FIGHTING MAD
For the rest of that first period it was a case of seesaw, first one
and then the other of the teams getting the ball, but neither being
able to make any notable advance. The referee's whistle ended the
period with the ball in the middle of the field. The quarter had
demonstrated nothing more than that the teams were unusually well
matched.
"Doesn't look like a walkover for either one," remarked Rooster to
Garry, while the panting warriors tried to get their breath in the
brief minute of space between the first and second periods.
"Righto," responded Garry. "Our boys have got their work cut out for
them, if they expect to win. That red-headed Beebe is a terror. He's as
good as any two of their other men."
"He's there with the goods all right," admitted Nick. "But he isn't a
bit better than Dittler, although I think he's a trifle heavier."
"It's a mighty good scrap so far," observed Bill. "May the best team
win. Provided, of course," he added with a grin, "that team is Lenox."
"That goes without saying," agreed Garry.
In the next quarter Wimbledon resorted to an aerial game and relied
more on forward passes than mass play. It was soon evident that they
had been well coached in this feature of the game, and for a time they
gained ground consistently.
Steadily they advanced the ball down the field until they got within
striking distance of the home team's goal. Then Lenox gained possession
of the ball and showed that they too could do some forward passing
themselves.
Wynn took the ball for a brilliant run of twenty yards about right end,
very narrowly escaping being forced out of bounds. Dittler, not to be
outdone, made eighteen more yards around left. Twice following this,
Lenox, by hard line smashing, made their distance on downs.
It was classy work, and it set the Lenox rooters to yelling
vociferously in the stands. A moment later the noise became pandemonium
when Benny Knapp dropped back and kicked a field goal, scoring the
first three points of the game.
"Here's where we get them!" yelled Bill Sherwood bringing his big hand
down with a resounding slap on Garry's knee.
"For the love of Pete, keep that big ham off me!" ejaculated Garry, as
he rubbed the spot. "Do you want to cripple me! Yes, it does look good,
but the game is young yet. Those Wimbledon guys will take a lot of
beating."
That Bill had been premature in his exultation was shown a few moments
later when Beebe, his red head shining in the sun, intercepted a
forward pass and by a superb exhibition of running carried it for forty
yards across the Lenox line for a touchdown.
Johnston kicked the goal and the score was 7 to 3 in favor of
Wimbledon. And now the horns and cowbells set up a din that could be
heard a mile away.
"Tough luck!" groaned Rooster.
"Luck, nothing!" returned Nick. "That red-headed rascal earned every
inch he covered. His mates gave him good interference, too! We've got
to hand it to them, much as we hate to. That was good football, and
nothing else."
Wimbledon seemed to have taken on a new lease of life, now that they
had the lead. As though to show that there was nothing like a fluke
in the first touchdown, they made another in the last minute of the
quarter, Johnston this time being the happy warrior to scoop up the
ball when Knapp fumbled and scamper like a jack rabbit over the goal
line.
Marsden's try for goal failed, but the Wimbledon rooters made little of
that. Six more points had been safely stowed away and they were wild
with enthusiasm. The Lenox partisans, glum and silent, breathed sighs
of relief as the whistle blew.
"Ten points ahead and the game half over!" muttered Ted disconsolately.
"They're outplaying us," growled Nick. "They were like wild men in that
quarter. We'll be lucky if they leave us our shirts."
"Snap out of it," admonished Garry. "There's plenty of time left to
win."
"I wonder what Coach Garwin's saying to the boys," remarked Bill, as he
looked toward the gymnasium where Wynn's battered warriors were resting
and wondering what had hit them.
"What he's saying is plenty," returned Nick. "He's got the finest
command of language of any one I know. He's got the boys raw and
bleeding by this time."
That Al Garwin had been doing something of the kind was evident when
the Lenox team trotted out for the third quarter. The players' faces
were red and the glint of rage was in their eyes.
