KENWOOD SCORES
Friday was a hard day to live through. Excitement was in the very air
and football tunes assailed one at every turn. For the players the
day was a nervous period of suspense. Dick was heartily glad when
recitations took his thoughts off the morrow. There was some punting
and a light signal drill on the field in the afternoon, but it was
all over by half-past four. A final black-board talk was held in
the evening and after it most of the players went over to the final
mass-meeting and sat on the stage and were wildly cheered. Everyone
who could think of anything to say that evening said it: Mr. Morgan,
Chairman of the Athletic Committee, Coach Driscoll, Captain Peters,
Billy Goode, Manager Whipple and one or two lesser luminaries. And the
musical clubs played and the Glee Club sang and everyone joined in, and
enthusiasm held sway until late.
Saturday morning dawned brisk and fair, with a light westerly wind
sweeping along the Front. Kenwood began to appear on the scene as
early as half-past ten, and from that time on blue banners were
almost as numerous as brown-and-white ones. The Kenwood team came at
shortly after twelve and went at once to Alumni Hall for an early
luncheon, heartily cheered on their way by friend and foe. On the
train that brought the thirty husky warriors came also five persons
whose affiliations were evidently with Parkinson, for each of the
five wore a brown necktie, differing somewhat in shade, and two wore
brown-and-white arm-bands. In the confusion existing in and about the
Warne station they were not discovered by the reception committee of
one for several minutes. Then Dick gave a yell, charged through the
throng, grabbed Sumner White and spun him around.
“Sum! You old scoundrel! How are you?” Dick was surprised to discover
how glad he was to see Sumner.
“Fine! Gee, Dick, you’ve grown an inch! Say, you needn’t have come to
meet us. I told your----” Sumner stopped, grinning. “See who’s here?”
“Hello, Charlie! Hello, Jim! Say, I’m awfully glad----” Dick’s words
stopped in his throat. Then: “_Dad!_” he gasped.
Mr. Bates laughed a trifle embarrassedly as he took Dick’s hand in both
of his own. “Yes, it’s me, Dick. I--I thought I’d come along and keep
these young fellows in order, you know. Well, how are you, son?”
“I’m great,” answered Dick, “but I’m so knocked in a heap--Think of
you coming, dad! Gee, I’m glad to see you! How are you? Let’s get out
of here where we can talk.” Dick took his father’s arm and piloted him
out to the sidewalk. Taxicabs were not to be thought of, for the demand
already exceeded the supply six to one, and so they set off along the
street afoot, Dick talking and asking questions and all the others
chiming in every minute. It wasn’t until they were crossing the campus,
Dick pointing out the sights, that he remembered the appointment with
Mr. Driscoll. Then he hurried them all to the room in Sohmer and left
them in charge of Stanley while he and Sumner went on to the gymnasium.
On the way Dick explained the situation to his companion, perhaps not
very lucidly, and Sumner was still in a most confused condition of
mind when he faced the coach. But it didn’t matter, for Mr. Driscoll’s
questions were few and somewhat perfunctory after Dick had had his say
about Sandy Halden. “I think, sir,” Dick ended, “that Halden didn’t
find that piece of an envelope at all. I think he addressed it himself,
copying my writing the best he could.”
“And I think you’re right,” agreed Mr. Driscoll. “I’ll have something
to say to Halden after this game’s out of the way. He’s a dangerous
fellow to have around.”
Five minutes later they were back in Number 14, in the midst of a merry
din of talk and laughter. Dick couldn’t remain with them long, however,
for luncheon for the players was at a quarter to one, or as soon as
the Kenwood party vacated the dining hall, and so, giving the tickets
he had obtained for them to Sumner, he hurried away. “Stan will look
after you,” he shouted back from the door. “There’s a stand-up lunch
in Alumni for visitors at one-thirty, or you can get real food in the
village. Stan will take you over to the field in plenty of time and
I’ll see you here after the game. So long, dad! So long, fellows!”
“Go to it, Dick!” cried Sumner. “Eat ’em up, old scout! We’ll be
rooting for you!”
A sketchy luncheon in the dining hall, with no one eating much, not
even the veterans like Bob Peters and Harry Warden, a flight by way
of the service entrance to the gymnasium and the usual confusion of
changing to playing togs and listening to final instructions at the
same time. Then, at last, just before two o’clock, a heartening, quiet
talk of a minute by the coach.
Kenwood was already at practice when Parkinson reached the field. The
home stand arose and gave the “long cheer” and the base drummer of the
Warne Silver Cornet Band thumped vigorously. Counter cheers mingled
from across the field and then the visitors cheered for Parkinson, and
Captain Bob led his men forth and a ten-minute warming-up followed,
with three squads trotting up and down and the punters stretching their
long legs down by the east goal. It was four minutes past two when the
teams took their places and the din of cheering and singing subsided.
In seats half-way up the centre of the south stands Mr. Bates and
Sumner White and the other three visitors from Leonardville watched
intently. Sumner had just discovered that Dick was not in the
Brown-and-White’s line-up and had proclaimed the fact disappointedly.
