Part 8

Fairfield scored two minutes after the third period started. The kick-off was fumbled by Logan, and, although he fell on it, at his eighteen yards, Fairfield blocked Farnsworth’s punt and an end broke through and captured the trickling pigskin a foot behind the goal line. Fairfield brought the ball out in triumph, and it was then that Ted saw that one brown-legged player was stretched on the turf. “Tink” was diving toward him with slopping bucket. Ted’s eyes sped from player to player of his side. Only Preston was missing along the goal line! Something pushed his heart into his throat, turned it over once and let it slip slowly back again. He watched “Tink’s” sponge in fascination. Then they were lifting Preston to his feet. For an instant it seemed that he was as good as ever, but suddenly his head fell over sideways. They were carrying him off now, bringing him to the bench. Someone amongst the subs leaped forward with a blanket. The stand behind was cheering bravely for “Preston! Preston! Preston!” Thornton met the slowly-approaching group at the side line, looked, listened to a word from Tinker and whirled on his heel.

“Morely! Get in there! Hurry up!” he called.

Ted squirmed from his sweater and raced. Panting, he slipped between Breadwell and Moore under the cross-bar and waited. A hand waved downward, the ball flew toward them, there was a moment of suspense and a roar of relief arose from the Staunton stand. Fairfield had failed at the goal. Six points to nothing was the score, and virtually half the game remained to be played.

Larry Logan shot a dubious look at Ted as the latter fell into place beside Moore when Fairfield had the ball again on her own thirty-four yards. But he managed a cheerful: “All right, Ted! Let’s see what you can do! Hard, now!”

But it was Fairfield’s policy to slow up now, and she halted in her signals and wasted all the time she could without risking a penalty. Staunton held gamely and then spoiled a forward pass and took the ball on downs. The wide-open attack was still working, for Fairfield’s men were a bit heavier and a bit slower and Logan was getting a lot of jump into his plays. Ted got his chance and crashed through for a scant three yards, got it again and was downed almost in his tracks by an unguarded end. Then Moore slipped around right tackle and ran twelve yards before he was forced over the side line. Staunton got to the enemy’s twenty-three before she was held, and then Farnsworth tried a place kick and missed the goal by five yards.

And so it went, Fairfield sparring for time, Staunton forcing the playing, smashing desperately, running hard, aching to score. Changes were made. Morris went out at center and young Joyce took his place. Greenough came in for Breadwell. With three minutes of the quarter left the ball was Staunton’s in mid-field. Loring had wasted a down on a weird trick play that had lost four yards and now Farnsworth was called on. It was the old fake kick and wide run, but it worked, just as it so often does, and the big full-back galloped over three white streaks before they stopped him. Then, with the line-up close to the side of the field, Logan called on Ted. Moore crossed over in front of him, Farnsworth ran with him. Larry hid the ball a moment and then, as Ted rushed past, thumped it against his stomach. The Fairfield line was wide open in the middle and Ted went through like a shot. After that he had to spin and feint and dodge, but he kept going forward, kept wresting himself from clutching hands, kept passing the lines underfoot. The goal came closer and closer and for a wonderful moment he thought he was going to make it. But the Fairfield quarter spoiled that. He refused to believe in Ted’s move toward the side line and got him firmly about the knees and wouldn’t be kicked loose. And then, when Ted toppled to earth, clutching the ball frenziedly, a pursuing end crashed down upon him and a million stars blazed before Ted’s astonished eyes and he fainted.

When he came around, barely a half-minute later, they were pumping his arms and he had to gasp with the pain of it. Then came Tinker and the water pail and the big, dripping, smelly sponge, and Tinker’s anxious: “Where’d they get you, boy?”

Ted did a lot of thinking in something under a second. Too often already this season had he had to be led off the field. He dared “Tink’s” searching eyes and gasped: “Nowhere ... Tink. I’m ... all right!”

“You’re not! Don’t be telling lies.” Tinker’s crafty fingers went exploring. Up one leg, down another, over the boy’s chest――Ted never flinched. He smiled railingly.

“Let me up, you ninny,” he expostulated. “I’m all right. That fellow knocked the breath out of me, that’s all.”

Tinker doubted and looked it. But he dropped the sponge back into the pail and stood up. “Come on, then,” he commanded. “Let’s see.”

