“LOCKE BACK!”
“Hoskins’s ball!” The referee, having waded knee-deep in the pile-up
of writhing players, placed the pigskin on the visitors’ twenty-seven
yards and skipped aside. “Third down! About six to go!”
Barry watched from the bench, a gray blanket draped about him. He
had been watching for upward of twenty-five anxious minutes during
which the ancient rivals had charged up and down the field with
scant advantage to either one. Near by sat Hall, substitute tackle,
chewing his knuckles and muttering to himself. On the other side, knee
touching Barry’s, sat Clyde. Beyond the latter, at the far end of
the bench, Major Loring and the two assistant coaches looked on with
expressionless faces and conversed in low tones at intervals.
Behind Barry the stand was close, and he could almost feel the cheers
beating against him. Before the start he had searched the rows and
found the Lyles half-way up the farther section, Mr. Benjy enormously
swaddled against the chill air, Mrs. Lyle looking quite young and
pretty, Betty with her eyes sparkling, roses in her cheeks, and a
valiant streamer of purple and gray ribbons pinned to her coat. He had
exchanged greetings, too, with Peaches and Mill. He hadn’t seen Peaches
to speak to since the day before, for, returning to school at a little
before twelve, they had been taken straight to the dining-hall for an
early luncheon and from there to the gymnasium, the Major guarding as
carefully against “foreign entanglements” as a New England statesman!
Barry had slept remarkably the night before. Only once had he awakened,
and then had stayed awake only long enough to stare sleepily back at
a twinkling star shining down at him through the open casement and to
pull the covers up over his head. In the morning the big, roaring fire
had been grateful indeed, and so, too, had Joey’s hot breakfast. At
nine o’clock they had assembled outside on the limited level of sparse
turf and gone through formations for an hour. If the previous evening
had tabooed football, this bright, frosty morning had tabooed all else.
When the work was over the Major had tossed a battered old ball to
Barry with:
“Let’s see how far you can kick it, Locke.”
“But we’ll lose it, sir!” The Major had shrugged.
“See that bunch of dark-red leaves down there? The trail’s just to the
right of it. See how close you can come to it.”
So Barry had stepped forward, nearly to the edge of the plateau, and
punted, and the old ball had shot away, first up across the tops of
the nearer trees and then down and down, to crash at last through
the branches far below. Barry had never expected to see that ball
again, but when, shortly after ten, they were going “down off,” as the
mountain folks said, the Major ranged aside from the trail for a few
moments and came back with the veteran pigskin under his arm!
Time had sped fast from the moment the train rattled into the Wessex
station. Excitement and confusion had reigned. Speeding through the
village, they had raised an approving shout wherever a patriotic――and
canny――tradesman had hung the purple-and-gray. Already alien hues were
to be seen, too, for forerunners of the invading army from Fairmount
were straggling about the streets, displaying dark-blue arm-bands
adorned with a golden H. Barry had not cared much for luncheon. He told
himself that was because he had eaten so heartily barely more than
four hours before. Perhaps it was. Perhaps, too, the fact that he was
just a mite frightened and more than a mite nervous had something to do
with it.
In the gymnasium they had dressed in a leisurely manner, they and the
players who had not made the trip to the cabin, and then had gathered
in a corner of the locker-room and listened to Mr. Graham and Mr.
Mears and Captain Buckley, and, last of all, and more intently, to the
Major. The Major hadn’t said much; his remarks had occupied less than
five minutes, perhaps; but what he had said was still fresh in Barry’s
memory.
They were not to reflect on what Hoskins had done that fall, said the
Major. They were not to compare records, nor heed the “bunk” the papers
printed. What had happened was past. What concerned them was only what
was going to happen.
“You’ve got to play hard, you’ve got to _fight_!” the coach concluded.
“If you do what I know you can do, you’ll win. You’re playing on your
own field; you’ve got the whole school right behind you; you’ve got the
plays you need. And――by glory!――I think you’ve got the spirit! _Have
you?_”
Barry could still hear the sudden, high-pitched shout that had
followed, could still feel the thrill of the moment. They had trotted
out a minute later, exalted, eager for the test. And now they were
meeting it. It was hard to believe that the big moment of the season
was here, that within the next hour and a half the decision would be
reached; the decision that would say whether all the hard work and hard
knocks, all the planning and strategies of the past two months had won
or failed. Only now did Barry realize how intensely he had been hoping
for success, was still hoping, and would continue to hope until, in the
first shadows of twilight, the last whistle should blow. The thought of
defeat was accompanied by a sudden nausea, a painful cold sinking of
the heart. He had never known before how much a victory could mean!
The whistle brought the first quarter to an end and the teams repaired
to the side-lines, for water. Broadmoor began, “Don’t Be Rough,”
while across the field the blue-and-orange decked stand broke into
the famous Doctor Song. “Doctor! Hurry, Doctor! The patient’s very
low!” floated across, and Barry scowled ferociously until the strains
behind him gathered volume and the rival’s wailing plea was drowned.
The game started again, Broadmoor now with her back to the north
goal and favored by the light, chill breeze. The day had begun with
clear sunshine and little wind, but by two o’clock clouds had begun to
gather, and now, for minutes at a time, the sun was hidden. The breeze
seemed to be increasing as the afternoon wore on, and already coat
collars were being turned up and at times the tramp-tramp of chilled
feet kept time to the cheering.
