Lieutenant Wilde and Mr.
Boniface, walking arm in arm, brought up the rear with befitting
solemnity. To the inspiring strains of “Marching through Georgia,” the
line moved off, turned down the hill and marched twice around the
doctor’s house, while Mrs. Flemming and Gyp watched them from the front
piazza, and Maggie O’Flarity, on the back porch, saluted them with a
flourish of her broom and poker. Then, with the doctor in their ranks,
they started for the ball-field, while the band, with a delightful
impartiality, changed their tune to “See, the Conquering Hero comes!”
And the small village boys that garnished the fence, waved their shabby
hats in pleased anticipation.
The doctor and Lieutenant Wilde took up their positions as umpire and
referee, for out of love for their boys they cheerfully resigned
themselves to the somewhat doubtful enjoyments of these honorary
offices; the spectators arranged themselves as best they could, and the
players took their places for the struggle. The seniors realized that
this was their last chance to cover themselves with glory, so far as
football was concerned, and Leon was burning with a determination to
efface the memory of his recent disgrace; while, on the other side, the
juniors, secure in their faithful training, viewed their opponents with
scorn, and encouraged their young allies to do their best. Louis squared
his shoulders, and stood very straight, with the consciousness that his
blue and gold finery was extremely becoming, and Max tossed a stray pine
cone at the nearest village urchin, a tow-headed youth who dodged and
chuckled in recognition of this especial mark of attention.
At a signal from the doctor, the play began and then—But why describe
all the details of the game to an audience of American boys who know and
love it so well, or to those older and wiser—and duller heads, to whom
the whole subject is uninteresting, and its mysteries a sealed book? It
is enough to tell that there were the usual groupings of wildly excited
lads, the usual mad races across the field, the usual wild onslaughts of
the rush line. Again and again Leon caught the ball from the snapper and
passed it on to Paul for a run, again and again the fine punting of Max
saved the game for the juniors; but the intermission had come and gone,
and the issue was doubtful. Slowly, as if reluctant to leave the busy
scene, the sun dropped towards the western hills, and the battle was in
favor of the seniors. The critical moment had come, and the teams lined
up for a scrimmage, with the ball far towards the junior goal. Very
quietly and steadily Jack Howard took the ball, though his face was
white with the intense excitement of the moment, as he waited for the
captain’s signal to play.
“One—four—three!” commanded Paul.
For one instant he balanced the ball on its end, then snapped it back
with suddenness and precision, rising again in time to block his man in
the opposing rush line. With the same accuracy that his centre had
shown, Leon caught up the swiftly-moving ball in the hollow of his right
arm, and with one quick swing, passed it on to the left tackle who
darted away down the field, only to be met full in his course by the
junior right tackle, who leaped upon him with a suddenness that fairly
hurled the ball from his grasp into the clutches of the junior men.
Again came the breathless excitement of awaiting the signal to play.
Then the cry of the junior captain, “Five—six!” was followed by the
answering signal from Stanley, to warn the snap back that he was ready.
Swift as thought, the ball rolled back to his hand, and went flying to
Louis who, seizing an unguarded opening between the end and tackle,
sprang forward and went dodging down the field, half-way to the senior
goal, before he could be stopped. There was a moment of deafening
applause; then the tumult was stilled, for all realized that the climax
of the game had come.
“Seven—two!” commanded the junior captain.
Again, as the ball rolled back to Stanley, the lines were broken for a
desperate, hand-to-hand struggle. Then a triumphant shout from the
seniors was met by an answering groan from the friends of the juniors.
Stanley had passed the ball to the “scrub” who was substituting for
Frank Osborn. Misunderstanding the captain’s signal, he had fumbled in
receiving it, and the seniors had fallen on the ball.
For an instant, Paul surveyed the field. In spite of their recent
mishap, the juniors were playing finely; still, when it came to a
question of brute force, the advantage lay with the seniors, and he gave
his orders accordingly. Massing their men into a wedge about the
precious ball, the seniors ploughed their way down the field, offering a
resistless, impenetrable front to the baffled juniors. Six yards, eight
yards, eleven yards, on they swept. Then Louis, who had been watching
for his moment to come, all at once plunged through and over the human
barrier, knocking the ball from the hands of the man who was holding it,
and capturing it in the very midst of the enemy, amidst the jubilant
shouts of his allies. Ten minutes more to play, on an almost even score;
but the advantage of position lay with the junior team, as once again
the elevens lined up.
“Seven—four!” commanded the junior captain.
