"Dick, I'm so sorry."
It was Paul Drew who spoke, and he limped around the room where his chum sat staring gloomily out of the window into a mist of rain. The weather was in keeping with the hearts of the cadets of Kentfield academy.
"It was tough, wasn't it, Dick?"
"It was—very. I suppose I counted too much on winning that game. Others didn't seem so much to matter. But Blue Hill——"
"I know, Dick," and Paul spoke softly. "But they didn't play fair."
"That's what lots of the fellows say, and I saw you hit once. I've no doubt but what there was more slugging—but that doesn't excuse us for not winning."
"No, of course not, but——"
Paul was interrupted by a knock on the door. "Come in," called Dick, but there was no welcome in his tones.
"Say, old man, you act as though your best girl had sent back your letters unopened!" exclaimed Ray Dutton as he came in, wearing a bandage on his head, where he had been kicked in that last heart-breaking attack on the Blue Hill goal line. "Don't be so down and out about it. Kentfield has lost before, and lived through it."
"Yes, I suppose so," and Dick turned aside from the contemplation of the gloomy weather outside. "But it—hurts."
"Of course it does, but all is not lost yet. We have a chance for the championship."
"A mighty poor one."
"Well, it's a chance, isn't it? If we hadn't had so many men knocked out we could have won, even at that. Blue Hill made one touchdown against us by straight playing. We were about to do the same to her. Then they got one on a fumble. It was my fault for being so silly as to be knocked out, but——"
"It wasn't your fault at all!" cried Dick. "No one could have played better than you did. That whack on the head was enough to bowl anyone over."
"Yes, I guess it was," admitted Ray, as he gently felt of a lump the bandage covered.
"And the way they handled Paul was rotten," went on the captain.
"Oh, I'm not kicking," declared the plucky guard. "I'll be ready for 'em next time."
"I'm glad there is a next time," spoke Dick. "How do we stand, anyhow?"
"There are several games yet," said Dutton, "and we can win most of them easily. The only hard ones are with Mooretown and the next one with Blue Hill. That's the last, and we need to win that and the Mooretown contest to get the championship."
"It's a big contract," said the young millionaire with a sigh.
"Oh, brace up!" cried Dutton as cheerfully as he could. "Here come some of the fellows. Don't let 'em see you in the dumps, Dick."
Our hero tried to look cheerful, but it was hard work. Several of his players filed in. It was the day after the defeat by Blue Hill and there were sore bodies as well as sore hearts, for there had been more men knocked out in that desperate conflict than in any previous one. And, so said the senior cadets, there was no game ever played by Kentfield in all the years of her history that was more fiercely fought.
"Blue Hill has the best team in years," said Innis Beeby.
"So have we!" cried Jim Watkins.
"Granted, and we're going to be the champions," went on the big guard. "But it sure does make me sore to be licked after we practically made all our preparations to do Blue Hill."
Dick brightened up when he saw that he was not the only one who took the defeat to heart, and the talk drifted to the various incidents of the game. It was agreed that Blue Hill had not played exactly fair in a number of instances, but it was decided to keep quiet about this.
"They'll say we're soreheads if we kick," said Paul.
"I know one 'sorehead,'" remarked Ray with a grimace as he felt of his wound. "But wait until next time!"
The two coaches were disappointed but not discouraged. They had hoped, not only for their own prestige, but for the sake of the team, that Blue Hill would be defeated.
"But I'm glad there's another chance at them," remarked Mr. Martin grimly to his colleague.
"Yes, I fancy Blue Hill will have to bring along plenty of substitutes when we meet them again," and Mr. Spencer smiled.
"Oh, the next game is at their grounds, you know."
"Well, that isn't so good for our chances, but even at that I have no fear of the result. If we can get our boys into shape, and their injuries heal, I would be willing to stake a good sum on our side, if I were a betting man."
Porter was one of the disappointed ones, because he had lost a large sum of money on the result. He talked much about it, and even seemed inclined to blame Dick for the defeat.
"If he had let me go in earlier they wouldn't have gained so much on us," he said boastfully.
"Oh, get out!" cried Dutton in disgust. "Why, one of the biggest gains they made was around your end, and it resulted in a touchdown.
"Well, my foot slipped."
"And I guess the fellow's did who kicked me," said Ray grimly. "But don't make any cracks like that Porter. You're no better than the rest of us."
"I'm not saying I am, but I want to play from the start of the game next time."
He importuned Dick to this end, as soon as active practice was resumed, but Tom Coleton was again available and the captain did not feel like displacing him.
"He'd better look out, or I'll fix him!" threatened Porter to his crony Weston.
"What do you mean?"
"Dick Hamilton. He ought to let me play. I'll get square somehow."
"Oh, I wouldn't talk that way," said Weston weakly. He wanted to be loyal to his team, yet he was under obligations to Porter for he owed him a large sum of money. "You wouldn't do anything mean, would you?" he asked.
"Why doesn't Hamilton let me play then?" inquired Porter, not answering the question.
"I don't know. You may have a chance for one half of the Mooretown game."
"I want to play the whole game—not half, and if I get knocked out it's my fault. But I'd like to see the fellow try to do any funny business with me," and Porter shot out his jaw aggressively. He was quite a boxer in an amateur way.
"Well, don't do anything rash," cautioned his crony, but Porter walked off, muttering to himself.
Gradually the soreness and stiffness of the players wore off toward the end of the week and they were practicing with their usual vim. Though many had been on the hospital list, almost the entire Varsity was available for a game the next Saturday, when one of the league contests was played with Ralston Academy. Kentfield won easily, and further clinched her chances for being the champion. But the hardest games—those of Blue Hill and Mooretown were yet to come.
Of Mooretown, Dick had no fear as to the result, but Blue Hill was another matter. Still he strengthened his heart when he saw his men in vigorous practice.
"They certainly are a great team!" he exulted, "and they are as hard as nails."
Even in the gloom of defeat and in the preparation for gridiron battles yet to come, Dick had not forgotten his father's troubles. He kept in communication with Mr. Hamilton, and learned that matters were temporarily at a standstill.
