Part 4

Harry and Tracey reached the field early and were lucky enough to find seats at the end of the third row in the stand. There were plenty of empty seats toward the top, but the boys wanted to be as near the play as possible. At twenty minutes to two the St. Matthew’s players, first-string men and substitutes, some thirty in all, trotted through the end gate to the cheers of the blue contingent across the white-streaked turf. Five minutes later the brown-clad warriors appeared, Corson in the lead, and eight earnest, imploring cheer leaders seized their megaphones and summoned such an outburst that the players, doffing their blankets on the side line, viewed the sloping, brown-flecked bank in surprise. Then came a cheer for St. Matthew’s, and then St. Matthew’s answered it with one for Barnstead. The local band struck up a march, flags fluttered and waved, late comers crowded the aisles and the rival teams went through their warming-up practice. Brown ovals arched against a cloudless blue November sky and the thud of leather against leather punctuated the shrill cries of the quarterbacks as they trotted their squads over the field.

In the midst of it all Harry glanced up to see a group of three fellows pushing their way up the aisle past his seat. They were laughing merrily and paying not too much attention to the comfort of those in front of them, being evidently determined to get seats at any cost of politeness. One of the boys, daring the conventions, wore only a brown woolen sweater over his vest, and as on such an occasion, when parents and friends attended who could, Barnstead was very particular to look her best, Harry looked again and a trifle disapprovingly at the big youth. The latter turned just then to make a laughing remark to one of his companions and Harry saw his face. He was Perry Vose. That in a measure explained the costume, for Perry was known to take delight in defying school conventions. As Harry’s gaze left Perry’s countenance there was a momentary rift in the ascending file, and the younger boy’s eyes fell on a tiny square of white just above the bottom of the brown sweater at the back. Instantly he was on his feet, Tracey viewing him curiously. One by one the throng in the aisle found accommodations at left or right, but the three boys kept on, doubtless seeking places together. Harry watched, his heart thumping against his ribs, and ascended two or three steps in order to see better. Tracey was anxiously demanding what was up, but Harry paid no heed to him. Then suddenly he had a clear, unobstructed view of Perry Vose climbing the stand above him. There was the brown sweater with the white tag just as he had glimpsed it the other night at the turn of the dormitory stairs. And there was the rather heavy, thick-set body he had seen. The last doubt fled and Harry started impetuously after Perry. But a few tiers beyond he stopped and reconsidered. Then, descending again to his place, he spoke softly to Tracey.

“You know Perry Vose, don’t you?” he asked.

“Yes, pretty well. Why?” Tracey viewed his chum’s excited face uneasily.

“I want you to go up there――I’ll show you where he is――and tell him someone wants to speak to him at the gate. Don’t say who it is. Tell him you don’t know. Tell him any old thing, only get him down to the gate, and do it quick!”

“Well, but what――――”

“Don’t ask questions, Tracey; just do what I say, like a good pal, won’t you?”

“Why――why, yes, I suppose so. But look here, Harry, don’t get into any fuss with Perry. What do you want to see him about?”

“I’ll tell you later. Go on, please. I’ll wait down at the gate. Hurry up; there goes the whistle!”

Doubtfully Tracey left his seat and Harry pointed out where Perry Vose sat near the top of the grandstand between his two companions. Then Tracey climbed the aisle and Harry sought the gate.

On the gridiron St. Matthew’s was just kicking off to the Brown. Harry heard the thud of the blue-jerseyed youth’s shoe against the pigskin and saw the ball arch into low flight down the field. Then the crowd about the entrance hid the rest from him. Minutes sped and Vose didn’t appear. Thrice the whistle shrilled beyond the barrier of spectators and Harry incuriously wondered what was happening. Then a brown sweater came into sight around the corner and Perry Vose, an impatient frown on his face, was searching for the person who had sent for him. Back of Perry, hovering anxiously about the corner of the stand, Harry spied Tracey.

“Vose!”

Perry found the voice and stared doubtfully as Harry strode up to him.

“Hello,” he said. “What do you want, kid?”

“I want to speak to you a minute. Come outside here, will you?”

“Haven’t time. I’m looking for someone.”

