Part 9

That day and every afternoon until Thursday Tommy continued his practice with the magic football until finally he was able to judge just how to address it to get the results he wanted. For a short kick or pass one “Og,” not very loud, was enough. For a longer kick a single “Og” spoken loudly accomplished the purpose. For a very long kick, say thirty or thirty-five yards, beyond which Tommy had never tried to kick a ball, three “Og’s” were sufficient. And the same rule worked when he wanted the ball to come to him. He could make it just trickle toward him slowly across the turf or he could make it come slam-banging to him so hard that as often as not he jumped out of its way so it would not knock him down. When he did that the ball, instead of going past, stopped short in the air and dropped to the ground. In fact, Tommy learned what the fairy had called “ography” and “comeology.”

A funny thing happened the next day. When he got home after school――he wasn’t kept in that afternoon, for there was a teacher’s council in the Superintendent’s office――it occurred to him that perhaps it wasn’t necessary for him to go up and get the ball, even though it was in the closet with the door locked. At all events, he thought, there was no harm in trying it. So he said “Come!” very loudly and waited halfway up the front path. But nothing happened; not even when he said “Come!” again, very much louder. But when, for the third time, he said “Come! Come!” almost at the top of his lungs, something did happen. There was a frightful noise at the top of the house, a scream from Tilda, the maid, and a grunt from Tommy himself! When Tommy picked himself up, gasping for breath, he was six feet nearer the front gate and the football was bobbing up and down in front of him. It had taken him squarely in the stomach!

When he went into the house Tilda was sitting halfway up the stairs having hysterics, an overturned pail beside her and a flood of soapy water trickling down the steps. Something, declared Tilda, when she had been calmed by the use of smelling salts and other restoratives, something had flown at her as she was going upstairs and clean knocked the feet from under her! Just what the something was Tilda couldn’t say, but she was sure that it had been “as big as a washtub, mum, and kind of yellow, with two big glaring eyes!” Tommy, hiding the magic football behind him, crept up to his room. In the top of the closet door was a big jagged hole and the floor was littered with splinters!

Tommy looked and gasped. Then he stared at the magic football. “I guess,” he muttered, “I won’t try that again!”

On Wednesday he went out to see practice. What he saw didn’t impress him greatly. Hillside didn’t play like a team that was going to win on the morrow. The scrub eleven held the School Team to one touchdown and a very lucky field goal, and, when practice was over, the supporters of the home team came back looking very dejected. Tommy waited for George Marquis at the gate.

“George,” he said, twitching the captain’s sleeve, “don’t forget what I told you!”

Captain Marquis pulled his arm away and scowled angrily at the youngster. “Oh, dry up, Tommy,” he muttered. “You make me tired! I’ve got enough troubles without having to listen to your nonsense!”

Tommy went home and wondered for the hundredth time whether that fairy was putting up a game on him. Suppose, after all, the fairy had just been poking fun at him! If George didn’t let him play how was he ever going to win the game for Hillside? It was all well enough to have a magic football that would come or go just as you wanted it to and that would break its way through closet doors and scare folks into hysterics, but if you didn’t get into the game what good were a dozen such things? Tommy was sad and doubtful and pessimistic that evening.

But the next morning he felt more hopeful. To reassure himself he went over to the vacant lot with the football and put it through its paces to his entire satisfaction. And then, since it was Thanksgiving Day and the big game was to start at half past ten, he tucked the magic football in the hollow of his arm and joined the crowd that was wending its way to the field. He passed Billy Blue’s house on the way, and, in answer to his whistle, Billy appeared at an upstairs window with his face swathed in cotton batting and linen and waved to him sadly.

“Where’d you get the football?” mumbled Billy enviously.

“A fair――a fellow gave it to me,” answered Tommy. “Or maybe he just loaned it to me. It――it’s a wonder!”

“Going to the game?”

“Yep. Wish you were, Billy.”

“So do I! We’ll get licked, though.”

“Bet you we don’t! Bet you we win!”

Billy tried to say “Yah!” but it hurt too much and so he contented himself with shaking his head and looking sarcastic. “Yes, we will!” he mumbled. “Like fun!”

“We will, though, and, Billy――――” Tommy sank his voice so the passers wouldn’t hear. “Want me to tell you something nobody else knows?”