“What’s that mean?” asked Mr. Bates anxiously. “Isn’t he going to play,
Sumner?”
“Oh, yes, sir,” replied Sumner, assuming more confidence than he felt.
“You see, a quarter-back doesn’t often last a whole game. It’s a
pretty hard job. So they generally put in one to start the game and
then run the other fellow on later. I guess Dick will get in before the
half’s over, Mr. Bates. I think I see him down there on the bench. Yes,
there he is, sir.”
Mr. Bates had to have his son pointed out to him, and then a shrill
whistle blew and Kenwood, having lost the toss, kicked the ball high
and far into the sunlight.
For the first ten minutes of that game Parkinson and Kenwood tried
each other out and neither team approached a score. Kenwood had what
advantage lay in a mild westerly breeze and she punted often. But if
she expected fumbles or misjudgments she was disappointed, for either
Stone or Warden caught unfailingly and usually took the ball back over
one or two white lines before being stopped. Just at first Mr. Bates,
whose football education had been sadly neglected, thought the game
much too rough and predicted broken legs and worse, but before that
first quarter was at an end he was inured to the ungentle behaviour of
the contestants and was following the varying fortunes of the game with
grim lips and flashing eyes.
Parkinson made one first down and Kenwood two in the initial period,
the second of the Blue’s successes coming just at the end when a
back shot unexpectedly around Peters’ end and made all of seven yards
before he was pulled to earth and enthusiastically sat on by most of
the Parkinson team! Two attacks on Newhall and Wendell added the three
more and the chain was trailed to a new position. But the Blue was
still well away from the home team’s goal and shortly after the second
quarter began she had to punt again.
Neither team appeared to be able to gain consistently through the
opposing line, while neither team had shown thus far much ability to
run the ends. It looked like a punting duel all the way, with the
victory depending on a “break” in the defence of one side or the other.
It was a ding-dong affair for thirty minutes of playing time, and when
the first half ended neither team could claim the advantage.
“You wait till Dick gets in, though,” said Sumner to Mr. Bates when the
field had emptied and the Silver Cornet Band was blaring forth again.
“That quarter they’ve had playing may be good, but I’ll bet Dick can
play all around him. He’s awfully slow, for one thing----”
“Dick is?” inquired Mr. Bates, anxious to learn football lore.
“No, that fellow Stone. Dick’s a streak when he gets started. Why, he
can do the hundred in ten and two-fifths, sir!”
“You don’t say!” murmured Mr. Bates. He wondered what the hundred
was and how Dick “did” it, but he had no intention of exhibiting his
ignorance any further. He was still recalling Sumner’s expression when
he had innocently asked which team the little man in the grey flannel
trousers--he happened to be the umpire--played on!
Stone, however, was still in the line-up when the third period began
and Dick was anxiously looking on from the bench, one of some fifteen
other equally anxious substitutes. It was when the last half was but
four minutes old that Kenwood sprung her big surprise. The surprise was
a tow-headed youngster who had been substituted at right half. Someone
near the Leonardville contingent said his name was Marvel, and Sumner
declared heartily that he was well-named. The next day’s papers called
him Marble, which was probably correct but not nearly so descriptive.
Marble was the nearest imitation of an eel that the Parkinson team had
ever had to contend with. Kenwood played him close to the line, gave
him the ball on a direct pass from centre and then set him loose. After
he was loose he was about as easy to locate as a flea, and, having
been located, about as easy as a flea to capture! His first stunt,
and one that brought the visiting rooters to their feet with a sudden
fierce and triumphant yell and sent Parkinson hearts into Parkinson
boots, was a dash through the brown-and-white line outside left tackle.
He went through much as a hot knife cleaves its way through butter, and
after he was through he feinted and squirmed and doubled and twisted
until only Stone stood between him and the Parkinson goal. And Stone
missed him!
That forty-seven-yard run that ended in a touchdown squarely between
the posts was just the medicine Parkinson needed, however, and with the
score seven to naught against her, for Kenwood couldn’t have missed
that goal with a blind and one-legged kicker, she set to work with
a new determination and a new vim. Stone remained in just two plays
after the kick-off. Then, not a little groggy, he limped off, loyally
cheered, and Dick took his place.
Dick carried but one instruction with him. “Hustle your team, Bates,”
Mr. Driscoll had said quietly.
With the coach’s encouraging thump on his shoulder to remember and the
knowledge that his father and Sumner and the others were wishing him
luck, Dick raced on with every nerve tingling and a big, hot desire
in his heart to vindicate their faith in him. Bob Peters hailed him
joyfully. Bob was as happy as a clam, despite an ensanguined nose. “Ata
boy, Dick!” he sang out as Dick came up. “Look who’s here, fellows!
What do you say?”
The others said many things, somewhat breathlessly but heartily, and
Dick hurried back to his position the instant he had reported. “All
right now, Parkinson!” he cried cheerfully. “Let’s see what we can do
when we _try_! Every fellow on his toes and play fast! You’ve been
asleep, every one of you! Let’s have some action. Let’s show ’em the
game!”