HARWELL _VS_. YATES--A FAULT AND A REQUITAL.
The kick-off came into Blair's ready arms, the interference formed
quickly, and the full-back sped down the field. One white line passed
under foot--another; Joel felt Blair's hand laid lightly upon his
shoulder, and ran as though life itself depended upon getting that
precious ball past the third mark. But the Yates ends were upon them.
Joel gave the shoulder to one, but the second dived through Kingdon, and
the runner came to earth on the twenty-three-yard line, with Joel
tugging at him in the hope of advancing the pigskin another foot.
"Line up quickly, fellows!" called Story. The players jumped to their
places. "_1--9--9!_" Joel crept back a bare yard. "_1--9--9!_"
Kingdon leaped forward, snugged the ball under his arm, and followed by
Joel tried to find a hole inside left end. But the hole was not there,
and the ball was instantly in the center of a pushing, grinding mass.
"Down!" No gain.
Story, worming his way through the jumble, clapped his hands. Chesney
was already stooping over the ball. Joel ran to his position, and the
quarter threw a rapid glance behind him.
"_2--8--9_!" He placed his hand on the center's broad back.
"_2--8_--!" The ball was snapped. Joel darted toward the center, took
the leather at a hand pass, crushed it against the pit of his stomach,
and followed the left end through a breach in the living wall. Strong
hands pushed him on. Then he came bang! against a huge shoulder, was
seized by the Yates right half, and thrown. He hugged the ball as the
players crashed down upon him.
"Third down," called the referee. "Three yards to gain."
"Line up, fellows, line up!" called the impatient Story, and Joel jumped
to his feet, upsetting the last man in the pile-up, and scurried back.
"_2--9--9_!"
"_2--9_--!" Back sped Blair. Up ran Joel and Kingdon. The line blocked
desperately. A streak of brown flew by, and a moment later Joel heard
the thud as the full-back's shoe struck the ball. Then down the field he
sped, through the great gap made by the Yates forwards. The Harwell ends
were well under the kick and stood waiting grimly beside the Yates
full-back as the ball settled to earth. As it thudded against his canvas
jacket and as he started to run three pairs of arms closed about him,
and he went down in his tracks. The ball lay on Yates's
fifty-three-yard line.
The field streamed up. The big Yates center took the ball. Joel crept
up behind the line, his hands on the broad canvas-covered forms in
front, dodging back and forth behind Murdoch and Selkirk.
"_26--57--38--19--_!" The, opposing left half started across, took the
ball, and then--why, then Joel was at the very bottom of some seven
hundred pounds of writhing humanity, trying his best to get his breath,
and wondering where the ball was!
"Second down. Three and a half yards to gain."
Again the lines faced. Joel was crouched close to quarter, obeying that
player's gesture. They were going to try Murdoch again. Joel heard the
breathless tones of the Yates quarter as he stooped behind the
opposing line.
"A tandem on guard," whispered Joel to himself. The next moment there
was a crash, the man in front of him gave; then Joel and Story, gripping
the turf with their toes, braced hard; there was a moment of heaving,
panting suspense; then a smothered voice cried "Down!"
"Third down," cried the referee. "Three and a half yards to gain."
"Look out for a fake kick," muttered Story, as Joel fell back. The
opposing line was quickly formed, and again the signal was given. The
rush line heaved, Joel sprang into the air, settling with a crash
against the shoulders of Chesney and Murdoch, who went forward, carrying
the defense before them. But the ball was passed, and even as the Yates
line broke the thud of leather against leather was heard. Joel
scrambled to his feet, assisted by Chesney, and streaked up the field.
The ball was overhead, describing a high, short arch. Blair was awaiting
it, and Kingdon was behind and to the right of him. Down it came, out
shot Blair's hands, and catching it like a baseball he was off at a
jump, Kingdon beside him. Joel swung about, gave a shoulder to an
oncoming blue-clad rusher, ran slowly until the two backs were hard
behind him, and then dashed on.
