CHAPTER XXXION THE FIELD.
High up against a fair blue sky, studded with fleecy clouds, streamed a mammoth banner of blue bearing in its centre a great white Y—a flare of intense color visible from afar over the topmost branches of the empty elms, and a beacon toward which the stream of spectators set their steps.
Derby Avenue was filled from curb to curb with a slowly moving procession of motor cars, horse-drawn vehicles of all kinds, street cars, loaded to the very steps with a laughing, chattering mob of humanity, all making their way toward the athletic field.
As two o’clock approached, the throngs at the gates moved faster, swaying and pushing past the ticket takers and streaming out onto the field toward the stands already piled high with enthusiastic humanity. Under the great flag stretched a long bank of somber grays and blacks, brightened here and there by lighter feminine apparel, and everywhere was a multitude of smaller fluttering flags of blue, which looked from a little distance as if the big banner had dripped its dye upon the crowd beneath.
Violets were everywhere. Great masses of them pinned upon the tailor-made coats of charming, eager girls. Smaller bunches in the buttonholes of their escorts; and their perfume wafted out over the field, filled the air with a sweet, penetrating odor which was far more like that of a day in June than one in brisk, blustering late November.
Opposite, the rival tiers of crowded seats were picked out in vivid crimson, and between stretched a smooth expanse of russet-hued turf, ribbed with white lines that glared in the afternoon sun.
The great band played blithely; the thousands of eager spectators talked, laughed, or shouted ceaselessly; and the cheering sections were loudly contending for vocal supremacy.
Suddenly onto the field trotted a little band of men in blue sweaters with white Y’s; and quite as suddenly the Yale stands arose and the Harvard cheers were blotted out by a mighty chorus that swept from end to end of the structure and thundered impressively across the field.
“Yale! Yale! Yale! Rah, rah, rah! Rah, rah, rah! Rah, rah, rah! Yale! Yale! Yale!”
It was repeated over and over again, and then the crimson-clad youths trotted into view and it was Harvard’s turn to make a noise.
The substitutes of both teams retired to the side lines, and the players who were to start the game warmed up. The cheering on the stands gave place to songs which drowned the music of the band, until, at length, three persons, a youth in blue, a youth in crimson, and a man in everyday attire, met in the middle of the field and watched a coin spin upward in the sunlight and fall to the ground.
Then swiftly the contending forces took their positions, the linesmen and timekeeper hurried forward and the great stands were almost stilled.
Yale had the ball and the west goal. Baulsir placed the pigskin to his liking and drew back. Tempest shouted a last word of warning. The referee raised his whistle.
The next instant it sounded shrilly, the ball sped away, and the game began.
Within the first five minutes it became evident to the excited thousands that the game was to be a desperate struggle from start to finish. Sparkfair had not been altogether jesting when he told Merriwell that his team was the best which had ever been turned out at Cambridge. What little they lacked in weight, compared with the brawny Yale line, they made up in cleverness and teamwork, and they played the game from the beginning with a snap and vim which was a joy to see.
Yale was not noticeably behind them. Animated by the contagious optimism of Merriwell, Buckhart, and some of the older players, they met the rush of the crimson line like a wall of rock and contested every foot of advance.
Jack Kenny was doing wonders. Thrilled by the necessity of making up for the harm he had wrought unconsciously, he played for all that was in him, and the result was an exhibition of brilliant headwork and resource such as is seldom seen.
Back and forth surged the lines of men. Now and then one side or the other would bring into play some unexpected, spectacular stunt which drew forth shouts of delight from the stands and gave them the momentary advantage, only to have their opponents retaliate in kind.
The first quarter passed without either side scoring. The crowds were wild with excitement, and during the brief three-minute pause they cheered themselves hoarse and nearly stamped the grand stands down in their efforts to show their enthusiastic appreciation.
At the beginning of the second quarter Harvard rushed the ball down the field in a determined, irresistible effort to score. They were opposed with equal determination, and the battle was on again.
Back and forth, back and forth surged the lines. Now one side had the advantage and then the other. At length, Kenny tried the much-practiced double pass with Baxter and Merriwell on Harvard’s thirty-yard line, and it worked.
Swiftly the pigskin flew through the air into Teddy Baxter’s waiting arms. Without a pause he dashed on, crossing behind Merriwell, shooting out into the field around the end, guarded by Crowfoot and Blair Hildebrand. The crimson line plunged forward and to the left, sure of their man.
Then, like a flash of light, the ball flew from Baxter into the waiting arms of Merriwell, and Teddy lunged to block their opponent’s guard, while Dick kept on without a pause toward the goal.