Billy nodded.

“I’m going to win it for ’em!” confided Tommy in a stage whisper. Then, with a magnificent wave of his hand, he went on, pursued by Billy’s cruel and incredulous, if much smothered, laughter.

We needn’t dwell on that first thirty minutes of the game. From the point of view of Hillside it was a sad affair. Meadowville outrushed, outpunted, outgeneraled her opponent. The Hillside line couldn’t hold against the swift, hard attack of the visitors, and the Hillside ends were no match for the fast backs of the Meadowville team. When the first fifteen-minute period was at an end the score was 6 to 0. When the half was over and the rival teams trotted off the gridiron, the score stood Meadowville, 17; Hillside, 0!

Tommy, hunched up on a seat in the grandstand, the magic football clasped to his breast, watched and worried and almost wept. The fairy’s promise wasn’t coming true after all! He wasn’t to have his wish! All his lessons in “ography” and “comeology” were to be wasted! The magic football might just as well be back on the closet shelf, or, for that matter, back in Fairyland! Tommy felt very sorry for himself, very disappointed.

But he made one last, final appeal before yielding to the inevitable. He left his seat and squirmed through the crowd to the home team’s bench when Captain Marquis and his players came back, blankets and spirits both trailing. He got George’s attention for a minute finally, and reminded him of his promise. George was cross and impatient. “You again?” he exclaimed. “Promise? What promise? Oh, that? Well, I said if we were ahead, didn’t I? We aren’t ahead, so that settles that. Now get off the field, Tommy.”

Tommy didn’t, though. He carried his football to the bench and seated himself on it, unchallenged, among the substitutes. They were all too discouraged to care what Tommy did. Then the whistle sounded again and the game went on. The pigskin floated in air, was caught by a fleet-footed Meadowville player and brought back for many yards, the Hillside ends failing lamentably to stop the runner. A plunge at the line and another five-yard mark was passed. A wide end run and two more were traversed. Meadowville was literally eating up the ground, while from across the field came the triumphant shouting of her supporters. And then, not three minutes after the third quarter began, a strange thing happened.

The football in use, a perfectly good, brand-new football, supplied by the home team at a vast expense, began to become deflated. A halt was called and the lacings were undone and they tried to blow it up again. But the air wouldn’t stay in it! It was most perplexing and most annoying. No one had ever seen a football act so before. But there was only one thing to do, and that was to find another ball. Of course, Hillside ought to have had another one, but she didn’t; at least, not at the field. There was an old football at George’s house, but George’s house was a good mile and a half away. So it devolved on Meadowville to loan her practice ball and the Meadowville captain, after sarcastically stating what he thought of the stinginess of Hillside, consented to have the ball used. But when they went to look for it, it couldn’t be found! It had been there a half hour before; they were all quite certain of that; but it wasn’t there now. Boys searched everywhere, even behind the stand, but to no avail. And then, just when Captain Marquis concluded that he would have to dispatch a messenger to his house for the old football, someone brought word that Tommy Piper had a football and that he was sitting on the bench at that moment. Over hurried George.

“Let’s take your ball, Tommy,” he said genially. “Ours is busted.”

Tommy smiled and shook his head. George blustered.

“Come on! We’ll pay you for it, if you won’t lend it! Don’t be a meany!”

“I’ll lend it to you for nothing if you’ll let me play left halfback,” said Tommy. A howl of derision went up from the players and substitutes. George scowled angrily.

“What’s the use of being a hog?” he demanded. “Come on, let’s have it!”

But Tommy shook his head. George grabbed the ball and tried to tug it away. Tommy said “Come!” very softly under his breath and, although Harold Newman and Bert Jones and Gus Neely all helped their captain, not an inch would that ball budge! They had to give it up.

“Oh, let him play,” said Harold, very much out of breath. “It won’t matter, George. We’re beaten anyway.”

George, very angry, hesitated and finally yielded. “All right,” he said gruffly. “You can play. Give us the ball. Gus, you’re off.”

Tommy, the recipient of a look of deadly hatred from the deposed Gus, trotted joyfully into the field and took his place. Harold whispered the signal code into his ear. “You won’t be able to remember it,” he added, “but you won’t get the ball, so that doesn’t matter!”

