AROUND THE END
The blue-clad players were walking disconsolately back to the other end
of the gridiron. The ball had passed under the bar instead of over;
Kendall had missed goal by a foot only, but missed it he had. Murmurs
of disappointment traveled along the west side of the field. For a
minute the blue flags trailed discouragedly. But the teams were at it
again, and there was still a good four minutes left of the quarter.
Yardley advanced and lost the ball on a fumble. Broadwood made one
first down and was forced to kick. Greene made a startling run after
the catch, getting twenty-odd yards before he was stopped. Marion made
two desperate plunges at left tackle and slid by each time for a short
gain, and Kendall made the rest of the distance through right guard.
Then came a penalty for off-side playing, and Kendall punted on the
second down. Saunders caught and was downed, and the whistle blew for
the third period. And there was still no score.
Payson sent Crandall back when the last quarter began, and made two
other changes. Holmes took Simms’s place, and Brinspool went in for
Marion. Fifteen minutes remained in which to conquer or lose, and as
the two teams, each showing the effects of the struggle, faced each
other again on Broadwood’s thirty-eight yards it was still anybody’s
game.
Broadwood secured six yards on two plays, and then Reid, starting as
if to round Yardley’s right end, suddenly stopped, turned and aimed a
well-directed pass at the red-haired left end. The latter was quite
alone and made a good catch, and in an instant he was streaking down
the field. Only Holmes was between him and a touchdown, and Holmes
was well over on the further side of the gridiron. Ten yards, fifteen
yards, and the green-jerseyed youth was still running. Past the center
of the field he sped, Holmes closing in on him cautiously, the rest
of the enemy trailing along desperately in the rear. On Yardley’s
forty-five yards the runner swung to the right as though to pass inside
of Holmes, but the latter was wary and refused to follow. Another ten
yards and the two met. The runner dodged to the left as Holmes dived,
but the quarter’s tackle was sure, and after three struggling paces
the Broadwood runner came to earth. Thirty-five yards he had reeled
off, the ball was on Yardley’s twenty-seven and Broadwood cheered
frantically. It was now or never for the Green, and all seemed to
realize it. Yardley was for the moment disorganized, and her defense
crumbled. The Green swept through for eight yards on the first play,
gained her distance on the next and stood victoriously on the Yardley
sixteen-yard line. A conference followed. Evidently Saunders was for
trying a field goal, while Captain Raynor wanted a touchdown. Broadwood
went back to her line-plunging. Holmes and Merriwell pleaded and
threatened, and the Yardley line braced. Two yards was all Broadwood
gained on her first attack, a yard and a half on her second. There
seemed nothing for it then but a try at goal. Reid paced back and took
kicking position. Saunders fell to his knees behind center. “Hold ’em
now! Hold ’em! Get down, Smith! Stop that man, Peebles!” cried Saunders.
“Break through, fellows!” implored Holmes hoarsely. “Block this kick!
Block it!”
Back went the ball, but not to Saunders. That youth flattened himself
out of the way, and Reid was running to his right. A cry of warning
broke from Holmes.
“Watch a pass! Watch a pass!”
But too late! Adler had been drawn in, and far to the right of the
Yardley end the red-haired youth stood poised for the pass! Frantically
a half-dozen Yardley players strove to reach Reid before he could
throw. But already he had stopped, turned and was taking aim. Then away
shot the ball, arching gently across the field to the waiting Broadwood
end. Adler and Kendall rushed down upon him, but the ball descended
into his hands on the five-yard line and he was away on the instant.
Three strides and he was over the last lime mark and heading in toward
goal. Simms pulled him down before he had centered the ball, but the
damage was done. Broadwood had scored! On the blackboard at the end of
the field appeared an ominous white figure 6!
The punt-out was caught but Saunders failed to kick the goal, and
Yardley took what comfort it might from that. Eleven minutes of playing
time still remained, and the Blue’s supporters refused to give up
hope. Yardley had only to score a touchdown to tie, while a goal from
the touchdown would win the game. The blue flags began to wave again
half-heartedly, and the cheering started anew. The cheer leaders,
their blue megaphones gyrating, did their utmost, but for a time the
responses were weak. Broadwood took the defensive immediately after the
kick-off and held to it. Yardley played desperately and every trick in
her bundle was tried. Twice end runs were started that seemed destined
to change the complexion of the game, but each time the runner was
stopped before he could quite get away. From one forty-yard line to
the other the play went back and forth, Broadwood punting on second
down if not first and Yardley coming back with her end and tackle
plays, punting only when forced to. And so nearly ten of the remaining
eleven minutes passed away and Broadwood’s title to the contest grew
momentarily stronger. The linesman had announced two minutes left and
Yardley had just failed to gain on her second down near the Blue’s
trampled forty-five-yard line. Holmes tried a quarter-back kick, and it
worked, Cousins getting the ball on the Blue thirty-five yards. He was
immediately tackled, however, and downed. Near at hand the blue flags
were tossing ecstatically, and hundreds of throats were roaring an
imploring chorus of “_Touchdown! Touchdown! Touchdown!_”
It was a time for desperate measures. The seconds were ticking off
fast. Holmes hurried the line together.
