CHAPTER XX

MR. AUSTIN LOSES HIS TEMPER

Payson’s last words as the fellows trotted out onto the field for the last half were: “Look out for slugging; don’t give them a chance to get at you; and whatever happens don’t slug back.”

Then the whistle sounded again.

There had been another change in Yardley’s team. Berwick was out and Hill was back in his place. Berwick had experienced a lot of rough handling and looked limp and weary. Clapp was still running the team.

Yardley got the ball on a fumble a few minutes after the half opened and, according to the campaign mapped out in the dressing room, began a kicking game. Kapenhysen was easily ten yards better than Brewer’s punter and Brewer, after two returns of the pigskin, realized the fact and went at the Yardley line again. But the center was no longer a vulnerable spot; Hill crumpled up every play directed against him; and Brewer sought elsewhere for her openings. Finally some success rewarded her, Folwell, at left tackle, weakening enough to let several plays go through him. Dan came to his rescue, but was too light to stop the heavy Brewer backs. It was evident before the half was five minutes old that Brewer meant to win by fair means or foul. Time and again the umpire’s attention was called to Brewer’s violations of the rules, but always he contented himself with cautioning them. Mr. Austin, in his capacity as field judge, ventured on several occasions to remonstrate. The umpire was suave and polite, but was unable to see any of the transgressions.

For ten minutes the ball went back and forth between Brewer’s thirty yards and Yardley’s forty. Then one of Kapenhysen’s punts went over the heads of the red-and-white backs and by the time it was recovered it was down on Brewer’s twelve yards. Brewer kicked on first down, but the attempt was a miserable failure, the ball going out of bounds at her thirty yards. It was brought in and Capes reeled off five yards by running half across the field. A mass attack at center failed of any gain and Kapenhysen fell back for a placement kick. Clapp kneeled on the forty yard line and Hill passed straight and true. The Yardley forwards held strongly and the ball sailed away over the struggling lines. But the direction wasn’t good and the pigskin passed to the left of the goal by several yards.

Brewer kicked off from her twenty-five yards, and Folwell, catching the punt, ran it back behind good interference for twenty yards and it was Yardley’s first down again near Brewer’s thirty-five. Clapp essayed a quarter-back kick, but unfortunately it was blocked by the Brewer right-end who followed it up, recovered it on the run and set off towards Yardley’s goal. He was a fairly speedy runner, a long-legged, rangy youth, and before the pursuit was set in motion he had gained a good start. But it was a long distance to that last white line and long before he reached it, Dan, who was in the van of the pursuers, brought him down from behind. After that he managed to squirm another five or six yards, dragging Dan along with him. That brought the ball to Yardley’s twenty-two yards and, amidst the wild, encouraging cheers of their supporters, clustering about the corner of the field and back of the goal, the Brewer players made ready for a desperate effort.

“Now hold them, fellows!” entreated Colton. “Hold them! Don’t give them an inch!”

But Brewer, for the first time during the period, had the Blue’s goal-line within striking distance and hurled themselves frantically upon the defenders. Folwell was thrust aside and the big backs went tearing through for four yards. The shouting audience overflowed onto the field and had to be driven back before play could be resumed. Then a tandem attack on the other side of the line netted three yards more.

“Hold them!” cried Colton. “Play lower, Folwell! Come in here, Connor! Don’t give them an inch, I tell you!”

Again Brewer hurled her tandem of backs at the blue line and again the line wavered and was forced back.

“First down!” cried the referee, and waved the linesmen on.

There was twelve yards to go for a score. A fake plunge at the right of the line and a quick start by left half with the ball tucked into his arm fooled the defenders and before the runner was thrown to the ground he had stolen six of those precious twelve yards! Dan, who had been tossed aside like a chip, picked himself up, self-condemning and angry. The gain had been around his end. For once he had lost sight of the ball and this was the result!

“Second down, four to go,” said the referee.

A plunge at Folwell netted two yards and brought the ball within ten feet of the side-line. This was an advantage to the defenders, for there was no fear of Brewer trying their left-end again, since the runner would be forced over the line, and left-end and tackle could be used to reinforce the center while the backs clustered behind the right side of the line. Time had been called and Andy Ryan was working over Folwell. There were other injuries apparent, too. Colton had a scalp wound that was bleeding freely and Hadlock was nursing a wrenched ankle. Smith came trotting out to take Folwell’s place, and the latter, half supported by the trainer, was led off the field to the cheers of the little bunch of Yardley supporters and the gibes of the opponents.

Brewer got together, and, with heads in a circle, listened to instructions which, without a doubt had been brought onto the field by her water-carrier. Then the whistle blew again. Hadlock jumped up and limped to his place. Colton brushed the blood away from his eyes.

“Here’s where we get the ball!” he cried hoarsely. “Take it away from them, fellows! We can do it! Hold them now! Steady, everybody!”