"They can't get the controlling lot of stock from Mr. Duncaster, and neither can I," wrote Dick's father. "So matters stand. But I have a new plan. I am coming to Kentfield soon, and I'll see that obstinate gentleman myself."
"Dad coming here!" cried Dick in delight as he read the letter to Paul. "I hope he's in time for the Mooretown game."
Mr. Hamilton arrived at Kentfield the day before the game with Mooretown. Dick welcomed his parent enthusiastically, and introduced him to all his chums, with whom the millionaire was soon on friendly terms.
"You'll have a chance to see us play, dad!" cried the captain. "You'll go Mooretown with us; won't you?"
"To see you beaten?" asked Mr. Hamilton quizzically.
"Not much! We'll wipe up the gridiron with them!" cried Ray Dutton. "We've got to, if we want that loving cup," he added with a laugh, "and Blue Hill, too."
"Well, I guess I'll come," assented Dick's father. "But I have some business to transact first."
"I'm afraid you won't transact much of it," spoke Dick in a low voice. "Mr. Duncaster is very obstinate."
"How are you going to Mooretown?" inquired Mr. Hamilton.
"By special train. Our manager has arranged for one. I did think of autos, but the roads are pretty poor and then we want to take a big crowd with us to 'root' for a win. So we'll go by train."
"Then I'll come along. Now tell me about this Mr. Duncaster," and Dick proceeded to do so, detailing his own visit, and that of Mr. Larabee.
"Hum! A hard man to do business with. Still I've got to try, for it means a lot to me," and Mr. Hamilton sighed. Dick noticed with regret that his father's face was much more wrinkled than it had been, and the gray hairs were more numerous.
"The strain is telling on him," mused the lad. "I wonder what would happen if he lost all his money—and if I lost mine," for of late Dick had transferred most of his funds to his father, to use in the electric road deal. In fact most of the Hamilton fortune was now tied up in that line.
"But I guess dad will make out," concluded our hero. "He has been in tight places before, and has always pulled through."
Mr. Hamilton set off to see Enos Duncaster, and Dick made his father promise to take dinner with him that night at the Sacred Pig where an impromptu spread had been arranged in honor of the visit of the millionaire. Major Webster Colonel Masterly, and several of the academy faculty had promised to attend.
"It won't be much on the 'eat' line for you fellows and me," Dick had warned them, "we can't break training until after we have wiped out the disgrace of the Blue Hill defeat, and that won't be for two weeks. Then we'll have a feast that is a feast."
"Good!" cried Innis Beeby for he was fond of feasts, and suffered under the rigorous football regime.
Dick was waiting for his father's return from Mr. Duncaster's house that evening, sitting in his room trying to study. He was not making much headway for he was thinking of many things—of the game on the morrow—of the one with Blue Hill, and of what success his father would meet with. Paul Drew was out at a society meeting.
There came a knock on the door, a timid hesitating sort of a knock, and Dick, wondering who it could be, called out:
"Come in!"
Sam Porter entered, first looking around the apartment to see that Dick's roommate was not present.
"Are you busy, Hamilton?" he asked, and there was that in his voice that caused Dick to wonder at him. There was a thickness and a sort of leering familiarity that was unusual.
"No, I'm not busy. Come in and make yourself comfortable. There's an easy chair," and Dick knocked a pile of books from one to make room for his visitor.
"I want to ask a favor of you, Hamilton, and I want you to grant it—understand?" and Porter looked sharply at the captain. "I want you to promise."
"I can't promise, until I hear what it is," said the young millionaire good-naturedly.
"Yes you can—if you want to—un'stand?" Sam Porter leaned forward.
"You want to grant me this favor—un'stand," went on Porter, "or you'll be sorry. Sorry, see?"
"What is it?" asked Dick, trying not to show the disgust he felt.
"I want to play in that Mooretown game to-morrow—play full game—un'stand? I don't want to sit on side lines like some poor Indian wrapped up in a blanket—I want to go in from start an' wallop them fellers. Un'stand? I want to play. You can put me in as well as not. Will you? It's favor, Ham, an' if you don't do it, you'll be sorry!"
"Why?" asked Dick, for there was a vague threat in the tones of his caller.
"Well, nev' min'. Will you let me play?"
Porter was not himself. Dick had never seen him thus, and he feared lest some of the teachers discover his condition. He thought it best to temporize with him.
"I'll see what I can do," he promised good-naturedly. "Come and see me in the morning. You'd better go to bed now."
"Go to bed?" and Porter's voice rose. "Why, wha's matter me? Ain't I a'right?"
"Yes, but if you are to play to-morrow you'll need a rest. See me in the morning."
"All right. I'll go. But if I can't play whole game you be sorry, Ham. You're good feller—you let me play—be sorry if you don't—tha's all," and Porter lurched from the room, while Dick shook his head sorrowfully.
Mr. Hamilton came up to Dick's room about an hour later. It needed but a look at his face to see that his errand had proven a failure.
"Well?" asked Dick, but he knew what the answer would be.
"Mr. Duncaster wouldn't even talk to me when he learned what my object was," said the millionaire wearily. "I guess we can't do anything with him, Dick. But never mind," he added more brightly, "I can try another scheme. They haven't got us beaten yet, Dick, my boy!"
Dick put his father up in an apartment in the Sacred Pig after the little banquet. It was a gay affair in spite of the millionaire's disappointment, and the boys voted him a brick.
Porter approached the captain the next morning. He did not seem at all ashamed of his condition of yesterday.
"Well, Hamilton, am I to play?" was the somewhat sharp question.
"You'll have to take your chances with the other subs," was the young captain's answer. "I can't make any changes in the Varsity now. I may after the first half, if we find Mooretown easy enough."
"Yes, that's it!" sneered Porter. "You'll only put me in on the easy games. I won't stand for it. Either I play the full game, or off comes my suit for the season."
"You can please yourself about that," and Dick turned aside.
"You'll be sorry for this!" muttered Porter, as he walked away.
The last arrangements had been made, the team and substitutes surrounded by the crowd of students who could not go to Mooretown, had been cheered again and again, and Grit had been decorated as a mascot.
The crowd which was to accompany the players on the special train had all gathered, and the march to the depot was begun. Mr. Hamilton was with Dick.
