CHAPTERXVIII.OFF TO THE STRUGGLE.It was the morning of the day before Thanksgiving, and gloom brooded heavily at Yale. The report of Merriwell’s injury had gone abroad, and the odds being offered that Harvard would defeat Yale were amazing. But what was still worse, there seemed no Yale money afloat. The backers of the blue did not have courage to accept odds of three or four to one. Never in the history of the college had there been such an absolute lack of confidence. Of course, there were plenty of men who pretended to believe that Yale would win, but they did not seem sincere, and they were not taking any chances.Lorrimer declared that the eleven was the best Yale had put onto the field in ten years. But the astonishing record of the eternally triumphant Harvard team stared them in the face, and they knew to a man that they were going against the hardest proposition they had ever tackled.Hodge had not held a secure position on the team, and, on account of his free talk after Merriwell’s injury, he had been dropped back with the substitutes. It is a wonder he was not told his services could be dispensed with entirely. Frank knew the men were preparing to take the train for Boston. He had expected to be with them, and he had pictured in his mind the rollicking Thanksgiving he would have. Now he was thinking it would be the most dismal for years.There were steps outside, and then Steve Lorrimer came hurriedly in, his face flushed and his eyes downcast.“How do you do, Mr. Lorrimer?” said Merry pleasantly. “I hope you’ll excuse me for not rising.”Lorrimer closed the door carefully.“Merriwell,” he said, “I’ve come to beg your pardon.”“What?” cried Frank, astounded.“Yea,” said Lorrimer, “I want to beg your pardon for dropping you the way I did. I want to tell you something, too. I never meant to drop you entirely; I did that to teach you a lesson. It was my intention to take you back onto the eleven for the game to-morrow.”“Well,” said Frank, with a faint smile, “as it has happened, your intentions cannot be carried out.”“Will you accept my apology?” asked Lorrimer. “I’ll make it public if you like.”“It is not necessary,” said Frank. “I accept it.”“I’ve tried to work the men just right so that they would be in condition, without overworking them,” Lorrimer went on. “I have held the coachers in check. I believe the men are all right physically; but they are all wrong mentally.”“How is that?”“They lack courage.”“That’s bad.”“Bad! It’s going to defeat us!”Merriwell looked anxious.“I’m afraid you are right,” he said, “unless you can screw their courage up. A team should not be too confident when it goes into a game, but an absolute lack of confidence means ruin in a game like this. It’s a shame. What’s the matter?”“You!”“I?”“Yes.”“How?”“The team needs you to brace it up and give it courage. I never realized before how much it depended on you.”“Well, Lorrimer, I am awful sorry I can’t brace it up.”“Can’t you?”“Why, no! How can I?”“Can’t you go to Boston with us?”“The doctor——”“I know, but victory for Yale may depend on it. If you could go with the men—if you could appear on the field in a uniform, I believe we’d have an even chance for victory.”“Do you?”“Sure thing.”Frank sat bolt upright now, his eyes gleaming and a flush in his cheeks.“Lorrimer,” he said, “I’ll go!”The manager felt like uttering a shout, but he did not. Instead, he held out his hand, which Frank took, saying:“Wiggle it carefully, old man.”“There’s a chance for us, Merriwell!” cried Steve. “The sight of you will put spirit into the men. You will give them heart, and that is what they need.”Frank got up.“I’ll be ready as soon as I can get into my clothes,” he said. “Will you see that I have a cab to take me to the station?”“You bet I will!”“All right. You can depend on me, Lorrimer. If I knew I could help the team win this game, I’d go to Boston if I had to be carried there on a stretcher!”Lorrimer hurried down-stairs, and within thirty minutes it seemed that the whole college knew Merriwell was going to Boston with the eleven. It created a perfect tumult of excitement. Men who, an hour before, had declared they were not going to see the game made a scramble to get ready and catch the train. Of a sudden it seemed that the aspect of things had brightened in a most wonderful manner.“What is he going to do?”That was the question hundreds asked.“Is he going to play?”Scores asked that question.The time approached for Merry to start for the train. He came down from his room, escorted by his most intimate friends. Browning was helping him downstairs. They saw a crowd was waiting outside.“Let me alone, Bruce!” cried Frank, who had tried to discourage the giant from offering assistance. “This is what I’m on my feet for. Give me a chance to make my bluff.”So he walked out at the head of the party, straight as an Indian, stepping off with a brisk pace, apparently as well as ever. His appearance created unbounded astonishment, for it had been believed that he was entirely “done up.”“What’s the matter with him, anyhow?”“He’s a healthy-looking sick man!”“He’s as well as ever!”“Somebody has been playing a slick game!”These were the exclamations. One fellow cried:“Fellows, the cat is out! Merriwell wasn’t hurt at all! The whole business was a fake to fool Harvard! He’s fooled her, too, and Yale will win to-day!”Frank laughed outright. Everything was moving finely.“Talk about your clever tricks!” shouted a voice. “This beats ’em all! Hurrah for Frank Merriwell!”They cheered, and Frank walked steadily through their midst to the cab, which he entered, his grip and overcoat being tossed in after him. Diamond, Browning, and Rattleton followed, and the cab rolled away.