Then the game began again. Meadowville was on her second down, with four yards to go. The quarterback called his signals, the two lines heaved together and――――

“Ball! Ball!” shouted half the players. The Meadowville quarter had fumbled and, strange to say, it was Tommy who dropped to the turf and snuggled the ball to him. For almost the first time the Hillside supports had something to cheer about and they made good use of the chance. And half the Hillside team patted Tommy on the back as he was pulled to his feet. Of course, it was only an accident, but Tommy deserved credit just the same!

Hillside was on her forty-yard line when she got the pigskin and Harold Newman elected to have Bert Jones, the big fullback, take it for a try through right tackle. And so he called the signals, and the players crouched in their places and the ball was snapped. And then, as Bert leaped forward to take the pass from quarter, Tommy whispered, “Come!”

Such a befuddled-looking backfield as that was for an instant! Bert, expecting the pigskin, clasped empty air to his stomach and hove himself at the line. The other backs stood and stared; all, that is, save Tommy. Tommy was very busy. Already, with the ball snuggled in the bend of his arm, he had crossed two white lines and he was very intent on crossing the rest of them. That he didn’t was only because the opposing quarterback outguessed him and brought him to earth.

But twenty-five yards was not to be sneezed at, especially when theretofore the most that Hillside had made in one try was a scant six! George Marquis stopped scolding Harold and hugged Tommy instead. Harold, too, thumped him delightedly on the back, but the quarter had a dazed look on his face. He could have sworn that he had tossed the ball toward Bert Jones!

Slightly demoralized, Meadowville lined up again in front of her foe. This time she watched Tommy as a cat watches a mouse, but when Tommy, disregarding the play, scuttled yards across the field, the rival backs decided that he was faking an end run and paid scant attention to him. A moment after they saw their mistake, for the ball went to Tommy on one of the prettiest passes ever seen, and Tommy, almost unopposed, streaked straight for the Meadowville goal line! Only an end came near him and Tommy eluded the end deftly. Tommy was really a clever runner, say what you like. The opposing quarter tried desperately to intercept Tommy before he reached the goal line, but he failed and the best he could do was to tackle him behind and prevent him from centering the ball.

You can imagine how Hillside cheered then! It was deafening, terrific! Even staid and serious-minded elderly gentlemen shouted and thumped the stand with their gold-headed sticks. Girls screamed their pretty throats hoarse and boys――well, boys threw their hats in air and behaved like joyous lunatics! As for the Hillside players, they turned handsprings and tripped each other up and behaved quite ridiculously. All save Tommy. Tommy, a little breathless, but wearing his honors modestly, yielded the ball and trotted back up the field amid a shower of congratulations. And not until Bert Jones was directing the pointing of the pigskin did it occur to George Marquis to demand of Harold why he had signaled one thing and done another! And poor Harold, looking very white and worried, could only shake his head and gaze fascinatedly at Tommy!

But why go into further details of that last half? At the end of the third quarter Hillside was two points ahead of Meadowville, and Tommy Piper had only to turn his head or lift his hand to have the Hillside stand rise to its feet and cheer itself hoarse! Such runs as Tommy made! Ten yards, twenty, even once a full thirty-five! Never was such brilliant running and dodging seen before! Tommy could have played that whole game alone had he wished it, but he didn’t. With the assurance that his team would emerge victor in the end, Tommy let the other backs have their chances. And when they were stopped in their tracks or pushed back for a loss, then the ball went to the infallible Thomas Piper and said Thomas reeled off a dozen yards, or two dozen, perchance; and everything was lovely.

When the last quarter began Meadowville was showing the strain. So was the Hillside quarterback! Poor Harold was beginning to think that he had gone crazy. Time after time when he tried to pass the ball to one of the other backs or even carry it himself, he found that, for some strange reason, without wanting to do it, he had thrown it to Tommy. Of course, Tommy always gained and that made it all right. Only――well, Harold was certainly worried!

A run the entire length of the field, barring ten yards, was Tommy’s heart-stirring contribution at the beginning of the final period, and from that time on until, within only a minute to spare and the ball on Hillside’s thirty-two yards, he ended the game in a final blaze of glory, Tommy performed like a――well, like a magician. I can think of no better word!