“That’s all right,” answered Harry. “You’re looking for me.”

“The dickens I am!” Perry stared blackly. “Do you mean you had the cheek to send and get me down here?”

“Yes. I’ve got a few words for you, Vose. Will you come outside, please?”

“If I do I’ll give you what for!” declared Perry angrily. But he followed the younger boy through the gate and around to the back of the stand. “Now, what is it?” he demanded shortly.

“I guess,” began Harry, “that you heard I was put on probation and so lost my place on the team.”

Perry nodded, a gleam of understanding in his eyes.

“Well, I worked hard for that place, Vose, and I want to play. And what’s more, I mean to.”

“Fine! Go ahead, kid. I don’t object,” laughed Perry.

“I can’t unless you go with me to Mr. Adams or the Principal and tell the truth.”

“Tell the truth? Say, what the dickens are you talking about? I haven’t got time to stay here and hear your silly troubles. I want to see the game, kid.” And Perry moved away.

“Hold on, Vose!” Perry stopped uncertainly. “Either you do what I say or――or you fight!”

Perry stared in amazement. The other boy’s eyes, however, stared back just as hard and unfalteringly. Perry tried bluster.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, kid. You must be plumb crazy! What have I got to do with your playing on the team? Say, you make me tired. I ought to punch your silly head for you, that’s what I ought to do! And I’ll do it, too, if you bother me any more!”

“That’s all right. You may have a chance to try. But what you’ve got to do is go with me to Mr. Adams――――”

“Oh, forget it! What would I do that for?”

“To tell him you shied that apple at him,” replied Harry quietly. “I’m being punished for what you did and it isn’t fair, Vose.”

“Shied―――― Say, what are you talking about?”

“You know very well. You threw that rotten apple into his room the other night. I saw you do it. He thought it was me and told Dobs. Now――――”

“Poppycock! I never saw your old apple!”

“Yes, you did. And either you own up and let me out or you fight.”

“Fight, eh?” Perry scowled fiercely down at Harry. “Then I guess I’ll fight, kid. And if I do you’ll be an awful messy-looking youngster when I get through.”

“Oh, you may be able to lick me――――”

“I’ll half kill you,” growled Perry.

“And then again you may not,” continued Harry. “Anyway, I’ll make a bargain with you. If you lick me I’ll keep still and won’t tell. If I lick you you’ll go with me to Mr. Adams and own up. What do you say?”

Perry laughed ironically, but his gaze swept the lithe, clean-cut figure before him, and there was a hint of grudging admiration in his tones when he answered.

“Sure, that’s a bargain! You meet me here right after the game, kid, and I’ll give you what’s coming to you!”

“After the game won’t do,” replied Harry firmly. “It’s got to be right now.”

“Nonsense, kid! I want to see what’s going on, and――――”

“You’ll fight right now, behind the gym, Vose; that is, if you’re not afraid to!”

“Afraid! Afraid of you!” Perry flushed angrily. “Why, you――you――――” He paused, cast a longing look toward the gate, from beyond which a thunderous cheer broke onto the air at the moment, and then turned curtly on his heel. “Come on,” he said.

VII

Confidence is a fine thing. The only danger of it is that it is likely to get too ripe; in which case it becomes overconfidence and loses battles. And in spite of the late-season loss of Parrett and the eleventh-hour loss of Danforth, Barnstead went on to the field that Saturday afternoon overconfident. Why, it would be difficult to say. There seemed no really good reason for it, for it was well known that St. Matthew’s had more than an average team this year, with, besides, the prestige of more victories than defeats to her credit. Facts are facts, however, explainable or not, and the fact in this case is that the Brown faced its opponent at the kick-off with far too good an idea of its own ability. And when the awakening came it left Barnstead for the moment dismayed and disorganized.

Perhaps it was lucky that the awakening arrived early, in short at the end of the third minute of the play. Bob Peel had taken the kick-off and had run it in fifteen yards. Then two plunges at the Blue line and a dash around the left end had netted but seven yards and Carstairs had punted well into St. Matthew’s territory. Treat, the Brown’s left end, was on the back the moment the ball fell into the latter’s arm and tackled so hard that a fumble resulted. Norman picked up the pigskin on the run and was not stopped until the Blue’s quarterback brought him to earth near the twenty-yard line.

