“There is danger threatening Phil Clinton. Watch for it.”
“There is danger threatening Phil Clinton. Watch for it.”
“Anything wrong?” asked Sid.
“No—no,” spoke Tom slowly, as he tore the note into bits and tossed them into a basket. “It’s just a tip, that’s all, but I guess it doesn’t amount to anything.”
He walked over to the old sofa and sat down.His brain was in a whirl. What danger could threaten Phil? Whence had come the mysterious warning?
“It doesn’t amount to anything,” thought Tom. “If it had, who ever sent it would have signed his name. It’s meant as a joke. I’ll pay no attention to it. I’ll not tell Phil. It might worry him. Besides, I guess he can look out for himself,” and Tom shrugged his shoulders.
Ah, Tom, would you have said that but for what had happened in the last few weeks? But for the fact that Phil and a certain pretty girl had become fast friends? Tom felt those questions arising in his mind, but he put them resolutely from him. He did not want to answer them. He went over to the basket and carefully picked out the torn bits of the note. He thrust them into his pocket. Sid watched him curiously, but said nothing. He thought the note was from some girl.
Phil came in a little later. Tom was busy studying, and hardly looked up; nor did he say anything about the warning he had so mysteriously received.
Out upon the gridiron they trotted; a mass of lads in suits which showed contact with mother earth many times, and which, in places, were marked with blood-stains. The eleven were as full of life as young colts, and some in their exuberance leaped high in the air, putting their hands on the shoulders of their mates. Others turned somersaults, and some gave impromptu boxing exhibitions.
From the grandstand burst a mighty cheer as the Randall supporters greeted their team. The spontaneous shout was followed by the booming of the Randall college cry. Then Bean Perkins, with wild waves of his arm, signaled for the “Rip ’Em Up!” song.
“What a crowd!” murmured Tom as he walked beside Phil. “I never saw such a bunch.”
“Yes, there’s a good mob,” answered Phil, but somehow there was a note of indifference in his voice. He had not failed to notice Tom’s recentchange of demeanor, and it hurt him. Yet he was too proud to speak of it, or ask the reason, though, perhaps, he may have guessed what caused it.
As for Tom, the words of the mysterious warning rang in his ears. Several times he was on the point of speaking to Phil, but he feared he would be laughed at.
“After all,” thought Tom. “I guess all that it amounts to is that some one has heard a rumor that there’ll be an attempt on the part of some Boxer Hall players to knock Phil out. They may think they can cripple him and, without him, our team will go to pieces. But I’ll be on the watch for any dirty playing, and if I catch any one at it I’ll smash him. I’ll do my best to keep Phil from getting hurt.”
But, if Tom had only known, it was a different sort of danger that threatened his friend.
Once more the cheers rang out, the shrill voices of the girls forming a strange contrast to the hoarse voices of the boys and men. For there were many men present, “old grads,” who had come to do honor to Randall, and many others who came, hoping to see Boxer Hall win. Women there were, too; and girls, girls, girls! It seemed that all the pretty students of Fairview Academy were there. They were waving flags and bunches of ribbon—their own college colors mingled with those of Randall, for Fairview was on the side of Randall to-day,in retaliation for a severe drubbing Boxer Hall had administered to the co-educational institution.
“Is—is your sister here?” asked Tom of Phil. He had meant to ask if Madge was present, but somehow the words would not come.
“Yes,” replied his chum. “She and Madge are over in the A section,” and he motioned with his arm to a certain portion of the grandstand. Tom looked, hoping he might distinguish two girls out of a crowd of several hundred. Of course, he could not, and his attention was suddenly called away from this by the sharp voice of the coach.
“Catch some punts, Parsons!” called Mr. Lighton. “After that we’ll line up for practice.”
The Randall eleven was lining up when the Boxer Hall team fairly burst from their dressing-rooms under the east grandstand. What a roar went up as they appeared on the white-marked field! The burst of yells seemed fully to equal the jumble of noise that had been made by the Randallites. For all of Boxer Hall was on hand to cheer mightily for their eleven, and the college was a slight favorite over Randall, who, in years past, had not been known to do anything remarkable on the gridiron.
Encased in their clumsy garments, the Boxer players looked like young giants, and when they lined up and ran through several formations they did it with the precision of clock-work.
“They’ve improved a heap,” was the somewhat dubious remark of Holly Cross.
“So have we!” exclaimed the coach heartily. “We beat them once, and we can do it again. Get that idea into your mind and don’t let go of it.”