But the last feat of all was the most astounding. It went down in history, I can tell you! Even yet no other player has ever come within at the least twenty yards of duplicating Tommy’s performance. The score was 36 to 17 when the final sixty seconds began to tick themselves away. Hillside had the game safe, and it didn’t matter very much what happened then. So when Tommy said to Harold: “Let me try a field goal from here, Harold,” the quarterback only stared and didn’t tell him he was crazy. He only grinned. And then, since they all owed the victory to Tommy, he consented. What did it matter how the contest ended? As well one way as another. And he’d be pleasing the redoubtable Tommy. So Tommy walked back to near the twenty-five-yard line and held out his hands, and everyone stared in surprise. For why, with everything her own way, should Hillside punt and lose possession of the ball?

Tommy was ambitious to outdo all his previous feats, and he could think of but one way to gain that end, and that was to make a wonderful field goal. But when, with poised arms, he awaited the ball and looked far down the field at the distant goal posts he began to have doubts. Perhaps the magic football couldn’t go so far. It was an appalling distance. But just then the ball was snapped and Tommy said, “Come!” Straight and true it sped into his hands. Tommy measured distance and direction again, dropped the ball and, as it bounded, hit it smartly with his instep. And as he did so he said, “Og!” very loudly, and then, to make very certain, he said, “Og!” again and again and many times, and kept on saying it until the enemy came swarming down on him and sent him sprawling on his back.

But he was up again in a second, watching the flight of the ball, and, lest it might falter on its journey, he said, “Og!” once more, or, perhaps, the fifteenth time.

Friend and foe alike turned and watched the football. Everyone held his breath. Surely it would never travel so far! And yet it kept on going, getting higher and higher until, by the time it reached the end of the field, it was yards and yards and yards above the goal posts. A great awe hushed the field. You could have heard a pin drop. And then a great cry of amazement started and spread, for the magic football kept on going up and up and up and getting smaller and smaller and smaller until, at last, it was just a speck against the blue and then――why, then it wasn’t anything at all! It had just floated out of sight like a runaway toy balloon!

But everyone agreed that it had passed exactly over the center of the Meadowville goal, and so what did it matter if the ball was lost?

Tommy, being borne off the field on the shoulders of enthusiastic admirers, cheered and waved at, smiled modestly. But under that smile was a sorrow. The magic football was lost to him!

“I guess,” said Tommy, sadly, to himself, “I must have said ‘Og!’ seven times!”

SPORTSMEN ALL

I

“Want to buy him?” asked the stableman, including both boys in his glance, but appealing more particularly to Jonesie, a healthy, rosy-cheeked youth of fourteen with a countenance that fairly radiated candor and innocence. Jonesie viewed the man with polite indifference.

“What for?” he asked. The stableman, tipped back in his chair by the door marked “Office,” shrugged his shoulders and gave the straw between his teeth a new tilt.

“Thought maybe you’d like a good sporting animal,” he responded. “In my time it was considered very swell for young gentlemen to keep dogs.”

“What do you mean ‘sporting animal’?” inquired Jonesie coldly. “Can he hunt?”

“Can he! Say, son, that dog’s the finest pup on――on rabbits and coons and――and――――”

“Bears,” suggested Pinky helpfully. He was a slim youth with a freckled face and carroty hair.

“Huh!” Jonesie refused to be impressed. “Any old dog can hunt. Question is, can he catch anything except fleas.”

“What are you talking about?” asked the man with a show of anger. “Have a look at that coat on him, son. If you can find a flea――――”

At that moment the dog, who had been sitting in the doorway interestedly following the conversation, turned his head suddenly and began a hurried and very earnest search along the inch and a half of tail that the dictates of fashion had left to him. Jonesie chuckled.

“No use my looking,” he said. “_He’ll_ catch ’em.”

The stableman refused to notice the dog’s occupation. He also passed over Jonesie’s remark. “He’s got a skin just like a baby’s, that dog has. Three months old, and a few days over, gentlemen, and a ten-spot takes him! What do you say, now? There ain’t a finer-bred fox terrier in town. He’s got a pedigree as long as his tail!”

“I guess that’s right,” replied Jonesie.

