A FUMBLE
The morning of the Nordham game dawned gray and cold and cheerless. The
rain still continued and water lay in pools along the drive and walks.
What the field would be like in the afternoon no one cared to predict.
There was talk of canceling the game, and rumors to the effect that
Andy Ryan had called on Mr. Bendix, the court of final appeal in such
cases, to ask him to declare the game off, were rife about the school
in the morning. It was explained that the trainer was afraid of injury
to the players on such a slippery field. Perhaps had there not been
such a desire to obtain revenge from Nordham for last year’s defeat the
contest might have been canceled. But it wasn’t. There was a conference
at eleven o’clock, attended by Mr. Payson, Mr. Bendix, Captain
Merriwell, Manager Davis and Andy Ryan, and during its progress the
school at large held its breath in painful suspense. When the result of
the conference was announced there was both relief and joy. In spite
of Andy’s advice, the game was to take place, the only alteration of
original plans consisting of a shortening of the playing periods from
fifteen minutes to twelve.
Yardley flocked to the field at two o’clock clad in raincoats and
rubber hats. The attendance from outside the school was naturally
small, although perhaps a hundred and fifty or two hundred townsfolk
came up to pick their way across the soggy grass under bobbing
umbrellas and view the game from the water-soaked seats. Nordham sent
over some twenty or thirty devoted supporters, who managed to make
a large amount of noise considering their number. Two First Class
fellows, detailed by Gerald on request of Mr. Manager Davis, stood at
the entrance and watched for the appearance of inquisitive Broadwood
gentlemen. None sought admission, however, which was fortunate, since
the guards would have been powerless to exclude them. Practice was cut
short to-day, and after one or two dashes about the field and a few
kicks of the wet ball the two teams retired to their respective sides
and the captains met to decide the choice of goals. It was raining
steadily, but not so hard as during the forenoon, and optimistic ones
predicted that the weather would clear before the game was finished.
The field was soft and slippery, and here and there held shallow pools
of water. In the stand, Gerald, seated between Harry and The Duke, was
retelling an old joke called to mind by the condition of the field.
“You fellows may have heard it,” he said. “It’s rather a classic.”
“Cut out the apologies,” begged The Duke. “They’re going to start in a
minute.”
“Well, once when Pennsylvania and Princeton used to play football
together――――”
“That must have been in the dark ages,” murmured Harry.
“――there was a Thanksgiving Day game in Philadelphia. It had snowed
during the night and when it came time to start the game it was
raining, and the field was covered with slush two or three inches deep.
The Princeton captain won the toss. ‘Do we have to play in this fluid?’
he asked bitterly. ‘Of course you do,’ they told him impatiently. ‘Come
on, now; you won the toss; which end do you want?’ The Princeton man
looked around over the waste of gray slush and shook his head. ‘Well,’
he said finally, ‘I guess we’ll kick with the tide.’”
“That’s what we’re going to do,” laughed Harry. “We’ve won the toss.”
Nordham was spreading out over her end of the field and Fales was
trying to make a tee with the soft mud. “I wonder,” said Gerald, “if
he wouldn’t like Kirk to drive off for him.” The whistle blew, Fales
stepped forward and the ball took flight. Nordham at once tested the
field, trying to get a back away around Adler’s end, but the attempt
was a failure. There was no such thing as quick starting to-day, and
the runner was tackled before he had reached his own line. Nordham
kicked then and the ball went to mid-field. Marion tried the center of
the Nordham line and netted two yards, Crandall slid off right tackle
for two more and Simms kicked. A red-stockinged Nordhamite caught the
pigskin near his twenty yards and dodged back to the thirty-five before
he was downed. Then came a forward pass that failed, followed by two
attempts at the right of the Yardley breastworks. The Red missed her
distance by a scant half-foot, and Yardley took the ball away. Kendall
secured three yards outside left tackle on a double pass, and made
three more through left guard. Simms ran back and passed to Cousins,
who was tackled where he caught. It was first down again. Crandall and
Kendall, alternating, worked the tackles for gains until the ball was
on the Reds’ twenty-six-yard line. There Simms fumbled the slippery
ball and a Nordham forward fell on it.