The ball was passed back and the lines heaved together. The Brewer right half and full-back darted toward the left side of their line.

“Fake!” cried Dan. “Over here, fellows!”

The Brewer left half, who had been crouching to keep from sight, leaped forward, took the ball from quarter who had been hiding it and smashed against the Yardley left guard. The play was a delayed cross-buck. Dan’s warning had, however, helped to spoil it, for Yardley’s left side turned back and stiffened in time. A yard, perhaps two, and the advance stopped, the runner wavered and was thrust back.

“Down!” he groaned. “Down!”

The whistle shrilled and slowly the mass of swaying players was disentangled. As the ball came into sight shouts arose from both sides. The referee looked a moment and then, leaving the umpire to guard the ball, he trotted over to the side-line and trotted back again with the linesmen and the chain.

“First down!” shouted the spectators. “Don’t let him do you, Mulligan!” “Sure, it’s first down!” “Aw, we got it easy!” “Come back with that dog chain, youse!” “First down! First down!” “Put it over now, boys!”

But it wasn’t first down, not by half a foot. Brewer protested and argued and threatened to leave the field, grumbled, swore not a little and acted as ugly as they dared. But for once the referee was firm and even stern.

“All right, Brewer?” he asked after several minutes.

“No, we’re not ready yet,” was the angry reply.

“Time’s up,” was the answer. The whistle blew.

“Hey, I told you we wasn’t ready!” protested the Brewer captain. The referee blew his whistle again, took up the ball and stepped off five yards.

“Yardley’s ball, first down,” he announced. A renewed howl arose from Brewer and they demanded to know the why and the wherefor and to have the rule pointed out to them. Their coach came running out onto the field, sputtering and waving his hands.

“Off the field, please!” said the referee. “Off the field! You can’t come on here, and you know it!”

“You’re a robber!” shouted McMannis. “Why don’t you give them the game and have done with it?” But he stopped and returned to the side-line, muttering, and for the next minute or two was seen wrathfully fumbling the leaves of the rules book.

“Will you play or not?” asked the referee. He, too, was getting rather angry and his eyes were snapping. The Brewer captain growled something unintelligibly. “If you don’t play I’ll forfeit the game to Yardley,” declared the referee.

“Aw, what’s the matter with you?” said the Brewer captain. “I said we’d play. Blow your old whistle!”

So the whistle blew and Kapenhysen fell back some ten yards behind the goal-line to punt. Brewer was mad clean through, mad and ugly. And she didn’t quite wait for the ball to be passed before she charged. By the time Kapenhysen had the ball in his hands the Brewer forwards were sweeping down upon him. He made a heroic effort to get the ball off and succeeded, but the kick was high and short, coming to earth on Yardley’s twenty-yard-line. It bounded up erratically and there was a wild scramble for it. A Brewer man got it only to have it fly out of his arms again and bound toward the goal-line. There was a second confused scramble and then Hill secured it, and, before he could call “Down,” was forced back over the line for a safety.

Colton appealed to the umpire, declaring that Brewer had started before the ball was in play, but the umpire refused to allow the protest. The score was two points to nothing in Brewer’s favor and there remained seven minutes of playing time. Yardley looked somewhat disconsolate as it lined up for the kick-off, all save Colton. He was as cheerful as ever, or seemed to be. Over on the side-lines the triumphant shouts of the Brewer adherents rang lustily, drowning completely the pathetic attempts of Yardley’s followers.

Kapenhysen booted the leather and the teams raced back up the field. It was a splendid kick and covered all of fifty yards, but it was a little too low and Brewer came charging back with the ball and had regained fifteen yards before Connor nailed the runner. Brewer now was playing for time. The ball was near her fifty-yard-line and she began a series of slow plunges at the line, using up all the time she could. For nearly twenty yards she made progress, hitting one side of the Blue’s line after the other. Then came a run around Yardley’s right end that netted a good ten yards. Mr. Austin walked out and announced that five minutes remained.

“We’ve got to get the ball, fellows,” cried Colton imploringly as he limped along the line and clapped the players on the back. “Now hold them right here!”

The ball was back on Yardley’s thirty-five-yard-line and the watchers looked for another score. But Yardley braced and after two downs had gained her but four yards Brewer punted. Clapp caught the ball and started back through a broken field. For a moment it seemed that he might get away, but after he had cut off some twenty yards he was thrown near the middle of the gridiron. The tackle was such a fierce one that the ball bounded from his arms and went rolling on as though determined to reach the Brewer goal-line unaided. There was a rush for it, and Dickenson fell on it, found his feet again and set off. Twice he was tackled but each time he managed to squirm loose. Ten yards, fifteen yards, twenty! Then a big Brewer half-back caught up with him and brought him down. The whistle blew.