"Humph! Our special hasn't pulled in yet," observed Manager Hatfield when the station was reached, and there were no cars in waiting "That's funny. The agent said it would be surely here ready for us. I'll ask him about it."
Dick was standing near the manager when he questioned the station master. That official seemed greatly surprised at the crowd of players and spectators.
"Your special train?" he exclaimed. "Why you countermanded the order for it. The game was off, I understood, so I sent the engine and cars back."
"Sent them back!" cried Dick. "How was that?'
"Why, I had them all here, and the engineer had steam up, waiting for you. About an hour ago one of your students came down here and said Mooretown had cancelled the game, and that you weren't going to play. So, as I didn't want the special standing here in the way of the regular trains, I sent it back to the yard."
"Can we get it again?" asked Hatfield, wondering what had happened.
"Not inside of several hours."
"What sort of a student told you we didn't want it?" asked Dick, excitedly.
"A tall lad, rather stout, and with quite a good color—you know—sort of beefy."
"Porter!" whispered Dick, involuntarily, and several heard him.
"The special has been sent back, we can't get a train in several hours, and we're due at Mooretown at two o'clock," spoke the manager. "They'll claim the game by forfeit if we don't show up, and then——"
"Good-bye to our chances for the championship," put in Beeby gloomily.
"There's been treachery here," murmured Dick, as he gazed at the blank faces of his companions. "Treachery! This is what Sam Porter meant when he said I'd be sorry."
For a few moments the surprise of the cadets was such that they could think of nothing to do. It seemed almost impossible that their plans should be defeated by such a simple means, yet such was the case. A look down the empty tracks showed not a sign of their special train, and further appeals to the agent only confirmed what he had first said.
"It's no use, boys," he declared. "That special has been sent back and it will take a long time to get it again, even if I could. The train dispatcher made a certain schedule for it, and once that is busted it's hard to get it in shape again."
"Isn't there a regular train they can take?" asked Mr. Hamilton.
"Not for three hours."
"And that will be too late," said Paul dismally.
"Whew!" whistled George Hall. "This is tough! Let's wire Mooretown and tell them what happened. They'll call the game off I'm sure, and not make it a forfeit for us."
"What good would it do if they did?" asked Jim Watkins. "There are only two more games for us to play in the championship series. This one with Mooretown and the one next Saturday with Blue Hill. This is our only chance, and if we can't take it we won't get another one at Mooretown, as they break training to-day, after this contest. No boys, it's all up with Kentfield's chance at the trophy, I reckon."
There was silence for a moment, but the cadets were doing some hard thinking.
"That cad Porter!" exclaimed Innis Beeby. "What could have induced him to play such a contemptible trick?"
"I suppose because I wouldn't promise to let him go in for the full game to-day," replied Dick reluctantly.
"Are you sure it was Porter?" inquired Paul.
"He's about the only one who is capable of such a thing as this," said Innis, looking at Weston.
"I'm going to make sure," spoke Dick, and he inquired particularly of the agent as to the appearance of the cadet who had given the false information about there being no need of the special train. The detailed description left no room for doubt. It was Porter.
"And, now I come to think of it, the young man laughed as he was going away, after he heard me give the engineer of the special the orders that he wouldn't be needed," said the station agent.
"He laughed; eh?" repeated Dick.
"Yes, and I think he said something about a joke, but I can't be sure. Anyhow I thought it was sort of funny to hear him chuckle when he was walking away, for I know how set you boys are on football, and I reckoned you'd be sorry if a game was cancelled. But I had other things to think of, getting the trains on their regular schedule after the special was out of the way, so I didn't pay much attention."
"Well, Porter has put us in bad," declared Ray Dutton. "The sneak! I wish I had him here now."
Several glances were turned in the direction of the crony of Porter, as if he might know something of him. Weston flushed uneasily, but he rose to the situation.
"Fellows," he said earnestly, "I hope you don't think that I had any hand in this. Porter and I have been thick, I know, but of late he hasn't had so much to do with me. But, on my honor, I never knew a thing about this. He never hinted it to me, or if he had I hope you will believe me when I say that I wouldn't have stood for it, and that I'd have told Hamilton right away, so his mean plan could have been stopped. I hope you believe me."
"Of course we do, Weston," said Dick. "I'm afraid Porter hasn't been himself lately. But let's forget about that now. The thing to do is to consider how we are going to get to Mooretown."
"How can we, without a train available?" asked Beeby.
"I don't know—I'm going to think," declared the captain with a brave effort to keep cheerful against heavy odds.
"Suppose you let me try," suggested Mr. Hamilton. "I know some of the higher railroad officials, and if I telegraph them they may be able to get a special back here in time for you to play."
The boys brightened up at this, and the millionaire wrote several messages which the agent clicked off to headquarters. There was barely time, if a special arrived inside of half an hour, for the cadets to get to Mooretown in season to play the game, but it was a small margin.
"If we had carriages enough we could drive," said Hal Foster. "The wagon road to Mooretown is shorter than the railroad line."
"We never could do it in time," objected Frank Rutley.
At this moment the agent came out from the office with several telegrams in his hand.
"I'm sorry," he announced, "but they say at headquarters, Mr. Hamilton, that they'd like to oblige you and the boys, but two hours is the shortest time in which they can get the special in shape again. No engineer is available."
Once more dull hopelessness fell upon the boys. Dick was almost in despair. He saw all his plans of being captain of a championship football team being dashed to the ground. It was a bitter blow.
The two coaches, likewise, were much disappointed, for it would be not a little to their credit to have whipped into first class shape a team that, the season before, was the tail-ender of the military colleges.
The young captain was pacing up and down the depot platform. His companions left him alone for a space for they knew how he felt.
"Well," began Dick after a pause, "I guess——"
He did not finish the sentence, but stood in a listening attitude. From down the road there came a steady hum and roar that told of some approaching vehicles.
"Automobiles," remarked Paul Drew. "If we had enough of them——"
An instant later there swung into view around the bend in the road four big auto trucks, new ones, each in charge of a man. The trucks were powerful ones, designed to carry heavy loads a long distance and they glistened with new paint, while in gold letters on their sides was the name of a business firm in a large city just beyond Mooretown.