There was great rejoicing on the Barnstead stand and Bob Peel hurried his men into place and threw Carstairs at the middle of the Blue line. But although the fullback gained three yards then and two more on left tackle, it was plain that the St. Matthew’s line was stronger on defense than it had been credited with being. A forward pass failed and Peel chose to kick from the seventeen yards. What happened then was one of those sudden reversals of fortune that make football the uncertain and exciting game it is.

Surber passed low, Carstairs was consequently slow in getting the ball away and half the Blue line came charging through. The ball struck someone and bounded back up the field. A blue-legged forward took it on the bound, eluded the frantic tackle of Dyker, and tore off up the gridiron. For the first twenty or thirty yards it seemed certain that he would be pulled down from behind, for at least four Barnstead players were hot upon his heels. But when he had passed the middle of the field he was virtually alone, and although friend and foe alike trailed after him over one white line after another, he was never headed and so went stumbling, breathless and tuckered, between the Brown’s goal posts for a touchdown.

It had all happened so quickly, so unexpectedly that for a moment Barnstead supporters merely stared at each other, while from across the field came wild pæans of joy from where blue flags waved and tossed ecstatically. St. Matthew’s could hardly fail of kicking the goal and in another minute the scoreboard proclaimed: Barnstead, 0; Visitor, 7.

If the effect on the Brown’s supporters was numbing the effect on the home team itself was, for a few minutes, paralyzing. Surber messed the kick-off and the ball went to the Blue on her thirty-eight yards, from where, playing like streaks of lightning, and using a quick shift that left Barnstead hopelessly at a loss how to meet it, she tore off gain after gain until suddenly the Brown was well back in her own territory, literally digging her toes in the turf in a vain endeavor to stop the triumphant rush of the oncoming adversary. Down near the twenty-five-yard line Barnstead did finally find herself long enough to momentarily stay the Blue. But, finding the opposing line strengthening, St. Matthew’s swept past Shallcross’s end and made its first down on the twenty yards. Three plunges netted short gains and then a long forward pass across the field gave the Blue the rest of her distance. Barnstead made her final stand on her twelve-yard line. The fight she put up then brought back hope to the breasts of her friends. Thrice the Blue was hurled back for less than two yards of total gain and St. Matthew’s was forced to try a field goal. Her kicker went back to the twenty-five yards and dropped the ball easily over the cross-bar for another three points. And the scoreboard changed its legend to Barnstead, 0; Visitor, 10.

On the kick-off Surber sent a long one that let the Brown’s ends down the field, and when St. Matthew’s lined up it was on her twenty-two yards. The stand she had made almost under the shadow of her goal had given the Brown courage again, and now the Blue’s efforts were less availing. But nevertheless the battle swayed back up the field, even if slowly. It was taking St. Matthew’s the full four downs now to make her distance, and she was using every play she had, every ounce of strength and every bit of cunning in the endeavor to strike again while her adversary was weak, arguing, no doubt, that with a sixteen or seventeen point lead she would not have to do much later but play on the defensive. But the quarter ended with the ball near the middle of the field and gave the demoralized Brown warriors a few moments in which to confer and get their bearings. Coach Worden sped in a substitute for Shallcross, who was having very much of an off-day, and the substitute doubtless bore instructions from the general on the side line, for the blanketed team crowded around him when he came on.

The second quarter showed a vast improvement in the Brown. She had apparently found herself again. The line played lower and closer and, although bunching the backs up to the line gave St. Matthew’s a better opportunity for forward passes, that opportunity was taken advantage of but once. Two minutes after the whistle piped Barnstead had gained the ball on downs and the brown flags waved triumphantly. Five minutes later still Barnstead was knocking importunately at St. Matthew’s portal. But the door didn’t open, and so, to continue the metaphor, the Brown entered by way of the window, Norman dropping a pretty field goal from a difficult angle and placing a 3 on the scoreboard where a moment before an obnoxious 0 had been. But that ended the scoring in that half for either team. The battle raged fiercely from one thirty-five yards to another, each team showing the strain, St. Matthew’s punting on the slightest provocation and Barnstead hurling her backs at the line in an effort to wear down her adversary. The whistle put an end to her hopes, however, with the ball in the Brown’s possession on St. Matthew’s thirty-eight yards. Had the period lasted five minutes longer the wearied Blue line must have given way. With fifteen minutes in which to recuperate, however, there was no telling what the final outcome would be.