He made it, and the spectators on the Yale stand went wild. It was the first moment since the start of the game that the tension had been released, and, surging to their feet, they sent roar after roar of cheering which thundered across the field in great crashes of sound, stupendous in their volume.
Then came a breathless hush while the goal was being kicked, and after that the noise commenced again, dying away gradually as the game was resumed.
Nothing more happened in that quarter. The crimson-clad men, undeterred by their opponents’ vantage, worked like tigers; but there was not enough time left for them to accomplish anything, and the shrill sound of the whistle left them on Yale’s forty-yard line.
“How about it, Dale?” Dick asked, as he passed the Harvard captain on their way to the track house.
Sparkfair grinned cheerfully.
“That was only my generous spirit giving you boys a little needed encouragement,” he returned airily. “Wait until the next quarter, Richard, and see us wipe up the field with you fellows. We’re only just beginning to get warmed up.”
Merriwell caught up with Jack Kenny, who was a little ahead.
“That was corking, Jack,” he said warmly. “You rang that double pass in at exactly the right moment. They weren’t expecting it, and it couldn’t have worked better. Keep it up, old fellow. You’re playing the game of your life.”
Kenny flushed with pleasure.
“I’m trying to make up,” he said, in a low tone.
“And you’re succeeding,” Dick said swiftly. “We’ve got them going, and now we want to hold them from making a score.”
In the track house, Fullerton gave the boys a short, pithy talk, cautioning them not to lose their grip now that they had scored, and to bend every energy toward keeping the crimson line away from the goal. There was a vast deal of rubbing lame shoulders, ankles, and wrists, until the rooms fairly reeked with witch-hazel and arnica; a perfect babel of excited talk and speculation and laughter; and then they trotted out to the field again and took their places on the gridiron.
Dale Sparkfair made good his joking words to Merriwell by means of as pretty a round-the-end dash as had ever been seen on the field, and then it was Harvard’s turn to let loose their pent-up flood of enthusiasm. More than one undergraduate—and staid alumnus as well—could not speak above a whisper for a good many hours.
The third quarter ended with the scores even. The excitement had risen to a fever heat. With only fifteen minutes of play left, what was going to be the result? Would the game remain a tie? That seemed incredible, and yet it looked to a good many as though it would be the case.
The brief intermission was almost over. The spectators settled back into their seats and the cheering started in once more. The sun was almost behind the west corner of the stand. The shadows were lengthening and a brisk, sharp wind, straight from the Sound, caused overcoat collars to be turned up and furs to be drawn closely around fair necks. From the crowded tiers of seats came the steady tramp-tramp of chilled feet, hinting their owners’ impatience.
The players took their places; the breathless silence was suddenly split by the shrilling of the referee’s whistle, and the battle was resumed.
Jack Kenny played the game during that last quarter as he had never played before. His clever work rose to the point of brilliancy, for the winning of that game had become an absolute monomania with him. He felt that in no other way could he make up for his behavior of the past week, which had come so perilously near bringing disaster upon his beloved college.
It would be a triumph indeed if he could personally make another run for the blue, but he felt that such a thing was too much to hope for.
But brilliant as was his manœuvring, which was ably seconded by every man on the team, the splendid work of Harvard made it barren of results. They were evidently determined that, if they could not score again, neither should their opponents; and the hands of the big clock above the stand moved inexorably forward without either side having the advantage.
Desperately Kenny tried every trick at his command, without avail. Back and forth surged the gasping, ragged, tattered lines of men, battling in those last few minutes as if their very lives, and more, depended on their efforts.
The vast throng of spectators were thrilled into silence so absolute that it seemed almost as if they had ceased breathing, as they bent forward with staring eyes riveted on the field, oblivious to all else but the struggle taking place before them.
There were but four minutes left when the quarter back suddenly ripped out a signal and snatched the ball from Baulsir. This time he did not pass it, but darted toward the left end. Tempest sprang forward and swung in beside him; the left tackle and end interfered strenuously as the crimson line plunged forward.
Kenny ran as he had never run before, and Tempest kept pace with him barely a few feet away. In an instant they had cleared the opposing guard and tackle, running free with only the full back and left half in the way.
Kenny thrilled with joy and exultation. His chance had come. Tempest would take care of the half back, and, somehow, he could manage to get past the other. He would make a goal and win the game. Thus his self-respect would be restored and reparation made for his amazing folly.
But swiftly on the heels of this thought came another. What of Tempest? If he made goal the fellows would think that he had been right all along and the captain wrong. Would that be the sort of reparation he had wished to make? Would it be the really generous thing to do? There was but a second in which to answer the question, for the half back was almost upon them.