At the sight of these—of their ample capacity—large enough to take the team and the crowd with them, Dick's heart gave a bound. He made up his mind instantly.
"Fellows!" he cried, "if those men will hire me those trucks we'll play Mooretown yet. I'm going to see!"
"Hurray!" cried George Hall, and Mr. Hamilton smiled in a gratified way at the quick wit of his son.
"I say!" cried the young millionaire, stepping out in front of the first truck and holding up his hand, "will you do us a favor?"
"What's this—a—hold up?" asked the man good-naturedly, as he jammed on the brakes.
"Yes, we're held up—our special has gone—we've got to get to Mooretown soon or we forfeit the championship game. Will you take us in those trucks? I'll pay you well, and stand for all damage. Will you?"
His voice was eager, and the man, who had been a boy himself once, and fond of sport, was visibly impressed.
"I'd like to oblige you," he said slowly, "but I don't know as I can. You see I'm in charge of these four trucks. I work for the auto firm that built them, and the flour company in Denville that purchased them made an agreement that before they would accept them, the machines must be run from the factory to their place. That's what I and my men are doing now. The flour concern wanted to test the running gear, and it will be a good test all right."
"It will be a better test with a load of us fellows in," said Dick with ready wit.
"I suppose so," admitted the man, scratching his head, "but I don't know as the flour firm would like it. There might be some damage, and——"
"I'll stand for it!" put in Mr. Hamilton quickly. "I'm Mortimer Hamilton, of Hamilton Corners."
Though he spoke quietly his words had an instant effect for the man had evidently heard of the millionaire.
"Is that so?" asked the chief auto driver quickly. "I know you. I own two shares of stock in your electric road. Simpson is my name—Ruddy Simpson. I hope the rumors that the road is going to fail aren't true, Mr. Hamilton."
"The road will never fail, if I have to sink in it every dollar I own!" cried Mr. Hamilton. "But we've got other business in hand now. Can you take these boys to the game?"
"I'll do it!" suddenly cried Mr. Simpson. "I'll take a chance. Hop in boys, and I'll get you there on time if the gasolene holds out. We've got to pass through Mooretown to Denville. Hop in!"
"Hurrah!" cried the now hopeful cadets, and they piled into the four big trucks. They had to stand up, and there was considerable crowding, but they did not mind this, and there was room for all.
"Now for the game!" cried Dick as the ponderous machines started off, the station agent waving a farewell.
"I guess this will put a spoke in Porter's wheel," murmured Beeby. "He'll feel sick to think that we got to the game after his mean trick."
"We're not there yet," remarked Dick a bit dubiously, for he knew the eccentricities of autos. "We've got to make pretty good time, and there are several hills to climb."
"Don't let them hills worry you," said Mr. Simpson. "I helped build these trucks, and I know what they can do. We'll take any hill you can give us, with a heavier load than this on. Only, of course, we haven't an awful lot of speed. But I'll push them to the limit. Turn on all you can!" he called back to the three men.
"Sure!" they shouted in reply, and the motors hummed and throbbed under the strain.
For the first few miles the roads were good, and speedy time was made, so that Dick ceased some of his worry lest they arrive too late. Then a sandy stretch was encountered, and the motors whined out a protest, but they kept on.
"Think you can do it?" asked the captain of the man in charge. Dick and the team and substitutes, together with his father, were in the first machine.
"Oh, we'll do it," was the reply, and Mr. Simpson's voice had a confidence he did not altogether feel. It was no small responsibility, for it was a desperate race against the fleeting minutes and hours.
After the sand, came a good piece of highway, and then a stiff hill, but the trucks made it safely and at fair speed.
"We'll do it!" announced Mr. Simpson after about two hours. "There's one long hill now after this one we're climbing and then we can coast down into Mooretown."
"Good!" cried Dick, and he felt some of the strain of anxiety leaving him.
A few minutes later, when the foremost auto had reached the crest of the rise, the driver of the truck containing Dick and the team remarked, as he pointed ahead:
"There's Mooretown, but you can't see the cadet football field yet."
"Oh, I guess they'll be there expecting us," replied the young captain.
Down the other side of the long slope started the first truck, the others following in procession.
"Well, we did better than I expected we would," remarked Mr. Simpson. "These trucks——"
He stopped suddenly, as a sharp jar and crash came from somewhere in the mechanism of the machinery. The brakes had been set as the descent was begun, and the car had been traveling slowly, but now a sudden increase in speed was noticed.
"What's the matter?" asked Mr. Hamilton quickly.
"Aren't we going a bit too fast down hill?" inquired Mr. Martin.
The driver shut his lips with a grim tightening. He yanked back on the brake handle with all his force. Then a startled look came over his face.
"The brake rod is broken!" he cried.
Gathering speed the ponderous truck, with its load of humanity—the cadet football team shot down hill, bumping over stones and hollows, swerving from side to side, the steering wheel making the firm hands of the driver tremble.
"Haven't you got two brakes?" gasped Dick.
"Yes—got the foot on one—she won't hold her with this load," was the panting answer.
"Can't we jump out before it goes any faster?" asked Hal Foster.
"Stay where you are!" fairly shouted the man. "Maybe I can guide her down."
He was tooting the horn frantically to warn possible approaching vehicles that his was out of control. Fortunately the hill was straight, and a level stretch at the bottom gave promise of a long coast that might check the awful speed the car would have when it reached the foot of the declivity.
Faster and faster went the runaway truck, and now from behind came the frantic calls of the other cadets who realized the danger to their football team. And there was grave danger—danger that could not be avoided, for Simpson, yanking again and again on the brake lever, only made more certain that it would not work, and the foot brake was pitifully inadequate to check the now rushing vehicle.
There was silence for a time among the cadets of the football team—silence broken only by the whirr and hum of the machinery as it ran free, for the gasolene had been shut off. Under the big tires crunched the small stones and gravel of the road.
"Can't you start the motor and hold her back on the reverse?" shouted Dick above the noise.
Simpson shook his head.
"I'd rip her all to pieces if I did," he answered. "Queer about that brake rod snapping. That's not in my department, but I'd like to get hold of the man that inspected and tested it," he added grimly. "I'd break him!"
