IN THE STORM
"'Rah! 'Rah! 'Rah! Elmwood!"
"Three cheers for Holwell!"
"Now, boys, all together, give 'em the 'Chase Down the Field!' song!"
"Over this way, Elmwood. We'll run through the signals again!"
"Over here, Holwell, for some snappy work!"
These were only a few of the many things heard on the Elmwood gridiron
the Saturday of one of the big games. The grandstands were piling up
with their crowds, many dashes of color being added by the hats and
wraps of the girls, while the sweaters and cap-bands of their
brothers--or perhaps other girls' brothers---increased the riot of
color.
"Oh, what a fine looking lot of fellows the Elmwood Hall boys are,"
confided one girl to her chum.
"Do you think so? I think they look small compared to the Holwell
players."
"Why Mabel, how can you say such a thing? There's Billy over there.
Isn't he stunning? Did you see him kick?"
"Oh, there goes Fred with the ball!" and the other girl with her eyes
on the Holwell contingent, never looked at her friend who had looks
only for "Billy" who was lucky enough to play on Tom's team.
There was a consultation of the officials and a toss for choice.
Holwell got the kick-off, and Captain Denton was rather glad of it, for
he had instructed his lads, in case they got the ball, to make the most
of the early periods of the game, and rush the pigskin for all they
were worth.
"If we can get a touchdown in the first period it will almost mean
winning the game," he said to the coach.
"That's right. Well, play as fast as you can, for I think we're in for
a storm, and there are too many chances on a wet field to make anything
certain. Strike while the iron is hot. Slam-bang through for a
touchdown, if you can, before the rain comes."
It was a raw, chilly day, with every promise of rain or snow, and
though the crowds in the stands kept themselves warm by stamping their
feet and singing, there was much discomfort.
Tom had been given his old position back of the line, and as he trotted
out for practice he felt a sense of elation in the coming struggle.
"I'm not going to think about that miserable old business," he told
himself, but his resolution received a rude shock when, as he passed
where Sam was talking to one of the Holwell players, the bully was
heard to say:
"Yes, lots of us think he dropped the poison in the mangers to get even
with Appleby. But of course there's nothing proven."
"I see. A sort of Scotch verdict."
"Something like that. I should think he'd get out of the eleven at
least, if not out of the school, but he sticks."
"Indeed I do!" murmured Tom, clenching his fists, and almost deciding
to challenge Sam. But he knew a row would do no good, and would only
hurt his case; so he kept silent.
"Line up!" came the call, and with the last of the preliminaries the
practice balls were called in, and the new, yellow one placed on a
little mound of earth in the center of the field.
There was that ever-inspiring thrill as the spheroid was booted high
into the air. Tom had the luck to grab it and then, with fairly good
interference, he dashed down the field.
"Stick to him, boys! Stick to him!" yelled the captain as he raced
onward. But some of the Holwell school players broke through, and Tom
was thrown heavily.
"Now, boys, tear 'em up!" entreated Morse, as the first scrimmage was
to come. Sam began on a signal that would have sent Tom through guard
and tackle, but Morse, hearing it, quickly stepped to the quarterback,
whispering:
"Not yet! Tom's too winded. Give him a chance to get his breath. Try
a forward pass."
Sam scowled, but he had to obey. It had been his intention to play Tom
fiercely until, out of weariness, our hero would have been [missing
words] or would have played so raggedly that he would be sent to the
side lines. But Sam's plan was frustrated.
The forward pass was not much of a success, and a fake kick was called
for. This netted a slight gain and then Morse again whispered to Sam.
"Let Tom take the ball through now."
The signal was given, and, with head well down, Tom hit the opposing
line on the run. It held better than he had expected it would, and he
was dizzy with the shock, but he had made a good gain, and there came a
yell of delight from the supporters of Elmwood Hall.
Then the game sea-sawed back and forth, with matters a little in favor
of Tom's team.
"Get a touchdown! Get a touchdown!" pleaded the captain.
"By Jove I will!" thought Tom, grimly. "If I only get half a chance."
He got it a moment later. A fake kick was called for, but there was a
fumble, and Tom grabbed up the ball on the bounce. Tucking it under
his arm, he ran for a hole he spied in the other line. Hands reached
out for him, but he eluded them, and the fullback of Holwell, having
been drawn in fatally close, was not able to stop our hero, who was
running well.
"Touchdown! Touchdown!" screamed the crowd, as Tom sprinted over mark
after mark.
"I'll do it!" he cried fiercely.