Once more the ball flew from Stanley to Louis who made a rush towards a
weak spot in the opposing line, then, seizing the moment when the senior
team had massed itself to protect the threatened point, abruptly passed
the ball to Max, who shut his teeth together and punted as he had never
punted before. Up and out flew the ball, far over the heads of the
rushers, and away sprang the boys after it, with Louis leading the
juniors, and the ends plunging along close at his heels. At almost the
same moment, Leon and Louis reached the ball. Leon cast himself upon it,
but Louis hurled himself on top of Leon and knocked the ball from his
grasp. When they emerged from the pile of wriggling boys, it was Louis
who held the ball and they were close to the senior goal. Three minutes
later, the victory lay with the juniors.
The conquering eleven were immediately seized and surrounded by their
schoolmates, for both the spectators and the defeated contestants united
in giving them hearty congratulations on their fine play, although Louis
was unanimously voted the real winner of the game. There were a few
minutes of breathless, noisy chatter; then the band struck up “Hail to
the Chief,” and the procession reformed, to march back to Old Flemming
for a jolly supper, presided over by no less a person than the doctor
himself, supported on either hand by the captains of the rival elevens.
“I say, Hal,” said Paul, stopping him on the piazza; “where’s that young
brother of yours? He played magnificently, and I want to tell him so.”
“I don’t know where he is,” answered Harry. “I haven’t seen him since
the game. Perhaps he’s gone up-stairs for something; I’ll go and see, if
you want.”
“Oh, never mind,” said Paul, turning away. “He’ll be down to supper in a
few minutes, and I can see him then.”
But Leon failed to appear at supper-time, and when Harry and Paul went
to look him up afterwards, they found him lying on his bed, looking a
little white about the mouth.
“What’s the matter, Leon?” exclaimed Harry anxiously.
“Oh, nothing much,” answered Leon, sitting up as he saw them enter;
“only I twisted my foot a little in that last rush. It felt sort of
queer, and I thought I’d keep still to-night; but ’t will be all right
in the morning, so don’t say anything about it.”
However, morning found the ankle so swollen and lame that Leon allowed
his brother to ask Lieutenant Wilde to come and look at it. Slight as
was his knowledge of such matters, Lieutenant Wilde unhesitatingly
pronounced it a severe sprain, and the village doctor, who appeared a
little later, confirmed him in the statement and ordered the boy to give
his foot a rest for some days.
“When you boys get a little sense of your own,” the old man remarked
vehemently, while he bound up the foot with fingers as gentle as a
woman’s; “when you boys get a little sense of your own, I say, you’ll
leave off playing such an abominable game as football. It’s come now to
where it isn’t much but a prize-fight, and all it’s good for is to bring
in an income to us doctors. There! now you’re all right, but don’t you
think of stepping on that foot for the next week. Then we’ll see!” And
he took his departure, leaving his patient looking rather forlorn.
“This is fine,” remarked Leon disconsolately, when he had gone. “Here
’tis Thanksgiving week, and everybody going off. Between this and my row
with Winslow, I am rather down on my luck, just now.”
“Never mind, Leon,” said Alex, who chanced to be in the room. “Everybody
says the doctor only punished you because he had to, for the looks of
it; and you can console yourself with the thought that the seniors are
all saying that you did more than any other one fellow to save the game
for them.”
“Yes,” added Harry; “and you’d better be thankful that you didn’t lay
yourself up in practice. Plenty of fellows have done it before now, and
there’s neither glory nor fun in that kind of thing, you know.”
“Much good that does me,” returned Leon ungratefully, though at heart he
was proud of his success. “I only hope daddy won’t think I’m a hard
case. But when you fellows are off eating turkey, think of me, starving
here on husks, with only Dame Pinney for company.”
But Mrs. Flemming was far too motherly a little woman to think of
leaving Leon for a lonely Thanksgiving with Mrs. Pinney, the
housekeeper. Early the next morning, she knocked at Leon’s door, with a
daintily-packed basket in one hand and the latest boys’ book in the
other.
“I just looked in for a minute,” she said; “to ask if it wouldn’t be a
good idea to have you carried down to our house, Wednesday morning, to
stay till the boys come back, on Monday. Lieutenant Wilde will be with
us, and we should all like this chance to get better acquainted with
you. Gyp is lamenting that we can’t have Harry, too; but I suppose his
plans are already made.”
Accordingly on Wednesday morning Leon was waited upon by a “lady’s
chair,” formed of Jack and Alex, who marched down the hill to the
doctor’s house and deposited their burden in a reclining-chair which was
cosily drawn up in front of the parlor fire, close to a little table
covered with the latest illustrated papers and a number of books of
travel and adventure, such as boys love. From this luxurious retreat,
Leon could watch his departing friends with calm indifference; for was
he not to spend five whole days in the house with the doctor and
Lieutenant Wilde, with Mrs. Flemming to coddle him, and Gyp to amuse him
to the best of her small ability?
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