Kenny stumbled suddenly, and uttered a sharp, stifled cry.
“Quick, Don!” he gasped. “Take it!”
Tempest was not slow. Without hesitating an instant, he caught the pigskin skillfully and sped on; Kenny recovered himself with amazing swiftness and lunged toward the Harvard half. A moment later they rolled to the ground together, while the man with the ball flew on toward the beckoning goal posts.
By the time the quarter back had staggered to his feet Tempest had passed the full back. An instant later he crossed the line and pandemonium broke loose.
Kenny felt a lump in his throat as he heard Tempest’s name hurled across the field in great crashes of sound which thrilled him to the very core. It might have been his own, but he did not care.
“I’m glad I did it,” he muttered. “It was the decent thing to do.”
Then he remembered that he ought to limp a little to account for his stumble, and promptly developed a very realistic lameness, which lasted until they were going back to the track house, surrounded by a yelling, shouting, capering mob of fellows, who had poured out of the stands and presently insisted on hoisting every one of the players up on their shoulders and carrying them on their way in triumph.
Tempest headed the procession, and it was his name which sounded most frequently from the mouths of the triumphant marching throngs. The quarter back would have been more than human had he not felt a momentary longing to be in the captain’s place, but he quickly smothered it.
“I’m glad!” he muttered emphatically—he might have shouted the words aloud and no one would have heard him. “I’d do it again, too. I’ve been dirty mean to Don, but this sort of squares us up.”
Reaching the track house, he slipped lightly to the ground and started to go inside.
All at once he felt a hand on his shoulder, and, turning swiftly, looked into Dick Merriwell’s eyes.
“That was a clever pass, Jack,” the latter said quietly. “Did you hurt your ankle much?”
Kenny flushed and dropped his eyes.
“Not very,” he returned, in a low tone. “I—I stumbled, and—er—er——”
“I thought it couldn’t be very bad,” Merriwell put in quickly. “You seem to have gotten over it pretty soon.”
“It wasn’t so very bad,” the quarter back answered. “But I didn’t want to run any chances, so I passed the ball to Don.”
There was a momentary pause, during which the slim fellow seemed to find an absorbing interest in arranging with his foot three loose pebbles in a triangle.
“You old bluffer!” Merriwell exclaimed suddenly.
With a gasp, Kenny raised his head and looked straight into Dick’s eyes, which were watching him with an expression of satisfaction and perfect friendship.
“Wh-what do you mean?” the quarter back faltered weakly.
“Just what I say,” retorted Dick.
He threw one arm over Kenny’s shoulder and smiled.
“You’re an old bluff!” he repeated. “There wasn’t an earthly thing the matter with you out there. You stumbled on purpose to give Don the ball and let him make the goal. It was a corking thing to do, Jack, and not one fellow in a thousand could have brought himself to it. Didn’t you start out with the idea of making it yourself?”
Kenny nodded slowly.
“Yes,” he said, in a low tone.
“But you saw your chance, and you’ll never regret it,” Dick went on softly. “You’ve evened up the score with Tempest now, and the fellows will never have a chance to say that you were right and he was wrong. It was generous, Jack, and I’m proud of you.”
A keen sense of pleasure and satisfaction thrilled Kenny to the heart. Suddenly he looked anxiously at Merriwell.
“You won’t tell Don?” he questioned hastily.
“Not I!” laughed Dick.
His arm still about the quarter back’s shoulder, he turned, and together they disappeared into the track house.
THE END.
THE END.
THE END.
“Frank Merriwell’s Tact,” is the next title, by Burt L. Standish, No. 193 of theMerriwell Series. It is an unusually good story.
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who handles the STREET & SMITH NOVELS is a man worth patronizing. The fact that he does handle our books proves that he has considered the merits of paper-covered lines, and has decided that the STREET & SMITH NOVELS are superior to all others.
He has looked into the question of the morality of the paper-covered book, for instance, and feels that he is perfectly safe in handing one of our novels to any one, because he has our assurance that nothing except clean, wholesome literature finds its way into our lines.
Therefore, the STREET & SMITH NOVEL dealer is a careful and wise tradesman, and it is fair to assume selects the other articles he has for sale with the same degree of intelligence as he does his paper-covered books.
Deal with the STREET & SMITH NOVEL dealer.
STREET & SMITH CORPORATION79 Seventh Avenue New York City
STREET & SMITH CORPORATION79 Seventh Avenue New York City
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Transcriber’s Notes:Missing or obscured punctuation was silently corrected.Typographical errors were silently corrected.Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation were made consistent only when a predominant form was found in this book.