“I guess we’ll be all right if Clinton doesn’t have to get out of the game,” spoke the captain.
“Why? Do you think he’ll be hurt?”
“Well, maybe. Boxer Hall sometimes plays a dirty game, and we’ll have to be on the watch. I wish you’d warn the umpire to look out for holding in the line and slugging. They may do it. They’d go to almost any length to win this game. They don’t want to lose the championship.”
“Well, they’re going to!” exclaimed the coach. “But about Clinton; you don’t think he’s any more likely to be hurt than any other player—nor as much, do you? He’s well protected.”
“Yes, I know; but Phil hasn’t been himself for the last two days. I don’t know what it is that’s bothering him, but it’s something. He doesn’t say anything. First I thought it might be a scrap he’d had with Tom, but they’re such good friends I didn’t give that much concern. Then I imagined he might be worrying about his mother, but he told me yesterday that the chances for a successful operation were good. I don’t know what it is, but he’s certainly not himself.”
“Oh, you imagine too much!” declared Mr.Lighton with a laugh. “Clinton is all right. He’s a plucky lad. He’ll play as long as he can stand. Look at that game with Wescott.”
“Yes, I know; but I——”
“Now, you stop worrying. You’re as bad as a girl. But I guess it’s almost time to begin.”
Song after song came from the supporters of the rival colleges. The grandstands were packed to their capacity, and looked like some vast chessboard with many colored squares, the dark garments of the boys mingling with the gay dresses and hats of the girls, and the many-hued ribbons and flags waving over all.
Captain Cross met and shook hands with Captain Stoddard, of Boxer Hall, preliminary to the toss-up. They were to play similar positions—full-back. The coin was sent spinning into the air, and Captain Stoddard won. He elected to defend the south goal, which gave the ball to Randall to kick off. The referee, umpire and linesmen held a final consultation. Captain Cross gathered his men together for a word of encouragement.
“All I’ve got to say,” he remarked simply, “is to play until you can’t play any more.”
“That’s right,” added the coach. “And don’t forget about the possibility of a change in signals being made in the middle of play; nor about the sequences. I’ll depend on you for that, Clinton.”
“All right,” responded Phil.
The field was slowly being cleared of stragglers. The newspaper reporters were getting their paper and pencils ready, and photographers, with their big box-cameras, were snapping individual players as a sort of practice for catching lightning-like plays later on.
Across the field, toward the group of Randall players, came a lad. He walked as if undecided as to his errand.
“Get back,” warned Holly Cross.
“I’ve got a message for a feller named Clinton!” cried the lad.
“There he is over there,” and Holly, who was in conversation with the coach, pointed at Phil. The latter started as he took the envelope from the messenger.
“Who—who gave you this?” asked the quarter-back huskily.
“Feller outside. Give me a half a dollar fer bringin’ it in. Any answer?”
“Wait,” replied Phil. His bronze face was strangely white as he tore the envelope and hastily read the few words on the paper within. He seemed to sway, but, with a catch of his breath, he recovered his composure. He read the message again. A mist seemed to come before his eyes. He murmured to himself: “I mustn’t tell them—until after the game—I—I must play the game out. But—but can I?” He clenched his hands,and his jaw became more square with the force of his teeth closing tightly together.
“Any answer?” asked the lad.
“No!” said Phil in a low voice, and he crushed the telegram in his hand, and thrust the rustling paper inside his jacket.
The lad turned to go, anxious to get a place where he could view the game. None of Phil’s companions seemed to have noticed that he had received a message. He looked around at his chums.
“I—I’ve got to play the game,” he murmured.
The next instant the whistle blew.
“Line up!” came the cry, and Snail Looper, holding the new yellow ball, placed it on a little mound of earth ready for the kick-off.
With a mighty swing of his foot Snail Looper sent the ball well into Boxer territory. Lamson, their right half-back, caught it in his arms, and, with a good defense, began to rush back with it. Over the chalk-marks he came, but Tom Parsons was rushing toward him, and dodging through the intervening players he made a vicious tackle, bringing Lamson to the ground with a thud on Boxer’s thirty-eight-yard line. There was a quick line-up, and Stoddard, the full-back, made a good try to encircle Joe Jackson at right end. But the Jersey twin and his mates piled up on the mass of Boxer players with such good effect that hardly three yards were gained; and at this showing of the defense of Randall a punt was decided on.
Pinstock, Boxer’s left half-back, made a magnificent drive, and Holly Cross had to skip nimbly back to catch it. But once he had the pigskin in his grasp he eluded the Boxer ends, and was well toward the center of the field before he was downed.