Surely there was no way through that crowded field. Yet even as he
studied his path a pair of blue stockings went into the air, and a
threatening obstacle was out of the way, bowled over by a Harwell
forward. The ends were now scouting ahead of the runners, engaging the
enemy. The fifty-five-yard line was traversed at an angle near the east
side of the field, and Joel saw the touch line growing instantly more
imminent. But a waiting Yates man, crouchingly running up the line, was
successfully passed, and the trio bore farther infield, putting ten more
precious yards behind them.
The west stand was wild with exultant excitement, and Joel found himself
speeding onward in time with the rhythmic sway of the deep
"Rah-rah-rah!" that boomed across from the farther side. But the enemy
was fast closing in about them. The Yates right half was plunging down
from the long side, a pertinacious forward was almost at their heels.
And now the Yates full was charging obliquely at them with his eyes
staring, his jaw set, and determination in every feature and line. The
hand on Joel's shoulder dropped, Blair eased his pace by ever so little,
and Joel shot forward in the track of the full, his head down, and the
next moment was sprawling on the turf with the enemy above him. But he
saw and heard Blair and Kingdon hurdling over, felt a sharp pain that
was instantly forgotten, and knew that the ball was safely by.
But the run was over at the next line. Kingdon made a heroic effort to
down the half, and would have succeeded had it not been for the
persevering forward, who reached him with his long arms and pulled him
to earth. And Blair, the ball safe beneath him, lay at the Yates
thirty-five yards, the half-back holding his head to earth.
Joel arose, and as he trotted to his position he looked curiously at the
first finger of his left hand. It bore the imprint of a shoe-cleat, and
pained dully. He tried to stretch it, but could not. Then he shook his
hand. The finger wobbled crazily. Joel grinned.
"Bust!" he whispered laconically.
His first impulse was to ask for time to have it bound. Then he
recollected that some one had said the doctor was very strict about
injuries. Perhaps the latter would consider the break sufficient cause
for Joel's leaving the field. That wouldn't do; better to play with a
broken arm than not to play at all. So he tried to stick the offending
hand in his pocket, found there was no pocket there, and put the finger
in his mouth instead. Then he forgot all about it, for Harwell was
hammering the blue's line desperately and Joel had all he could do to
remember the signals and play his position.
For the next quarter of an hour the ball hovered about Yates's danger
territory. Twice, by the hardest kind of line bucking, it was placed
within the ten-yard line, and twice, by the grimmest, most desperate
resistance, it was lost on downs and sent hurtling back to near
mid-field. But Yates was on the defensive, even when the oval was in her
possession, and Harwell experienced the pleasurable--and, in truth,
unaccustomed--exultation that comes with the assurance of superiority.
Harwell's greatest ground-gaining plays now were the two sequences from
ordinary formation and full-back forward. These were used over and over,
ever securing territory, and ever puzzling the opponents.
Joel was hard worked. He was used not only to wriggle around the line
inside of ends and to squirm through difficult outlets, but to charge
the line as well, a feat of which his height and strong legs rendered
him well capable. He proved a consistant ground-gainer, and with Blair,
who worked like a hero, and Kingdon, who won laurels for himself that
remained fresh many years, gained the distance time and again. But
although the spectacular performances belonged here to the backs, the
line it was that made such work possible. Chesney, with his six feet
four and a half inches of muscle, and his two hundred and twenty-nine
pounds of weight, stood like a veritable Gibraltar of strength. Beside
him Rutland was scarcely less invulnerable, and Murdoch, on the other
side, played like a veteran, which he was not, being only a
nineteen-year-old sophomore, with but one hundred and sixty-seven pounds
to keep him from blowing away.
Selkirk gave way to Lee when the half was two thirds over, but Burbridge
played it out, and then owned up to a broken shoulder bone, and was
severely lectured by the trainer, the head coach, and the doctor in
turn; and worshiped by the whole college. Captain Dutton played a
dashing, brilliant game at left end, and secured for himself a
re-election that held no dissenting vote. And Barton, at the other end
of the red line, tried his best to fill the place of the deposed Chase,
and if he did not fully succeed, at least failed not from want of
trying. But it was little Story, the quarter-back, who won unfading
glory. A mass of nerves, from his head down, his brain was as clear and
cool as the farthest goal post, and he ran the team in a manner that
made the coaches, hopping and scrambling along on the side lines, hug
themselves and each other in glee. So much for the Harwell men.
