TWO YARDS TO GO
"Hold 'em, Lakeville!"
The crowd surged against the rope that had been stretched along the
sides of the football field where the Lakeville and the Grant City
high-school teams were playing the first game of the season. It was a
vacant lot at the north of town; not an ideal ground, by any means, but
put in order for the sport by being cleared of rocks and stubble and
marked with broad stripes of whitewash.
"All ready, Chick!" "Are you ready, Bert?" "Signal!" "What's the
signal?" "Steady there." "Signal?"
The Grant City team, which seemed to have occasional spells of confused
conversation, appeared all at sea as the ball was about to be put in
play.
"Signal?" "Hey, signal!"
The left guard and tackle of the visitors rose from their crouch,
apparently uncertain as to the play. At that instant, however, the ball
was passed. Logically, with two men out of the play, Lakeville should
have had no trouble in stopping the runner with the ball. But he
crashed through the Lakeville line between right tackle and end, past
Peter Barrett, on secondary defense, in spite of that youth's frantic
dive, and so free till, some twenty-five yards distant, Bunny, who was
playing back, wriggled through the interference and plumped the runner
to earth.
On the side lines, Substitute Rodman Cree dug his finger nails into his
palms. "It's a trick play," he muttered. "They don't seem to understand
it themselves, but they gain every time they try it. What's the secret?"
"Three minutes of the half left!" Horace Hibbs, acting as official
timer, squinted inquiringly at the two teams. "If our boys don't stop
that maneuver, Grant is going to score, sure as shooting."
"It's the third time, too," Rodman put in, "but they always gain their
distance--and more. I wish I could figure it out."
Following his resolution of the morning, he had come to the game
without hope of playing, but with the fixed intent to do everything in
his power for the team. So far, he felt he had failed.
True, before the game started, his quick eye had noted that the cord
used by the linesmen for measuring downs was almost a yard short. This
fact he had pointed out to Mr. Sefton, acting linesman for Lakeville,
and the mistake had been corrected. It was Rodman, too, who before the
game had discovered and levered away a small boulder, hidden near one
of the goal posts. In the case of Bennett, the substitute halfback, who
squatted on the side lines and followed each play with the movements
of his body, thus wearing himself out before he was put in the game,
Rodman had induced the boy, by a joking remark or two, to stretch out
and relax until he was wanted. But he felt that these aids were really
nothing at all. Wasn't it impossible, after all, to do anything worth
while for the team when you weren't the coach, and couldn't play, and
when everybody had lost faith in you?
But, at least for the moment, he forgot his difficult task in the smash
of the play that was bringing the first half to an end. The ball had
touched Lakeville's thirty-yard line, when Jump intercepted a forward
pass and ran it back a third of that distance. A sturdy drive by
Barrett brought fifteen more; a forward pass netted another substantial
gain; three line plunges left Lakeville but twenty-five yards to go.
"Six--eight--five--seven--three!" cried Bunny at quarter. Like
well-oiled bits of machinery, the Lakeville eleven clanked into the
kick formation, with Bunny back to receive the pass. Professor Leland
shook his head.
Rodman saw the gesture and understood. Because the Lakeville team was
lighter, the coach had ordered a kicking game, with a try for goal from
the field whenever the eleven was well within the enemy's territory.
Twice before, however, Bunny's attempts had failed; there was no
reason to expect him to put the ball over the goal this time.
The long pass was made and caught. Bunny dropped the pigskin
point-down, caught it with his toe as it touched the ground, and kicked
it toward the looming goal posts. It went short and wide.
"He can't do it." The coach was talking for his own benefit. "I was
afraid he couldn't."
Rodman plucked up courage. "No, he can't, of course. I knew he
couldn't."
The coach turned to the substitute. "What do you mean, Cree? I thought
Payton was a friend of yours."
"He is, sir; my best friend. But don't you see why he can't get off a
good drop-kick?"
The whistle had blown to signal the end of the half. Both teams were
trooping off the field. But Professor Leland, after turning as if to
join the eleven, stopped by Rodman's side.
"Look here, Cree, if you know any reason why Payton can't kick as well
in a game as he can in practice, suppose you tell me now, before I
instruct the boys not to follow this plan of play in the second half."