“Our ball!” cried Tom gleefully, and then there came the chance for Randall to show what she could do.
“Signal!” cried Phil, and his companions wondered at the odd note that had crept into his voice. It was not of the confident style of orders that the quarter-back was wont to give. But, as the string of numbers and letters came rattling out, Phil, in a measure, recovered control of himself. He gave the word for Kindlings to take the ball at Boxer’s left-end, and smash! into the line went the brawny right half-back. He gained ten yards so quickly that Boxer Hall was fairly stunned, and when Holly Cross ripped out eight yards additional the crowd of Randall supporters were in a mad frenzy of delirious joy.
“Swat ’em! Swat ’em! We have got ’em!” howled Bean Perkins, and forth from hundreds of throats came booming that song.
Grasshopper Backus and Dutch Housenlager opened a great hole between their opposite guard and tackle, and into this breach Jerry Jackson was pulled and hurled for several yards, until he fell under a crushing weight of husky players at Boxer’s thirty-yard-line. Once more Phil’s voice sang out in a signal, and back he snapped the ball to Holly Cross, who, like some human battering ram, went through for five yards more. It looked as if Randall was going right down the field for a touch-down,and Bean Perkins and his cohorts rendered the “Down the Line” song with good effect.
A touch-down might have resulted from the next play, but unfortunately for Randall Jerry Jackson made a fumble, and in their anxiety several of his mates held in the line. There was a prompt penalty enforced, and back to the forty-yard line the pigskin was taken, where it was turned over to Randall for another try. Randall’s hard work had not gained her much, and there was an ominous silence on the part of the cheering throng. Once more came rushing tactics, and they succeeded so well that in two downs the ball was carried to Boxer’s thirty-yard line. Then Holly Cross decided to try for a field goal, but the wind carried it to one side, and his mates groaned. So did Bean Perkins and his comrades.
“Isn’t that a shame!” exclaimed Madge Tyler to Ruth Clinton.
“Hush, Madge!” answered Ruth. “I want to watch the game. I can’t talk. I want to see what Phil does. I’m afraid he’ll be hurt.”
“Aren’t you worried about Tom Parsons, too?”
“Yes—of course. Aren’t you?”
“Not so much.”
Ruth looked at her friend sharply, but there was no time for further talk, as Boxer had brought out the ball to their twenty-five-yard line, and elected to line up with it instead of punting. At Randall’sline they came, smashing with terrific force, but so well did Holly and his players hold that only four yards were made. Another attempt brought even less gain, and then Boxer had to kick. Kindlings saw the ball coming toward him, and managed by a desperate effort, to get it in his arms. Back he rushed to the forty-three-yard line, where he fell under a human mountain.
The first play tried by Randall after this was a forward pass, and the ball went out of bounds. Holly Cross kicked a twisting punt, and when Lamson, the Boxer right half, caught it, Tom Parsons downed him almost in his tracks, so swiftly did the left-end get down under the kick.
“Go through ’em!” implored Captain Stoddard to his men, and at the line they came smashing with crushing force. For the first time since the play had begun Randall seemed to give way. Holes were torn in her line, and through the openings the backs came rushing. They had gained fifteen yards, in almost as good style as had Randall in the initial play, when they varied the smashing work by a try around Tom’s end. But he was alert, and got his man in the nick of time. Another try at center failed to result in a gain, and Boxer Hall had to kick.
Jerry Jackson rushed the ball back for a good distance, and then, with a fierceness that the Boxer Hall lads could not seem to withstand, Randallcame at their line, going through for substantial gains on every try.
“That’s the stuff! That’s the stuff!” cried Dutch Housenlager during a breathing spell, when one of the Boxer Hall players had to be walked about to recover his wind. “Eh, Phil? Aren’t we putting it all over them?”
“I—I guess so,” answered Phil, and he passed his hand over his head as if he was dazed.
“Somebody hit you?” asked Tom, blaming himself for not having kept a closer watch over his chum.
“No—no; I’m all right.”
The injured player limped back into line, and the game went on. Smash! bang! came the Randall players, and they went up to the ten-yard line with scarcely a stop. In vain did the cohorts of Boxer Hall implore them to brace. It seemed that they could not. But, just as it looked for all the world as if the ball would be carried over by Holly Cross, for it was decided to smash through and not kick, the brace did come, and the Randall players had to give up the pigskin. In a jiffy Captain Stoddard had punted out of danger. There was an exchange of kicks, and it ended with Boxer getting the ball on her forty-yard line.