Ted raised himself with his right hand and sprang nimbly enough to his feet, laughing. Tinker grunted, shot a suspicious look, saw no evidences of injury and swooped down on his pail. “All right!” he said. “Go to it!”

It was Moore who gained the next two yards and Moore who lost them again. Farnsworth bucked through past guard for four. It was maddening to be on the eleven yards with only one down left and six to go. Larry hesitated and the enemy jeered. A forward pass was all that would answer, and Staunton’s forwards had signally failed all the afternoon. But what must be must be and Larry gave the signals. It was Farnsworth who remonstrated. Larry listened to his whispers and looked doubtful and finally shook his head. But shaking his head was only camouflage, for the signals were changed. Ted’s heart leaped as he heard them. Then the silence of the portentous instant before the impact, and the signals repeated, and Ted taking the ball on a longish pass from Joyce and springing away to the left, with Moore interfering. Then came the frenzied cry of “_In! In!_” and, sure enough, as Moore went down, a hole opened, and Ted, pivoting, turned toward the goal line. It was only a few yards distant, but the Blue’s backs were flocking to its defense and Ted was already in the midst of them. Arms settled at his waist, but he tore away. Someone crashed into him from behind and he was flung forward, his feet stumbling behind him. They got him then. A hand brushed past his face and thumped down on his left shoulder and Ted gasped and doubled up and went down, vainly, as it seemed, trying to push the pigskin forward as the trampled turf leaped up to meet him. And as he fell he found himself saying to himself in a darkness lurid with whirling stars and meteors: “I won’t faint! I won’t faint!”

He didn’t, but he lay very still when they pulled the foe from him and he had to be fairly lifted to his feet. And when he was on them he could only lean against Farnsworth and whisper gaspingly: “Don’t let go of me, please! Just a minute! Just a minute!” So Farnsworth, grinning happily, for the ball was over the line by three inches, held him up and no one paid much attention to the fact. Presently things stopped whirling madly around in Ted’s world and he groped his way back to the gridiron and dazedly watched while Farnsworth, after much cogitation amidst a great silence, lifted the pigskin straight over the cross-bar!

The quarter ended a moment later and the teams changed places. Staunton fought for time now, as Fairfield had done before, but went to no undue lengths to secure it. She was a point to the good and would have been satisfied had the game ended then and there, but she had also learned the joy of battle and was willing to fight on. Fairfield came back with a desperation that for the first few minutes lifted the home team from her feet. But she rallied on her thirty and took the ball away by a carefully measured two inches and started back again. She could not afford to risk anything now and so it was a case of hit the line and hold the ball. And she did hit it! Moore had to give up, but the eager substitute who took his place made good. Farnsworth still pegged away, as mighty as ever, although when play stopped for a moment he could hardly stand up and Tinker was watching him frowningly from the side of the field. Ted had more chances and played them through, gaining more often than not. But he, too, was almost gone it seemed, and Larry was considerate for what he had already done.

The shadows lengthened and the game drew to its end. Fairfield was still cheering on the stands, still hopeful on the field. A misjudged punt brought a groan of dismay from the Staunton adherents and gave the enemy her opportunity to pull the game from the fire. It was Stirling, the substitute left half, who erred, and of a sudden the enemy was pounding at the Staunton gate. From the twenty-six yards to the fifteen she fought her way in the four downs. There, unwisely, perhaps, scorning a field goal, she raced against the clicking seconds of the timekeeper’s watch and plunged on toward a touchdown. Two yards――three――one――and there were but four to go, with Staunton digging her cleats into the torn turf of the last defense.

The enemy staged a try-at-goal, but Staunton refused to believe in it, and, as it was proved, rightly. For the ball went back to a half instead of the kicker and he sped off toward the left and the line broke and followed him. His run started near the twenty yards and he ran in to the fifteen before he began to circle. By that time the interference was solid about him and when he turned in it seemed that sheer weight of numbers would carry the ball over. The Staunton defenders went down battling gamely, the rush slowed but kept moving. Somewhere in that mêlée was the runner with the precious ball hugged tightly to his body. They were pushing past the ten-yard line now. Cries of exhortation, of despair and of triumph arose above the panting and gasping and the thud of bodies. To the eight yards――to the seven――――.