Dick looked into the faces of his chums. There was a quiet, strained look in all of them, but none of them showed craven fear. He glanced at his father, and Mr. Hamilton smiled at his son.
"I guess we won't be behind hand now," he said.
"No," and Dick shook his head. Then he glanced over the side of the truck and noted how the trees were slipping by. They were going at ever-increasing speed.
Luckily they met no other vehicles on the hill, or there might have been trouble. The auto drivers in the rear, finding they could do nothing were keeping up as close as they could, to render any assistance if possible.
It was well that the speeding truck was strongly and ponderously made, and that it was hung low, otherwise it would have toppled over. As it was they all swayed from side to side dangerously, tossing the occupants against one another.
"Good practice for the coming game," remarked Dutton.
"I hope it doesn't take their nerve," said Mr. Martin in a low voice to his colleague. "This may have a fearful effect."
"Their nerves are good," declared the Princeton coach, "but I wish this was over. There's a good bit yet to go, and we'll travel faster at the end, for the hill is steeper there."
Mr. Martin silently nodded, and then looked ahead. As he did so he could not refrain from a startled cry, for the hill took a sudden, steep dip, and it seemed impossible for any auto not under control to make it successfully.
Before any one could do anything, had it been possible, the car was at the dangerous descent. Simpson drew in his breath sharply and grasped the steering wheel with firmer grip.
"Whew!" whistled Paul Drew. "This is awful!"
Dick said nothing, but he moved up closer to his father. Fear was clutching his heart, for he dreaded lest that all be killed.
"This is about the end!" gasped the driver, as the steeper part of the hill came to an end. "The worst is over."
The cadets could now look ahead, and see a level stretch. They were beginning to breathe easier.
"Once I'm on that I'll be all right," went on the driver. He reached it a moment later, but the speed of the ponderous car was not checked much. It had too great momentum.
Suddenly Dick gave a cry of fear, and pointed forward. They all saw it at the same time. Three hundred feet away was a narrow bridge and at that moment there appeared on it, turning in from a side road, a man driving a team of horses attached to a light carriage. And, as the cadets looked, the horses seemed possessed with sudden fright at the view of the oncoming auto. They reared, and the driver had all he could do to hold them in.
Then one animal, worse than its mate, kicked over the traces and, coming down, got tangled in the harness. It fell heavily, right in the centre of the bridge, dragging down its mate. The man leaped out to go to the heads of the horses, and, as he saw the approaching auto he held up his hand and shouted a warning.
"Stop! Stop!" he cried.
"I can't!" yelled back Simpson. "Cut the harness! Push the horses off the bridge!"
The man was working frantically. Simpson gave a last desperate yank on the brake lever. It was still out of commission, as he knew it would be. There seemed to be no escape from the impending crash which might mean death for a number of them.
"I'm going to jump!" cried George Hall, worming his way to the rear of the truck, which was going almost as fast as when on the hill.
"Don't you do it!" cried Dick, with all the energy he possessed. "Here, Simpson, turn into that hayfield! Make for the stack! Run the auto into it! That will stop us without damage!"
"By gasolene! I believe you're right!" yelled the driver. "I'll do it. It's our only hope."
"But the fence! The fence!" shouted Paul. "We'll smash into it!" for a rail fence shut off from the road the field at which Dick had pointed.
"That fence!" yelled Simpson in supreme contempt. "I'll smash it into kindling wood! Hold fast everybody! Here we go!"
A moment later he had swung the car toward the hayfield. Fortunately it was on a level with the road, or the front part of the auto would never have sustained the shock. Through the fence the ponderous machine crashed as if it were paper. The next instant the big car plowed straight into a big stack of hay.
Like so many rubber balls, the football players were thrown forward against one another, and Dick and the two coaches were tossed out into the fragrant timothy.
Then a cheer burst from the other cadets in the three following trucks which had come to a stop. For they saw that their comrades were safe. The man on the bridge had succeeded in disentangling his horses and they were now quiet.
Simpson leaped from his seat, which he had managed to maintain, and looked under the truck.
"I knew it!" he cried. "Brake rod busted. Oh, if I had the man who made that!"
"Can we go on?" asked Dick anxiously as he picked himself up from the hay.
"Wouldn't dare to without this brake rod being fixed" replied the driver. "There are more hills."
"Here, you football fellows get in one of these other trucks. We'll pile out and walk to the grounds—it's not far," called Percy Haddon.
"That's the stuff!" shouted Manager Hatfield. "We haven't any too much time. Are you boys all right?"
"Sure," answered Paul with a laugh. "We're ready to play the game of our lives."
"That's right!" came in a chorus from the others. Now that the strain was over there was a bit of hysterical feeling, but it soon passed away.
Little time was lost in making the transfer. The football team and the substitutes got in one of the other trucks and were soon being whizzed off to the grounds. The other two trucks, containing as many of the remaining cadets as could squeeze into them, pressed on, and only a few had to walk the remaining distance.
Simpson backed his truck out of the hayfield which had practically saved a number of lives that day. Then the driver began work at repairing the brake rod, his companions promising to return for him when they had taken the cadets to the grounds.
Nor would Simpson accept any pay for the services he had rendered that day.
"I've got stock in your road, Mr. Hamilton," he said, "though it is only two shares. This was a good test of the trucks, and I'm glad only a brake rod busted. It was better to happen now than after I had delivered 'em. I'm satisfied."
The Mooretown cadets were becoming anxious about the non-appearance of their opponents, for the hour for the game was fast approaching, when Dick and his players came running out on the gridiron. They were greeted with a rousing cheer, for, though the rules called for the forfeiting of a contest to the non-appearing team, the Mooretown cadets were true sportsmen and hated to take this advantage.
"Jove! But I'm glad you fellows came!" cried the Mooretown captain as he wrung Dick's hand. "We were horribly afraid you wouldn't show up. What was the matter? I thought you were coming by special train."
"We were, but there was a mix-up and we had to charter these autos. But we're here and we're going to beat you!"
"Yes, you are!" and the home captain laughed. "Well, I'll show you the dressing rooms. We've got a smashing big crowd here to-day and the weather is just right. It would have been a shame to disappoint 'em."