Then, all at once, a new spirit seemed infused into her players. They came at Randall with a viciousness that argued well for their spirit. Itwas rough work, not noticeable, perhaps, but Tom felt that what he feared was about to happen; that some plan was afoot to injure Phil. He played in as far as he dared, but the opposite end was constantly drawing him out.
At the line came Lamson, the Boxer right-half. He ripped out five yards, bowling over Sam Looper with such force that the Snail had to have a little medical treatment. He barely recovered in the two minutes, and was a bit wobbly when the attack was again directed at him. But Holly Cross and Jerry Jackson leaped in to his aid, and stopped the advance. Then Boxer went around right-end, and had ten yards before they were stopped. The game looked to be going the other way now, and there were strained looks on the faces of the Randall players and their supporters. As for the cheering contingent of Boxer Hall, they made the air ring with their song: “It’s Time We Did a Little Business Now!”
“Don’t let ’em get through you. Hold ’em! Hold ’em!” cried Holly. “Brace up, boys!”
Randall tried to, but Boxer had found a weak place between Snail Looper and Grasshopper Backus, and kept hammering away at it, until they had advanced the ball to the fifteen-yard line. Then Boxer Hall played a neat trick. There was every indication that a try for a field goal was about to be made, and Holly Cross got back. Instead,there was a double pass, and a play between tackle and right-end. Through the Randall line burst Frothon, the right-tackle, with the ball tucked under his arm. Holly Cross saw him just in time, and made a dive for him. But the Randall full-back’s foot slipped, and he went down, making a vain grab for Frothon, who sped on, and planted the ball behind the goal posts. Boxer Hall had made the first touch-down, and the crowd of supporters went wild, while there was corresponding gloom on the grandstands where Randallites were gathered. The goal was missed, and a scrimmage had hardly begun after the next kick-off before the whistle blew. The half was up.
What a buzz of excitement there was in the grandstands! Every one seemed talking at once.
“That was hard lines,” remarked Ford Fenton to Sid, next to whom he was sitting. “If our fellows had only been a little quicker then, this would never have happened. My uncle says——”
“Fenton!” exclaimed Sid so fiercely that Ford almost turned pale, “if you mention ‘uncle’ again during this game, I’ll throw you off the grandstand,” and, as Fenton was rather high up, he concluded to keep quiet.
There was despondency in the quarters of the Randall players, where they gathered between the halves. Gloom sat upon the brow of every one, and the cheery words of the coach could not seem to dispel it.
“There’s only one touch-down against you,” he said. “You always play better uphill than down. Go at ’em now, and tear them apart! They play a fierce game, but you can play a fiercer! Are any of you hurt? How about you, Looper?”
“Oh, I’m all right now. It was only my wind. I’ve got it back. They won’t get through me again,” declared the Snail.
“I hope not. You’re too fat; that’s what’s the trouble. How are you holding out, Clinton?” and the coach turned anxiously to the quarter-back. Phil was pacing up and down the dressing-room. There was a strained look on his face, and his hand was inside his blouse, where his fingers touched acrumpled paper. He did not seem to have heard Mr. Lighton’s question. The coach repeated it.
“Me? Why, I—I guess I can last the game out,” said Phil slowly.
“Last the game out? Why, are you hurt?” The coach was a bit disturbed.
“No. Of course not. It was just my way of speaking. It’s all right—it’s all right,” and Phil resumed his pacing of the narrow quarters.
“Guess he feels that we’re going to lose,” whispered Dutch Housenlager to Tom. But Tom shook his head. There was something else the matter with Phil, and he wondered what it was.
“Do you think they’re on to our signals?” asked Holly Cross.
“No,” said Phil shortly. “There’s no need to change them. I’ll use the same ones.”
“Time’s almost up,” remarked the coach, looking at his watch for about the fifth time within two minutes.
To the lads it seemed as if they had not had more than a minute’s respite, but they were ready for the fray again, and there was an eagerness in the manner in which they leaped out on the gridiron which betokened that snappy playing would follow.
Nor was it long in coming. When Boxer Hall kicked off, amid the chorus of a spirited song, Kindlings caught the ball, and came back with iton such a rush, and so well protected by his teammates, that he got past the center of the field before he was downed. Then at the line went the Randall lads. Smashing through it, there was no stopping them. Right up the field they came, surprising even their own coach by their steady advance. Phil was handling the players with a skill he had never shown before. Play after play he called for, and the lads responded with vim. Even a risky on-side kick was tried and was successful. Then a forward pass netted fifteen yards, and with joy in their hearts the Randall lads saw themselves approaching their opponent’s goal-line.
