THE FIRST HALF.
Stubby Fisher, the Highland quarter-back, was under that ball, and he
caught it cleanly, passed it instantly to Walker, who, like Sterndale,
was playing full back, and Walker smashed the oval with such furious
force that Sterndale was compelled to try to take it on the run, the
result being a muff. The Highlanders came surging down like a flood
from a broken dam, but Don Scott was on hand, and he fell on the ball,
while Jack Powell, Highland’s left tackle, leaped upon him like a
panther. The ball was down on Rockspur’s thirty-yard line, but the home
team had it, and there was great cheering from the bleachers on both
sides.
“Clever, Scott--clever!” said Sterndale, approvingly, as the men
untangled. “The right man in the right place.”
The players lined up quickly, Chatterton preparing to snap the ball
back. They crouched close together, facing each other, each Highlander
watching his man, each Rockspurite ready to do his part in handling
the ball or in the work of interference. It was a thrilling spectacle,
and again the uproar lulled somewhat, so that Sterndale was heard
distinctly giving the signals.
There was a sudden, quick movement. Chatterton snapped to Renwood,
who fumbled and lost the ball; Highland’s left guard, Hartford, came
through on the jump, got it, but--also fumbled. Renwood redeemed
himself by recovering the oval almost before the spectators could
realize he had lost it, and it went to Scott, who tried Powell and made
two yards.
This was football! It was electrifying in its swift changes. The groan
caused by Renwood’s fumble had barely reached the lips of the Rockspur
spectators when it changed to a shout of joy on seeing him immediately
recover the pigskin and carry out the captain’s signaled directions.
But two yards was not a gain worth mentioning, and Scott had found
Powell there to stay. He felt like immediately making another try at
the fellow, but Sterndale decided otherwise.
“Good boy, Renwood!” breathed the captain. “Saved yourself prettily.
It’s all right.”
But Dolph shook his head, evidently little pleased with himself. Again
the crouching men were waiting, and Dick fell back. As the signal came,
the ball went flying back to the big captain, who punted; but it was an
inferior kick, and Garrison, left half for Highland, caught the leather
in the middle of the field, where he was downed in a flash by John
Smith.
Highland began the attack, but it was quickly over, for Garrison lost
the ball on his first plunge into Rockspur’s line, having been sent
across against Ford, the deaf-mute, who seemed rooted in the ground
like an iron post, and Murphy came down on the yellow oval like a load
of rocks, with six men on top of him.
In this savage business Rockspur made no delays. This time Mayfair
was given a trial, and, aided by his interferers, smashed hard into
Highland’s centre, but was beaten off. Immediately he went at the
visitors’ right tackle, but two yards was the best he could do, and the
second down left Rockspur with three yards to gain.
Sterndale was given a meaning look by Renwood, who received a nod,
and then Dick called the signal for a double-pass. A moment later
the ball was snapped back, sent to Scott, and Don started across for
Highland’s right end. As he shot by Dolph he returned the ball to the
quarter-back, and Renwood darted toward the visitors’ left wing.
The trick was not successful, however; in fact, it was disastrous, for
Jack Powell came through the interference like a leaping greyhound,
tackled Dolph and actually carried him back for a loss of ten yards,
which gave the ball to Highland.
How they shouted from the crimson bleachers! They roared forth their
cheer, ending with Powell’s name; and the Rockspur crowd was silenced
for the moment.
Don had successfully performed his part of the work in the double-pass,
but he was assailed by a suspicion that Renwood, knowing what
was coming, had managed to signal the play to Highland and had
deliberately permitted himself to be carried backward for a loss.
“Some of his treachery!” thought Scott, giving the quarter-back a black
look. “I can’t understand why Sterndale didn’t do anything about that
letter. The fellow will throw this game--if he can.”
There was little time for such thoughts as these in the rush and whirl
of the game, and every Rockspur man was eager to know what the enemy
would try to do. They soon found out, for Garrison was sent through
clean to the home team’s forty-yard line before being held and forced
to take a down.
“Hold ’em here!” panted Sterndale. “Don’t let them cut any deeper into
our pasture!”