It was almost at the instant that the whistle terminated the first half that the door bell tinkled at the Principal’s house. The Principal, kept away from the first part of the game by a press of business, was drawing on his coat in the hallway when the maid opened the door, revealing two boys.

“Is the Doctor at home, please?” asked a voice.

The maid turned inquiringly and the Principal nodded. “Tell them to come in,” he said. Discarding his coat, he led the way to his study, the callers following.

“Sit down, please,” said the Principal. “Now, then―――― Hello, young gentlemen; what’s this? Has there been an accident?”

“No, sir,” answered the younger, who was by far the more self-possessed of the two. “I――we――that is, sir, we had――had a slight misunderstanding and――――” His voice trailed into silence while the Principal gazed from one disfigured countenance to the other. I think the Principal’s sense of humor――a sense popularly supposed not to belong to a Principal――saved the day for the boys. A slight smile trembled about the Principal’s mouth and he said dryly:

“A _slight_ misunderstanding, eh? How fortunate it was not a serious one! What is your name, my boy? Vose I have the honor of knowing.”

“Danforth, sir. Could I――would you please let me tell you about it? We tried to find Mr. Adams, but he was not in, and so we came to you.”

“Explain by all means,” replied the Principal, settling himself in the big leather chair with a sigh of resignation. “But please be as brief as possible, Danforth.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. This is the way it all came about, sir. You see――――”

“Really, my boy, I’m afraid I haven’t time to hear any family histories. Suppose you come and see me this evening after supper.”

“But that will be too late, sir! I want to get to the field and――――”

“That’s just what I want,” replied the Principal with a smile. “So――――”

“There isn’t much to tell, sir,” interrupted Perry doggedly. “I threw that rotten apple at Old――at Mr. Adams, and he thought Danforth did it, and you put him on pro and he lost his place on the team――――”

“Succinct, indeed, Vose!” said the Principal approvingly. “And now you come to tell me so I’ll let Danforth get into the game, I presume? But what about this――this slight misunderstanding? I presume that you are both of you aware that fighting is not countenanced here?”

“Yes, sir,” replied Harry eagerly, “but there wasn’t anything else to do! And we thought you’d understand it if we came to you and told you all about it, sir. He――he didn’t want to own up to it, and so I――we decided we’d have a――just a small, harmless sort of a scrap, sir, and if I won it he was to come with me and put me right, sir.”

“Hm; and I presume, although your appearances might leave me in doubt, that you――er――won, Danforth?”

“Why――why, yes, sir. But he put up a dandy――I mean it was very close.”

“He’s too quick for me,” growled Vose. “He won all right.” And he felt gingerly of his nose, which had a reddened and swollen look.

The Principal glanced at the clock on his desk. “Well, one thing is certain, boys. None of us will see that game if we stay here much longer.” He pressed a button and a bell tinkled somewhere at the back of the house. “Minnie will take you to the bathroom. I’d advise you to bathe your faces before returning to society. Here she is. Run along now.”

“And――and may I play, sir?” asked Harry anxiously.

“I suppose so. You’d both better come back Monday morning and we’ll look into this a little more closely. For the present the matter stands. Go ahead and play, Danforth, if they need you. We’ll thresh all this out another time.”