"Well, it's too bad to have 'em see you defeated, but it can't be helped," said Dick with mocking seriousness and they both laughed. The fright of the dangerous ride was fast passing away from all of the Kentfield team.
They were soon in their suits and out on the gridiron practicing. Meanwhile the Mooretown lads were at work with the ball, and the Kentfield coaches were critically sizing them up.
"Not nearly as fast as our lads," declared Mr. Martin.
"That's right. I don't expect a walkover, but there ought to be no question as to who is going to win—unless this auto affair has got on the nerves of our lads."
The crowd continued to arrive. The grandstands were like some gorgeous sunset in appearance, with the hats of the pretty girls, and the waving of flags and banners. Cheers and songs, made music in keeping with the day.
"Line-up!" came the cry, and when the whistle blew, and the ball was kicked off, twenty-two figures clad in earth-stained suits made a mad dash for each other. The game was on.
From the time of the first scrimmage Dick knew that his team had the contest safe, for one smashing through the line of Mooretown told the story. The men had over-trained and had gone "stale." On the other hand the Kentfield lads were as fresh as the proverbial daisies.
"Take her along for a touchdown, boys!" ordered the captain, and down the field the ball was worked in a steady succession of rushes. In vain did Mooretown try to stem the tide against them. Once, when their goal line was almost reached, they did brace, and Dick began to plan a trick play. But it was not needed, for the next moment Dutton was shoved over for the touchdown, and the crowd of Kentfield students went wild with delight. The goal was kicked easily, and then began the hammer and tongs work again.
Once again that half Kentfield made a touchdown, not as easily as at first, for Mooretown had waxed desperate, but it was made. Not that it was all "pie" to quote Dick, but they had the "measure" of their opponents, and they began to see the championship looming clearly before them.
Twelve to nothing was the score in favor of Kentfield at the end of the first half, which came to a close with the ball once more almost over the Mooretown line.
There were sore hearts among the players on the home team, and Dick and his lads knew just how their opponents felt, but it was a fair game, with no quarter and it was the fortunes of war.
"I'm afraid you're going to make good," said the Mooretown captain to the young millionaire, as the second half started.
"We've justgotto," answered Dick. "We want that gold cup."
Hammering away again, the Kentfield lads advanced the ball. Mooretown got it on a fumble once, and did some pretty work in punting, but it was of no avail. Again they had the pigskin because of the penalty inflicted on a too eager Kentfield player, and they made a desperate try for a field goal, but it fell short.
After that there was no more danger to our friends, and they kept the ball advancing by steady rushes, or, to rest his men, Dick would call for a forward pass. Again and yet again was the Mooretown goal line crossed, amid the frantic cheers of the Kentfield contingent, and when the final whistle blew the score was twenty-nine to nothing.
"Victory!" cried Dick in exultation, as he hugged as many of his players as he could. "Now for Blue Hill next Saturday and we'll have such a feast as never was at Kentfield before!"
The Kentfield cadets accepted the invitation of their late opponents, to stay and see them break training.
"As long as we didn't have a chance at the championship I'm glad you fellows have," confided Captain Russell of Mooretown to Dick. "Of course we'd have liked to have beaten you chaps, but I guess we over-trained. We haven't any regular coaches, and we did the best we could."
"You sure did," assented Dick heartily. "It's too bad you went back. You were fine early in the season."
"I know it, and that shows that it pays to have regular coaches who know their business. How in the world did you fellows manage to get Martin and Spencer?"
"Oh, we worked it by a forward pass," replied the young millionaire with a laugh.
There was jolly fun at Mooretown that night, in spite of the defeat. The team burned their suits at a big bonfire, and danced around the blaze like Indians, singing college songs and cheering their opponents who, in turn shouted for their plucky but unfortunate enemies.
Then came a long and rather dreary ride back to Kentfield in a way-train that stopped at every station. But the boys enlivened the trip by songs and cheers so that they were not very lonesome.
"Well Dick, I must get back in the morning," said Mr. Hamilton to his son when they said good-night in Dick's room.
"You won't try to see Duncaster again?"
"No, it would be of little use. He is evidently set in his ways. My only hope is that he doesn't turn over to the other side. If he does——"
The millionaire paused.
"Well?" asked Dick suggestively.
"The Hamilton fortune will be a thing of the past, son."
"As bad as that?"
Mr. Hamilton nodded.
"But I'm not going to give up," he declared. "I have some other irons in the fire, and I may be able to forge them to the shape I want. It's going to be hard work, though, and it would be much easier if I had the Duncaster stock. By the way, you say that Porter chap, whose father is working against us, attends here?"
"Yes, but I fancy he won't after to-morrow," said Dick significantly.
He was right. Sam Porter's room was vacant the next day, and he left no word of where he had gone. He knew his trick had been discovered, and that it had gone for naught.
Several days later he sent a note to his former crony Weston, asking to see him, but Weston refused.
"I was his friend once," he said to Dick, "but I'm done with him now. I'm for the football team first, last and forever!"
"And you're one of our best players!" exclaimed the young captain heartily, for he appreciated what it meant to break with Porter.
Football matters at Kentfield were now drawing to a close. There was but one more game to play—that of Blue Hill, but in the eyes of the cadets it was the most important of the season because of what the outcome carried with it. There was a tie for the championship between our hero's football eleven and that of the academy which had sent the insulting letter that resulted in such a change of policy.
"Get ready for the last week of practice," ordered Coach Martin, on the Monday following the Mooretown game. "It's going to be hard, too, but I don't want any one to over-train. Take it a bit easy when you find yourself tiring."
"Yes, we want you in the pink of perfection Saturday," added Mr. Spencer.
There followed days of the most careful preparation. It was like getting ready for the final great battle between two rival armies. Football suits were looked to, for a rip in a jacket or a sweater might spoil a play at a critical point. The lads replaced the worn cleats on their shoes, that they might brace themselves when the Blue Hill players hurled themselves at the Kentfield line.
