ON THE GRIDIRON.
The day, the afternoon, the hour of the game had arrived. Not even at
the deciding game for the baseball championship between Highland and
Rockspur had a larger crowd gathered to witness the struggle on the
field. The sun was shining, but there was a strong, cool wind from
the west, and the air was as invigorating as a delightful tonic. The
exhilaration of the atmosphere and the occasion had entered into the
hearts of the assembled throng, which buzzed with expectancy, ready
to laugh, to shout, to cheer, to go wild with enthusiasm over some
brilliant play or plucky stand of the favorites in the game.
Ropes had been stretched to hold the crowd back, but they were surged
against till they threatened to give way. It was amazing to see in
that small country village such a great concourse of people gathered
to witness a game of football between two bands of smooth-faced,
clear-eyed, clean-limbed lads. Fathers and brothers and sisters were
there, to say nothing of many mothers, who had been unable to remain
away and who had come to see their favorite sons struggle like youthful
gladiators with the sons of other mothers, equally affectionate, but
lacking the courage to witness the rush, the clash, the shock and
tumult of battle in which these lads would hurl themselves at one
another like human catapults.
Highland apparently had sent over nearly all its boys and girls between
twelve and twenty to cheer its eleven. They had gathered in a compact
body on the bleachers to the left of the grand-stand, and already they
were singing a song of victory, which some rhymester had composed to
the tune of “Marching Through Georgia.” They were prepared for the
occasion with megaphones and crimson pennants and unlimited confidence
in the ability of their boys to win from Rockspur on the home ground of
the latter team.
On the opposite side had collected the adherents and supporters of
the Rockspur Eleven, but, although they were in the majority, they
could not drown the noise made by the visitors. Everybody seemed
good-natured, and there was bantering and bandying of words.
The grand-stand and much of the standing room to the ropes was filled
with older persons, who, however, seemed scarcely less excited and
eager than the boys and girls, and who joked with each other and
anxiously discussed the possibilities of the game.
The field lay stretched before them like a white-ribbed skeleton, the
goal-posts rising at either end. It was in splendid condition, and all
were certain that a battle royal must take place there that day.
Suddenly a new sound arose, and then, as onto the field trotted eleven
shaggy-headed lads, togged in their football suits, dirt-stained,
mud-bespattered garments of victory, there was a great upheaval to the
left of the grand-stand, and the mass of fresh-faced, youthful humanity
broke into a wildly swaying surge of crimson, while the Highland cheer
sounded short and sharp and clear, like the barking of hundreds of
wolves on a still winter’s night.
“’Rah! ’rah! ’rah! Here we are! High-land, my land! ’Rah! ’rah! ’rah!”
Instantly this was drowned by another sound, deeper, intenser, more
like thunder, as the Rockspur Eleven quickly followed their antagonists
onto the chalk-marked gridiron. There was another upheaval, mightier
than the first, and the blue-and-white was waving here in a dense
mass, there in streaks, yonder in spots, but all round the field. The
Rockspur cheer of greeting was like rolling thunder, the rattle of
musketry, the starward hiss of red rockets and the boom of cannon.
“Boo, bum, burr! Rick, rock, spur! Rockspur--s-s-s-ss! Rockspur--boom!
Rockspur!”
How the blood tingled! How one thrilled to the very finger tips!
Carried away by the enthusiasm of the moment, staid, middle-aged men
forgot themselves and their dignity, and when they realized what they
were doing, found they were swinging their hats and yelling at the
top of their voices, the sound being swallowed up and drowned in the
general uproar. Youth, incarnate, never-dying, all-powerful, imbued
by conscious vigor and power, invested with confidence and courage
unshattered by the buffets of Time; youth, the little-prized, the
fleeting, the sadly-regretted, the vainly-sought; youth, the beautiful
and glorious--it was there, and the great crowd offered homage to it.
