IN THE GRIP OF A GIANT
That evening, just before nine, the team was gathered in the back room of
the Blue Moon for a last look at unusual plays and a cheering word from
the coach.
“Football is a game of war.” The coach spoke earnestly. “Back there in
those hard days of 1918 when some of us paid a long visit to France, we
practiced long weeks before we were sent into the trenches. That practice
was real, the realest thing any of us had ever known. It had to be. When,
in bayonet practice, we went after a dummy—a gunny-sack stuffed with
straw—that was, to us, not a sack but a man. It must be a man, for
tomorrow, next day, the day after, we would go over the top. Then it
WOULD be a man. Everything must be real.
“Football is like that, you must go after things hard. You must buck the
line in scrimmage as you do in a real game.
“Football is like war in other ways. If a battalion cannot go through the
enemy’s line, it attempts to go around him. If an army is too light for
ground fighting, it takes to the air. You do the same thing in football.
“In war, practice is not enough. When the zero hour arrives, a soldier
must have a clear head, his body must be fit, he must have his nerves
under control. Only so can he win and live.
“You boys have practiced hard. You have given the best there is in you.
You are prepared. Tomorrow you must be at your best. Keep your heads. Get
a good grip on your nerves. Don’t let the other fellows get your goat. Go
in to win!”
“Yea! Yea! Hear! Hear! Hear!” came in a roar from the team.
“Thanks,” the coach smiled. “And now—” he broke off to stand at attention
for a period of seconds. Had his keen ears caught some unusual sound?
Johnny, who sat in a corner close to a half open window, would have sworn
he caught a faint rustle from the outside. “But who’d be around this time
of night?” he asked himself. “And after all, what does it matter? All
Hillcrest is loyal to our team.”
“Now,” the coach went on at last, “we’ll go through two or three plays
rather rapidly.” Picking up a bit of chalk, he stepped to the blackboard.
“This play,” he drew circles rapidly, “is one of balanced formation.
You’ll likely try it after a couple of long, and probably unsuccessful
passes. In the play—”
Again he paused to listen. This time Johnny did hear some sound from
without, he was sure of it. “Might be Panther Eye’s black giant!” he told
himself with a shudder. “But then,” he asked himself, “is there a black
giant?” He rather doubted it. He had come to think of that giant as a
black ghost. Panther Eye too might be a ghost for all he knew.
“In this play,” the coach began once more, “Artie passes the ball from
quarter to Punch at full. Punch poses as for a long pass. But Dynamite
swings round close behind the line of scrimmage and the ball is thrown to
him. In the meantime, Rabbit and Tony dash round left end in position to
receive a pass. Dynamite, you go through the line for whatever gain you
can, then, if there is a chance, shoot a pass to Rabbit or Tony. After
that,” he grinned, “it’s your game. Let your conscience be your guide.”
“Have you got that?” he demanded.
“Yea! Yea! Yea! You bet!” came from every corner.
“All right. Now this next one is a trick play. It—”
He did not finish, for at that moment, from somewhere outside, there came
a most unearthly scream.
“Who—what’s that?” Every man was on his feet.
They dashed to the window just in time to witness a short, sharp struggle
between two shadowy figures. One was of ordinary size, the other a person
of huge proportions, a giant. Apparently it was the smaller person who
had screamed, for now, as he half broke away, he let out one more
blood-curdling cry.
The next instant he was free and dashing toward the front of the Blue
Moon. Ten seconds later some heavy object launched itself against the
locked door of the place and an agonizing voice cried:
“Let me in! For God’s sake let me in. He’ll kill me!”
There was no opportunity for letting him in. Before anyone could reach
the front of the large room, he broke the door open, and fell panting on
the floor.
Walking calmly past the prostrate figure, Johnny stepped out into the
moonlight and took a sweeping survey of the surrounding territory.
Nothing unusual was to be seen. The giant had vanished.
“Never-the-less there was a giant!” he said slowly. “Pant’s big,
hooked-nose giant, I’ll be bound. But why, I wonder, was he man-handling
that other fellow?”
The reason was not far to seek, at least Johnny felt that way about it,
for the moment he laid eyes on the frightened stranger, who by this time
had risen from the floor, he recognized in him, the sneering Naperville
sophomore, the very one who had come near to causing Kentucky’s downfall.
Every boy in the room had recognized this fellow, the coach as well,
but—Johnny thought this a trifle strange—not one of them all gave any
indication that they knew him. For that matter, however, the boys seemed
willing enough to let Coach Dizney do the talking.
As for the stranger, Johnny thought he had never seen anyone so
thoroughly frightened. Eyes wild, nostrils widely distended, lips far
apart, he stood there panting.