As for their physical condition, the cadets were looked over by the trainers and coaches as if they were race horses. Tender ankles were carefully treated and bandaged. Sprains were rubbed in the most scientific manner, and did any one complain of a little indisposition the coaches were up in alarm.
And the boys were in the "pink of condition." Never had they felt finer nor more able to do battle for the championship. Never were they more confident, for, somehow, Dick had talked them into the firm belief that they were going to win.
As for our hero, he had a worry that he kept to himself, and, now that his father had returned to Hamilton Corners, the lad let it prey on his mind even more than he had when the millionaire was at the academy.
"Our fortune in danger," mused Dick. "That sure is tough luck. Not that money is everything, or really much in this world. But, after you've gotten used to having it, I guess it's hard to spin along without it. But perhaps it won't be so bad as dad fears. I would certainly hate to give up my steam yacht, and I may have to leave Kentfield. Whew! That would pull a lot!" and he sat staring in moody silence at the walls of his tastefully decorated room.
There was a movement at Dick's feet and Grit half arose to poke his cold nose into his master's listless hand. The lad started.
"Grit, old boy!" he murmured and the animal whined in delight. "Whatever happens they can't take you from me," went on the young millionaire. "But there's Rex. Maybe I can't afford to keep a horse. Oh, but I'd hate to part with him!"
He could not keep back just a suspicion of tears from his eyes, as he stroked the short ears of the bulldog, who seemed to know that something was amiss.
"Oh, well, what's the use of crying over spilled milk before you come to the bridge!" Dick exclaimed at length. "I'm not going to worry until it's time; and that isn't yet. Guess I'll go for a canter on Rex. That will clear the cobwebs away."
He was soon galloping over the country, glad to be alone for a little while to think over the problems that were bothering him. As the noble animal galloped along around the lake path, and Dick felt the cool November wind on his cheeks, somehow there came to him a feeling of peace.
"After all, it may come out right," he whispered as he patted the neck of the horse. "And I'm going to have one more try at Duncaster. I won't undertake to see him. I'll write him a letter and explain some things he doesn't understand. Maybe it will just pull him the right way."
The thought was an inspiration to him, and he turned Rex about and galloped to the stables.
"Well, what's all the correspondence about Dick?" asked Paul that evening, as his chum was busily scratching away in their room. "I thought you answered Miss Hanford's last letter yesterday."
"Humph! Seems to me you've been doing something in the way of writing letters yourself. But this is business. I'm making a last appeal to Duncaster."
Dick was not very hopeful as he mailed the epistle to Hardvale.
It was the day of the Blue Hill Game, and final practice, save for a little "warm-up" on the gridiron, just before time should be called, had been held. The coaches had issued their last instructions, Dick had given his men a little talk, and all that could be done had been done.
"It's do or die now," grimly remarked the young captain. "We're fit to the minute."
"Have you heard from Duncaster?" asked Paul.
"No, and I don't expect to. He'll keep the stock I expect, or trade it to the Porter crowd. It was a slim chance, but it didn't make good."
"Well," remarked Paul, a little later, when Dick had been nervously pacing about the room. "I suppose we might as well go out on the gridiron."
"It's a bit early," objected Dick. "The Blue Hill crowd won't be here for an hour yet."
There came a knock on the door, and Toots stood there saluting between the strains of "Marching Through Georgia."
"Telegram for you, Mr. Hamilton—it came collect," announced the janitor.
"Humph. Can't be from dad, he always pays his messages," remarked Dick, as he handed over the money, and tore open the envelope. When he had read the few words he gave a gasp of astonishment.
"What's the matter?" asked Paul quickly. "Bad news."
"No. Good!" cried Dick. "Listen. This is from Mr. Duncaster—no wonder he sent it collect. He says: 'Have your letter. I will grant your request and sell you the stock. Come and see me at once, as I am leaving for Europe for my health. I go to-night.'"
"Then you'd better hustle out to Hardvale!" cried Paul. "Hurray! That's great."
Slowly Dick crushed the telegram in his hand.
"I can't go," he said slowly.
"Why not?"
"I haven't time to go out there and get back to play the game—and—I'm going to play the game!"
Paul, looked at Dick Hamilton with something a little short of open-mouthed wonder. He could not understand him. He realized the vital necessity of the Hamilton forces getting control of the trolley stock that Mr. Duncaster held. Now, when the opportunity offered, Dick calmly turned it down.
"Do you know what you're saying, Dick?" asked his roommate. "This is the only chance you'll have—perhaps to save your father's fortune."
"I know it."
"And you're not going?"
"What? And desert the team in the face of the biggest game of the year? I guess not. Dad wouldn't want me to."
"Some one can play in your place—perhaps for half the game. You could go out in an auto and back in a short time."
"Of course I might, but I'm not going to," and the young millionaire, who might not be a lad of wealth much longer, calmly looked to see if his canvas jacket needed any last attention. "If I went out there it would take some time to arrange about the transfer of the stock, and I never could get back in season to play the game. Besides I want to start off with the boys from the first kick against Blue Hill."
"I don't blame you—but—it's a big price to pay."
"I know it, but it's worth all it will cost. Why I couldn't leave now, practically in the face of the enemy. I may not be a whole lot to the team, and probably there are fellows on the scrub who can play quarter-back as well, if not better, than I can. But I've trained with the boys all season. I'm their captain, however unworthy, and I've got to stick by 'em. It would be treason to go now. I've got to stick."
"But can't you do something? Can't you send Duncaster some word? He says he leaves to-night. Telegraph him that you'll see him directly after the game. Explain how things stand, and maybe he'll make allowances."
"I will," decided Dick, "but I haven't much hope. He is very much set against football, and he has no especial love for me. I can't understand why he should give in about the stock. Perhaps he feels that he must close up some of his business matters if he is going away. Then, too, dad's offer may be better than the one Porter made him. I can't understand it, but I'll take a chance and send him a wire, asking him to meet me after the game."
"Have you got the cash to pay for the stock?" asked Paul.
"Oh, I can give him a check to bind the bargain, and dad can settle with him later. I haven't as much in the bank as I had, for I let dad invest it in the electric line."
"Then you stand to lose too, if you don't get Duncaster's stock."