“Come on! Come on! Signals! 38-107-45! 38-107――――”
Back went the ball, thudding against Brinspool’s stomach as he dashed
forward. Merriwell and Jensen opened the hole and Brinspool staggered
through, twisting, panting, the ball clutched tightly. The sound of
rasping canvas, of bodies straining together, of grunts and cries,
of panting breaths! A wild confusion of lunging, struggling forms,
of grasping arms, of wide, anxious eyes, of white, tired faces,
dirt-streaked and convulsed with effort! A faint, grumbling cry of
“_Down!_” and the shrilling of the whistle! And Yardley had wrested
four yards from the enemy!
“Line up, quick!” howled Holmes. “Get into this! We’ve got ’em going,
fellows! They can’t hold us! Signals! Right tackle over! 98-16-107!
98-16――――”
It was Brinspool again; he was playing to-day as he had never played
before all season; it was Brinspool between his tackle and end at the
right, Brinspool taking the ball at a short throw and crashing past the
Broadwood tackle for another three yards! Then the whistle again, and
Merriwell, staggering out toward the side-line, asking the time, and
Holmes begging him to come back and never mind.
“We’ve time to put it over,” he cried. “Line up, fellows!”
“Forty seconds!” called the linesman.
Holmes faltered and passed a hand over his face. Broadwood, jubilant,
broke into exultant cries. “Hold them, Broadwood! It’s their last
play! Stop this! Throw them back! Get under ’em!”
“Signals!” growled Holmes. “Kick formation! Burtis back!” He turned and
viewed the positions. Greene and Brinspool were crouched already at the
right, and Kendall, white-faced but steady, was raising his hands. “Get
this, Burtis, and make it good, boy! Signals! 17-11-21!”
“Signals! Signals!” shrieked Greene, as Kendall’s heart leaped. Holmes
darted a look of murder at the offending Greene.
“Signals!” he cried again, chopping out the numbers with hoarse barks.
“17-89-31! 17-89――――”
“Block this kick! Block it!” shrieked Broadwood.
Back swept the ball from between Best’s wide-set feet, back to Kendall
at head-height. Up went his hands, out swung a leg and then, with the
ball tucked in the crook of his left elbow, he was plunging across the
field to his left, while shrieks and cries filled the air. It was the
play that had won the Nordham game, a simple run from kick formation,
a play easy to stop if expected, but likely to gain if not. And in
this case Broadwood had looked for a kick, reasoning that Yardley
had given up all idea of trying to win by rushing, that in the few
seconds remaining she would try to mitigate her defeat by securing the
three points that a goal from field would yield her. And Broadwood
was napping on the right of her line. The brilliant Thurston who had
made himself feared all through the game, who had spoiled more than
one attempt at his end of the line, had crept in and up, desperately
determined to get inside of the Yardley end and spoil the kick. It was
Broadwood’s right half-back, Reid, who first scented the danger and
started to intercept Kendall. Saunders pounded behind him. But the
Yardley interference was well formed, well spaced and desperate. Reid
went down with Holmes, and Greene blocked Saunders. At that instant
Kendall turned in and leaped toward the goal-line, his right elbow
locked and his arm stretched out to meet the foe. Six white lines lay
between him and the goal. He crossed two in safety, Greene speeding
beside him. Then the enemy swept upon him. Greene threw himself in the
path of a frantic foe and went down, and Kendall ran alone.
Three white streaks danced before his eyes now. A form leaped at him,
all blue-clad arms, and Kendall’s open hand flattened against a face
and he was still free. Two lines more now, only two! A shock almost
threw him from his feet; hands were clutching at his hips; he whirled
on one heel, staggered and broke away; a form dashed in front of him,
hands stretching upward; Kendall leaped and went over the falling foe;
the last line was under foot! One stride――another!―― Many hands fell
upon him, dragging him down! He tried to shake free, but they were too
many for him! He fell to his knees, something crashed against him,
driving the remaining breath from his body, and he toppled over on the
turf, the old injury paining horribly and his lungs bursting for air.
[Illustration: “Something crashed against him, driving the remaining
breath from his body.”]
They led him away to the side-lines, for the leather harness had failed
him and the bones had slipped out again. And while the spectators
held their breaths, Fales tried to kick a goal. Victory for the Blue
depended on his efforts, and he knew it. Weary and panting, he directed
the poising of the ball, stepped forward and kicked. The pigskin rose
erratically, turned lazily over and dropped weakly to earth in front
of the charging Broadwood line. And Fales sat down on the turf, rolled
onto his face, buried his head in his arms and wept!
Said the scoreboard: Broadwood 6; Visitors 6.