Back near the center of the field Clapp was rolling and kicking. Andy Ryan was beside him in a moment, sponge in hand, and presently he was led off the field, weak and limp, protesting feebly. The little band of Yardley supporters cheered him gloriously, and then, the next instant, were cheering again, this time for Loring, who, fitting his head-guard in place, was running toward his team. What a reception he got from them! Colton hugged him and Hadlock beat him weakly on the shoulders. The others grinned wearily at him and straightened their aching backs again. Loring and Folsom whispered together. Then the team was drawn back and, amidst the hoots of the enemy, stood for a minute closely clustered and listened to Loring’s words. Finally,

“All right now, fellows!” called Loring cheerfully, clapping his hands. “Let’s have a touchdown out of this. They’re half dead already! Look at ’em! Come on now and get busy!”

The ball was near Brewer’s thirty yards. A plunge through tackle made it twenty-eight. Then Connor was sent outside of right tackle with the whole field of backs behind him and shoved and fought his way through for six yards more. Third down and two to go. Full-back and the two halves lined up as though for a tandem on right guard, the ball was passed, the backs plunged forward and Loring set off around the opponent’s left end with the ball tucked under his arm. Dickenson put the opposing end out of business and then sped after Loring. The run was short but it netted seven yards, and when the Brewer left half had been pulled off of him Loring jumped up with a shake of his head and piped the next signal.

“First down,” said the referee.

Only fifteen yards between them and a score! And only two minutes to play!

Kapenhysen was sent hurtling against the left of the Brewer line, but Brewer was desperate now and a scant yard was the best he could do. Again the signals and again the backs took their places. But this time the ball went past Loring and into the hands of Capes. Loring, Kapenhysen and Connor set off around their own right end. The Brewer backs started to intercept them. And so no one paid much attention to a slim blue figure that slipped between the Brewer right end and tackle and was now trotting with upraised hand five yards back of their line.

Then, “_Forward pass!_” shouted the Brewer quarter frantically. But already the ball was in flight, for Capes, after feinting to the right, had turned and run to the left until behind his tackle and from there had made a low throw across the line to where Dan awaited.

The Brewer right half saw his error and turned back, but he was too late. The ball fell, lazily revolving, into Dan’s arms, and, tucking it away, Dan sprang toward the goal-line, but a few short strides away. A despairing effort by the Brewer quarter sent Dan staggering aside, but the next moment he was over the line, over it and still circling toward the goal-posts. He never quite centered the ball, for three Brewer players tackled him together and brought him heavily to earth. But, although his head was filled for an instant with a multitude of stars, he held the ball and cried “Down” as loudly as he could with several hundred pounds of dead weight on top of him and someone’s elbow boring itself viciously into his face.

He heard Loring crying: “Get off of him, you brutes! Get off, get off!” and then there was daylight once more and he rolled over on his back and fought for breath. Loring stooped over him and pumped his arms and Dan smiled as cheerfully as he might and finally managed to assure the quarter that he was “all right, thanks.”

What if Kapenhysen did miss as easy a goal as one could wish? The game was won! Five to two was as much a victory as heart could desire that day! There was an exchange of punts, a scramble down the field by Connor that put thirty-five yards behind him, and then the whistle!

“Let’s get out of here as quick as we can,” panted Colton. There was a cheer for Brewer and then they raced for the dressing room. And glad they were to reach it, for the Brewerites were disappointed and angry and quite ready for mischief. By the time they were dressed, the field was well-nigh empty and only around the gates were any hostilities hinted at. A crowd of loiterers jeered them as they climbed into the coach and, just as they moved away, a piece of wood was thrown. It wasn’t very large but it happened to hit Mr. Austin on the side of the head. Stevie forgot his decorum on the instant, forgot that he was a “chaperone,” forgot that he was there to maintain order. Before Mr. Payson could interfere Stevie was out of the coach and striding back toward the group at the gate.

“Fool!” muttered Payson as he leaped out after him.

The players yelled to the driver to stop and one after another they tumbled out and ran back. But, strange to say, the group at the gate was no longer there. It had dissolved as though by magic. Here and there were to be seen figures ambling disinterestedly away, but at the gate was only Stevie, looking disappointedly about him, and Payson, trying to drag him back.

“He was a red-faced fellow in a green sweater!” the instructor was declaring when Dan reached the scene. “I saw him and if I could get my hands on him--”

“Well, he’s gone,” laughed Payson. “Come on or we’ll miss the train.”

The instructor turned and saw the boys around him. He colored, smiled uncertainly and walked back to the waiting coach. When he had taken his place again and they were once more jouncing along toward the station, he said:

“That was a very foolish thing to do, fellows. I--I feel like apologizing to you. I hope you’ll forget it.”

“Yes, sir, we will,” replied Colton gravely.