The Crimson Sweater/Chapter 8

HE coach led Roy and Forrest to the field and gave them his orders.

"Get in there, you two," he said briskly, "and show what you can do. There's small hope of scoring against Hammond, but if the chance comes work their ends for all there is in it. What you've got to do—got to do, mind!—is to keep them away from your goal-line. Forrest, if you ever moved quick in your life do it now. You've simply got to get the jump on Jones. He's a good man, but recollect that he's been playing pretty nearly an hour and is dead tired. He'll play foul, too, I guess; Burlen's face is pretty well colored up. But don't you dare to slug back at him; understand?"

Forrest nodded smilingly.

"And as for you, Porter, just you play the best game you know how. Keep the fellows' courage up; that's half of it. I'm taking Rogers out—he's not fit to stand up any longer—and you'll act as captain. I guess you'll know what to do on defense, and if you get the ball remember the ends. Try it yourself on that formation for tandem on guard; and give Whitcomb a chance, for I think you can get through between tackle and end. Don't be afraid to take risks; if you get the ball risk anything! Go ahead now!"

Roy and Porter trotted toward the group of players. As they approached Burlen and Rogers were coming unwillingly off, the former looking pretty well punished and the latter limping badly. Jack Rogers turned from his course to speak to them.

"Good boy, Forrest!" he panted. "We've got to stop them and you can do it. Porter, remember your promise!"

Roy nodded and sprinted into the group.

"All right now!" he cried cheerfully. "Get into it everybody and stop this. You fellows in the line have got to play lower. Get down there, Walker, you're up in the clouds. Charge into 'em now! Stop it right here! You can do it. Look at 'em! They're beaten right now!"

"Only we don't know it," growled a big guard, wiping the perspiration from his face onto the sleeve of his red jersey. Roy grinned across at him.

"You will know it pretty soon, my friend," he answered. "All right now, fellows! Every man into it!"

Then he retreated up the field and watched.

Hammond had replaced her left-tackle and left half with fresh men, and, when the whistle blew, went at the work again as though she meant business. A straight plunge by the new left half gained a yard through Gallup. Then the tandem formed again and again the hammering began. Presently Roy saw that Forrest had been picked out for attention and was getting a lot of it. Two gains through him in quick succession brought the ball back to the thirty yards. Roy raced up to the line, pulled Forrest about by the shoulder and shook a fist in the face of that amazed young giant.

"Forrest, if you let 'em through here again I'll lick you till you can't stand up!" shouted Roy, his blue eyes blazing. "You coward! Get in there and do something! Put that man out. Get the jump on 'em! He's half dead now!"

Forrest forgot to smile.

"All right," he growled.

After the next attack at center Roy again ran up. Forrest turned with a bleeding nose and a new light in his eyes.

"You don't need to scold," he said quietly. "He just handed me this."

"What are you going to do?" asked Roy scathingly.

"Do?" grunted Forrest, mad clear through. "I'm going to put him out of commission."

"No slugging, remember!"

"I won't slug; I'll just play ball!"

And he did. There were no more games through center while play lasted. Time and again Jones, the big Hammond center, was literally lifted off his feet by Forrest's savage onslaught; twice the pass was practically spoiled. Forrest was angry, and being angry forgot both his good-nature and his slowness. Hammond soon transferred her attention to the wings again and found a fairly vulnerable spot where Jack Rogers had given place to a substitute. But there was no chance for her to score and she knew it. Now she was only killing time, determined to keep the ball in her possession and guard her goal until the whistle blew. And she would have done it, too, had not Forrest lost his temper. That blow on the nose hurt and he set out to make life as unpleasant as possible for his adversary. He didn't slug once, but he pushed and hauled and upset Jones until that gentleman was thoroughly exasperated. Over and over he appealed to the officials to watch Forrest.

"He's interfering with the ball," he declared.

But the officials couldn't see it that way. And finally, when the ball had been worked back to the center of the field and the word had gone around that there was only five minutes of time left, Forrest spoiled a snap-back, the ball trickled from Pool's hands and Forrest plunged through and fell upon it.

Roy raced in, crying signals as he came. Time was called while the Hammond center and the Hammond captain made vain appeals to have the ball returned to them, claiming interference with the snapper-back. But, as before, they were denied and the two teams lined up again, this time with the ball in Forrest's hands.

