CHAPTER VIII

A BROKEN PROMISE AND A VICTORY.

Despite his sprained ankle, Merriwell kicked the goal, straight and true, and the teams lined up again. But that run had been a last desperate attempt to wrest victory from defeat.

Unable to count longer on Dick, who, though he was still able to play, could not be expected to continue the extraordinary efforts which had made him an object of wonder to every man on the field, the team went to pieces as nearly as any Yale team can.

They played despairingly, doggedly, disputing every inch on the part of the Princeton organization, but for all that being borne slowly down the field.

The ginger was gone out of them. They had no life, and their playing had become more or less machinelike.

Bob Hollister realized this swiftly. He knew the signs only too well.

“They can’t do it!” he almost sobbed. “They can’t beat them that way!”

If he could only go into the game. Just for that last quarter. Surely it could not do any harm. He must do it. He could not sit there and see the fellows beaten.

The third quarter was nearly over when he leaped to his feet, his face white and determined, and ran swiftly toward the house. Dashing inside, he encountered Keran, his face a network of scowling lines, his fists clenched, and one foot tied up in bandages.

“Gimme your clothes!” Hollister exclaimed. “Quick!”

“What——” gasped Keran.

“Blazes!” ripped out the excited fellow. “Your clothes, I tell you! Get ’em off! Mine aren’t here!”

With an exclamation of joy, the other realized what he meant to do. Snatching off his jacket and jersey, he tossed them to Bob, who was already half undressed.

“Glory be!” he cried. “You’re going to play! You’ll brace ’em up!”

Hollister made no answer. His eyes were gleaming. One thought only was in his mind. He must get into those togs and back to the field before the beginning of the last quarter. He meant to play if he never did another thing in all his life. His promise to Merriwell was forgotten. He thought of nothing but that line of gasping, tattered men out there, striving vainly against black defeat.

With eager, trembling fingers, Keran helped him lace his jacket. Rudolph Rose staggered up from where he lay full length on a bench, and, dropping down on the floor, laced up his shoes. Neither of them spoke a word, for words were unnecessary. They understood.

In a miraculously short time Bob was ready, and, snatching up a nose guard, he tore out of the house.

Bill Fullerton, his face black as a thundercloud, was talking to Tempest on the side lines. The brief intermission was almost over as Bob dashed up to them.

“I want to go in, Don!” he exclaimed.

Both men looked at him in astonishment.

“I thought——” Tempest began.

“Never mind that,” Hollister interrupted. “I’ve got to go in! That’s the only way. The fellows have gone all to pieces since Merriwell hurt himself!”

Still the captain of the varsity hesitated. He knew quite well of the promise Hollister had made Merriwell that he would not play football again during his college course.

“I swear to you, Don, by all that’s holy,” Bob said earnestly, “that if you let me play out this game I’ll never touch football again! It’s only fifteen minutes, Don! Just fifteen little minutes! If I sit here watching it, I shall go mad. Let me play, Don.”

His pleading voice quivered with the emotion which was tearing him.

Tempest was in somewhat of a quandary. He wanted to put Hollister in, for he felt that it was barely possible that Bob might succeed in putting spirit into the jaded, discouraged men. He was fresh, too, and wrought up to a white heat of enthusiasm. It would be strange if he did not accomplish something. Don glanced at Fullerton questioningly.

The coach nodded emphatically.

“It’s the only thing that can possible save the day,” he said decidedly. “Better let him in.”

“Who——”

“Blake, of course!” Fullerton said tersely. “He’s rotten!”

Hollister’s face lit up joyfully as he listened to this brief conversation. Then the signal came, and there was a general movement to get out on the field.

Tempest walked rapidly to Blake’s side and said a few words to him in a low tone. The big, blond fellow flushed scarlet and darted a venomous glance at Bob. Then, without a word, he turned on his heel and walked rapidly toward the athletic house, his face sullen, and the angry flush still in his cheeks.

Hollister followed the other men with a springy step and a heart fairly bursting with joy. At last he was back with the boys. It seemed almost as if he had never left them. He did not worry over the fact that, after these brief, fleeting minutes were over, he could never play again. He only knew that the team was in a bad way and needed him, and he resolved that he would play as he had never played before.

One after the other the fellows recognized him and greeted him with short, hurried words, which were an odd blending of surprise, joy, and relief; but all had such a ring of sincerity and truth that Hollister was more touched than he would have thought possible.

He dared not meet Merriwell’s glance. He had broken his promise, and he was not sorry; he hated to think of what Dick’s opinion of him would be from this time forth.

Then, as he crouched in his place, he forgot Merriwell, forgot everything but the fact that he was back in the line again.

“Are you all ready?” asked the referee.

There was no reply. Only here and there a foot moved uneasily as weights were thrown forward, and there was a general, almost imperceptible, tightening of nerves and muscles.

Then the whistle shrilled.

Those who watched the game that day said afterward that, in all their experience, they had never seen such an amazing rallying on the part of any team as was shown by the Yale eleven during that last quarter.

Three minutes before they had gone off the field with dragging steps and gloomy, discouraged faces. The followers of the blue, who crowded the stands, felt a wave of despair sweep over them as they thought of what might happen in that last fifteen minutes. Many of them fully expected to see Princeton make another touchdown, if not two, and they waited with perfunctory, mechanical cheers, and swiftly ebbing spirit for the beginning of the end.

But the sudden, totally unexpected appearance of Hollister seemed to work almost a miracle.

Bob responded nobly. Never had he put up such a game before. Tireless, never failing, swift as lightning, with his brain in splendid working order, he seemed to be all over the field at once. Dodging, slipping through holes in the line where one would not have thought any advance possible, blocking, cutting off opposing runners, and interfering for runners of his own team, it seemed as if all the pent-up, thwarted energy of the last few days of deprivation was being poured out now in this brief, brilliant exhibition.