A brown-legged player picked himself from the turf with distorted face and plunged at the struggling mass. Somehow he penetrated it and was swallowed from sight. And then, wonder of wonders, the forward movement stopped, the mass swayed, gave before the desperate force of the defenders and moved back. From somewhere a faint gasp of “_Down!_” was heard. But already the whistle had blown.

The ball was found just past the six yards. Above it lay a grim-faced Fairfield half-back and above him, one arm, the right, wrapped tenaciously about his knees, lay Ted. And, although they had to fairly pry that arm and its clutching fingers loose, Ted knew nothing about it, for he had fainted again!

The home team rushed once, kicked out of danger and the game was over and the crowds overflowed the field, Staunton cheering ecstatically and wildly as she sought to capture her players. But Ted, over by the bench, knew very little of that. He felt Tinker’s tenderly cruel fingers exploring his left shoulder and he groaned. He didn’t mean to, but he couldn’t help it. And he heard Thornton ask solicitously: “Break, Tink?”

“Sure. Shoulder blade. A nice clean break, too. He did it when they tackled him down near their goal that time. He wouldn’t let on and he had me fooled till I noticed a few minutes ago that he wasn’t using his left arm much!”

“Hm!” said the coach.

“And that ain’t all of it either,” continued the trainer, his fingers still at work. “It feels to me like he’d had trouble there before. There’s a sort of lump――All right, lad, I won’t hurt you any more. You’re a plucky little divil! I’ll say that for you!”

And last of all Ted heard Jack Groom’s voice from a great distance: “And that’s the fellow you said was a quitter!”

Then, following that beastly habit of his, Ted fainted again!

“PUFF”

Tom Burrill drew up in the shade at the side of the road, jumped from the car with a wrench in his hand and, lifting the hood, began to inspect the spark plugs.

He was a healthy, well-built, intelligent-looking boy of seventeen, with a lean, sunburned face. Clear gray eyes, a straight nose, a mouth that showed a sense of humor and a chin that indicated determination were his most noticeable features. He was tall for his years and had the look of one who spends much time out of doors.

The automobile deserves quite as full a description as its owner. It was small, low hung and light in weight――more a cycle car than a full-grown runabout――and was painted a bright red, all except the wheels, which were painted black. Its name was “Puff.” There was no doubt about the name, for it was conspicuously painted in black on the gasoline tank behind the seat.

Tom’s father had proposed calling the car “_E Pluribus Unum_,” since it was decidedly one out of many! Tom had built it himself; he had got the parts at secondhand――here, there and anywhere. The small, two-cylinder, twelve-horse-power engine that supplied the motive power Tom had picked up for a song at a repair shop in Kingston. The body he had built himself, and the engine hood he had had made at the local stamping works. You would never have suspected that under the two coats of brilliant red paint the hood was nothing more than a fair quality of zinc!

The car was air-cooled and chain-driven, and when Tom drove it over rough roads it rattled like half a dozen dish pans. But for all that it could do its thirty miles an hour, and perhaps better were it permitted to! Tom had spent most of his spare time that spring in building the car; but he had had a great deal of pleasure, to say nothing of his final triumph when he made his first trip through Kingston, to the confusion of the scoffers who had predicted failure!

But Puff had its troubles, just as larger and more expensive cars have theirs, and so far that summer much of its life had been spent in the stable, undergoing repairs. If the truth were told, however, Tom got almost as much pleasure out of Puff in the stable as he did out of Puff on the road, for he was never happier than when he was tinkering with machinery.

This morning he had overhauled the little car with more than ordinary care, for he was to make the run to Bristol and back, a matter of forty-eight miles all told. The trip was in the nature of a supreme test of Puff’s endurance. All had gone well until Kingston lay two miles behind. Then Puff had begun to skip and lose power, and Tom had at last been forced to investigate.

The investigation, however, was not very successful; both spark plugs were bright and appeared to be firing perfectly. With a puzzled shake of his head, Tom replaced them and began to survey the wiring. It was at this moment that a sound up the road toward home drew his attention. He had barely time to raise his head and look before a huge touring car raced past him in a cloud of dust.