“Now, boys, play like Trojans!” cried Phil heartily, this being the signal for four sequence plays. They were ripped off one after the other, so quickly that, as Holly Cross said, “it made the hair of the Boxers stand up.” For, almost before the visitors were aware of it, though they tried their best to stem the human tide, the ball was only a few feet from the line.
“Touch-down! Touch-down! Touch-down!” implored the cheering throng.
“Touch-down it shall be!” whispered Phil fiercely, and he snapped the ball to Holly Cross, who went through like a battering ram. There was a mass of players on top of him, the ball and the line. Not until they got up could it be seen if the pigskin was over. The referee rushed in. Slowlythe players disentangled. The ball was over the line!
“Touch-down!” fairly screamed Tom Parsons. “Touch-down!”
His cry was echoed from the Randall grandstands, and Dutch Housenlager began a dance around the team, carrying Holly Cross, Grasshopper and the Jersey twins with him.
“Kick the goal, and we’ll be one point ahead of them!” cried Bricktop Molloy to Holly. “Put all the power ye have to spare into your toe, me lad, and boost the ball over.”
“I’ll try,” promised the captain, but the wind had increased, and the pigskin struck the bar and bounded back. But the score was tied, and Randall felt that she was coming into her own.
“Fast and snappy play, now!” called Phil Clinton, and once more he passed his hand over his head. There was an air of desperation about him, and Tom noticed it.
“Maybe he’s feeling sick,” he thought, and he hurried over to his chum and asked him.
“I don’t feel just right,” answered Phil. “But I’m not sick. I’m all right. Don’t say anything. We’re going to win. We’re going to win!” he repeated fiercely. “I’m going to run the team to another touch-down. After that—after that,” he faltered—“well, it doesn’t matter, after that.”
The ball was kicked off. An exchange of puntsfollowed the scrimmage, and Boxer Hall got the ball. Her players began some good work, but Randall was ready for it. Several of the best men were tackled so hard, though not unfairly, that time had to be taken out for them to recover. Then Pinstock had to retire because of a twisted ankle, but, to offset this, Jerry Jackson was knocked out and Everet took his place.
For a few minutes it seemed as if Boxer Hall was going up the field for another touch-down, but Randall braced in time. Then a sudden change appeared to come over Phil. He had been playing for all he was worth, but now he seemed a perfect whirlwind as he called snappily to his men to take the ball through. And they did it. Through holes torn first on one side between tackle and guard, or guard and center, and then on the other wing, Everet, Holly Cross or Kindlings butted their way. Phil varied this with some end runs and then called for his favorite play, the fake right-half back and tackle shift, when Kerr took the ball on the fly and went through the opposite side of his opponents’ line with it. The play netted fifteen yards, and placed the ball on Boxer Hall’s twenty-yard line.
The time was fast drawing to a close. Could Boxer hold the line sufficiently to prevent Randall from scoring again, making the game a tie? Orcould Randall break through? Those were the questions every one was asking.
“Now, fellows, for the ‘Conquer or Die’ song,” called Bean Perkins, and during a silence that followed a brief consultation between Phil and Holly Cross there welled out over the gridiron the inspiring strains of “Aut Vincere Aut Mori!”
“Signal!” cried Phil, and he gave one for a forward pass. He got the ball off in good shape, but Nottingham, the burly guard of Boxer Hall, broke through, and jumped right at the quarter-back, hoping to break up the play. Phil went down under him, and when Kindlings had been stopped, after a few yards’ advance, the quarter-back did not get up.
“Phil’s hurt!” cried Tom, and his heart reproached him for keeping quiet about the warning. “That was done on purpose!”
There was a rush to where Phil lay. Nottingham was bending over him.
There was a rush to where Phil lay“There was a rush to where Phil lay”
“By Jove, old man!” he exclaimed contritely. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. Hope I didn’t tackle you too hard.”
He began rubbing Phil’s hands. Holly Cross passed his fingers over the quarter-back’s head.
“He got a nasty bump!” he exclaimed. “Bring some water.”
The cold fluid revived the injured lad. He struggled to get up.
“Lie still!” insisted the captain.
“I’m—I’m all right,” replied Phil, though faintly. “My head hit a stone, I guess. Give me a little water, and I’ll go on with the game!”
“He’s got pluck!” exclaimed Nottingham admiringly, but neither he nor any of the others knew the full extent of the quarter-back’s pluck. “I’m awfully sorry, old man,” went on Nottingham, who was one of the best fellows in the world. “I didn’t mean to come at you so hard.”