"Yes, sir, I'll tell you." Rodman's voice was joyous. At last, he was
able to do something worth while. "Look at the sun. The game started
late, and now it shines toward the west goal, directly in Bunny's eyes
every time he kicks. See that sun? Then there's the wind. It isn't
much of a wind, sir, but it's kicking up a lot of dust, which always
blows toward Bunny--into his eyes. But that isn't all." His words came
fast; he was afraid the coach would leave before he was done. "Those
Grant City fellows, sir, have three corking fine players at center and
guards, and our line doesn't take care of them. They get Roundy excited
and nervous, and he passes the ball high and wild. That means the kick
is sent off in a good deal more of a hurry than it should be. And Buck
isn't playing close enough to the line to stop that right tackle."
Professor Leland nodded. "I believe you are right, Cree. I've noticed
a few of those points myself, but you've seen more than I have. All
right; we'll give Bunny another chance at a goal from the field."
The talk between halves to the team was full of encouragement. "We're
doing well," the coach told them; "mighty well. But we are going to do
just a little better. We must score on that team, and we must hold it.
Now in this business of field goals--"
To the unmixed delight of Rodman, Professor Leland made use of the very
arguments which the substitute had brought up a minute before. "When
they kick off to us this half, as they will, I want the ball rushed
down the field to a point where we can try another drop for goal. Then,
Payton, because we shall have changed goals, your eyes will be free of
dust; Claxton will handle that tackle; Jones and Turner will take care
of the combination at center, which will allow you, Magoon, to make the
best pass of your life. We can do it all, I know."
As the boys stretched out to rest for the remainder of the period,
Rodman's satisfaction was marred by only one thought. Although he
had done his part to aid the team, neither Bunny nor the others knew
anything about it. And it was their friendship and respect he wanted.
"Old Leland is the boy!" Roundy commented lazily to Bunny. "He saw what
was wrong, and he fixed it up, too. He's the kind of coach to have."
"We all know that," Bunny responded fervently.
"Why, you can't kick into the sun and dust any more than you can fly;
but I couldn't tell him so."
It was on the tip of Rodman's tongue to explain the origin of the
suggestion. In spite of the impulse, however, he kept silent.
"All ready to save the day, Cree?" jeered Buck. "You'd be all right, at
that, except that you'd probably stumble over the whitewash on the goal
line and drop the ball."
It was hard to keep his temper under these flings with which Buck
Claxton favored him from time to time. So far as his naturally friendly
nature was capable of hating anybody, Rodman had begun to hate Buck.
Above everything else, he was glad that Professor Leland was the coach,
instead of Buck, and that he himself was working for the whole school
and not for Buck Claxton.
At the same time, he admitted to himself that Buck was not a bad
captain, despite his tendency to fumble in a crisis. With Roundy
Magoon at center, Turner and Bi Jones at guards, Kiproy and Collins
at tackles, Sheffield and Jump Henderson at ends, and a back field
composed of Barrett and Collins at halves, Buck Claxton at full, and
Bunny at quarter, the Lakeville High football team was developing into
a snappy, hard-fighting eleven. They were sure of themselves.
When the whistle called them out on the field again, Rodman noted that
they trotted forth with a jauntiness which matched very favorably the
do-or-die expression of the Grant City players.
"Everybody in it!" shouted Buck, as the team made ready to receive the
kick-off.
Jump caught the punt, running back the ball at an angle and passing
it to Sheffield, who drilled to the middle of the field before he was
stopped. Capping this gain came a series of short, sharp plunges, till
the distance to Grant's goal was halved.
"Six--eight--seven--five--thirteen!"
At the warning of the key number, seven, Bi and Turner crowded closer
to Roundy at center, while Buck played close to the line to block
a threatening tackler. Guarded on both sides, with wind and sun at
his back, and with a sure, swift pass to handle, Bunny drop-kicked a
perfect goal.
The first points had been scored. The count stood: Lakeville, 3; Grant
City, 0.
The crowd, made up largely of Lakeville people, shouted joyously, threw
hats into the air, and celebrated with much squawking of auto horns.
After she had yelled herself hoarse, Molly climbed from the Sefton car
to exchange a word with Rodman.
"Isn't it glorious?" she cried. "We're winning our first game. S. S.
told me what Professor Leland said about Bunny's kicking. Wasn't that
just too smart for anything?"