Yet it did not travel so fast that Tom failed to identify the make. It was a Spalding of the latest model――a big, six-cylinder car painted battleship gray, with bright red wheels. In the big tonneau sat a single passenger, a man in a light gray overcoat and a cloth cap. The chauffeur was in brown livery. All this Tom saw before the car was lost to sight round a bend in the road. It did not, he was sure, belong in Kingston, for there was only one six-cylinder automobile in the town, and that was a Wright. Probably the car belonged in Bristol, for the Spalding factory was in that city. It was doubtless returning from a trip to Kingston, he concluded.

He started his engine again and climbed back to the seat. Puff started off well, and Tom was congratulating himself on having unwittingly repaired the trouble, when again the engine began to miss fire. It seemed very puzzling. His errand made it necessary for him to reach Bristol before the bank closed at twelve, and so he did not dare to spend too much time on the road. As long as Puff made its twenty miles an hour――and it was doing that and more, as the small speedometer showed――he decided that he would keep on. After he had delivered the envelope that was in his pocket at the bank and thus done his father’s errand, he would look for the trouble.

“If I can’t find it,” he said to himself with a smile, “maybe I’ll drop round to the Spalding factory and exchange Puff for one of those ‘six-sixties’! Only,” he added half aloud as he swung round the turn, “they’ll have to give me something to boot!”

The next instant he was staring ahead with interest. Beyond, drawn up at the side of the road, stood the big car. The chauffeur was leaning under the raised hood and the passenger was watching from the car. As Tom approached he slowed Puff down a little. He would have been less than human had he not experienced an instant of mild satisfaction. Puff had cost him something like eighty dollars, whereas the big Spalding, as Tom well knew, was priced at nearly four thousand dollars; and certainly, as far as the quality of “get there” was concerned, the big car was at that moment inferior to the little one.

As Tom approached, he noticed that the man in the gray overcoat looked cross and irritated, and that the chauffeur was worried. It seemed rather ridiculous for him to offer assistance, he reflected, but, nevertheless, he stopped. “I don’t suppose I can be of any help, sir?” he inquired.

The man in the car shook his head impatiently, with only a glance toward him; but the chauffeur, casting a quick and wondering look over the small car and wiping his hands upon a bunch of waste, replied sarcastically, “Not unless you’ve got a spare cylinder.”

“What!” cried the man in the car. “Cylinder gone?”

“Piston’s broken, sir. Thought maybe it was only the valve was stuck or something, but I guess it’s the piston, all right.”

“But jumping cats!” snapped the man in the gray coat. “You can’t mend a broken piston rod!”

“No sir.”

“And she won’t run?”

“No, sir, not to speak of. She’s pushing the charge back into the carburetor. We might limp along about ten miles an hour, Mr. Fletcher, but I shouldn’t like to say that we’d not spoil another cylinder.”

“But I’ve got to get back by eleven! Can we get another car round here?”

“There’s a garage at Kingston, sir. Maybe――――”

“How far back is it?”

“A matter of three miles, I guess.”

“About two and a half,” Tom corrected.

The passenger looked at his watch and frowned impatiently.

“I suppose it would take half an hour to get it,” he said. “It’s 10.18 now and my train leaves at 11.04. There’s less than an hour, and I’ve got to get that train to Chicago. Look here!” He swung round toward Tom. “Will that thing you’ve got there run?”

“Yes, sir,” answered Tom a little coldly. He did not like to have Puff called a “thing”!

“Will, eh?” snapped the man. “Well, there’s fifty dollars in it if you’ll get me to Bristol in time for the 11.04 express. Can you do it?”

Tom shook his head. “No, sir. If it’s 10.18 now, there’s only forty-six minutes and the distance is twenty-two miles. This car can do thirty on good roads, but――――”

“Tut! tut! tut! Any car that can do thirty can do thirty-five if you push it. I tell you I’ll give you fifty dollars if you get me there. Isn’t that enough?”

“Plenty, thanks,” replied Tom quietly. “But I’m not running very well to-day. Something wrong with my plugs, I guess; or maybe it’s the wiring. Anyway――――”

But Mr. Fletcher was already climbing out of his car. “Dennis!” he said sharply. “Bring some spare spark plugs!”