“That’s all right,” spoke Phil gently, and he tried to smile. “We’re going to beat you for that.”
He got to his feet inside the required two minutes.
“Signal!” he cried, but there was lacking in his tones some of his old-time vigor. He called for a play between guard and tackle. Right at Nottingham the play was directed, and Dutch Housenlager was to make it—big Dutch, who seemed to be all bone, muscle and sinew. A gleam was in Phil’s eyes as he gave the last letter of the signal.
There were but four yards to go to make a touch-down. Could Randall do it? “They must do it! They would do it!” Phil was deciding for the whole team. He felt that they must make that distance, if he had to carry the entire eleven on his shoulders. Snail Looper was about to snap the ball back. Boxer Hall was bracing as she had never braced before. It was now or never. IfRandall got a second touch-down it would mean practically that she would win the game and the championship.
Back came the ball. Phil passed it to Dutch, and up against the solid wall of flesh went the big right-tackle. You could almost hear the impact over in the grandstand. Behind him were his mates. In front of him, pulling and hauling on him, were more of them. On either side were the Boxer Hall players, who had been torn from their places to make a hole. From either side they came leaping in to stop the gap—to stop the advance of the man with the ball. On and on struggled Dutch. He felt that he was not himself—that he was but a small part of that seething, struggling mass—an atom in a crushing, grinding, whirling, heaving, boiling caldron of human beings. Breaths were coming short and quick, eyes were flashing. It was push and shove, haul, slip, stumble. Player was piled on player. Tom Parsons and the other ends were on the outside. Holly Cross was pushing and shoving, glad if he felt the mass in front of him give but the fraction of an inch.
Then, from somewhere beneath that mass of humanity, came the voice of Dutch Housenlager.
“Down!” he called faintly.
The heaving human hill slowly settled down, aswhen the fire is withdrawn from under a boiling kettle.
The whistle blew. Slowly the mass was disintegrated. Sore, bruised, scratched; bleeding some of them, lame most of them, desperately anxious all of them, the players fell apart. Dutch was lying on his face, his big back arched. The ball was not to be seen. Had there been a fumble? The goal line passed beneath the stomach of the big tackle. Slowly he arose, and then such a shout as rent the air.
For the ball was under him! It was over the line! He had made the touch-down!
Oh, how the stands vibrated with the yells, the cheers, the songs, the delirious leaping up and down, the stamping of feet and the clapping of hands! How the Fairview girls shrilly screamed their college cry! How it was caught up, swallowed and silenced by the booming cheers from the Randall cohorts!
For Randall had won. Even if she could not kick the goal, she had won, as there remained but one minute more of play. But the goal was kicked. Holly Cross saw to that, and then, with a final, useless kick-off, and after the final whistle had blown, the Randall players gathered together, their arms about each other, and cheered heartily and mightily for the victory.
Dutch was hoisted to the shoulders of his matesprotestingly, and carried about. The Boxer Hall eleven was cheered, and they gave back a perfunctory, complimentary yell for their opponents. They had been beaten where they hoped to win. Beaten twice in the season by their former victims. It was humiliating.
“Here!” cried Holly Cross. “Up with Phil Clinton. He piloted the team to victory!”
“That’s right!” shouted Bricktop. “Up with him!”
But Phil was running toward the grandstand at top speed; toward the A section where, he had told Tom, Madge and Ruth sat.
“He’s hurrying to receive the congratulations of Madge,” thought Tom bitterly.
Holly Cross took after the fleeing quarter-back.
“Come here!” he cried.
“Can’t,” answered Phil desperately, and the captain saw that his face was drawn and strained.
“Why not?” demanded Holly.
“Because—read that!” and Phil held out a crumpled telegram. Slowly Holly deciphered it:
“Come at once. Your mother is dying.”
“Come at once. Your mother is dying.”
It was signed with Phil’s father’s name.
“When did you get this?” asked the captain slowly, while the other players gathered about.
“It came just—just before the game,” answeredPhil. “I must go—and get my sister. We must start for Florida—at once.”
“Just before the game?” said Holly in a low voice. “Just before the game? And you played, knowing that—that your mother was—was——”
Holly faltered. There was a huskiness in his voice.
“I played the game,” said Phil simply. “I—I didn’t want to tell you fellows, for fear you’d put a substitute in. But I’m going, now,” and he turned toward the grandstand.
“Talk about pluck!” exclaimed Holly Cross. “If that isn’t the best exhibition of it, I never want to hear of any.”