"Yes, but what of it? If we win this game, and Kentfield is the champion of the league, I'd be willing to lose almost all I had. I fancy dad left an offer with Mr. Duncaster, better than his first one, of an advance of ten per cent., and instructed the crabbed old chap to let him know when he was ready to accept it. Instead, he sends me word, and I—well, I'm not going—that's all. That is not until after the game. It's what dad would want me to do—he'll understand," said Dick softly.
"Well, you've got nerve—that's all I've got to say," complimented Paul admiringly.
Dick wrote his telegram, and he took the precaution to give Toots the money to prepay it.
"Duncaster might refuse it, if it went collect," he remarked with a grim smile. "I can't take any chances. Then, Toots, arrange to have a speedy taxicab waiting for me at the end of the game. I'll make a bee-line for Hardvale as soon as the last whistle blows," he explained to Paul. "Want to come along?"
"Sure."
It was almost time to go out on the gridiron now. Dick gave one brief and half-regretful thought to the opportunity he might be missing. Then he murmured:
"Well, the game—from now on!"
He had no idea of wiring his father the news, but he felt that after all it would be better to explain it personally.
"If dad was only where he could make a jump to Hardvale he could clinch the deal," he mused, "but it's impossible."
"Hark! What's that?" cried Paul as they were about to leave their room. It was the sound of a swelling, boisterous cry—a joyful shout—a challenge.
"The Blue team has arrived!" exclaimed Dick. "Come on! Now for the battle!"
Already there was quite a crowd in the grandstands, and more people were arriving every minute. The ticket takers had their hands full, and the ushers were as busy as bees. For rumors of the fierce game that was likely to be played had prevailed for the last two weeks, and there was every indication of a record-breaking crowd.
"Our treasury will be filled!" cried the manager of Kentfield with exultation. "This is a great day for us—even if we don't win."
"We're going to!" declared Dick with conviction.
As Dick turned around he saw a tall, well-formed young man approaching him. Something about the face seemed familiar, and, as the newcomer smiled, Dick remembered.
"Hello, Larry Dexter!" he exclaimed. "Where in the world did you blow from? Sent to report the game?"
"No, but I wish I was. I'm up here on a mystery case and, as I had a little time to spare I thought I'd see you fellows win. I heard about the game. Go in and beat!"
"Thanks! We're going to try. Say, but I am glad to see you, Larry. Come on over here and I'll see that you get a good seat. Or would you rather be on the side lines?"
"On the side lines I think." And Dick soon arranged so that his reporter friend would have a good place.
"See you later," he called as he went back on the field.
"I'm afraid not," answered Larry. "I'll have to get away in a hurry. I've got an appointment, but I'll stay long enough to see you pile up a good score," and though Dick looked for his friend after the game, he did not see him.
"Who is that?" asked Paul, as Dick joined him.
"That's Larry Dexter. One of the best reporters in New York. I met him when I was there, right after I got my fortune. He's a fine chap. But it's about time for the Blue Hill crowd to arrive."
Those of you who have read my Larry Dexter Series need no introduction to the hero of those books. Larry was a farm boy, who had an ambition to become a reporter on a big New York paper. In the book "From Office Boy to Reporter," I told how he did this, and in the other books of the series I related some of his strange adventures.
The Blue Hill cadets had come on a special train, and the team drove up from the station in a large carry-all that had been provided for them by Dick and his chums. A few days before the game the plans had been changed so as to bring the contest to Kentfield instead of having it on the Blue Hill gridiron.
"Well, you're on time, I see," said our hero, as he shook hands with Captain Haskell of Blue Hill. Haskell had been newly elected, to take the place of a friend who had unexpectedly been called away.
"Yes, and we're got our winning suits on."
"Well, we'll see about that," responded Dick with a quiet smile. "Now if you'll step over here we can arrange the details, and then both sides can have some practice."
"Sure," and a little later with the two coaches representing Kentfield, and two from Blue Hill, the captains conferred.
"I presume Blake will be all right for umpire," said Mr. Norton one of the visiting coaches.
"You mean George Blake—who umpired in our last game?" asked Mr. Spencer quickly.
"That's the one."
"We'd prefer some one else," said Mr. Spencer quietly, before Dick could interpose the objection that was on his lips.
"You don't like him? Why?" asked Captain Haskell quickly, with some wrath.
"Because he doesn't see all that goes on in the line," was the calm answer of the Princeton coach. "I don't believe it is necessary to say more."
"Well, if I——"
"It's all right," broke in Coach Norton for Blue Hill. "If you object to him, we'll take some one else. How will Jacob Small do?"
"Of Lehigh?"
"Yes."
"We'll accept him gladly," assented Mr. Spencer. "Now as to the other officials," and they were quickly settled upon.
"Heads or tails?" asked Dick, as he prepared to spin the coin for choice of goals.
"Um—heads," spoke Captain Haskell quickly, as the quarter went spinning into the air.
"Heads it is," announced Dick without a tremor in his voice. The first little indication of fate had gone against him, but it could not be helped. He hoped to get the choice, as there was no wind blowing, and naturally no advantage in goals, so that the winner of the toss could elect to have the other side kick off if he liked. Dick had planned to let Blue Hill kick if he had won the say of the spinning coin, but it was not to be. Which would Haskell select?
There was a moment's hesitation as the rival captain tested the wind with a moistened, up-lifted finger. Then he announced his choice.
"We'll take the north goal. You fellows can kick off!"
"All right," spoke Dick and he tried not to show the little disappointment in his voice. "Then as it's all settled we can get to practice."
Dick had hoped to get possession of the ball immediately after the kick off and by a series of whirlwind rushes demoralize his opponents. Now he would have to change his plans.
"Well, we'll see how we can hold them," he said to Paul, as they went over to their side of the field to run through some plays.
There was fast, snappy, preliminary work. Dick paused once or twice to observe his opponents.
"No sign of them going stale," he reflected.
The hour for play had come. The officials had settled all the details. The new ball had been blown up, and the cover laced tightly. Carrying it in his hand the referee advanced to the centre of the field and handed it to Dick.
"Are you ready?" the official asked.
The young millionaire nodded.
"Line up!" called the referee as Dick handed the ball to Innis Beeby to kick off.