As for Yates, what words are eloquent enough to do justice to the
heroic, determined defense she made there under the shadow of her own
goal, when defeat seemed every moment waiting to overwhelm her? Every
man in that blue-clad line and back of it was a hero, the kind that
history loves to tell of. The right guard, Morris, was a pitiable sight
as, with white, drawn face, he stood up under the terrific assault,
staggering, with half-closed eyes, to hold the line. Joel was heartily
glad when, presently, he fell up against the big Yates center after a
fierce attack at his position, and was supported, half fainting, from
the field. The substitute was a lighter man, as the next try at his
position showed, and the gains through the guard-tackle hole still went
on. Yates's team now held four substitutes, although with the exception
of Douglas, the substitute right-guard, none of them was perceptibly
inferior to the men whose places they took.
The cheering from the Harwell seats was now continuous, and the refrain
of "Glory, glory for the Crimson!" was repeated over and over. On the
east stand the Yates supporters were neither hopeless nor silent. Their
cheers were given with a will and encouraged their gallant warriors to
renewed and ever more desperate defense. The score-board proclaimed the
game almost done. With six minutes left it only remained, as it seemed,
for Yates to hold the plunging crimson once more at the last ditch to
keep the game a tie, and so win what would, under the circumstances,
have been as good as a victory.
Down came the Harwell line once more to the twenty yards, but here they
stopped. For on a pass from quarter to left half, the latter, one Joel
March of our acquaintance, fumbled the ball, dived quickly after it, and
landed on the Yates left guard, who had plunged through and now lay with
the pigskin safe beneath him!
It is difficult to either describe or appreciate the full depth of
Joel's agony as he picked himself up and limped back to his place. It
was a heart-tearing, blinding sensation that left him weak and limp. But
there was nothing for it save to go on and try to retrieve his fatal
error. The white face of Story turned toward him, and Joel read in the
brief glance no anger, only an almost tearful grief. He swung upon his
heel with a muttered word that sounded ill from his lips. But he was
only a boy and the provocation was great; let us not remember it
against him.
The Yates center threw back the ball for a kick, and Joel went down the
field after it. As he ran he wondered if Story would try him again. It
seemed doubtful, but if he did--Joel ground his teeth--he would take it
through the line! They would see! Just give him one chance to retrieve
that fumble! A year later and he had learned that a misplay, even though
it lose the game for your side, may in time be lived down. But now that
knowledge was not his, and a heart-rending picture of disgrace before
the whole college presented itself to him.
Then Blair had the ball, was off, was tackled near the side line under
the Yates stand, and the two teams were quickly lined up again. The
cheers from the friends of the blue were so loud that the quarter's
voice giving the signal was scarcely to be heard. Joel crept nearer.
Then his heart leaped up into his throat and stood still.
"_7--1--2!_"
There was no mistake! It was left half's ball on a double pass for a
run around right end! The line-up was within eight yards of the east
side line. The play was the third of the second sequence, in which Joel
with the other backs had been well instructed, and its chance of success
lay in the fact that it had the appearance of a full-back punt or a run
around the long side of the field. Joel leaned forward, facing the left
end. Blair crept a few feet in.
"_7--1--!_" began the quarter.
The ball was snapped, Blair ran three strides nearer, the quarter
turned, and the pigskin flew back. Joel started like a shot, seized the
ball from the full-back's outstretched hands, and sped toward the right
end of the line. The right half crossed in front of him, the right end
and tackle thrust back their opponents, the left tackle and guard
blocked hard and long. Blair helped the right half in his diversion at
the left end, and Joel, with Dutton interfering and Blair a stride
behind, swept around the end.
