THE GAME.
Plunk! Clearport’s full back, Ramsdal, kicked off, booting the ball
into the teeth of the wind. Over the chalk marks sped the end men, Long
and Stoker, closing in from either side as the huge yellow egg began to
drop.
Bern Hayden was in position to receive the ball, and, without removing
his eyes from it, he realized that one or both of those oncoming men
would be at hand to tackle him if he attempted to run. Therefore he
lifted his hand in the proper signal for a fair catch and took the
pigskin cleanly. Turning it deftly in his hands, he let it drop; and an
instant later it was sailing away from his toe on the return to
Clearport’s territory.
Buoyed by the wind, the ball soared on and on far past the center of
the field, far over toward the eastern goal. It was immediately
apparent that the home team, while defending that goal, could not
afford to be led into a kicking game.
Cooper and Davis, playing ends for the visitors, followed the ball.
Spotty was a really fast runner, being able to get over the ground with
his thin legs in a way that should have given him a reputation as a
sprinter. This fleetness put him in splendid position to tackle
Boothby, Clearport’s left half back, who took the ball; but Spotty
seemed to hesitate a bit at the moment when he should have plunged, and
Boothby got away like a flash, Davis missing miserably when he flung
himself at the fellow. Cooper, the slower, displayed more nerve,
tackling the fleet half back and bringing him down after the ball had
been advanced ten yards. Chipper rose, gasping, when the whistle had
sounded the signal that the ball was “down.”
“Ja-jarred me some,” he stammered, with a sickly grin; “but I got him.”
“Ready—line up fast!” called Eliot, perceiving that the enemy were
swiftly getting into position for the first scrimmage. “Stop ’em! Hold
’em!”
Ben Stone found himself crouching nose to nose with Barney Carney,
called “the fighting Irishman of Clearport.” He had been told about
this fellow, and he recognized him instinctively.
“Arrh, me bucko! Good avening,” grinned Carney. “It’s a pleasure to
meet yez.”
Through Stone’s mind flashed the instructions of Winton, “Stick by your
man and get him every time.”
Muzzle uplifted, Capt. Merwin, who played quarter for his team, bayed a
signal. Stone saw the ball snapped to Merwin, and the moment it left
the ground he leaped tigerishly at Carney. The Irishman had leaped at
the same instant, and they came together with a crash which must have
astonished the Clearport guard, for he was literally bowled aside, the
Oakdale man hammering through like a battering-ram. Sleuth Piper,
succeeding in keeping his man busy, aided Stone in getting through; and
Ben was just in time to meet Boothby, who had received the ball from
Merwin and was plunging at that very spot in the line. Boothby’s rush
was checked as if he had struck a wall of granite, and down to the turf
he went, with Stone’s arms locked around his thighs.
“Great luck!” cried Piper, releasing Morehead; but there had been
little luck about it, for even as he lunged at Carney Stone had seen
Boothby shooting across behind Merwin in a manner which seemed to
indicate beyond doubt that he would take the ball. Having obeyed the
instructions of the coach and disposed of Carney in a jiffy, Stone’s
natural impulse was to meet and grapple with Boothby.
At the southern side of the field the crimson banners were wildly
agitated, and a sudden cheer arose—a cheer for Stone. Ben’s ears were
deaf to that sound, however; he was wholly unaware that his name came
snapping forth at the end of that cheer like a cracker at the end of a
whiplash. The fire of battle was in his veins, and the only thing he
heard was the booming of his heart like the distant throbbing of heavy
guns.
Checked with a slight loss, the Clearporters made ready again. Once
more Ben found himself _vis à vis_ with Barney Carney, in whose faded
smile there was now a slight sickly tinge.
“It’s a loively birrud ye are,” observed Carney; “but your wings can be
clipped.” To which the grim-faced fellow opposite made no retort.
The signal came again, and again Stone and Carney met. This time,
locked together, they struggled, neither gaining the slightest
advantage. The tide of battle, however, swept to the far end of the
line, toward which Oakes, the right half back, was racing with the
pigskin.
It was Hayden who divined the play, and Hayden who came leaping to meet
the runner. Tackling cleanly and handsomely, Bern stretched Oakes
prone. As he rose he heard them cheering as they had cheered for
Stone—and he had not missed that.
“That’s the stuff, fellows!” cried Roger. “That’s the way to hold them!”
Winton, watching from his position at the side of the field, permitted
a crinkle of a smile to flit across his face, even though he realized
that the splendid and surprising defense had been accomplished, almost
unaided, by two players. At the very outset Clearport had succeeded in
one thing, at least—had found the strong spots of the visiting team.