His work thrilled the other men with a new hope, and stirred them to fresh endeavor, so that they were with him heart and soul; and the pigskin was rushed down the field swiftly and irresistibly, until the forty-yard line was reached.

Here the orange-and-black fellows seemed to recover, and, rallying, presented such a solid line that two downs brought barely six yards; and Yale had to resort to a drop kick, which sent the ball forward thirty yards, but gave it to Princeton.

Then the great struggle of the day began. Inspired by the brilliant Hollister, Yale made a strenuous, dogged effort to score, while her opponents were equally determined that she should not. Back and forth surged the lines of men, never reaching within kicking distance of either goal, and using up the precious minutes in fiercely contesting every inch of progress.

It was a battle royal, and the spectators were so thrilled with interest and excitement that they almost forgot to cheer.

At last, when there were but six minutes left to play, Kenny decided to make use of one of the most intricate and most daring of the combinations of double plays and crisscrossing which the coaches had worked out from Hollister’s suggestion. It was only to be used as a last resort, and Kenny decided that the time had come.

“Sixty-seven—twenty-four—thirty-two——”

Kenny paused. Merriwell sprang back a yard. Buckhart crept a few feet in.

“Fifty-four—seventeen!” finished Kenny swiftly.

The ball was snapped, Brad ran forward three strides, Kenny turned, and the pigskin flew back. The next instant Merriwell had the ball, and sped toward the right end of the line. The quarter crossed in front of him; the tackle and guard thrust back their opponents; the Princeton line surged forward with a rush.

Hollister plunged forward, too, as if he were intent only on interfering in Merriwell’s behalf; but he had a more important duty than that to perform. Swiftly, before their opponents realized what was being done, he and Dick changed places, Merriwell was blocking with all his might, while Hollister, the ball clutched tightly to him, sped round, shot through and out onto the field, leaving a mass of waving legs and arms many yards behind.

Joy was the supreme sensation in Bob’s breast. Only the Princeton 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 down the field and beckoned him on. This, he thought exultingly, was the best moment that life could give.

Behind, although he could not hear it for the din of shouting from the stands, he knew the pursuit to be in full cry. He edged farther out from the dangerous touch line and sped on. The Princeton full back had been deceived by the play, and had gone farther up the field for a kick, and now down he came at full speed.

Hollister seemed to hesitate and falter. The full back prepared to tackle. His broad back was bent far over, his sturdy legs squared themselves, and, when Bob was almost within his reach, he dove forward.

There was a sudden gasp from the spectators, a breathless hush, and then a thunderous roar of joy, as Hollister leaped high in the air, cleared the hooking arms, stumbled, got his balance again, and ran on, free, the ball still cupped in the curve of his arm.

The momentary pause had served to bring the foremost of the other pursuers almost to Bob’s heels.

And now the plucky end began to feel the effects of his strenuous work. His breath came irregularly, his throat was parching, his legs ached with every bound, but still he never wavered. 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. Presently 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 fancied he felt a touch—just the lightest fingering—and, gathering all his remaining strength, he increased his pace for a few steps.

The ten-yard line passed, slowly, reluctantly.

“One more,” he thought. “Only one more!”

The great stands were hoarse with shouting, for here ended the game.

Nearer and nearer crept the five-yard line; nearer and nearer crept the pursuers. Once more Hollister called upon his strength, and tried to draw away, but it was useless. And, with the goal line but four yards distant, stout arms were clasped tightly around 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 bands of steel, and settled lower and lower until his legs were clasped and he could move no farther. Despairingly he thrust the ball out at arm’s length, and tried to throw himself forward; the trampled turf rose to meet him, and then blackness came.

Bob’s first waking thought was that he must be back on the rocky shores of Maine, where he had spent the past summer. Surely those were breakers which roared and thundered in his ears. Then he opened his eyes, and found that he was lying on the sod, a sweater under his head, and several vaguely familiar faces swimming above him.

A moment later he knew that it was not surf, but the wild yelling and cheering of excited, enthusiastic thousands. Back and forth rolled the mighty torrents of sound, breaking and crashing in reverberations.

Suddenly there was a pause, and then a fresh outburst, this time deliberate and controlled:

“Rah, rah rah! Rah, rah, rah! Rah, rah, rah! Hollister! Hollister! Hollister!”

No need to tell him in so many words that the ball had gone over. This was enough. They were cheering for him, and, as he opened his eyes again, something like a mist came over them. Presently this cleared away, and he found himself looking into Merriwell’s face.

“How are you feeling, old fellow?” the senior asked anxiously. “Hurt any place? Or is it just wind you want?”

Hollister smiled.

“That’s all,” he said quickly. “Be all right in a minute.”

He hesitated for an instant.

“Say, Dick.”

Merriwell bent lower.

“Yes?” he questioned.

“I couldn’t help it, old man,” Bob said in a low tone. “I broke my promise, and I reckon you must think me an awful rotter. I held out as long as I could; but you needed me, Dick, and I couldn’t sit there and see the fellows licked. But it’s the last time.”

“Do you really mean that, Bob?” Merriwell asked slowly. “Don’t you think that the next game you see will tempt you just as you have been tempted to-day?”

Hollister shook his head decidedly.

“No, sir!” he said emphatically. “I’m through. This is the last. I’ll be content now to cut it out for good. I’ve shown what I could do, and——”

Another thunderous burst of cheering came from the stands.

“Hollister! Hollister! Hollister!”

“Not even for that would I break my word to you again, Merriwell. You believe me, don’t you, old fellow?”

For an instant Dick gazed keenly into the anxious eyes of his friend. Then his face cleared and a smile curved the corners of his mouth.

“Sure,” he said simply.