CHAPTER XXXIII

"LINE UP!"

Out upon the gridiron they trotted; a mass of lads in suits which showed contact with mother earth many times, and which, in places, were marked with blood-stains. The eleven were as full of life as young colts, and some in their exuberance leaped high in the air, putting their hands on the shoulders of their mates. Others turned somersaults, and some gave impromptu boxing exhibitions.

From the grandstand burst a mighty cheer as the Randall supporters greeted their team. The spontaneous shout was followed by the booming of the Randall college cry. Then Bean Perkins, with wild waves of his arm, signaled for the "Rip 'Em Up!" song.

"What a crowd!" murmured Tom as he walked beside Phil. "I never saw such a bunch."

"Yes, there's a good mob," answered Phil, but somehow there was a note of indifference in his voice. He had not failed to notice Tom's recent change of demeanor, and it hurt him. Yet he was too proud to speak of it, or ask the reason, though, perhaps, he may have guessed what caused it.

As for Tom, the words of the mysterious warning rang in his ears. Several times he was on the point of speaking to Phil, but he feared he would be laughed at.

"After all," thought Tom. "I guess all that it amounts to is that some one has heard a rumor that there'll be an attempt on the part of some Boxer Hall players to knock Phil out. They may think they can cripple him and, without him, our team will go to pieces. But I'll be on the watch for any dirty playing, and if I catch any one at it I'll smash him. I'll do my best to keep Phil from getting hurt."

But, if Tom had only known, it was a different sort of danger that threatened his friend.

Once more the cheers rang out, the shrill voices of the girls forming a strange contrast to the hoarse voices of the boys and men. For there were many men present, "old grads," who had come to do honor to Randall, and many others who came, hoping to see Boxer Hall win. Women there were, too; and girls, girls, girls! It seemed that all the pretty students of Fairview Academy were there. They were waving flags and bunches of ribbon--their own college colors mingled with those of Randall, for Fairview was on the side of Randall to-day, in retaliation for a severe drubbing Boxer Hall had administered to the co-educational institution.

"Is--is your sister here?" asked Tom of Phil. He had meant to ask if Madge was present, but somehow the words would not come.

"Yes," replied his chum. "She and Madge are over in the A section," and he motioned with his arm to a certain portion of the grandstand. Tom looked, hoping he might distinguish two girls out of a crowd of several hundred. Of course, he could not, and his attention was suddenly called away from this by the sharp voice of the coach.

"Catch some punts, Parsons!" called Mr. Lighton. "After that we'll line up for practice."

The Randall eleven was lining up when the Boxer Hall team fairly burst from their dressing-rooms under the east grandstand. What a roar went up as they appeared on the white-marked field! The burst of yells seemed fully to equal the jumble of noise that had been made by the Randallites. For all of Boxer Hall was on hand to cheer mightily for their eleven, and the college was a slight favorite over Randall, who, in years past, had not been known to do anything remarkable on the gridiron.

Encased in their clumsy garments, the Boxer players looked like young giants, and when they lined up and ran through several formations they did it with the precision of clock-work.

"They've improved a heap," was the somewhat dubious remark of Holly Cross.

"So have we!" exclaimed the coach heartily. "We beat them once, and we can do it again. Get that idea into your mind and don't let go of it."

"I guess we'll be all right if Clinton doesn't have to get out of the game," spoke the captain.

"Why? Do you think he'll be hurt?"

"Well, maybe. Boxer Hall sometimes plays a dirty game, and we'll have to be on the watch. I wish you'd warn the umpire to look out for holding in the line and slugging. They may do it. They'd go to almost any length to win this game. They don't want to lose the championship."

"Well, they're going to!" exclaimed the coach. "But about Clinton; you don't think he's any more likely to be hurt than any other player--nor as much, do you? He's well protected."

"Yes, I know; but Phil hasn't been himself for the last two days. I don't know what it is that's bothering him, but it's something. He doesn't say anything. First I thought it might be a scrap he'd had with Tom, but they're such good friends I didn't give that much concern. Then I imagined he might be worrying about his mother, but he told me yesterday that the chances for a successful operation were good. I don't know what it is, but he's certainly not himself."

"Oh, you imagine too much!" declared Mr. Lighton with a laugh. "Clinton is all right. He's a plucky lad. He'll play as long as he can stand. Look at that game with Wescott."

"Yes, I know; but I----"

"Now, you stop worrying. You're as bad as a girl. But I guess it's almost time to begin."

Song after song came from the supporters of the rival colleges. The grandstands were packed to their capacity, and looked like some vast chessboard with many colored squares, the dark garments of the boys mingling with the gay dresses and hats of the girls, and the many-hued ribbons and flags waving over all.

Captain Cross met and shook hands with Captain Stoddard, of Boxer Hall, preliminary to the toss-up. They were to play similar positions--full-back. The coin was sent spinning into the air, and Captain Stoddard won. He elected to defend the south goal, which gave the ball to Randall to kick off. The referee, umpire and linesmen held a final consultation. Captain Cross gathered his men together for a word of encouragement.

"All I've got to say," he remarked simply, "is to play until you can't play any more."

"That's right," added the coach. "And don't forget about the possibility of a change in signals being made in the middle of play; nor about the sequences. I'll depend on you for that, Clinton."

"All right," responded Phil.

The field was slowly being cleared of stragglers. The newspaper reporters were getting their paper and pencils ready, and photographers, with their big box-cameras, were snapping individual players as a sort of practice for catching lightning-like plays later on.

Across the field, toward the group of Randall players, came a lad. He walked as if undecided as to his errand.

"Get back," warned Holly Cross.

"I've got a message for a feller named Clinton!" cried the lad.

"There he is over there," and Holly, who was in conversation with the coach, pointed at Phil. The latter started as he took the envelope from the messenger.

"Who--who gave you this?" asked the quarter-back huskily.

"Feller outside. Give me a half a dollar fer bringin' it in. Any answer?"

"Wait," replied Phil. His bronze face was strangely white as he tore the envelope and hastily read the few words on the paper within. He seemed to sway, but, with a catch of his breath, he recovered his composure. He read the message again. A mist seemed to come before his eyes. He murmured to himself: "I mustn't tell them--until after the game--I--I must play the game out. But--but can I?" He clenched his hands, and his jaw became more square with the force of his teeth closing tightly together.

"Any answer?" asked the lad.

"No!" said Phil in a low voice, and he crushed the telegram in his hand, and thrust the rustling paper inside his jacket.

The lad turned to go, anxious to get a place where he could view the game. None of Phil's companions seemed to have noticed that he had received a message. He looked around at his chums.

"I--I've got to play the game," he murmured.

The next instant the whistle blew.

"Line up!" came the cry, and Snail Looper, holding the new yellow ball, placed it on a little mound of earth ready for the kick-off.