“Pluck!” murmured Bricktop Molloy. “He’s pluck personified. Poor Phil!” and the big left-guard turned aside. Slowly Phil’s mates watched him making his way to where his sister sat. The gridiron was swarming with spectators now. Bean Perkins came running over.
“We’ll have a great celebration to-night!” he cried to the players and the substitutes.
“No!” said Holly Cross simply.
“Why not?”
“Because Phil’s mother is dying. He’s got to go to her.”
Up the grandstand leaped Phil. Tom had hurried after him, ready to do what he could to aidhis chum to get a train. Phil saw Ruth and Madge together. At the sight of her brother Ruth cried:
“Oh, Phil, wasn’t it glorious? I’m so glad you won! Why—wh—what’s the matter?” she gasped at the sight of his pale face.
“Mother!” he exclaimed huskily. “Didn’t—haven’t you a telegram?”
“Yes. Did you get one, too?” and she fumbled in her muff. “Oh, Phil, I’m so happy! She’s all better! The operation was a success, and she’s going to get well! I got mine just before the game, and I supposed you did, too. I was waiting for you to come to me, but I guess you didn’t have a chance. Oh, I’m so glad!” and she threw her arms around her brother’s neck.
“Going to get well? Operation a success? Why, I—I didn’t get a telegram like that!” exclaimed Phil in bewilderment.
“There’s mine,” said Ruth, producing it. “I left word to forward any that might come to Fairview to me here. I gave the number of my seat here to the Fairview operator, and I got the message just before play began. But didn’t you get yours?”
Before Phil could answer a diminutive messenger boy pushed his way through the crowd.
“Is dis Phil Clinton?” he asked boldly.
“That’s me,” replied Phil quickly, but he hardly knew what he said.
“Den here’s a message fer youse. I tried t’ git it t’ youse before de game, but de cop wouldn’t let me in on de grass. So I stayed and seen de scrap. Hully chee! But it was a peach! I’m glad youse fellers won. Sign dere!” and the lad held out his book with the message in.
As in a dream Phil signed, and then tore open the envelope. The message was a duplicate of the one his sister had.
“Any answer?” asked the lad, as he gazed in admiration at Phil, and Tom, who stood close beside him. “Hully chee! But youse is husky brutes,” spoke the modern Mercury, but it was only his way of properly admiring the football heroes.
“Yes, there’s an answer,” said Phil, and he scribbled on a piece of paper a bystander thrust into his hand this telegram:
“Dear Dad: Best news I ever got! We won the game!”
“Dear Dad: Best news I ever got! We won the game!”
And he signed it with the names of his sister and himself.
“May I add my good wishes, not only on the recovery of your mother, but on the way you played the game?” asked Madge, blushing, and holding out her hand to Phil. He clasped her fingers in his.
“Same here!” cried Tom, as he caught a roguish glance from the eyes of Ruth. “Oh, but I’m glad for your sake, old man!” and he gave Phil such a clap on the back as to make the teeth of the quarter-back clatter. “I’m so glad!”
“I know you are,” said Phil simply, and as he shook hands with his chum he knew, somehow, that the little cloud that had come between them had passed away.
“Tra, la, la! Merrily do we sing and dance!” cried Tom in the exuberance of his feelings. “Come down on the field, Phil, Madge, Ruth, and we’ll play ‘Ring Around the Rosy’!”
Laughingly they descended with him, and added to the merriment of the throng by gaily circling about in it.
But, with all his joy, Phil was puzzled. Where had the first telegram come from? Had it been a mistake? Had the operator blundered? He said nothing to his sister about the message received just before the game.
The good news quickly spread among the Randall players, and they soon arranged for a celebration. A big fire was kindled, on it were thrown their football suits, for the season was over, and then the champion eleven broke training. A dinner was served that night in the gymnasium, and many girls from Fairview, including Ruth and Madge, attended.
“But I can’t understand where this message came from,” Phil was saying to Tom and Sid a few hours later in their room. “Jove, but it almost knocked me out when I got it! But I knew I had to play the game.” He was examining the telegram he had first received.
“Let’s see that message,” said Sid, and he scanned it closely. “That’s a fake!” he said suddenly.
“A fake!” repeated Tom and Phil.
“Yes. There’s no check number on it. No message is ever sent out without a check number on it. This never came over the wire. Some one got hold of a receiving blank and an envelope, and played this brutal trick. Maybe it was one of the Boxer Hall fellows. He wanted to get your nerve, so you’d drop out of the game.”