The only danger was in being forced over the touch line, but the play
worked well, and the opposing tackle seemed anchored. The Yates end,
from his place back of the line, leaped at them, but was upset by
Dutton, and the two went down together. The opposing left half bore down
upon Joel and Blair, the latter speeding along at the runner's side, and
came at them with outstretched arms. Another moment and Joel was alone.
Story and the half were just a mass of waving legs and arms many
yards behind.
Joy was the supreme sensation in Joel's breast. Only the Yates
full-back threatened, the ball was safely clutched in his right arm, his
breath came easily, his legs were strong, and the goal-posts loomed far
down the field and beckoned him on. This, he thought exultingly, was the
best moment that life could give him.
Behind, although he could not hear it for the din of shouting from the
Harwell stand, he knew the pursuit to be in full cry. He edged farther
out from the dangerous touch line and sped on. The Yates full-back had
been deceived by the play and had gone far up the field for a kick, and
now down he came, and Joel found a chill creeping over him as he
remembered the player's wide reputation. He was the finest full-back, so
report had it, of the year. And of a sudden Joel found his breath
growing labored, and his long legs began to ache and seemed stiffening
at the thighs and knees. But he only ran the faster and prepared for the
threatened tackle. Harwell hearts sank, for the crimson-clad runner
appeared to waver, to be slowing down. Suddenly, when only his own
length separated him from his prey, the Yates full-back left the ground
and, like a swimmer diving into the sea, dove for the hesitating runner.
There was but one thing that day more beautiful to see than that
fearless attempt to tackle; and that one thing was the leap high into
the air that the Harwell left half made just in the nick of time,
clearing the tackler, barely avoiding a fall, and again running free
with the ball still safe!
The Yates player quickly recovered and took up the chase, and the
momentary pause had served to bring the foremost of the other pursuers
almost to Joel's heels. And now began a contest that will ever live in
the memories of those who witnessed it.
Panting, weary, his legs aching at every bound, his throat parching with
the hot breath, Joel struggled on. Joy had given place to fear and
desperation. Time and again he choked down the over-ready sobs. Behind
him sounded the thud of relentless feet. He dared not look back lest he
stumble. Every second he expected to feel the clutch of the enemy. Every
second he thought that _now_ he must give up. But recollection of that
fumble crushed down each time the inclination to yield, and one after
another the nearly obliterated lines passed under foot. He gave up
trying to breathe; it was too hard. His head was swimming and his lungs
seemed bursting.
Then his wandering faculties rushed back at a bound as he felt a touch,
just the lightest fingering, on his shoulder, and gathering all his
remaining strength he increased his pace for a few steps, and the hand
was gone. And the ten-yard line passed, slowly, reluctantly.
"One more," he thought, "one more!"
The great stands were hoarse with shouting; for here ended the game. The
figures on the score-board had changed since the last play, and now
relentlessly proclaimed one minute left!
Nearer and nearer crept the five-yard line, nearer and nearer crept the
pursuing full-back. Then, and at the same instant, the scattered breadth
of lime was gone, and a hand clutched at the canvas jacket of the
Harwell runner. Once more Joel called upon his strength and tried to
draw away, but it was no use. And with the goal line but four yards
distant, stout arms were clasped tightly about his waist.
One--two--three strides he made. The goal line writhed before his dizzy
sight. Relentlessly the clutching grasp fastened tighter and tighter
about him like steel bands, and settled lower and lower until his legs
were clasped and he could move no farther! Despairingly he thrust the
ball out at arms' length and tried to throw himself forward; the
trampled turf rose to meet him....
* * * * *
"The ball is over!" pronounced the referee. It was a nice decision, for
an inch would have made a world of difference; but it has never
been disputed.
Then Dutton leaped into the air, waving his arms, Rutland turned a
somersault, and the west stand arose as one man and went mad with
delight. Hats and cushions soared into air, the great structure shook
and trembled from end to end, and the last few golden rays of the
setting sun glorified the waving, fluttering bank of triumphant crimson!