Rodman's face lengthened. He wanted very much to tell Molly that the
advice was the result of his observations. But something, he could not
tell what, checked the words.
"We're getting them, all right," he said, instead. "All we have to do
now is to hold when they begin to batter against our line."
"Oh, we can do that." Molly nodded confidently. "You wait and see."
Following the kick-off, the battle raged uncertainly in the middle of
the field. Near the end of the third quarter, however, Grant City took
the ball on downs, and began a steady onslaught that was formidable.
Then, when the Lakeville line seemed to have braced, Rodman came to his
feet like a puppet on a string. There it was again! Grant was calling
for its trick play.
"Signal! What's the signal?" called a confused voice. "All ready,
Bert?" "Dig into 'em!" "Signal?" "Wait a minute!" "Hold it!" "Signal!"
Grant's right guard and tackle stood up straight in their places,
looking helplessly toward the quarterback.
"Signal?"
Like the flare of a flashlight, the mystery cleared in Rodman's mind.
Why, of course, that was the answer! Why couldn't Buck solve it, or
Bunny, or some one of those players in the Lakeville line, already
glancing up at the confused babel of voices. Surely, they must see
through such an obvious device.
They must--No! Back whirled the ball; forward shot the compact
interference and runner. Before the wiry half was tackled, he had
covered a cool fifteen yards. It was first down again for Grant.
An unworthy thought burned in Rodman's brain. Why should he tell Coach
Leland about the play? Why not put the problem squarely up to the squad
at the end of the quarter, when, by previous agreement, it would be
permissible to talk with them? In that way, all of the fellows would
see they had been mistaken in him; would be forced to realize that he
was some good, even if he couldn't make the team. Why should he allow
the coach another chance to walk off with borrowed laurels?
His forehead creased with trouble wrinkles while his conscience
wrestled with the question. No-o!... It wouldn't be the thing to do,
after all. He was still a member of the football squad. As such, it was
his business to acquaint the coach, or whoever was in charge of the
team, with any helpful information. Simple loyalty demanded that.
"First down; ten yards to gain!"
As he foresaw, Grant did not attempt the trick again. It was a clever
play, but its abuse would certainly lead to discovery. Probably,
indeed, if they were shrewd--and somebody with brains was undoubtedly
in command of the visiting eleven!--they would not try it until they
were within striking distance of the goal. Then, unless checked, it
would mean a sure touchdown and the game.
Twice more Grant City made small gains. As they lined up for the next
play, time was called, with the ball in possession of the visiting team
on Lakeville's thirty-yard line.
Rodman started. He must warn the coach at once.
"Professor Leland!"
At that very moment, Mr. Gorse, who was refereeing, called to the coach.
"Just a second, Cree." Throwing a hasty word of advice to the team, the
coach started across the field toward the referee.
Fifteen seconds passed. Professor Leland was still arguing some point
with Mr. Gorse. Thirty seconds! The conversation went on.
Well, if he couldn't talk to the coach, he must put the matter squarely
before the next man under him. But the person now in charge of the team
was Buck Claxton; and Buck--well, Buck was Buck! He couldn't bring
himself to tell Buck anything. He even started to squat again on his
blanket, when, quite to his own surprise, he found himself walking
over to the side of the captain. After all, as long as he practiced
with the squad, he must be loyal.
"Oh, Buck!"
"Well?" snapped Claxton. "What d'ye want?"
Rodman hesitated, tempted at the last second to turn back with the
message undelivered. But once more a better impulse prevailed. In a
voice purposely low, that the others might not overhear, he offered his
explanation.
"That play where the whole Grant team gets to talking before the ball
is passed--watch it! I thought first it was some trick, but it's really
only a straight plunge by their half. The reason they gain is because
they throw you fellows off by yelling for the signal and all that.
Part of the line stands up and looks at the quarterback. You all think
they are mixed on the signal, but they aren't. The reason it works
is because they catch our team when it doesn't expect the ball to be
passed, when our own guard and tackle have straightened up a little,
too, to see what's going on. Yes, they do! I've been watching 'em. But
they don't realize it."
Buck tried vainly to interrupt, but there was no checking the torrent
of Rodman's words.
