A CROSS-COUNTRY RUN
"Line up! Line up!"
It was the call of the coach and captain to the improvised regular
eleven and the scrub. Twenty-two rather nervous lads faced each
other--no, not all of the twenty-two were nervous, for there were some
veterans--warriors of past battles--who were as cool as the proverbial
cucumber. But the new lads--those who hoped to make the first
eleven--were undoubtedly nervous. And so, too, were some of those who
had played before, for they had not yet found themselves this season,
and they did not know but what their playing might be so poor and
ragged that they would be ordered to the side lines.
"Line up! Line up!"
Again came the stirring cry. The scrub team, under the leadership of
their captain, withdrew for a short consultation regarding signals, and
to plan how best to stop the rushes of the regular lads. The latter,
under the guidance of Morse, were ready to put the ball into play, for
the captain and coach had decided to see what value their side was in
rushing tactics, before going on the defense.
"All ready now, boys!" exclaimed the coach briskly. "Get into the
plays on the jump. You can do twice as well if you have speed than if
you have not. Hit the defense hard, get some momentum back of you. A
moving body, and all that sort of thing you know, that you learn in
your physics class.
"Jump into the plays. Meet the ball; don't wait for it to get to you.
That applies to you backs," and he nodded at Tom and his two mates.
"Quarter, don't fumble when you pass the ball back. Be accurate.
Don't make a mistake in the signals.
"You guards and tackles, hold hard. Tear holes big enough for the man
with the ball to get through. Don't be afraid. Ends, you want to get
down like lightning on kicks. Nail in his tracks the man who catches
the ball, but don't, for the love of the pigskin, touch him until he
has it, or you'll be offside. Watch out for fake kicks, forward
passes, double passes--watch out for all tricks. If there's a fumble,
fall on the ball and stay there, unless you see a chance to run with
it. You fellows who expect to do any toe work, don't get nervous. The
boys will hold the others back until you get a chance to boot the ball
away. And you fellows in the line, see that you do hold.
"There!" concluded the coach with a sigh. "I've given you enough
football instructions to last all season. Now get busy and let's see
how much of it you remember."
"Line up!" cried Captain Morse Denton, and, the preliminaries having
been arranged, the ball was kicked off by the scrub, as the other
players wanted to see how well they could rush it back.
It was Tom's luck to capture the yellow spheroid as it descended, and,
well protected by interference, he raced down the field.
"Get him, fellows! Get him!" appealed the scrub captain, and several
made an effort to break through to tackle Tom. Our hero noticed that
Sam Heller was running interference for him on the left, and for a
moment Tom felt that perhaps he had misjudged Sam in one particular.
"He certainly is making good interference for me," mused our hero.
"Maybe he won't play me false after all. But I'm going to be on the
watch."
There was now but the scrub fullback between Tom and the opposite goal
line, though it was some distance away. Most of the leading team lads,
streaming and straggling along, were shouting to encourage Tom.
"Go on! Go on!"
"Touchdown! Touchdown!"
"Good run, Tom old man!"
Tom was getting into his stride. Sam was just ahead of him seemingly
getting ready to bowl over the scrub fullback, who was racing down the
field, eager-eyed, to tackle Tom.
"If Sam disposes of him I will make a touchdown," mused Tom, and then
Sam and the fullback came together. Sam went down in a heap at the
first impact, and the fullback--who was Henry Everett--came on,
scarcely hindered.
The next moment he tackled Tom and threw him heavily, though Tom kept
possession of the ball.
"Down!" gasped Tom, as he felt the weight of his opponent. The latter
arose.
"Got you; didn't I?" he asked, grinning.
"Yes," replied Tom, looking to where Sam Heller was leisurely getting
to his feet. Our hero watched his enemy narrowly. Was it only a
fancy, or was it true that Sam had not made half a try to throw off the
interference of the fullback?
"You were easy," laughed the scrub lad. "I thought I was going to have
trouble with you, Sam, but you were easy."
"Aw, my foot slipped, and I fell, or you wouldn't have gotten me,"
asserted Sam, but to Tom's ears, somehow, the words did not ring true.
"I believe he deliberately let Everett get me so I wouldn't have the
honor of making a touchdown," thought our hero.
The players ran up to Tom.
"Good work, old man!" complimented Coach Jackson.
"Some run, Tom," added the captain. "Come on now, line up boys, and
we'll walk through 'em!"
"Yes you will--nit!" jeered the scrub captain.
As Tom was panting from his long run, the other halfback was sent at
the line with the ball. He did not gain much, and then the fullback
was allowed to try. He gained a few feet.
"We'd better kick," whispered the captain to Sam, who was giving the
signals.
"No, keep the ball," advised the coach. "I want the boys to have
practice in bucking the line. Let Fairfield try again. He has his
wind back now."
