CHAPTER IX.

IN THE LAST DITCH.

The visiting witnesses shrieked till they were hoarse as crows and their faces were almost black.

"Merriwell!" they howled. "What’s the matter with Merriwell?"

"He’s all right!" came the answer.

"’Rah! ’rah! ’rah! Merriwell! Merriwell! Merriwell!"

Rivermouth watchers seemed too amazed to say anything for a time. Finally they began to tell one another that Rogers had not done his level best.

"He felt too sure," they said. "He might have made a touch-down if he’d let himself out."

The ball was still in the possession of the home team, and the assault on Fardale’s line was resumed.

Rivermouth was fierce now, and they resorted to play that was decidedly yellow. Their first gain was full five yards, but they slugged two of the Fardale players in their plunge. Again the referee declared he had not seen the foul, but the home team was warned on the appeal of Captain Nunn.

The next onslaught was upon Blair, who was not strong enough to withstand it. Again there was rough work, and by this time the fighting blood of the Fardale team seemed aroused.

Being on Fardale’s ten-yard line the home team was confident, and it was discovered with astonishment that two more attempts had not netted a gain worth considering. Then the ball was given to Ryan, who tried to circle the end. Douglass brought him down after he had been blocked by others, and the ball went to Fardale.

The visitors breathed easier, for their goal had been threatened. The danger was still great, and it was thought best to punt.

Singleton was not given sufficient time, the line being unable to resist Rivermouth’s charge, and his kick was therefore somewhat weak. However, Kent was on hand when Newton captured the ball, and Newton was promptly grassed thirty-eight yards from Fardale’s goal.

Again Rivermouth resumed her battering-ram style of playing, walking into the visitors with a fierceness that seemed irresistible, and steadily the ball advanced toward Fardale’s goal. In vain Fardale tried to stand up before these attacks. Her line seemed to melt and crumble, and gain after gain was made.

It must be confessed that Frank Merriwell was far from easy when he saw this. Captain Nunn appealed to his men when the ball was down less than eleven yards from the goal.

"We must stop it right here!" he said.

But they didn’t. Rivermouth’s next assault gave her full five yards.

"It’s all up with Fardale!" said Zeb Fletcher. "Those chaps are playing horse with us now."

And no one had the heart to contradict him.

With their hearts in their mouths, the Fardale witnesses watched, expecting the next attack of the enemy would mean a touch-down. But Fardale stiffened up enough to stop the foe within two yards of the line.

Then a lucky thing happened—lucky for Fardale. Rivermouth fumbled the next pass, and Brad Buckhart dropped like a load of pig iron upon it, having come through the line in one irresistible surge.

"Whoa-up!" grated the Texan Maverick. "I reckon this here business is getting somewhat monotonous! It’s our turn to do a little hustling, and we’re going to hustle!"

Fardale had kicked before when her goal was threatened, and it was thought she would at once kick again. She aided in this belief by a show of preparing to kick. But the ball went back to Nunn, who sought to redeem his record by slipping through the center and making full seven yards. This was encouraging, and it angered Rivermouth. Merriwell was given his opportunity right away, and he beat Nunn’s gain by at least half a yard.

By this time Dick was spotted by the Rivermouth players as dangerous, and word had been passed round to make it hot for him whenever possible. In the next effort Dick found himself held firm for some seconds, and then those behind lifted him and he hurdled Rivermouth’s line for three yards.

These efforts had carried the ball twenty yards from Fardale’s line. But another attempt to hurdle resulted in utter failure.

Then Kent fell back, as if to take the ball and try for an end play. This was an effort to deceive the home team, which resulted in nothing at all, as, when the ball was passed to Nunn, Steve was held and dragged down without a gain.

In this emergency it was decided best to kick, and Big Bob drove the oval to the center of the field. The man who caught it was able to run it back almost ten yards before being downed.