"They get all your attention off the game, and then, bingo! the ball is
put in play. It's a fact, Buck! Remember now, if they start jabbering
at each other, and one side of the line begins to stand up straight,
that means the play is going right through there. Remember that--"
He was still talking earnestly when the whistle blew, with Buck, his
face stolid, staring steadily at the ground and scraping marble rings
in the dust with his right shoe-toe.
"Ready, Lakeville!" shouted the captain; and the game was on again.
A lucky fumble brought the ball into the home team's hands, and Bunny
punted out of danger. After that, steadily and surely, with all the
advantages of weight and experience, the Grant eleven began to grind
its way down the field. Desperately, Lakeville crouched and set itself;
still more desperately, Grant City ploughed onward. The formations were
slow and deliberate; the visitors risked no fumble or error. Often the
gains were only a foot or two, but each fourth down found another ten
yards covered. Rodman realized that some keen brain was directing the
team, balancing time against gains, and playing for one touchdown that
would turn the threatened defeat into a victory.
"Curtains!" groaned Specs somewhere in the background, quite loudly
enough for Rodman to hear. "Curtains! Hold 'em, fellows! Hold 'em!"
"Three minutes to play!" announced Horace Hibbs.
"If we can only hold them from that goal!" muttered Coach Leland.
"Grant's ball! First down; ten yards to gain!"
A plunge through center netted three of them; a wriggling half eeled
around right end for another two; the same play on the other side
brought the total to eight. Lakeville was fighting gallantly, but
superior weight was beginning to tell.
"Fourth down; two yards to gain."
Already the ball was in the very shadow of the goal posts. If this
final attack succeeded, it meant a touchdown. Rodman Cree shivered in
his blanket. Suppose they tried the trick play now. Would Buck--
"What's the matter, Billy?" "Ready there, Chick!" "Signal!" "What's the
signal?" "Never mind!" "Hold her!"
The right tackle and guard of the Grant City team straightened up.
"Signal?" called a bewildered voice.
Rodman gripped his fists tight. Was it to go through, even after he had
warned Buck? But suddenly, hard and high above the din from the Grant
line, the Lakeville captain's voice rang clear:
"Get down, Bi! On the job, Kiproy! They're coming through you! It's the
right half! Everybody together now! _Stop him!_"
The ball was snapped. Like a battering-ram, the right half of the
Grant team, pocketed in perfect interference, catapulted against the
Lakeville line,--against Bi and Kiproy, backed by Peter Barrett and
Buck Claxton. For just the fraction of a second, the line wavered,
threatening to snap. Then it tautened into a stone wall, against which
the runner crashed and fell back. There was no gain. The trick had
failed. It was Lakeville's ball almost on her goal line.
Bunny punted out of danger. Grant City had just time to line up for
one weak charge before the whistle announced the end of the game. By
checking that one play, Lakeville had prevented a touchdown and had
won, 3 to 0.
In the minds of the victorious players, there was no doubt as to the
fellow who deserved the credit. Scouts and all, they hoisted Buck to
their shoulders, cheering him as they marched around the field.
From where he stood, Rodman Cree could see Molly leaning from the
car and waving her pennant. On the side lines, Clarence Prissler was
executing a war dance of his own. In the midst of a group of girls,
Marion Genevieve Chester was leading the school cheer. And it was all
for Buck!
Nobody knew what Rodman had done, of course, except the coach and Buck;
and evidently they weren't going to tell. For a bitter moment, Rodman
argued with himself. Should he go on with the thankless job?
Across his brain flashed the memory of a sentence he had read in the
Scouts' "Handbook", "_A Scout is loyal._" It was one of the twelve
laws; it meant him, too, whether he was a Scout or not. It was a law
that applied to everybody all over the world. He didn't have to be a
Scout to keep that law.
With a stiffening of his shoulders, he lifted his head, as if to stare
all Lakeville in the face.
"I'm going to keep on," he said, "whether anybody knows what I am doing
or not. I may not be a Scout, but I'm as loyal as any one of them. I am
loyal to the school, and to the team, and to everybody who has a claim
on me. Yes, and I am going to keep on being loyal."
They were giving three cheers for Buck now, with Specs, clad in his
street clothes, leading them all. Before he knew it, Rodman was adding
his voice to the praise.
"And I wouldn't be anything else," he said suddenly. "I wouldn't be
anything else."