The defenders of the blue-and-white responded nobly. The line was like
a stone wall when Morse, Highland’s right half, was driven against
it. Only two yards were gained on a try at the home team’s centre by
Walker, and the oval was down again. The same trick being repeated, a
yard was lost, upon which the ball went to Rockspur on downs.
Now the blue-and-white bleachers took a turn at cheering, hoping to
give the home boys encouragement and vim. The flags waved and the
megaphones blared.
The rival gladiators were facing each other near the centre of the
field, though on Rockspur’s territory. It had been sharp work, but
nothing of a sensational nature had taken place thus far. Sensations
were to follow, however.
Rockspur had discovered that Highland’s centre was strong enough to
stop the plays that had been aimed against it, and so the ball was
flashed back to Sterndale, who punted beautifully, sending the pigskin
into the grasp of Garrison; but the Highland left half was downed
almost in his tracks by John Smith, and the referee’s whistle sounded.
Then the referee declared Highland had been off side when this play
began, whereupon the visitors suffered a loss of ten yards, and the
ball was carried back.
“Smith, you’re a corker!” Sterndale found time to say, and the tall boy
who had once been called a hoodoo blushed in confusion.
Thus far the Rockspur boys had played with a savage determination that
astonished the Highlanders, who, remembering the last game, counted
on an easy victory; and now the home team began an attack that proved
positively irresistible.
The ball was given to Scott, and, with it hugged tight, he lowered his
head and bowled the terrible Powell over, making four yards. Right on
top of this, he made one yard through Hartford and Davis, who were
playing strong as left guard and centre.
Sterndale showed his fine white teeth in an approving way, and the
signal that followed told his men he would make a try on the right
end of the enemy’s line. The ball came flying back to him, and he
smashed his magnificent body into Sawyer and Dickens, right guard and
right tackle, gaining six yards and setting the entire gathering of
spectators to yelling like wild Indians at a war dance.
There was hardly a lull, and now came the first hair-raising play of
the game, and Don Scott was in it. Everything indicated that Sterndale
rather foolishly contemplated a kick, so Highland braced for that kind
of a play. It was a clever piece of strategy to fool the visitors that
way, for Scott was given a third opportunity to show what he could
do, and, with his head encased in some sort of helmet, which he had
adjusted unseen, he took the ball and dashed off toward Highland’s
right end. Ahead of him ran a wall of interferers, blocking off the
Highland tacklers with the skill of veterans. With the line broken
through, Scott still sped on. The backs were hurled aside, and yet he
did not stop. Then it was seen that he would have an almost clear run
to the enemy’s goal line, and every man and woman and child rose up and
shrieked; but the cries from the crimson bleachers were those of alarm
and horror.
Walker got past Renwood in some way and made a headlong flying tackle
at the runner, but he missed, though his hands touched Don. Then it
seemed that Highland’s last hope of preventing a touchdown had been
lost.
The ten-yard line was reached, when from somewhere Davis bobbed up at
the very heels of the runner. He got one hand on Don’s arm, and the
desperate lad with the ball could not fling him off, though he tried.
That hand went down as the other came forward, and both fastened like
hooks upon Rockspur’s right half-back, dragging, him to earth exactly
one yard from Highland’s goal line.
For some moments it was impossible to hear anything. A mighty cheer
greeted this splendid tackle, but the Rockspur spectators were mad
with excitement, even though the run had not resulted in a touchdown.
Nothing could quiet them, even though Sterndale made the request that
they keep still.
“I told ye our boys could do it!” Uncle Ike screamed; but his words
were not heard by three persons, so great was the uproar.
Highland prepared to make the most desperate sort of resistance, while
Rockspur was equally determined to succeed, being overflowing with
courage at this moment. The lines formed, panting, crouching, ready.
With a quick movement, Scott was hurled like a battering ram against
the enemy’s centre. When the ball was forced down on the hold, it was
just one foot from Highland’s goal line.
“Nun-next time we gug-go over, boys!” panted Chatterton, who found it
impossible to keep still.
But he was mistaken, for not a fraction of an inch could they gain when
Don once more was flung against the visitors’ barrier. It was like
trying to butt a hole through a wall of granite.