Later certain weak spots which the coach was fearful of might be
unmasked.
In desperation the locals made a furious slam into center, recovering,
however, barely the distance lost; and then, forced to it, Ramsdal fell
back to kick. Eliot was ready for this, and, seeming to gauge the
distance the ball would travel, he took it cleanly and easily, shooting
past the first man who came at him, dodging the second, and bringing
the spectators to their feet by a run that carried him to Clearport’s
thirty yard line ere he was forced out of bounds. And Winton smiled
again, for another tower of strength had loomed through the smoke of
battle.
The referee brought the ball out and placed it. The line-up followed,
one or two anxious Clearporters being warned back ere the man in
authority permitted the resumption of play.
Crouching before Carney, Stone heard Sage calling the signal. As his
ears drank in the numbers, he gazed straight into the Irish lad’s eyes
without a flicker crossing his face, even though he knew directly that
much would depend upon him. He knew Hayden would come across with the
ball, looking for the opening he must assist in making.
In another moment they were straining, breast to breast. With all his
strength he sought to thrust Carney to one side. Cooper bucked Morehead
handsomely, and the gap was made. Through it went Barker, with Bern at
his heels. Barker sacrificed himself to Oakes, and before Ramsdal got
him Hayden came within four yards of putting the ball over.
Four yards to go, and the first down! No wonder the crowd with the
crimson banners seemed crazed; no wonder the blue banners were drooping
on the northern side of the field.
“Like water through a sieve,” chuckled Chipper Cooper; and barely had
the words left his lips when Sage began calling a signal which sent
Barker into the other wing of the line.
Crane did his duty there, but Davis was weak, and Berlin met Stoker,
who had hurled Spotty aside. Not an inch was gained.
“Hold ’em,” implored Merwin, “we’ve got to hold ’em!”
“Another chance, fellows,” said Eliot. “We can make it.”
Again that signal which told the visitors that Hayden would try the
enemy’s right wing. Sage varied the call, but the key number was
distinctly heard, and with the snapping of the ball Ben Stone flung
himself bodily at the fighting Irishman. Merwin had leaped in to
support Carney, yet both of them were not sufficient to check Stone and
the man who was hurled against him from the rear. The Clearport line
buckled and broke, and Hayden lunged through headlong for a touchdown.
“My deduction is,” panted Piper, “that it’s a snap.”
The Oakdale crowd cheered as the ball was punted out. Hayden was given
the privilege of trying to kick a goal, and, absolutely confident of
himself, he booted the ball against one of the uprights.
“Never mind,” grinned Chipper Cooper, as the Oakdalers spread out on
the field with their backs toward the eastern goal. “It would have been
a shame to spoil the fun by taking all the sand out of them right away.”
Indeed, it seemed that the visitors were too strong for the home team.
Even when favored by the wind and sun, the Clearporters could not carry
the fighting far into Oakdale’s territory, and they were soon compelled
to surrender the ball by kicking.
Once more the lads from the inland town began bucking their way over
the chalk marks, and frequently their best gains were secured through
openings made by Stone and Piper. Barney Carney was livid with wrath,
but his grim opponent remained outwardly unchanged. An end run by
Barker again placed the visitors in a position to threaten Clearport’s
goal. It was followed by a trick play, in which Barker drew attention
to himself while Eliot went romping and zigzagging through a broken
field and crossed the line for the second touchdown.
This time Roger kicked, and he lifted the pigskin squarely over the
center of the crossbar.
Even to Winton it had begun to seem as if Oakdale was too strong for
the locals. He was glad indeed that Clearport had not yet located
certain weak spots of which he had entertained serious apprehension,
but he knew they had not done this mainly on account of their half
demoralized condition.
Following that second touchdown, Oakdale seemed to let up somewhat.
This brought a frown to Winton’s face, but he could do nothing until
the half was finished.
Toward the end of the first half the visiting team took another spurt
and seemed to have things pretty much its own way. Hayden was the
principal ground gainer, and it was Stone who provided effective
interference in assisting him to make his greatest distances.
Twenty-five yards from the line, however, the locals stood firm. Then
Sage called for a play by which Hayden was to pass the ball to Eliot
just before dashing into the formation which had proved so effective.
Eliot was to attempt to round the end.
This was carried through, Stone slamming into Carney in the regular
manner. Hayden came at him from behind, while Eliot, having secured the
ball, sought to race past Pete Long.
Something smote Ben with a terrific shock, and a sudden pall of
darkness fell upon him. He sank to the ground just as Eliot was tackled
and dragged down and the referee’s whistle shrilled the signal which
told that the half was over.
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