In the lull that followed after some moments of tumult, a white-haired
citizen of Rockspur, who had passed the three-score mark, flourished
his cane in the air and shrilly cried:
“Them’s our boys, an’ they kin beat at football jest the same as they
beat at baseball, an’ don’t you fergit it!”
This caused a burst of laughter, and somebody shouted:
“Hooray for Uncle Ike! He always stands by the boys! Give him a rouser,
fellows! Ready--let ’er go!”
They did “let ’er go,” and the cheer for the old man must have warmed
his heart--that rare old heart that had never forgotten its youth,
and thus, with advancing years, had found its owner a place in the
affections of the generations that followed him. In acknowledgment of
the tribute he bowed, with uncovered head, and some dust, or the sun,
or something got into his eyes, causing him to brush his hand across
them while he laughed.
Youth once lost may never be regained; but youth firmly planted in the
heart may remain there, though the body wither beneath the blighting
touch of age.
In their heavily-padded suits the boys looked stout and stocky. A ball
being tossed in among them, they began to chase it about and fall on it
as a sort of warming-up.
Don Scott was there, looking rather pale, his dark hair and eyes
accentuating the whiteness of his face. His worriment and a restless
night had told on him, and his manner seemed full of lassitude!
Don had not made a confession to his father. With the passing of the
weary night also passed his strength and determination to reveal
everything and seek forgiveness. He told himself that he was blameless
in the thing of which he was suspected, and time would prove him so;
therefore, it might simply add to his father’s belief in his guilt if
he told him then of his deceptions and falsehoods. He resolved to wait
until it was plainly proven that he was in no way concerned with the
forgery of the check, promising himself that he would then make a clean
breast of everything.
So, as much as possible, he avoided his father, which was not
difficult, the doctor being very busy that Saturday forenoon. Don had
expected that Bentley would be reported in custody that morning, but,
to his surprise and dissatisfaction, nothing had been heard of either
Leon or the deputy sheriff since one left the village hotly pursued by
the other the night before.
As Don paused on the field, adjusting his belt, his eyes roved over
the great throng of people who were roaring a greeting to the young
gladiators of the gridiron. While flags, hats and hands were waving
it was almost impossible to recognize anybody in the crowd, but when
the commotion subsided somewhat, he saw two girls in the midst of the
Rockspur Academy delegation on the blue-and-white bleachers, and one of
them seemed looking straight at him. Their eyes met; she smiled; she
waved her flag in his direction.
“That can’t be for me!” thought Don, with a little color coming to his
cheeks. “Zadia Renwood would not do that for me.”
But then he saw the other girl glance toward him, toss her head and say
something in a spiteful manner to her companion, which caused Zadia to
shake her head and blush. Then he knew that Dora Deland also fancied
Zadia had waved to him.
The cheering broke out again after Uncle Ike’s little speech, and Don
looked about for his father. In time he found the doctor, who was
watching his son steadily. The doctor smiled a bit and waved his hand,
but Don seemed to feel reproach in the smile and it hurt him.
“But I’ll do my best,” he muttered. “Perhaps I may be able to make him
proud of me some way.”
The excitement was still great when the two captains drew aside with
the referee, who sent a coin fluttering into the air.
“Heads,” said Walker, the Highland captain, and the Goddess of Liberty
looked up at him from the ground.
“Your choice,” smiled Sterndale, as the referee picked up the piece of
silver.
The wind was now blowing quite strongly from the west, and the Highland
captain immediately selected the west goal to defend, giving the ball
to Rockspur. The pigskin was placed on the spot in the exact centre of
the field, and the two teams lined up amid another uproar of cheering
and all kinds of noises.
There was a sudden lull. Those two lines of youthful tigers were
gathering themselves for the clash, crouching a bit, leaning forward,
teeth set, muscles taut. Sterndale eyed the ball critically, settled
himself carefully, went at it and smashed it down the field against the
wind with a beautiful kick.
With the plunk of Sterndale’s foot against the leather, which sailed
into the air in a long graceful curve, the uproar broke forth again.
The game was on.