There was a brief pause. Sterndale seemed to hesitate, and then----
They were at it again. A surprise play had been attempted, for the ball
had been snapped to Morse and then passed to Renwood, who got it firmly
under his arm and went slamming into the Highlanders. This was their
last chance. They must put the ball over or lose it. And so, with the
aid of a revolving formation, Dolph was jammed across the line, Don
Scott being ahead of him and pulling him by the collar.
Rockspur had made a touchdown, and the members of the eleven were
leaping and hugging each other, while down across the field rolled
the reverberant, roaring, booming yell of victory from the side where
fluttered and flaunted one great mass of blue-and-white.
But, despite all he had done, Don Scott’s heart was sore. His was the
gallant run that placed success within the grasp of his team, but the
lad he hated with all his heart had, on the third try, been given the
ball and literally rammed over the line. The touchdown was Renwood’s,
but Don was certain he could have made it just as well with the aid
of that revolving formation, and he felt that he had been robbed of a
right that belonged to him.
However, despite the fact that he had been assailed by this feeling,
the moment he heard the signal for Renwood to advance the ball he
did his level best to put Dolph over the line, and Dolph afterward
confessed that, more than anything else, it was Scott’s terrific surge
at his collar that dragged him across.
The ball had been carried over at the southwest corner of the field,
and Sterndale punted it out with a beautiful kick, Renwood catching it
directly in front of the goal-posts.
Then came the try for a goal. Having made the touchdown, Renwood was
permitted to hold the ball. He stretched himself on the ground, with
his right side toward the goal-posts, while the boys lined out even
with his body, but slightly behind the dirt-stained pigskin. Dolph
held the ball with his left hand undermost, his elbow resting on the
ground and his hand lifted a trifle. The fingers of his right hand
steadied the ball on its upper side, and then, with the utmost care,
as if handling something intensely delicate and breakable, he lowered
his hand to the ground, flattening it out, guarding against letting
the ball touch the ground, which would have given Highland liberty to
charge.
Sterndale sighted along the seam of the ball, which was uppermost. He
drew back his right arm and advanced his left, his fists clenched.
A second later, he went leaping at it, his heavy toe caught it fair
and handsomely, and the anxious hush that had fallen on the field was
broken by a roar when the oval sailed, twisting and whirling over the
cross-bar and between the goal-posts, which made the score six to
nothing in favor of the home team.
The crowd felt like rushing onto the field and hugging the boys, and
it was difficult for two men wearing badges to hold it back. As both
sides returned to the centre of the field, Don looked round for his
father and found the doctor watching him with an expression of great
satisfaction and pride, while Zadia Renwood waved her flag and laughed
in his direction.
But the game was not over; not even the first half was over, and
there was to be a most surprising turn about in a very few moments.
The Highland boys were not “quitters,” and every man wore a ferocious
look when they lined up with the ball at the centre of the field. The
captain had been saying something to some of the men, and the visitors
were ready to give the over-confident home team a hustle during the
remainder of the first period.
When everything was ready, Walker kicked off, and again those
twenty-two men were leaping at each other’s throats like famished
wolves. The fortunes of war varied till, by a splendid round-the-end
run, Garrison took the oval well into Rockspur’s territory, being
brought to the earth by Sterndale himself. Then Walker booted the
pigskin straight into Renwood’s clutch; but Dolph fumbled, and Dow,
Highland’s left end, fell on the ball like a carload of steel rails.
Again it seemed to Scott that Renwood was playing into the hands of the
enemy.
However, though this advantage had been gained, though the crimson
bleachers were shrieking like mad, though they tried their best men
against Rockspur’s line, the boys from the hills could not get another
foot. Three times they were held and beaten off, and the ball went to
the home team on downs, which brought a roar of satisfaction from the
blue-and-white and caused the crimson to groan.
“Get into ’em! get into ’em!” grated Sterndale, just loud enough for
his men to hear. “We must do it!”
Five seconds later, the ball was sent to Scott, who, with teeth set,
neck-cords strained, eyes bulging, went across and round Highland’s
right end for a gain of seventeen yards. There he was forced out of
bounds, and the ball was brought in and put down for a scrimmage, out
of which another advance was made, which gave the Rockspur spectators
still greater opportunity to breathe freely.