There had been but little kicking in the first period, both teams
clinging to the ball until obliged to punt. Now, holding the slight
advantage afforded by the breeze, Broadmoor used Tip Cartright
repeatedly, sometimes as early as a second down, hoping, doubtless, for
a break in the shape of a fumble to bring her to scoring distance. But
Hoskins played safe, making fair catches once or twice, once or twice
letting the ball hit the ground. Broadmoor started an advance that
swept as far as the enemy’s forty-one yards, where Demille was thrown
for a loss and two subsequent attempts outside tackles left the home
team well short of her distance. Cartright punted from his forty-eight
to Hoskins’s seven and a swift-footed back ran the ball to the
sixteen before Larry Smythe dropped him. Hoskins gained nine yards on
Ellingham, using a tricky delayed pass, and got more than her distance
off Captain Buckley on the next play. Another smash at the line and a
wide run put the ball on the twenty-five. There, however, Broadmoor
stiffened and three attempts yielded Hoskins but seven yards and she
punted out on the opponent’s forty-eight.
“Locke!” called the Major. “Go in for Cartright. And keep your mouth
shut.”
Barry shed his blanket and ran across, hand upraised. With a sour grin
Tip yielded his head-guard. Broadmoor took up the journey again. There
was still all of five minutes left of the half. Zinn stole around right
tackle for a bare two yards and Haviland got three through center. On
the next play Harris was off-side and the ball went back to the enemy’s
forty-seven.
“Locke back!” called Zinn.
The next few minutes proved the value of advertising. Hoskins had read
the newspapers and thought she knew all about Locke: that he had done
sixty yards frequently in practice; that Broadmoor had been trying to
keep him under cover; that he was dangerous. Oh, you couldn’t catch Old
Hoskins napping! Had he thought of it, Barry might have felt flattered
at seeing how far back the safety men played! But the Blue-and-Orange
wasn’t any too certain that Broadmoor meant to punt on third down, and
it didn’t open its defense more than it had to. But still, Demille,
to whom the ball went, managed to get back that five yards that the
penalty had cost and a foot or so more.
Fourth down now, and again Barry was called back. He knew the ball
wasn’t to reach him, but he didn’t let any one else know it. He set his
feet solidly, cast an appraising eye down the field, and held out his
arms. Then Pete Zosker sped the ball back to Haviland, Haviland passed
it swiftly to Larry Smythe, and Larry, dodging this way and that,
eluded the enemy craftily, crossed the forty-two yards at full-tilt and
kept right on to the thirty-one. And Broadmoor arose in the east stand
and went quite crazy!
Locke back again! And this time the ball was his. But he didn’t
kick it. He put it under his arm and sped to the left, a wall of
interference between him and the foe, turned in at last and crashed
straight into the arms of the Hoskins right tackle; and as the latter
was about forty pounds heavier than Barry, the play stopped right
there! But Barry had added another yard and a half and once more took
up kicking position. Hoskins perhaps began to wonder whether or not
this Locke fellow really could kick! Barry began to wonder, too, for
on the next play it was Johnny Zinn who knifed through center, after
nursing the pigskin a moment, and was downed on the twenty-six; very
much downed, indeed, since a third of the Hoskins tribe managed to
assemble on top of him before the whistle blew!
It took all the permitted time to bring Johnny back to normalcy, during
which a steady uproar arose from the Broadmoor side of the field. Along
the side-line over there Ike Boardman was sprinting up and down. But
presently Ike resumed his blanket, for Johnny wasn’t at all dead. Third
down now and still almost five to go; and Hoskins, pushed back to her
twenty-five-yard line, desperately resolved to take no more fooling!
Once again Johnny’s hoarse voice called, “Locke back!” and Barry took
up his position close to the thirty-five. Hoskins, puzzled, doubting,
watched sharply. The ball went to Barry and he swung his leg. But not
until he had made a lateral pass to Larry Smythe. Barry didn’t see much
of the ensuing events, for he was on his back for several instants.
When he found his feet again, Larry was just rolling across the
goal-line in the farther corner of the field. A Hoskins player rolled
with him, while several more seemed extremely disturbed because they
had arrived just too late to take part in the frolic!
Pandemonium broke loose and Broadmoor cheers filled the air. Eleven
gray-jerseyed youths cavorted about the trampled turf, one of them
indulging in a series of startling handsprings,――it was Leary, who
was talented that way,――and a referee with carefully expressionless
countenance deposited the ball in front of the goal on the three-yard
line. Perhaps Johnny should have chosen to add the point by a drop-kick
or placement; or even by a forward-pass; but Johnny felt pretty cocky
just then, pretty confident, and he handed the ball to Ira Haviland
and Ira took a plunge at the Hoskins line. When the dust of battle had
somewhat settled it became apparent that Ira had fallen just two inches
short of his goal!
The big full-back acted then as if he had foully murdered his aged
grandmother, or indulged in some equally reprehensible crime, and would
not be comforted. All the way back up the field he kept muttering:
“Two inches! Two inches!” And sometimes: “Wouldn’t that make you
sick?” The fact that the score-board displayed a big 6 opposite the
word Broadmoor, while the corresponding space below was still empty,
brought him no joy now. “Two inches!”
Hoskins kicked off, Ellingham caught the weak attempt, and a whistle
blew. The half was over. Walking across the turf to the gymnasium,
Barry was a prey to conflicting emotions. Broadmoor had scored, and
for that he was glad indeed. But, although he had played a full five
minutes and had five times stood in kicking position, only a measly
yard or so was to his credit! He was a punter, and they hadn’t let him
touch a foot to the ball! There was something wrong there. Joy was
heavily tinctured with regret!