“What’s the good of a rabbit dog when there aren’t any rabbits?” asked Pinky. “Nor coons, neither. If you’ve got a dog that can kill rats――――”

“Rats? _Rats!_” The stableman almost choked in his excitement. “Now you’re talking, son! You wouldn’t believe it, I guess, if I told you how many rats that dog killed yesterday afternoon inside of an hour and a half, right here in this stable.”

“Right-O!” said Jonesie. “We wouldn’t. So go ahead.”

The stableman fixed him with a glittering eye. “Fourteen,” he said impressively. “And one got away.”

Pinky brightened. Jonesie looked coldly incredulous. The terrier, having failed in his hunt, sighed and returned to his rôle of interested audience. He was really a nice little dog. Clean him up, thought Jonesie, and he’d look fine. He was all white except for a dark-brown patch over his left eye and ear, which gave him a peculiarly philosophical expression. His yellow-brown eyes were bright and intelligent, and the occasional wag of that pathetic button that had once been a perfectly good tail showed friendliness. Jonesie was melting, but you’d never have suspected it. Pinky stooped and snapped his fingers and said, “Here, pup,” in a coaxing voice. The dog wagged the remains of his tail frantically, but moved not an inch. Jonesie frowned.

“Shucks, he don’t even come when he’s called!” he said.

“Not to strangers, he don’t,” replied the stableman triumphantly. “He’s got to know you first. Sign of a good dog, that is. He won’t never know but one master.” Then, with a quick glance at Pinky, “Leastway, two,” he added hurriedly.

“Let’s buy him,” urged Pinky, sotto voce.

“What’s the use? They won’t let you have dogs in dormitories. Besides, he isn’t worth any ten dollars.”

“We could keep him here at the stable,” said Pinky eagerly. “You’d board him for us, wouldn’t you?” he asked the stableman. The latter nodded hesitantly.

“I guess so. I’ve got a stall he could have.”

The boys went over and patted the dog, and the dog licked their hands and strove to reach their faces with his eager pink tongue. “Nice dogums,” said Pinky. “Didums want to belong to us?”

The dog replied to the best of his ability that he did, becoming quite wrought up about it.

“What’s his name?” asked Jonesie.

“Well, I call him Teddy. He ain’t rightly got a name yet.”

“How much would you keep him for if we took him?”

“Well, feed’s high nowadays,” replied the man thoughtfully. “But――say a dollar and a half a week.”

Pinky whistled and looked doubtfully at his friend. Jonesie smiled compassionately on the owner of the dog.

“We weren’t thinking of having him fed on steak and mushrooms,” he explained patiently. “Just dog biscuit and a bone now and then would do, I guess.”

“Well, say a dollar, then.”

“Say four dollars a month,” returned Jonesie, “and we pay the end of the month.”

“All right, son. What might your name happen to be?”

“Jones.”

“That so? Thought likely it was Isaacs.”

“You’re a punk thinker, then. How much will you take for the flea-trap?”

“Meaning the dog? Not a cent less’n ten dollars, son.”

“Oh, I thought you wanted to sell him.” Jonesie, hands in pockets, lounged back to the sidewalk. Pinky regretfully followed. “If I had ten dollars for a dog,” continued Jonesie sarcastically, “I’d buy a good one.”

“You couldn’t find a better in this town,” drawled the man indifferently, keeping, however, a watchful eye on the countenance of the boy.

“Bet I could buy as good a one as that for two and a half,” replied Jonesie contemptuously. The dog watched the boys anxiously from the doorway. Pinky, observing, felt his heart melting within him. He tugged at Jonesie’s sleeve.

“Offer him five,” he whispered. Jonesie shrugged his shoulders.

“Offer it to him yourself,” he said aloud, moving away, “I don’t want him for any five dollars.”

“Tell you what I will do,” announced the stableman, “I’ll split the difference and call it seven-fifty. There, that’s a fair offer, ain’t it?”

Pinky looked undecided. Jonesie, having apparently lost all interest in the matter, was gazing off up the village street and whistling softly.

“Would you?” whispered Pinky.

“No,” replied Jonesie from the corner of his mouth. “He’ll take five in a minute. Don’t let on you want him.” Then, aloud and impatiently: “Oh, come on, Pinky! He doesn’t want to sell; he just wants to talk!”