Now the other players had disentangled themselves from the mass into
which they had been hurled, and were after him. One of the fleetest
was approaching our hero.
"I've got to out-distance him," murmured Tom, looking back over his
shoulder, and he let out a little more of the speed he had been
reserving. Then, panting and weary, he crossed the goal line------and
only just in time, for, as he leaped over it, the hand of the Holwell
fullback was on his jacket.
"Touchdown!" gasped Tom, as he fell on the ball.
Then broke out a riot of cheers, cries and songs of victory! The goal
was missed, owing to a strong wind, but the Elmwood Hall lads cared
little for that. They were in winning luck, they felt sure.
The first period was practically over, and soon came the second, during
which Holwell tried desperately to score. But she could not, though
several of her players were injured in the fierce rushes, and two of
Elmwood's lads had to be replaced by substitutes.
It began to rain shortly after the third period started, and it came
down in such torrents that the field was soon a sea of mud and
mud-soaked grass. Still the game went on, though many of the
spectators deserted the field.
"Keep playing! Keep playing!" begged Captain Denton. "We can win if
we only hold them from scoring."
At first it looked as if this was not to be, for the Holwell team was
heavier, and this told on a slippery gridiron. But Tom and his mates
had pluck, and they held well in the rushes. Once there was a chance
for Elmwood to make another touchdown, but Jack Fitch slipped and fell
in a mud-puddle, the ball rolling out of his hands. Then a Holwell
played grabbed it, and kicked it out of danger on the next line-up.
"Only a few minutes more," called the coach encouragingly, as the
fourth quarter neared a close. "Hold 'em, boys!"
And hold Tom and his chums did. They had lost the ball on downs, and
it was dangerously near their goal mark. But they were like bulldogs
now--fighting in the last ditch. A touchdown and a goal would beat
them. It must not be!
There was a short, sharp, quick signal, and one of the Holwell players
seemed to take the ball around left end. But Tom's sharp eye saw that
it was a trick play, and he cried to his mates to beware. They did not
hear him, and nearly all of them rushed to intercept the ball. Tom,
however, swung the other way, and headed for the player who really had
the pigskin.
On the latter came with a rush. He was a big tackle, and Tom was much
smaller. Yet he did not hesitate.
"Look out!" yelled the Holwell player, hoping to intimidate Tom, as he
rushed at him. But Tom was not made of the material that frightens
easily. Gritting his teeth, he braced himself for the tackle. He
fairly hurled himself at the man, through a mist of rain, and he caught
him. Down they went together in a heap, Tom groaning as he felt his
left ankle giving way under the strain.
In vain the big tackle tried to get up and struggle on. Tom held fast;
and then it was all over, for the other Elmwood players, seeing their
mistake, hurried to Tom's aid, and a small human mountain piled up on
him and the Holwell lad.
"Down!" howled the latter, ceasing his wriggling. The whistle blew,
ending the game, with the ball but a scant foot from Elmwood's goal
line.
"Good boy!" called Captain Denton into Tom's ear. "You saved our bacon
for us."
"I'm glad I did," replied Tom, limping around.
"Are you hurt much?" asked Morse.
"No, only a bit of sprained ankle. I'll be all right in a little
while, I guess."
"It was great! Simply great!" exclaimed Jack a few hours later, when
he and Tom and Bert sat in their room, the smell of arnica filling the
apartment, coming from Tom's bandaged ankle. "You sure played your
head off, old man!"
"I know I nearly played my leg off," agreed Tom, with a wry face. "I
can just step on it, and that's all."
"Never mind, we beat 'em," consoled Bert. "And you did it, Tom."
"Nonsense. It was team work. Sam played a fair game too. That helped
a lot. I was afraid of him at first."
"He didn't dare do anything," said Jack. "I told him I'd have my eye
on him."
They talked over the plays in detail. Tom was just beginning to feel
sleepy when there came a knock on the door.
"Come in," he called, for it was not yet the hour for lights to be out,
and even a professor would find nothing out of the way. One of the
school messengers entered.
"Here's a note for you, Mr. Fairfield," he Said. "A special delivery
letter."
Tom read it quickly. A change came over his face.
"I've got to go out!" he exclaimed, crumpling up the missive. He
reached for his raincoat limping across the room.
"Go out in this storm!" cried Jack. "You oughtn't to!"
"Not with a lame ankle," added Bert.
"I've got to," insisted Tom. "It means more than you think," and
telling his chums not to sit up for him, he hurried out into the storm
and darkness.