“Well, son?” the coach’s tone was disarming.
“He—he would have killed me,” the boy spoke with difficulty.
“Who?”
“The big, black giant.”
“Giant?” The coach looked at him strangely. “We have no giants in
Hillcrest. Must have escaped from a circus.”
“Yes—yes, I—I guess that was it,” the boy seemed relieved.
“But what were you doing out there?” the coach asked quietly.
“Just—why, just passing—just walking by.” The stranger appeared slightly
confused.
“There’s no sidewalk there,” the coach said.
“Johnny,” he turned about, “suppose you get the Chief on the wire. Tell
him to run over here.”
“O. K.!” Johnny was on his way.
“I—I—” the stranger gave the coach an uncertain look. “Well you see I—I
got lost so I—I just sort of cut across.”
The coach seemed to have lost interest in the conversation. “Perhaps,” he
suggested, “a good hot drink would brace you up. Cup of hot chocolate
perhaps.”
“Yes, I—”
“Kentucky,” the coach turned to smile, “one cup of hot chocolate on me.”
“One cup of hot chocolate coming up.” The look on Kentucky’s face was a
study. Was he amused? Was he afraid, perhaps, that he might be tempted to
throw the drink in the stranger’s face? Who could say? Enough that he did
his duty as host faultlessly.
There came the stamping of feet and the Chief of Police arrived. “What’s
up?” he demanded. The stranger stared at him, gulped down the last of his
cocoa, then swallowed hard.
“This boy says he saw a giant that broke loose from a circus.” Was there
a twinkle in the coach’s eye?
“Dangerous,” said the Chief.
“He—he shook me,” the boy stammered.
“Bad! Very bad!” said the Chief. “Then what?”
“He broke in the door to this place,” said the coach.
“The giant?” the Chief appeared to stare.
“This boy,” the coach replied.
“Oh, this boy! So!” The Chief’s face was sober. “Breakin’-an’-enterin’.
That’s it. Thirty days at least, I’d say.”
“But—but—” the boy’s face paled, “he was after me.”
“Any confirmation?” the Chief looked about. “Johnny, did you see him,
this ’ere escaped giant?”
“I went out and looked around,” Johnny said truthfully, “I didn’t see a
soul.”
“Breakin’-an’-enterin’,” the Chief repeated slowly. “Pretty bad. Thirty
days, I’d say.”
“But, Chief,” the coach appeared to protest, “that would be rather hard.
Perhaps—
“Got any relatives, son?” he turned to the intruder. “Anyone a hundred
miles away or so?”
“Yes—yes I got an uncle in Springer,” the boy’s tone was eager.
“Would you stay there three days if you were sent there?”
“Yes—yes I would,” his eagerness increased.
“How about it, Chief?” The coach smiled.
“Whatever you say, coach.”
“Fine! Will you see him on his way, Chief?”
“Be glad to, coach. Come on, son.”
The Chief and his prisoner passed through the door, to enter a car and go
rolling away.
“Snooping, that’s what he was,” said Dynamite indignantly. “Trying to get
on to our plays and signals. Oh well, we’ll not be bothered with him
tomorrow, and, old son,” he turned to Kentucky, “you won’t have to choke
him for calling names. He won’t be there to call ’em.”
“I shore am right smart ’bliged to hear that,” Kentucky drawled. “That
there is the name-callin’est feller I might-nigh ever seed!”
At that every boy in the room burst into a hearty laugh.
“Perhaps,” said the coach thoughtfully, “that was taking an unfair
advantage of the enemy.”
“Not a bit of it!” Dynamite exploded. “They beat us out of that last game
because he wasn’t penalized for a foul. Besides, all spies should be shot
at sunrise. You let him off easy.”
“Glad you think so,” the coach heaved a sigh of relief.
“But what about this giant?” he wrinkled his brow. “How many of you
really saw him?”
“I—I—I—sure! Sure we saw him,” came in a chorus.
“I think I might shed a little light on that. All of you get set for a
lemon soda and I’ll entertain you with a yarn not one of you’ll believe.”
It was Johnny who spoke.
While they drank their soda, Johnny told the story of Panther Eye, the
giant, and the kidnapped girl, told it through to the end, or at least,
as far as the story had gone. “Now,” he ended, “can you beat that?”
“Can’t even tie it,” the coach said solemnly.
“Well, boys,” the coach rose, “big day tomorrow. Time to start pounding
your ears.” The team filed silently from the room.
Later that night Johnny received a strange visitor. The last freshman to
drop in for a chocolate bar had left the door ajar. Since the evening was
mild and the room was warm, Johnny had not troubled to close it. Instead
he sat by the stove musing on many things. In his imagination he heard
again the roar of a bear, the loud boom of an explosion, the roar of a
thousand voices shouting for Hillcrest and victory.