"7-6-43-89!" called Roy, and Whitcomb, with the pigskin snuggled in his elbow, was racing around left end. All of eight yards gained, and the crowd on the side-line went wild with delight! Flags waved and horns shrieked, and over it all, or so Roy thought, could be heard the shrill voice of Harry!

It was a time for risks, the coach had said. And Roy took them. Over and over he attempted hazardous plays that ought not to have succeeded, but that did, partly, perhaps, because of their very improbability! Twice more Whitcomb was sent outside of left end; once Pryor got through for four yards between right tackle and guard; and once Kirby, full-back, hurdled Jones for a good gain. It made joy in the Ferry Hill camp and the wavers of the brown and white banners had visions of a score. But they were not considering the fact that the timer's watch proclaimed but two minutes left and that that official was walking out toward the teams proclaiming the fact.

Two minutes was not time enough for Ferry Hill to rush the ball from the forty yards down to the goal line for a score, even when the backs were getting two, three and even four yards at a plunge. But even those who up until the last moment had hoped that the Brown by merit or fluke would win out could not but feel almost satisfied at the ending of the game. For now Ferry Hill was outplaying Hammond man for man, in spite of the fact that what superiority there was in age and weight was with the rival team. Both elevens were tired, but Ferry Hill was the least so, and to her admirers it seemed that her warriors fought harder, more determinedly every moment. Chub, watching anxiously between vocal efforts, came to this conclusion and turned to Sidney Welch, who, having failed to make the team, was patriotically doing his best to cheer it on to victory.

"Sid," said Chub, "if we had another quarter of an hour to play we'd lick 'em sure as fishing! Why, we're playing better every minute! And look at Roy Porter! The chump is just getting warmed up! Did you ever see a team run any finer than that, eh? And look at the way he gets around himself, will you? Why, he's all over the shop and into everything! He reminds me of Snip out in the barn. I saw Snip kill a rat, bite the cow's leg, chase a fly and scratch his ear all inside of ten seconds one day. And Roy's just like him. And, just between you and me, Sid, the fellows are working better for him than they did for Bacon, but maybe it's because they're finding their pace. If only Whitcomb could get away around the end! The whistle will blow, I'll bet a cookey, just when we're on the edge of a score! Why doesn't Roy try a quarter-back run, I wonder? Look at Jack Rogers; he's over there on the ground, see? I'll bet he doesn't know whether he's on his head or his feet, and I don't believe he could tell you his name this minute if you asked him. Fact is, my boy, I feel rather better myself for talking every minute; it sort of keeps my heart out of my mouth. And as for you, Sid, that button will be off in just about two more turns. Here, let's give 'em a cheer."

Chub leaped to his feet and in a moment the slogan was thundering across the field to where eleven brown-clad figures were forming once more against the foe. And it did them good, that cheer; it proclaimed confidence and affection, and it heartened them so that when the dust of battle had blown aside the man with the ball lay across the thirty-yard line!

It was maddening. Only thirty yards to go, only six trampled white lines to cross, and not time enough to do it, unless—Roy called for time to tie a lace and while he bent over his shoe he thought hard. Ever since he had taken charge of the team he had been studying the disposition of the enemy's force. He had one more trump to play, a quarter-back run. He had kept it for the last because he did not want to appear to be seeking personal glory. For that reason he had given every one of the backs, as well as the two tackles, a chance. But while they had made good gains they had failed to get clear for a run. And now he was surely entitled to a try himself. Not that he was very hopeful of succeeding where the others had failed, for Pool, the rival quarter, was a veritable wonder and time and again had called the play in time to allow the back-field to spoil the run. But time was almost up—there could scarcely be more than a minute and a half remaining—and it was now or never.