Nordham kicked on first down, getting off a fine long punt that went
over Simms’ head far down the field. The Nordham ends were on him by
the time he had secured the ball and Simms went down in the mud. An
exchange of punts secured five yards for Yardley and then Marion banged
through for twelve and laid the oval on the fifty-yard line. Another
attempt, however, failed of gain and Kendall fell back to punt. Girard
made a wretched pass and Kendall had to fall on the ball to save it.
With twenty-three yards to gain Simms sent Kendall back again as if to
kick and himself took the ball through the Nordham center for ten yards
and would have got away for the necessary distance had he not slipped
and fallen. Nordham tried a forward pass that netted fifteen yards
and then worked a delayed pass for five more, the entire Yardley team
being fooled on the play. The whistle blew with the ball in Nordham’s
possession on Yardley’s twenty-five yards.
So far neither team had shown much strength in attack and neither had
reached scoring distance of the opponent’s goal. In weight Nordham
was perceptibly lighter than Yardley, while her better speed was
handicapped by the slippery field.
In the second period Nordham ripped open the Blue line on two tries for
a first down, bringing the ball to the twenty yards. An end run was
spoiled and a fake kick with an attack on the center of the line netted
but two yards. Then Nordham’s full-back retired to the thirty-five
yards and the quarter knelt in front of him. The ball was almost in
front of the goal and it looked as though a score was to follow. But
the Blue forwards smashed through in time to spoil the place-kick, the
ball thumping against Girard’s upstretched arm and bounding away toward
the side of the field, where it was secured by Kendall.
From her twenty-eight yards the Blue began a series of plays directed
at the tackles that soon worked the ball past the middle of the field.
Stark, right tackle, was drawn back frequently, and Marion and the two
half-backs had their turns. The Red team was weakening, it seemed,
her secondary defense especially making poor work of stopping the
advance. On the stand the Yardley supporters were shouting lustily
for a touchdown, and it looked as though the Blue was well started
on a triumphant journey. With some three or four minutes of the
half remaining, and the Red line allowing gains at every attack, it
seemed that Yardley might well cross that last white line. But near
the thirty-five yards there was a mix-up on signals and Crandall was
thrown for a loss. Simms raged and stormed and Kendall took the ball
for a wide end run. Across the field he raced, protected by fair
interference, watching for a chance to turn in, and finally, just when
it seemed that his chance had come and he had a clear field between him
and the opposing quarter-back, an intrusive Nordham man dodged by the
interference and made a flying tackle that fairly lifted Kendall off
his feet and hurled him to earth.
Away bounded the pigskin. A Nordham player, foiled a moment before,
was in the path of the ball. Those who saw the incident declared that
the red-stockinged chap hardly had to stretch out his hands, that the
ball actually bounced into his arms! In any case, having got it, he
knew what to do. Off he went on a wild effort to cover the seventy-odd
yards between him and Yardley’s goal. Behind him the Yardley players,
aghast at the sudden turn of fortune, trailed in desperate pursuit.
Fayette led the pack, and for a time it seemed that he might reach the
runner before the last white streak was crossed. But twenty yards from
the goal Fayette gave out and was passed by Plant who, in turn, for a
moment raised Yardley hopes. But Plant was heavy, and the streak down
the field told on him before he could reach the Nordham runner, and the
latter staggered over the line, reeled behind a post and fell on top
of the ball in the very middle of the goal, subsequently turning calmly
over on his back and losing all interest in events for a minute.
The tackle that had dislodged the ball from Kendall’s grasp had been
a terrific one, and even the most disappointed spectator grudgingly
acknowledged that to have clung to a wet pigskin after such collision
with the ground would have been almost impossible. Breathless and
dazed, with his left arm filled with tearing pains, Kendall climbed
to his feet in time to see the Nordham runner settle into his stride.