He was across the road in a second. “Get your plugs out,” he ordered Tom, “and see if mine will fit. Get a move on, if you want to earn that fifty.”

Tom hesitated for an instant. Then he said, “I’ll do the best I can, sir.”

By the time the chauffeur had found the new plugs Tom had taken the old ones out. Fortunately, the new ones fitted and the chauffeur quickly screwed them in. As Tom connected the wires, Mr. Fletcher issued directions to the chauffeur.

“Get my bag, Dennis. Put it between my feet here. You stay with the car and I’ll send out and have you towed home. Put it in the shop and tell Morrison to give you something to use while it’s being fixed. Meet the 4.10 to-morrow afternoon. All right, son! Now let’s see what you can do.” He pulled his watch out again. “You’ve got forty-four minutes!”

Tom started the engine, sprang to the seat, threw in the clutch, changed to high speed and bounded gayly off. The seat was narrow and low, and Mr. Fletcher, who was of ordinary height and stockily built, filled his half of it to overflowing.

“Most uncomfortable seat I was ever in!” he exclaimed. “What make of a car is this, for goodness’ sake?”

“Burrill, two-twelve, Model A,” replied Tom gravely, clinging to the wheel as the car swung round the next bend in the road.

“Never heard of it,” said the other. “Won’t it go any faster than this?”

The hand on the speedometer was hovering back and forth round thirty. Tom drew the throttle down another notch and the hand went to thirty-three. The new spark plugs had evidently done the work, for there was never a skip now. Puff was running as smoothly as a Spalding Six!

“That’s better!” grunted the passenger, holding on tight to keep from being jounced out. “If the thing sticks together we may make it. How much do they get for these things?”

“It cost me about eighty dollars,” answered Tom, tooting his horn frantically as he saw a wagon ahead.

“Oh, second-hand, eh?”

“Most of it, sir. I made it myself.”

“Made it yourself!” There was both surprise and admiration in Mr. Fletcher’s tone. “Well, you’re a mechanic, my boy. I’ll apologize for any disparaging remarks I may have made. Sorry if I hurt your feelings.”

“That’s all right,” replied Tom, as he swung almost into the ditch to get round the wagon, the driver of which was fast asleep on the seat. “It isn’t much of a car, but it does pretty well. And I haven’t broken any pistons yet!”

“Hum!” said Mr. Fletcher. “Well, send her along, son. If she’ll keep this up we may make it. By Jove, we’ve got to make it! I wouldn’t miss that appointment in Chicago for a thousand dollars! Let her out another notch. You’ve got a straight road.”

But Tom shook his head. “I’d rather not. We can make it this way if nothing happens.”

Mr. Fletcher grunted. The little car was going at its best speed; to Tom, who was clutching the wheel with strained muscles and intently watching the road ahead, it seemed to leap past the fences as if it were alive.

“So you made this yourself?” Mr. Fletcher said presently. “Must have been something of a job. I’ve made a few myself, but――――”

There was a sharp _crack_! Mr. Fletcher’s side of the car suddenly sank, and he grabbed wildly at Tom in an effort to keep his balance. As Tom set the emergency brake, the car swerved and came to a stop. Tom leaped out and viewed the damage.

“Spring’s busted,” he reported. “I always thought they were too light.”

“Spring, eh? Well, she’ll run, won’t she?”

“Yes, sir, but it’s going to be uncomfortable, because the body’s right down on the axle on your side.”

“H’m, I guess a little more discomfort won’t matter! Let’s get on, let’s get on!”

They went on, with the speedometer wavering round thirty-three miles an hour. Twice Tom had to slow down: once when the road dipped and turned sharply under a railway bridge, and again when they passed through the little village of West Adams. At intervals Mr. Fletcher, carefully releasing his hold on the car, took out his watch and reported the time.

“Ten thirty-eight,” he said, as they speeded up again beyond West Adams. “How much farther?”

“About twelve miles. We’ll do it if――――”

“We’ve got to do it!”

A few minutes later Mr. Fletcher sniffed the air. “She’s heating up, isn’t she? Got water in your radiator?”

“No, sir; she’s air-cooled.”

“Smells like it!”

A long hill rose in front, and Tom pulled down his throttle another notch or two. Puff took the hill flying, and Mr. Fletcher grunted in unwilling admiration.