CHAPTER VIII.

MERRIWELL’S RUNNING TACKLE.

The ball was brought out, and, laughing his satisfaction, Captain Nunn gave the honor of a try for goal to the dashing, dark-eyed chap who had made the touch-down.

The cheering of the visitors was stilled as young Merriwell paused before making the kick. For an instant Dick turned, and it was seen that he looked toward the spot where his brother was standing. Frank smiled, and the approval in that smile filled Dick’s heart with a glow.

"He’s proud of me!" thought the boy. "At last he’s proud of me!"

That was all the happiness he asked.

He went at the ball, and sent it over the cross-bar with a most graceful kick, and Fardale was a point ahead of her powerful antagonist.

Two minutes of play remained in that half, and Rivermouth kicked off without delay.

It was the object of Steve Nunn to kill time during those two minutes. Fancying he saw a good opening for a run with the ball, which came directly to him, he caught it and started. But Captain Rogers had avoided every interferer, and Nunn did not make eight yards before Rogers pounced upon him and slammed him to the ground.

Steve went down with such violence that he was somewhat stunned, and the ball escaped from his grasp.

Ryan was there. He made a jump for it, together with Douglass, but the Rivermouth man was the swifter, and he fell on the ball.

Not a second was lost in lining up. The whistle would blow in a very short time, ending the half.

Apparently Rivermouth was prepared for a furious onslaught.

"Hold ’em—hold ’em, boys!" urged Captain Nunn. "It won’t be a minute! They can’t score again this half!"

The moment the ball was snapped Fardale tried to break through and reach it; but Rivermouth blocked these efforts most successfully for a few moments.

During those few moments, instead of charging, Hurting again made a drop-kick for goal. This time Dick Merriwell was unable to get through and block the ball, nor did any one else interfere until Hurting had made a clean kick.

Then the Rivermouth half-back was slammed to the ground, but it was too late.

Over the cross-bar sailed the ball, the whistle sounded, and the home team was in the lead by a score of 10 to 6.

Steve Nunn was a very sore fellow.

"I’m to blame for that fluke!" he muttered, in deep disgust, as the team retired to the bar to rest a few moments and be rubbed down. “Somebody ought to kick me!”

Zeb Fletcher came round while the players were being rubbed down, water having been brought to the barn in buckets.

"Great work!" he said, pretending to be pleased. "I didn’t think we had a chance once."

"Sheer off!" roared Brad Buckhart, his hand going to his hip, as if to pull a shooting-iron. "That kind of praise makes me want to do some target-practise."

Fletcher got away from Buckhart in a hurry, confiding to a friend that the fellow from Texas was a great bluffer.

Frank Merriwell personally superintended the work of rubbing down the men, giving directions and talking with the players. It was noticed that he said no word to Dick Merriwell; he simply grasped the hand of his brother.

Frank’s words to the team were sufficient to give them new courage. He spoke in whispers to Captain Nunn, who listened gravely, nodding his head.

"Fellows, we’re going to win this game," said Steve, when Frank had passed on to some one else.

He was full of confidence, and this spirit was felt by the others. It was plain enough that Merry did much good by his manner of speaking to the players and encouraging them. He criticized, to be sure, but his criticisms were not harsh and sneering, after the manner of some coaches, for he knew there was no surer way of getting a young team rattled and discouraged than by snarling at them and using harsh language in making criticisms. He had seen such things done, and now he would have guarded against it had his inclination been to make such criticisms.

Thus it came about that Fardale returned to the field in good spirits, every man ready to do his level best in the last half.

Fardale kicked off, Singleton again being the man. Big Bob made a very handsome drive to within twelve yards of Rivermouth’s goal; but Hurting promptly punted ten yards into the territory of the visitors.

Merriwell was under the ball, caught it, and jumped away like a flash, avoiding the rush of Rogers. Nearly twenty yards Dick ran with the ball before being tackled and brought to earth by Dana.

This was brilliant work for the Fardale half-back, and his admirers cheered loudly.

With great courage Fardale lined up for the attack.

Up to this point Rivermouth had played an unusually clean game for them, but now there came a change. In the very first charge, Stanton, who had received severe usage in the first half, was slugged in the mêlée and knocked out. When the ball was down Fardale’s right tackle was discovered stretched on the ground, though the referee had not seen the foul that laid him low.

Frank Merriwell’s sharp eyes had seen it, and he was indignant. He made a demand that Twain be put out of the game, but this was ignored.

Stanton did not recover quickly, and so Hovey was substituted and the game went on. Fardale seemed angry at what had happened and slammed into the home team hard enough to advance the ball to the forty-yard line.

But there they stuck. Try as hard as they might, not another yard could be made, and the oval went to Rivermouth on downs.

At once Rivermouth began a series of mass-plays that seemed to stagger and daze the visitors. The first gain was four yards. Then six yards were made. Then four more yards.

And then, with a revolving wedge, the home team literally hurled aside and trampled on the Fardale line, carrying the ball across into the territory of the visitors and within one foot of the fifty-yard line.

In this scrimmage Gordan went down with a twisted knee, and he could not bear his weight on that leg when he was helped to his feet.

Another Fardale man had been knocked out, and he was almost carried from the field, fighting to break away and get back into line. He was plainly heard begging his assistants to let him go, asserting that he would be all right in a minute.

"Wonder if they’ll substitute another plebe?" said Jabez Lynch, with a sneer.

Sure enough, that was just what happened. Toby Kane, who had played right end with the original plebe team organized by Dick Merriwell, was put into the line as left guard, and Fardale was ready to resume the defense.

"Now, wouldn’t that kill you to death?" exclaimed Lynch, in deep disgust. "There are twenty other men who are better."

But somehow it seemed that this change had stiffened Fardale’s defense, for two efforts to advance the ball resulted in no gain.

"They’re going to kick!" exclaimed many.

It did seem that this was the intention of the home team; but, at the last moment, Captain Rogers fell back out of the line. The ball was snapped and passed to Rogers. At the same time a compact mass of interference struck Kane like a thunderbolt.

Out of this mass Rogers was flung, and away he went like the wind, two men running with him. Buckhart tried to reach the runner, but he was skilfully blocked. Blair made an effort to get in to Rogers and bring him down, but again clever interference prevented success of the attempt.

Rogers was past Merriwell before Dick could stop him, and then, with a clear field, he went flying toward Fardale’s line.

"A touch-down! a touch-down!" roared the Rivermouth crowd.

"They’ll never catch that fellow!" cried a man. "There isn’t a man in the county who can run with him!"

Indeed, Rogers was a wonderfully swift runner, and now he was covering ground at a great rate. He laughed inwardly at the thought of the ease with which he would secure a touch-down. Then behind him he heard the thud-thud of flying feet, and he gathered himself for a supreme effort.

The witnesses had been astounded to see a slender youth start after Rogers with great speed, and swiftly gain on the runner.

"It’s Merriwell!" was the cry, for by this time nearly every person on the field had learned the name of the youth who had done such splendid work for Fardale in the first half.

"He can’t run down Rogers!" roared a man.

"He’s doing it!" ejaculated another, in amazement. "Run, Rogers—run!"

Rogers did run, but he could not get away from those thudding footfalls, which came nearer and nearer.

With set teeth and flashing eyes, Dick Merriwell ran down the flying lad with the ball. Drawing close, Dick prepared for the most difficult sort of a tackle. Of a sudden he seemed to shoot his body headlong through the air. His hands fell on Rogers’ hips, slipped to the knees, clung like hooks of iron, and down came the astonished runner on Fardale’s twenty-yard line.