The ball was on Hammond's twenty-eight yards and well over to the left of the gridiron. Pool had halved the distance to his goal and was standing there on his toes, somewhat over toward the right, watching like a lynx. The whistle blew and Roy called his signals. Right tackle fell back of the line and left half and full formed behind him in tandem. The attack was straight at center, and with Forrest heaving and shoving and half and full pushing from behind tackle went through for two yards. Again the same formation and the same point of attack. But this time Hammond's backs were there and the gain was less than a yard. It was third down and a trifle over two to go. Once more the signals and the tandem. But as the backs, led by right tackle, plunged forward, Roy, with the ball hidden at his side, dodged behind them and sped along the line toward the right. For a moment the ruse went undiscovered, but before he had reached his opening between tackle and end Pool had seen him and had started to head him off. Then, as luck would have it, Roy's own right end got in his way and Roy was forced to run behind him. That settled the fate of the attempt at a touchdown. Pool was close up to him now. Roy ran across the field in an attempt to shake him off but to no purpose. He had not gained a foot, and he knew it. There was no use in heading toward the side of the field any longer; he must try to capture the necessary two yards. So, swinging quickly, he headed in, got one of the yards, made a brave attempt to dodge the wily Pool and came to earth.

"Hammond's ball; first down!" called the referee.

Roy trotted back up the field, trying his best not to show his disappointment. Hammond was not going to take any risks there in front of her goal and so her quarter fell back for a punt. Pryor ran back to cover the left of the field. Roy heard the signals called and then saw the Ferry Hill forwards plunge through in an endeavor to block the kick. Then the ball was arching up against the darkening sky. For a moment it was impossible to judge of the direction. Then Roy was running to the right and back up the field. It was a splendid punt and must have covered all of fifty yards, for when it settled into Roy's arms he was near his own thirty-five-yard line.

For once the tuckered Hammond ends were slow in getting down and for a moment Roy had an open field. With Pryor leading he dashed straight up the middle of the gridiron. At least he would put the ball back in Hammond territory. Ten yards, and then Pryor met the first of the enemy. Roy swerved and dodged the second. Then the foe was thick in front of him. The Ferry Hill players turned and raced beside him, forming hasty interference, and for a while he sped on unmolested to the wild shrieks of the watchers. Then the Hammond left half broke through and dove at him. Somehow, in what way he could never have told, he escaped that tackle, but it had forced him toward the side of the field. The fifty-five-yard line was behind him now. Back of him pounded the feet of friend and foe alike; ahead of him were the Hammond right half and quarter, the former almost at hand. Roy edged a bit into the field, for the side-line was coming dangerously near. Then he feinted, felt the half-back's clutch on his knee, wrenched himself loose and went staggering, spinning on. He had recovered in another five yards and was running swiftly again. He had little fear of being caught from behind, for he believed himself a match for any runner on the Hammond eleven, but in front of him was Pool, coming up warily with eager outstretched hands, striving to drive him out of bounds. Roy cast an anxious glance toward the goal-line and his heart leaped. Already he was passing the thirty or twenty-five-yard line and the final white streak looked encouragingly near. Then he shifted the ball to his right arm and turned acutely toward the middle of the field. Pool was directly in his path now as Roy, fighting for breath, sped on straight for the goal. For one brief instant of time the quarter's eyes burned into his. Then the decisive moment had come, and Roy, taking a deep breath, gathered himself. Forward shot the enemy in a splendid diving tackle, clutching fingers outspread. But the fingers grasped empty air, for as he left the ground, Roy, the ball clutched tightly against his breast, leaped upward and forward, clearing him by a foot!

From there to the goal-line was only a romp, although he had to fight hard for breath and although the defeated right half-back was close behind him all the way. Straight between the posts he staggered, placed the ball on the turf and rolled over on his back beside it. Somewhere they were cheering madly and nearer at hand people were shouting. Then, recovering from his momentary giddiness, Roy opened his eyes, shut them again because someone was slapping a great cold, wet sponge over his face and then sat up. Someone gave him a hand and he got on to his feet, swayed a little dizzily and then found himself in the grip of what at first seemed a bear and afterwards turned out to be Jack Rogers.

"You remembered your promise, Porter," Jack was saying softly, "and I'll not forget mine. You're a trump!"

Pryor failed miserably at the try for goal, but who cared? Surely not Jack Rogers, leading the cheer for his defeated rivals; nor Roy, dodging his fellows as he tried to steal away to the gymnasium; nor Harry, waving her brown and white flag and shrieking lustily; least of all the throng of fellows who, with banners flying and tin horns sounding, danced madly around the field in the November twilight.