ONE WHO WAS TRUE.
In less than two minutes after the resumption of play the spectators
perceived that a great change had taken place in the home team, for the
Clearporters had returned to the field firmly resolved to redeem
themselves, and they went into the struggle with a snap and dash that
temporarily swept the visitors off their feet. Tricked by a crisscross
in the second scrimmage, Oakdale permitted Oakes to get round the right
end, Spotty Davis being effectively and easily blocked by Stoker, while
Crane let Butters through, and the left tackle of the locals flung
himself before Hayden, preventing a tackle.
The few shrill cries which had risen from the northern side of the
field became a chorus of shouts, and those shouts swelled into a roar
as Oakes got past Eliot and raced onward, with a few pursuers
straggling out behind in a fruitless effort to overtake him.
Winton, who had lighted a cigar, chewed savagely at the weed and smote
his knee with his clenched fist.
“Just what I was afraid of!” he muttered.
Over the goal-line went Oakes for a touchdown, cheered wildly by the
delighted crowd beneath the blue banners. The ball was punted out and
caught, and Oakes held it for Ramsdal to lift it with a sure and
handsome kick over the crossbar.
“We can’t afford to let them repeat that performance,” said Eliot
regretfully.
But the locals, retaining the ball after the kick-off, carried it
fifteen yards in a swift dash before they were stopped. Having their
courage restored and being spurred on by Merwin, they lined up and
lunged into the scrimmage before the visitors were wholly prepared, and
a gain of nine yards through center might have developed into another
sensational run had not Eliot himself nailed the man with the pigskin.
Cheer after cheer was flung across from the northern side of the field.
The visitors on the southern side answered bravely, yet not wholly
without a note of distress and alarm.
“Got yez going, me bhoy,” grinned Barney Carney into the face of Ben
Stone. “Oi belave it’s our turrun now.”
He was not the only one who believed this; the whole team believed it.
And when a body of contestants in any game get the idea that they are
bound to succeed, it is doubly difficult to stop them. The Clearporters
had talked it over; they had decided that the left wing of the visitors
was stronger than the right. Stoker had told them that Spotty Davis was
“soft as mush.” Nevertheless, they were crafty enough not to betray
immediately their plan to batter at that right end, and by shifting
their movements rapidly, they kept their opponents guessing. Round
Davis and through the line between him and Crane they occasionally shot
a runner for good gains, which carried them on again and again just
when it seemed that they had been checked.
Eliot entreated Davis; he begged, and then he scolded. Spotty, feeling
the weight of the battering hurled upon him, swiftly lost heart; and
when in a sort of blind despair he finally tackled a runner head on, he
was the one who remained stretched on the hard ground after the ball
was down.
“Come, Davis—come,” called Eliot, “get up and get into the game. For
goodness’ sake, take a brace!”
Spotty groaned dolefully. “I can’t,” he whimpered, with a choke in his
voice. “I can’t; I’m done up.”
Roger turned toward Winton, who lifted his hand in a signal, to which
the Oakdale captain replied with a nod. Walker, Stone’s seatmate at
school, was promptly sent out by the coach; and the little fellow came
running without hesitation, trembling with excitement, delighted
because he was to have a chance in the game.
His head hanging, Davis staggered off the field and fell prostrate upon
the ground, hiding his face on his curved arm. “I was getting the whole
of it,” he mumbled chokingly. “They were bound to do me.” But no one
paid any heed to his muttering or to the tears he shed.
Stoker laughed at Walker, but the little chap soon demonstrated that he
was on the field to do his handsomest as long as he lasted; and,
despite the greater weight of the opposing end, he was able to keep the
fellow busy. For a time this change seemed to put a little new life
into the Oakdalers; but even though they got the ball, they could not
hold it long, and, checked near the center of the field, they found
themselves compelled to surrender the pigskin by kicking.
Clearport came back again with the dash and go which had so
surprisingly altered the run of the game. Merwin made a successful
quarterback run; Boothby gained a little ground through center; and
then Stone, breaking through Carney, slammed a runner down for a loss.
Right on top of this the locals were penalized for holding, but the
rising courage of the visitors was dampened when the home team pulled
off a handsome forward pass that yielded double the distance needed.
Even though Oakdale fought every inch of the ground, being at last
fully aroused to the danger, Clearport repeatedly worked the crisscross
with good effect and brought into play still another well-executed
forward pass that landed them up against the goal-line, where, after
being held for two downs, they finally pushed the ball over by barely
six inches.
Apparently the tide had turned most decisively, and it was not strange
that some of the easily discouraged Oakdalers felt that they were
surely beaten. If the captain thought so, however, he succeeded
marvelously well in hiding his feelings, trying his best all the time
to brace his teammates up, encouraging the equally staunch, chiding a
few who showed symptoms of wavering, and entreating one or two who
apparently had lost heart.