But Fardale had carried and driven the ball away from the danger-line, and the watchers from the military academy were breathing easier. Still the fighting seemed to be almost entirely in Fardale’s territory, and this, with the fact that Rivermouth held the lead, made it seem dark for the visitors.

Rivermouth went into Fardale in the same savage way, but this time, not having been called to account for previous offenses, they were careless in their playing, using their hands to fling the visitors aside, and one fellow struck Dick Merriwell a stinging blow.

Instantly the whistle sounded, and the referee, awakened at last, gave the ball to Fardale on a foul.

Once more Fardale had one of her lively spasms, and she made full ten yards on her very first charge. With the ball close to the center of the field, the cadets succeeded in once more pushing it over into the territory of the enemy.

Now Fardale’s colors fluttered in the wind, and cheer followed cheer. But, as on previous occasions when placed on the defensive, Rivermouth refused to let Fardale gain more than four yards in the required number of efforts, and the visitors lost the ball on downs.

Rogers dropped back from the line, the ball was snapped, a hole was torn right through Fardale’s center, and the captain of the home team once more sprinted for the cadets’ goal.

As on the previous occasion, Dick Merriwell was passed, and Rogers seemed to have a clear field when one of the interferers blocked the attempt of Bob Singleton to make a tackle.

"He’ll never catch me this time!" breathed Rogers, as he gathered himself and ran as fast as it was possible for him to cover ground.

Never in all his life had he tried harder than at that moment; but, to his untold amazement, he again heard those thudding feet behind him.

Was it possible Merriwell was in close pursuit? Perhaps it might be one of his own team.

Rogers was unable to resist the desire to turn his head and see. He did so, and his heart leaped into his throat, for bearing down upon him was the same Fardale lad who had tackled him and spoiled the success of his previous run.

Then it seemed to dawn on Rogers that behind him was a lad who could outrun him in any kind of a race. However, he kept on, expecting to feel at any moment those gripping hands.

He was not disappointed. Something touched him, clutched his legs, and down he went with a shock that drove the breath from his body—a shock that must have injured him seriously had he not been a trained athlete in excellent condition.

For a second time in that half Dick Merriwell had made a masterly and wonderful running-tackle. For a second time the witnesses roared forth his name.

Of course, Dick’s enemies were disgusted, and none was more disgusted than Zeb Fletcher.

"I can’t stand this!" muttered Zeb to himself. "Even if Fardale loses, that duffer has covered himself all over with glory this day. I’ve got to have a smoke to steady my nerves. Guess I’ll sneak off to the old barn and smoke there."

So this envious fellow, with his heart full of jealous hatred, actually left the field and slipped away toward the old barn, into which he disappeared.

But, although Merriwell had stopped Rogers’ run, Rivermouth could not be held there. Resuming her battering-ram style of playing, she hammered into Fardale’s line for repeated gains, carrying the ball nearer and nearer to the goal of the visitors.

Not till the ball was down within one yard of Fardale’s line did the cadets check the advance.

In these savage onslaughts Rivermouth had stretched Fardale players on the field repeatedly. Twice Douglass had seemed knocked out, but both times he revived and insisted on staying in the fight. Buckhart was bleeding and dirty, but still as stubborn as a mule. One of Kent’s eyes was nearly closed, and that bothered him not a little. Burrows limped, telling that he had been hurt, and, taken altogether, Fardale seemed nearly used up.

Still, into these fellows Frank Merriwell had somehow instilled the dogged spirit of Yale—a spirit that fights hardest in the last ditch, when the battle seems most hopeless.

This was exactly what happened now. With the ball only one yard from Fardale’s line, the cadets braced up and refused to let Rivermouth make another inch.

Frank Merriwell’s heart swelled with pride as he saw those dirty, battered, bloody boys stand there like the eternal hills and hurl Rivermouth back repeatedly. He was proud of them then, and he would remain proud of them, even though they lost the game. They had made a most heroic fight and were deserving of all credit, whatever the result.