"All right," assented Morse, nodding at Sam, who began to give the
signal.
Tom stiffened, ready to take the pigskin, and, at the same time he
moved up a little nearer Sam, for somehow, he felt that the passing of
his enemy might not be just accurate. And it was well that he did, for
the quarterback threw the ball short.
"Look out!" cried the captain, but his warning was not needed, for Tom
made a jump and met the pigskin. With it safely tucked under his arm,
he made a jump between guard and tackle in the hole made for him by his
players, and completed the gaining of the necessary distance.
"Down!" he panted, as nearly half a score of lads threw themselves on
top of him. "Down!"
"Good work, old man!" the captain shouted in his ear. "Great
line-bucking!"
"But almost a fumble!" came the sharp voice of Coach Jackson. "What
was the matter, Fairfield? You nearly dropped the ball."
"It wasn't passed accurately," asserted Tom.
"Aw, go on! It was so!" snapped Sam.
"Well, don't let it happen again," advised the coach. "Fumbles are
costly--they mean the loss of a game many a time. Watch yourselves!"
The play went on, with the luckless scrubs being shoved slowly back
toward their own goal. There they took a brace, and held for downs,
getting the ball. They quickly kicked it out of danger, and then the
regulars went to work to do it all over again.
Tom was called on several times, and, though he watched Sam narrowly,
there was no further cause for complaint about the passing of the ball.
"Maybe it was a mistake," thought Tom, "but I'm going to be on the
lookout just the same. I don't trust Sam Heller."
"That will do for to-day," called the coach, after two touchdowns had
been rolled up against the scrub, Tom making one of them. "Take a good
shower and a rub now, all of you, scrub included, for there's no
telling when I may want one of you scrub lads on the first team.
You're doing pretty well," he allowed himself to compliment them. "But
there's lots to be done yet. We're only beginning. Morse, come here,
I want to talk to you," and captain and coach walked off the gridiron,
arm in arm.
"Well, what do you think of it?" asked Jack of Tom, as the two came out
of the gymnasium, glowing from a rub and shower.
"Oh, it seemed to go all right."
"Heller try any mean tricks?" asked Bert.
"I thought he did, but maybe I was mistaken. Oh, but I got one beaut
kick on the shin," and Tom gently massaged the leg in question.
"Some lad tried to gouge out one of my eyes," added Bert.
"And if I have any skin left on my nose I'm lucky," asserted Jack,
trying to look cross-eyed at his nasal member.
"It's just a little sunburned," said Tom, with a laugh. "I guess we'll
have a team after a bit."
"Sure!" chorused his chums.
Practice went on for several days after this, and there were a number
of changes of position made, though Sam was still at quarterback, and
Tom held his same place.
"Now, fellows, we're going to have a little different form of exercise
to-morrow," announced the coach, at the conclusion of a short game one
afternoon. "I want you all to take part in a cross-country run. It
will improve your wind, and work some of the fat off you fellows that
can stand losing it. It will be good for your legs, too.
"We'll start from the gym after last lectures, hit the turnpike for
Aldenhurst, cross the river at Weldon, circle up the hill through
Marsden, and come back along the river road. You can go in bunches, or
singly as you choose, but you must all make those towns, and there'll
be checkers at each one to see that you don't skip. It's only fifteen
miles, and you ought to do it in four hours without turning a hair.
There'll be a five-hour time limit, and those who don't make all the
checking points, and report back by eight o'clock will be scratched off
the active football list. That's all."
A silence followed the announcement of the coach, and then came several
murmurs of disapproval.
"Fifteen miles!" came from Sam Heller. "That's a stiff run all right."
"I should say yes," agreed Nick Johnson.
"Can't we shorten it in some way?" asked Sam of his crony in a whisper,
but not so low that Tom did not overhear him.
"Dry up!" commanded Nick. "I'll see. Maybe we can cut off a few
miles. Fifteen is too much!"
"He sure is working us," said Jack to Tom.
"And a time limit," added Bert, with a note of grievance in his voice.
"Oh pshaw!" exclaimed, Tom. "Anyone would think you fellows had never
tramped before. Why in camp you thought nothing of doing twenty miles
in a day."
"But we could take our time," asserted Bert.
"Nonsense! We always did better than four miles an hour and never
minded it. Come on, be sports! We'll go together, won't we?"
"Sure," said Bert. "Well, if it has to be, it has to--that's all.
Hang it! I wonder if I want to play football anyhow?"
"Of course you do," said Tom. "We'll have some fun on the run. And
think of the supper we will eat after it. I'm going to see if we can't
have a little something extra."
And he went to the kitchen of the eating hall where he and his chums
dined, to wheedle the chef into serving generous portions after the
cross-country run.