"I can almost hear them gnashing their teeth," commented Bill.
"So much the better," remarked Garry. "The coach has told them they
were dubs. They're going to show him that he didn't know what he was
talking about."
That Al Garwin's tongue had rasped the boys to the quick was made
evident from the start. Beebe kicked off for thirty yards and Dittler
signaled for a fair catch. He made it and the ball was in the
possession of Lenox on their own thirty-yard line.
Then the home team commenced a triumphal march down the field. Their
line smashing was irresistible. Again and again they made their
distance, despite the frantic opposition put up by Wimbledon. And
seeing the spirit and power that animated his boys, Wynn kept to the
bucking game.
Through they went, now on the left and again on the right side. All the
players of the opposition looked alike to them. The Lenox boys plunged,
smashed, bored their way through, while their rooters in the bleachers
went mad.
On their ten-yard line Wimbledon braced desperately. But it was of no
use. Dittler went through for three, Knapp for four more, and Minter
capped the plays when he tore through guard and left tackle for a
touchdown.
Garry and his fellow scrubs were pounding each other and babbling
incoherently.
"I guess our boys are poor!" chortled Garry. "Oh, yes, they're poor!
Did you ever see such line bucking?"
"If they only keep that up, it will be a massacre," rejoiced Bill
Sherwood. "They'll simply snow them under."
But joy was of short duration. Out once more in the middle of the
field, Wynn passed the ball to Knapp, who started off to skirt right
end, but slipped as he dodged to evade a tackler and fell heavily, the
ball shooting out from his arm with the impact.
The irrepressible Beebe, who had so often that day blighted the hopes
of Lenox, was on the ball like a hawk and scooted down the field for
a magnificent run of forty-two yards for Wimbledon's third touchdown.
Johnston kicked the goal and the score was 20 to 10 in favor of the
visitors.
"They have all the breaks," groaned Rooster, though his voice could
scarcely be heard in the terrific din that rose from the Wimbledon
section of the stands.
"That fellow Beebe must have a rabbit's foot in his pocket," gloomed
Nick.
"He's got brains in his head, you mean," amended Garry, "to say nothing
of speed in his feet. That fellow can ran rings around a streak of
lightning."
For the rest of that period the fighting was furious on both sides, but
neither made an additional score.
When their brief breathing spell ended, Lenox came out determined to
do or die. That they were more likely to die than do was indicated by
the score. But they were a fighting bunch and at least would sell their
lives dearly.
Wimbledon, fairly content with what she had gained and confident that
her lead could not be overcome in the short time remaining for play,
resorted to a defensive game that was more cagey than sportsmanlike.
All that she had to do was to prevent any further scoring by Lenox and
the game was hers.
But Lenox, on the other hand, threw caution to the winds and battered
furiously at the enemy's line. Again and again she threw herself
against that line and would not be denied. The first time the Lenox
boys got possession of the ball they made their distance on downs with
two yards to spare.
Again they lined up for the scrimmage and the ball was passed to
Dittler for a plunge between left end and tackle. He went through like
a bull for four yards before he went down with almost all the Wimbledon
team on top of him.
When the pile was disentangled, Dittler did not rise, and after he
had been helped to his feet it was found that his right ankle had
been so severely strained that he could hardly bear his weight on it.
Consternation reigned in the Lenox ranks, for Dittler was one of the
pillars of the team.
"There goes the game!" mourned Nick.
"They had little enough chance before," groaned Ted. "They haven't any
at all now."
"Just when the boys were going like a house afire!" grumbled Rooster.
Time was called while Dittler was assisted from the field amid the
sympathetic applause of the rooters, not excluding those from Wimbledon
who knew a good sportsman when they saw one.
"I wonder whom they'll put in his place," murmured Tom Allison.
"Search me," replied Pete Maddern. "He'll have to be good to fill
Dittler's shoes."
Coach Garwin walked over to the group.
"Get in there, Grayson," he directed.