“It’s no use!” squealed Uncle Ike, waving his crooked cane. “They jest
can’t do it! Our boys won’t hev it!”
It was too soon to crow, however, as the blue-and-white admirers
quickly found out. Highland took a “brace,” and the fiercest hammering
failed to give the necessary gain, so the visitors again obtained the
ball.
Then a kicking duel took place, in which Walker got the best of
Sterndale at the end, though it was nip and tuck at first. The visitors
having the advantage of the wind, Walker made the most of it. At the
conclusion of this volleying, Renwood was downed with the ball in
his grasp on Rockspur’s ten-yard line, and once more the fighting was
uncomfortably near the goal-posts of the home team.
The Highland rushers were desperate, and they tore through Rockspur’s
interference with a fierceness that could not be resisted. It was
impossible to make a gain by a hard drive at Highland’s centre, and,
fearing to lose the ball there, Sterndale punted.
It was an unfortunate kick, for the ball flew low and Powell jumped
in front of it. It struck him on the chest and bounded back over
Rockspur’s goal line. There was a mad scramble, from the midst of which
Stubby Fisher wiggled out like a slippery eel, and a moment later was
sprawling spider-fashion on the ball.
Then a wild yell of triumph went up to the blue sky from the crimson
bleachers, for the ball was down behind the home team’s line and Fisher
had it. The players themselves seemed dazed for a moment, and the faces
of the Rockspur lads were full of dismay.
There was no delay. The ball was not punted out, but Fisher brought it
straight on to the field from the spot where the touchdown had been
secured, although that made it necessary to try from a difficult angle.
The men lined up, and the stocky little Highland quarter-back squared
himself for a try at the goal.
A sudden hush, a quick twinkling of Fisher’s short legs, a desperate
kick, and away flew the yellow egg. Seconds before it reached the
posts, as it seemed, the crowd saw it was a miss, and a mingled yell
of satisfaction and shout of dismay arose.
The ball fell to the ground, leaving the score 6 to 4 in favor of the
home team.
“It’s all right, fellows,” breathed Sterndale. “They’ll never overtake
us now.”
It was his manner of trying to give confidence to his men.
When all was ready, he kicked off, driving straight to Fisher, who
passed the leather quickly to Garrison. Highland’s left half-back was
somewhat flustered, and he kicked the ball out of bounds at Rockspur’s
thirty-yard line. Scott had it, and he announced an intention of
bringing it in ten yards for a scrimmage.
Rockspur now endeavored to smash a road up the field by a series
of furious plunges, making ten yards in this manner; but there the
Highland line became rooted, and Sterndale was forced to punt. Murphy
came to the fore again by nailing Morse on Highland’s forty-yard line.
But Highland had the ball. Apparently Walker was getting ready to punt,
and that was what Rockspur expected. Then it was that the visitors gave
the home team a dose of its own medicine by surprising them with a
sudden rush through centre that carried the leather down the field to
Rockspur’s thirty-five-yard line. Right there the rush stopped and two
mad lunges failed to gain a single foot.
Then Walker gave the signal for Garrison to try for a goal from the
field, knowing that the first half must terminate in a very short time.
The Rockspur men saw what their opponents contemplated, and some of
them laughed outright over the folly of an attempt to drop-kick a goal
from such a distance. Every man of the rushers prepared to try to go
through and down Garrison the moment the ball was snapped, while the
Highlanders braced themselves to hold the enemy in check long enough
for Phil to make a fair try of it.
Again a hush, and then a quick movement and a clash. The ball flew to
Highland’s left half-back, who took it with the utmost coolness, poised
it carefully, dropped it, and the moment it rose from the ground kicked
it with all the force and accuracy he could command. Then some of those
panting tigers came through and slammed him to the earth, but they were
too late.
Away sailed the pigskin, turning over and over, rising higher and
higher, a beautiful kick. There was a craning of necks and an upturning
of white, anxious faces.
“It’s over!”
Over it was, fairly and beautifully. Barely had it touched the ground
when the referee’s whistle told the first half was ended, and Highland
had a lead of three points, the score being 6 to 9.