“I don’t believe it was a Boxer Hall chap,” said Phil.
“Then it was some one who had a grudge against you,” insisted Sid. “We can inquire at the telegraph office and find out, maybe.”
Tom uttered an exclamation. He had suddenly thought of the mysterious warning he had received. Quickly he brought out the torn pieces of paper. He saw it all now. The warning had been intended to cover the telegram—not a physical danger, but a mental one. Rapidly he explained how he got the note.
“I didn’t say anything to you, Phil,” he concluded, “because I was—I was afraid you’d laugh at me. And I kept my eyes open in the game.”
“I understand,” spoke the quarter-back. “But who sent this warning?”
Sid was eagerly examining it, for Tom had pasted the torn pieces together.
“I have it!” cried Sid. “Langridge sent this!”
“How do you know?” came from Phil and Tom at once.
“Because that’s the kind of paper he uses. It has a peculiar water-mark. I’ll show you. I have an old baseball note I got from him last term.”
Sid brought out his note. The two were compared. The paper was exactly similar, and there were even some characteristic similarities in the writing, though one was in script and the other printed.
“Langridge sent this,” decided Sid, and the others agreed with him.
“Then who sent the fake telegram?” inquired Phil.
“Gerhart, for all the world!” exclaimed Sid. “The cad! To play such a brutal trick!” Sid caught up his cap.
“Where are you going?” asked Tom.
“I’m going to confront him with this evidence, and have him run out of college!” burst out Sid. “This ends his course!”
But Gerhart had anticipated what was coming, when he saw that the cruel telegram he had sent Phil had had no effect, and that the plucky quarter-back continued playing. He evidently knew the game was up, and fled. For, when Sid called at the fashionable eating club, where Gerhart and Langridge had recently taken a room, he found only the former ’varsity pitcher there.
“Where’s Gerhart?” asked Sid savagely.
“Gone,” said Langridge, and he began to shake. He trembled more when Sid threw down the incriminating evidence, and blurted out the story.
“It’s all true,” confessed Langridge. “Gerhart stole the telegraph blank and an envelope, while I kept the agent busy talking about some money I expected to get. Gerhart made me go in the scheme with him, but I—I couldn’t stand it, and I sent Tom the tip. I’m done with Gerhart. He faked the message to Phil and hired a boy to deliver it. I’m through with him!”
“I should think you would be!” burst out Sid, walking about the room. It was in confusion, for Gerhart had hurriedly departed. Sid’s eye saw a bottle on the closet shelf. “What’s this, Langridge?” he asked. “Why, it’s liniment! The same kind Phil had, and which stiffened my hand! How did it get here? It’s the same bottle that was broken—no, it can’t be, yet there’s the same blot on the label. How in thunder——”
Then Langridge confessed to that trick of Gerhart’s also.
“He ought to be tarred and feathered!” cried the angry Sid. “If I had him here! But you’re almost as bad, Langridge. You helped him!”
“I know it. I’m going to leave college, if you’ll only keep still about this. Will you?” pleaded the cringing lad.
“Yes; for the sake of the college, not for you,” spoke Sid, and that is how only the three chums knew the real story of the dastardly meanness of the two cronies. They thought they were well rid of their enemies, but they were mistaken. Those of you who care to read further of the happenings at Randall College may do so in the next book, to be called “Batting to Win.” In that volume we shall meet all our friends again, and learn what Sid did during the greatest baseball game of the next season, and when the collegiate championship hung in the balance.
“Well, it’s all over but the shouting,” said Phil to his chums, as they sat in their room that night. From without came the joyous cries of those who were celebrating the football victory.
“All but putting a bronze tablet in the gym, to commemorate the pluck you showed,” added Tom.
“Aw, forget it!” spoke Phil, as he got into a more comfortable position on the creaking sofa.“Anybody would have done the same to see his team win.”
“Maybe,” said Sid softly as he got up from the easy chair to look at his favorite football picture.
Then came a silence in the room, and the fussy little alarm clock had matters all to itself. It ticked away at a great rate.
Tom, who had been standing near the window, crossed to the opposite wall, and stood before the picture of a laughing girl. Phil saw him, smiled, and then, he, too, slowly arose from the decrepit sofa and went closer to a photograph of another girl. Thus the three stood, and the clock ticked on with quick, impatient strokes, and not a word was spoken.
THE END
THE COLLEGE SPORTS SERIES
By LESTER CHADWICK
12mo. Cloth. Illustrated. Jacket in Colors
Price per volume, $1.00, postpaid