“Victory,” he whispered. “Tomorrow’s the day. Will they win? And
Kentucky, will he have a part in it?” In his mind’s eyes once more he saw
them marching by, the team: Rabbit Jones, Tony Blazes, Stagger Weed,
Punch Dickman, Artie Stark, Dynamite, Old Kentucky, and all the rest.
What a fine bunch they were! And what a season it had been! His blood
warmed at thought of it. “To be a little part of a big thing like
Hillcrest College. Ah! That was something! It was—”
His thoughts broken short off, he sat there staring at the apparition
that stood in the opening of the door. A girl, she was tall and
gracefully slender. And how fair she was! Her hair seemed mere moonbeams,
her face was like shimmering silk. Was she a ghost? Johnny started but
did not move. He had met up with ghosts of a sort before and had found
them harmless.
“Pardon me,” the girl’s voice was low, musical. “Are you Johnny
Thompson?”
“Speaking,” Johnny was on his feet.
“And are you a friend of a person they call Panther Eyes?” Her English,
though perfect, was spoken with a foreign accent. Johnny was plagued by
the notion that he had seen her somewhere before.
“Yes,” he replied, “Panther Eye and I have been great friends. Won’t you
sit down?”
The girl accepted the chair offered to her then, turning eagerly toward
him she said, “Can you tell me where he is—this Panther Eye? It is
important that I should know. He saved me from death, worse than death—I
wish to thank him. My father would reward him.”
“That,” Johnny smiled, “happened in Ethiopia.”
“Yes—yes,” her tone was eager. “You know about it. He has told you. Where
is he?” She glanced hurriedly about the room.
“He is not here,” Johnny said. “I do not know where he is, may never know
again. He’s that sort.”
“Oh!” The girl voiced her disappointment. “That’s—that’s really terrible.
You see,” she went on, “Father is—you might say—rather well to do. Oil
and all that. He went to Ethiopia to study oil prospects. He found a
valley there and came to love it. He sent for me. We lived there happily.
And then—then—” she covered her eyes for an instant. “Then that terrible
black giant carried me away. And—and your friend saved me.”
“There’s been a black giant around here,” Johnny said. “I’m sure of that.
Could he have been the same man?”
“Oh, no! God forbid!” the girl laughed uncertainly. “That was our
servant. We brought him from Africa. He—why, come to think of it, there
is a resemblance. But he—Oh my! No. He’s not the man!
“You see,” she explained as Johnny gave her a questioning look, “we set
Hassie, that’s our servant, to hunt up your friend, Panther Eye. He did a
good piece of work—almost. In the end though, he allowed him to slip
away.”
“He would have had a hard time stopping him,” Johnny chuckled. “Even if
he’d known everything, he would have vanished.
“You see,” he leaned forward, “Panther Eye just wanted to take you back
so you would be in that picture again, the broad, green pasture, the
cows, the banana field, and all that. When you were back he was
satisfied. He isn’t romantic, not in the least. And as for money, he
never appears to need it much. So—”
“So it’s not much use looking.” The girlish figure drooped. “I—I did so
want to thank him!”
“You might leave your address.” Johnny suggested.
“Yes. Yes. So I might. Will you loan me pencil and paper?”
As Johnny stood close to the girl while she wrote down the address, he
became conscious of two things—that she was no ghost but a real person,
and that she was really quite charming.
“And you,” she favored him with a rare smile, “you will come and see us?”
“Well—yes, perhaps.”
She held out her hand. Johnny took it in his own. It was a good firm
hand. Johnny liked the touch of it.
“I said I would,” he whispered, as she disappeared through the door. “But
will I? I wonder?”
“Tomorrow,” he thought with a thrill one minute later, “tomorrow is the
big day.” Already the mysterious girl and her giant escort were crowded
from his mind. The team, the game, these filled his entire horizon.
One more recollection slipped into Johnny’s mind and out again before he
fell asleep that night. A half hour after their landing at Hillcrest he
had come upon Kentucky practicing football all by himself. He was
dropping the ball and picking it up, bouncing it on the ground and
catching it, retrieving it in every manner imaginable. One thing was
strange, the ball was soaking wet and the field was dry.
“How’d your ball get wet?” he had asked.
“I soaked it,” Kentucky dropped it, then fell upon it.
“Why?” Johnny had asked in surprise.
“Well,” Kentucky had replied quite soberly, “the weather man predicts
dampness for tomorrow. If it rains, somebody’s going to drop the ball.
And I’ll be ready to pick it up.”
“He doesn’t miss much, that boy,” Johnny murmured to himself just before
he fell asleep.