VIII

The scoreboard still told the same tale, and the third period was half gone. Down near the St. Matthew’s thirty-yard line the Brown was charging desperately, and one white streak after another was passing slowly, but, as it seemed, surely, under the grinding feet of the two teams. St. Matthew’s was on the defensive indeed, for the intermission had failed to bring back more than a little of the power and snap of their early performance. It was with them now only a question of keeping the Brown at bay, but the Brown was becoming more difficult every minute. What Coach Worden had said to them in the gymnasium between the halves will probably always remain a secret, but the result was plain to all. At last Barnstead was playing as she could play, as she might have played from the first. But the Fates were still against her. Over-eagerness had thrice brought penalties for off-side, and once she had lost a down by the merest fraction of an inch on the tape measure. But, undismayed, she was fighting royally, pressing the Blue before her, determined on crossing that last white line. Bob Peel, disdaining the points a field goal might bring, continued to hurl his backs against the Blue line, which gave way grudgingly, fighting over every foot of yielded territory. Carstairs piled through left guard for four, Dyker made a scant yard off tackle, Norman hurled himself past left guard for two, Peel got four more around his own right end. The pigskin was over the twenty-yard line now and the Barnstead cohorts were shouting themselves hoarse, the cheer leaders waving and leaping, purple-faced, perspiring, almost voiceless. Coach Worden, squatting near the thirty yards, felt a hand on his arm and looked around. The boy beside him had already addressed him twice without result.

“Hello, Danforth! What is it?”

“I’m off probation, Mr. Worden. Please may I play, sir?”

“Eh? Off probation? Why――I don’t know, Danforth. Yes, I guess we can use you pretty soon. You’re sure you’re all right with the Office?” Mr. Worden observed him sharply. There had been trouble one year when a player had allowed his desire to play to get the better of veracity.

“Yes, sir, I’ve just come from Dobs, sir. He said I might.”

“It looks to me as though you’d been playing already. What under the sun have you been doing to your face? You ought to have something on that eye, my boy, or it will be a sight by suppertime.” His glance fell to the hand which rested on the canvas knee beside him. “Hm; I see; been mixing it up with someone, eh? Think you can do anything if I let you go in?”

“Yes, sir! I’m all right. Just give me a chance, Mr. Worden.”

The coach nodded. “All right. Warm up a bit. I guess Dyker’s about all in.”

Mr. Worden turned again to the game, and Harry, shedding his sweater even more quickly than he had wormed into it at the gymnasium five minutes before, began to limber up.

Barnstead had thrust her way onward to the Blue’s eight yards in three plays and a touchdown was imminent. The St. Matthew’s captain entreated his men to hold, to throw them back. But the Blue was weary and sore and when, on the next play, Carstairs hit the center of the line it bent inward like cardboard, and he went sprawling through it and over the last line for a touchdown. How Barnstead shouted! The players turned and went leaping back up the field, patting and thumping each other, turning handsprings in their delight. But two minutes later, when the blue-stockinged players had ranged themselves along their goal line and Norman’s toe had sent the ball away from under Peel’s finger, the joy sensibly diminished, for the pigskin floated yards from its course and passed to the left of the further upright. St. Matthew’s was still a point to the good and the blue flags across the field waved valiantly.

The quarter ended after the kick-off had been received and Norman had bounded back up the field some twenty yards. Behind the further stand the sun had dipped long since, and a mellow glow held the world. The ball was taken to its new location at the other end of the field, the teams, blanketed, panting, slowly following. Captain Corson was looking inquiringly, anxiously toward the side line. Then his unspoken question was answered. Three figures scuttled on to the gridiron; Shallcross was coming back at left end, Jones was succeeding Bob Peel at quarter and Danforth was relieving Dyker. Harry’s appearance caused only mild surprise. Corson and his players had other things to interest them than the vagaries of the faculty. All Corson said was:

“Good work, Danforth! Who’s out? Dyker? All right. Show us how you do it, kid! Any instructions?”

“Jones has them,” replied Harry, running on to report to the officials. The whistle summoned the teams again. Jones, his face alight with the inspiration given him by the coach the moment before, sang out his signals cheerily.

“Now, then, Barnstead! Every fellow into it hard! We’ve got the game for the asking! Second formation! Get up there, Jimmy!”

“Ready, St. Matthew’s? Ready, Barnstead?”

“All right, sir!” The whistle shrilled. “Second formation! 21――54――76――98! 21――54――――”

Carstairs had the ball and was sliding off right tackle.

“Second down! Six to go!” called the referee.