There was a hush as Ramsdal prepared to try for goal. The defenders,
lined up behind the posts, crouched, ready to charge; and as
Clearport’s full back booted the ball Hayden leaped forward and upward,
his open hands stretched high above his head. His fingers barely grazed
the leather, but did not check the flight of the ball; if anything,
they lifted it a trifle and aided in shooting it over the bar.
The home crowd was still making a terrific uproar as the two teams once
more spread out upon the field, and there was every reason why that
portion of the spectators should rejoice; for Clearport had won the
lead by a single point, and the course of the game in the second half
seemed to promise beyond doubt that this lead could be held.
The moment the ball came again into the possession of the locals they
retained it and resumed their rushing tactics. Pounding their way into
Oakdale’s territory, they marched on by short but sufficient gains
toward yet another touchdown, the line of the visitors being pierced at
almost every point save that defended by Ben Stone, which had been
found practically invulnerable. Again and again it was the players in
the backfield, Eliot, Hayden or Barker, who checked the assaults and
prevented still larger gains. Winton’s fears that Oakdale would prove
weak in defense had surely been well grounded. To add to the dismay of
the visitors, they were penalized for fowling on their own thirty yard
line, and the distance thus lost made the situation seem absolutely
hopeless. Almost every spectator believed Clearport destined to add
further points to her score.
In the darkest moment, however, with the locals beating Oakdale back
against the goal-line, Fred Merwin fumbled. The ball, snapped to him by
Corbin, twisted out of his fingers and bounded off to one side. Even as
he flung himself at it he saw a figure that had cut through Barney
Carney flash before him. The ball was scooped from the ground in a
marvelous manner, and Merwin, having miscalculated, clutched at the
heels of the fellow who had secured the pigskin—clutched but could not
hold fast, even though his fingers touched the stocky ankles of Ben
Stone.
How it was that Ben got that ball up from the ground and kept his feet
no witness could tell. For two or three strides it seemed that he must
plunge headlong with it, and then he regained his equilibrium and
brought a gasping chorus of cries from the southern side of the field
as he ran on toward Clearport’s goal. Nevertheless, he had given his
left ankle a wrench, and every step hurt like the jab of a knife. With
his teeth set, he hugged the ball beneath one arm, the other thrown out
stiffly to fend off a dark figure he saw coming at him; and he left the
would-be tackler jarred, dazed and knocked to his knees.
Once more every spectator was standing, and from opposite sides of the
field came cries of dismay and wildly palpitant shouts of joyous
encouragement.
It was Boothby, the swift left half back of the locals, who slowly but
surely cut down the man with the ball. Had Ben found it possible to run
barely a trifle faster, he could have carried the pigskin over the
line. As it was, he made a thrillingly sensational run, and Boothby,
shooting at him from behind, brought him down less than fifteen yards
from Clearport’s goal. Slammed to the ground, Stone held fast to the
huge yellow egg, and the next he knew Eliot was patting him on the back
and telling him how good he was.
With the two teams preparing for the scrimmage, the Oakdale captain
moved up and down behind the line, touching first one and then another
of his comrades as he urged them to get into the play like fiends.
“We’ve got to do it right now,” said Roger, “and we can.”
Panting, Stone heard Sage calling the signal, and at the sound of the
key number every nerve in his body went taut as a bow-string; for it
was the play by which the most effective gains had been made in the
first half—Hayden was to go through Clearport’s right wing with the
ball. Ben knew he was expected to make the opening for the runner. If
the work was well done, there was a chance that Bern might cover the
remaining distance and secure a touchdown.
The remembrance of what had happened at the very finish of the first
half struck Stone like a blow between the eyes. He doubted not that it
was Hayden who had slugged him, yet now he was expected to assist that
fellow in a play which might give him the glory of winning the game.
Winning the game—that was it! that was everything! Nothing else
counted. The fellow who would let a personal grudge interfere was not
worthy to wear an Oakdale uniform.
Tuttle snapped the ball, and Stone went at Carney like a thousand of
brick. Already the Irishman had been led to respect his opponent, and,
even though his backbone had weakened not a whit, he could not
withstand the charge which swept him from his pins and spun him aside.
Sleuth Piper did his part by taking care of Morehead, and, his teeth
set, Hayden came through that opening. It was Oakes who had seemed to
anticipate the play, and Oakes who flung himself at Hayden; but it was
Stone, interfering for the runner, who was brought down by the right
half back of the locals. He had leaped forward in the tackler’s path
just in time to save Bern.
What a shriek of joy went up from those who bore the crimson banners!
How those red flags waved! For Hayden had crossed the line, and the
touchdown was made.
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