Doggedly Kendall joined the pursuit, but a dozen steps was all he
could manage. Having by then reached a nice pool of water he sank down
into it, clasped his left wrist with the other hand and came so near
fainting that it almost turned him sick. For a moment no one noticed
his collapse. Then Pete Girard went to his assistance, somewhere a
whistle blew, and Andy Ryan, the water pail slopping beside him, raced
on. A big wet sponge was swashed over Kendall’s face and he opened his
eyes. Girard, kneeling across his thighs, was pumping his arms, and at
every moment the left one hurt excruciatingly. Kendall tried his best
to keep his lips tight, but in spite of him a moan got by, and Andy’s
eyes flashed hither and thither and his cunning fingers began a quick
search over the boy’s ribs.
“Where does it get you?” demanded Andy.
Kendall shook his head. Merriwell and some others had come up, and
Kendall could hear their hoarse breathing.
“Can you stand up?” demanded Andy suspiciously.
Kendall doubted it, but he nodded. “I――I’m――all right,” he whispered.
Girard and another lifted him, and again Kendall winced. Andy,
watching, pounced upon him again.
“Hold up, boys,” he said quietly. “Something’s wrong.” He felt of
Kendall’s collarbone, working clever fingers like lightning along the
back of his neck. “Hurt?” he asked. Kendall shook his head. Andy’s
fingers slid down along the left arm, his little green eyes watching
Kendall’s face sharply. The boy held his breath and gritted his teeth.
The awful fingers reached the wrist, closed――――
Kendall felt the blood ebbing away from his face, already pale, but
he returned the trainer’s gaze unflinchingly. Andy’s fingers stopped
kneading, lingered inquiringly at the wrist. Then his eyes left
Kendall’s and Kendall, following the trainer’s gaze, saw a white lump
on the back of his hand.
Andy grunted. “Come off,” he said.
“It’s nothing, Andy, really!” pleaded Kendall. “I――I don’t even feel
it!”
For answer Andy laid a compelling hand on his shoulder. “Sure, I know.
’Tis rather pleasant than otherwise, maybe. But just the same you’ll
come along with me, Burtis, me boy!”
Payson awaited them on the side-line. “Dislocated wrist,” announced
Andy.
“Sorry, Burtis. Fayette! Fayette! Right half, and hurry up!”
“I may go in again, mayn’t I, Andy?” begged Kendall as he lowered
himself to the bench.
“Maybe. I don’t know. Hold your arm out. One o’ you boys put your arms
around his chest. That’s it. Hold steady now.” Slowly Andy pulled at
the hand and pressed against the white lump. There was a squirmish,
gritting sort of jar as the bone fell into place again. “All right.
Hold it so a minute.” Andy reached into his bag for splints and bandage
just as a shout of satisfaction traveled across the field. Kendall,
glancing quickly toward the Yardley goal, saw the pigskin dropping to
earth beyond the farther upright. Nordham had failed at goal!
With quick hands Andy wound the bandage. The shooting pains had already
gone, but there was a dull, throbbing ache at the wrist, and Kendall
viewed the white-swathed member scowlingly. “I wonder――――” he began.
“What?” asked Andy as he tied the knot.
“I wonder if I hurt that before I dropped the ball, Andy.”
“Sure you did! You likely got it doubled under you when you went down.”
“Did I? That’s not so bad, then, is it? I mean there might be more
excuse for fumbling, mightn’t there?”
“No man on earth would have held the ball after getting that,”
responded the trainer, nodding at the hand. “Don’t bother your head
about it, son.” He fashioned a sling of a broad strip of gauze and
placed the arm in it so that the fingers lay over Kendall’s right
chest. “Keep it so. We’ll have the doctor see it later. Time’s up! Get
the blankets ready, boys!”