“If we can keep it up,” said Frank, “we may change the complexion of things.”All Boston seemed football crazy, for the time, at least. Blue and crimson were the colors everywhere. At noon people began turning toward Soldiers’ Field, that colossal rectangle where the battle was to take place. The work of the ticket-takers began as the spectators came dribbling in. It was a tiny rivulet at first, then a brook, then a stream, then a river, then a rushing, roaring flood.Inside the seats of the stadium gradually became covered with all sorts of wraps and all colors of ribbons. There were pretty girls in crimson sweaters, and just as pretty ones wearing Yale blue. There were men with flags and with their colors pinned to their coats. By one-thirty it seemed that the great stand was filled, but there was not the slightest decrease in the steady flow of people rolling inward from the four corners of the field.The college men poured in and gathered in compact masses, Yale on the east and Harvard on the west. They were exuberant and overflowing with life, and they were armed with megaphones.It was near two o’clock, when, of a sudden, the Harvard men sent up a long, roaring yell, that sounded like the call of a lion to battle. In an instant, from the opposite side of the arena, the Yale bloodhounds began to bay. The dull tramping of the oncoming host could be heard no longer. In the midst of the uproar came the lilt of far-away songs. The pulsing beat of a drum was borne to the ear. The megaphones blared and roared and lapsed to silence at times. In those brief intervals the strong wind could be heard playing amid the sea of waving pennons with a sound like the humming bow-strings on a battle-field of old. The blood throbbed and leaped in the veins, and the excitement and expectancy of the hour was intoxicating.In front of this vast and heaving concourse was the level field of battle, marked with white lines, like the ribs of a skeleton.It was exactly five minutes past two when the roaring suddenly broke forth with fury it had not hitherto attained, and onto the field suddenly came the gladiators who were to struggle for the supremacy. Shaggy and lion-maned, they were armored and prepared for the terrible battle that was impending. And all eyes were turned upon them, while the college men stood up and waved their colors and roared and roared again. That great mass of human beings broke out into a flutter of crimson and blue color. Amid those men who came out thus upon the field was one for whom the eyes of two-thirds of the college men and football cranks within that enclosure searched. The cheering lulled, and a Yale man shrieked:“There he is! There’s Frank Merriwell!”What a sound followed, coming from the throats of that gathering of Yale students. It was a note of greeting, exultation, and joy! The man on whom it seemed that their hopes centered had trotted onto the field with the others. There was no longer a doubt but it was a trick, all this business of Merriwell having been severely injured. The preliminary practise began. Men fell to chasing the ball about and falling on it. There was some signal-practise, and then:“The game is going to begin!”The two captains were seen to walk aside from the others, together with the referee, who took a coin from his pocket and spun it in the air. The toss fell to Yale. Birch did not hesitate. He gave Harvard the ball and took advantage of the wind. Then the battle lines were formed in the center, and the substitutes came down along the ropes.Frank Merriwell was with the substitutes. Hundreds of Yale men were puzzled by this. They had expected to see him go onto the field, and now, for the first time, they began to get an inkling of the real truth—they began to suspect that he was not in condition to play.“What’s the matter with Merriwell?”“Why doesn’t he go on?”“What are they doing with him, anyhow?”“If he can play, they ought to play him!”“There is something wrong about this.”Amid the uproar could be heard these remarks coming from Yale men.“Hollender is going to kick off!”There was a hush. The Harvard full-back stepped off from the ball lying on the turf and sized it up. He balanced himself carefully, while the rest of the twenty-one young panthers waited with every nerve and muscle taut. Then, with a rapid forward movement, Hollender swung his foot against the ball, and away it sailed over the Yale forwards like a flying bird.There was a rumbling rush of feet on the hard turf. Under the ball stood Richmond, on Yale’s twenty-five yard line. He caught it fairly, but barely had he done so when he was slapped to the ground, and two tons of Harvard beef piled upon him. The game was fairly on, and all present, players and spectators, felt that it was to be the greatest game in history to date.Harvard, with all the experience of the past year and the record of wonderful work thus far this season, was confident that she would give Yale the worst trouncing she had ever received. On the other hand, Yale was desperate and determined to win back her lost laurels. It was amazing how those men had been cheered and encouraged by Frank Merriwell. He had put stiffening into the back-bones of all of them, and he had made them feel that the game belonged to them by decrees of fate if they were willing to work for it.There was an untangling, and then the human tigers stood there glaring into each other’s eyes.Yale’s first play was to give the ball to Badger for a plunge against Harvard’s right wing. The stocky Western man made a gallant attempt, but the gain was slight, for the Harvard end closed in about him and swamped him. Ready, quivering, alert, the Harvard men were on their mettle at the outset, and it was plain that Yale was up against a hard proposition.Birch decided to try a kick from close behind the line, but one of the rushers was called out, as if he was to run with the ball. He kicked, but it seemed that his toe hardly touched the pigskin when those Harvard wildcats were upon him. A big Harvard athlete partly blocked the ball, and Jack Ready, who was well in the play, succeeded in recovering it for Yale at the Harvard fifty-yard line. Neither Badger’s plunge nor the attempted kick had proved a success, and the Harvard rooters were whooping their joy.But Yale was undaunted, and again a kick was tried from behind the line. Again the man was beaten down, but this time the Harvard gladiators were too late, and the ball sailed through the air, came to earth, and rolled out of bounds at Harvard’s fifteen-yard line. But Harvard got possession of the leather, and there she lined up for her first assault on the Yale line.Across the field rolled a great chorus of voices singing a song to inspire the defenders of the crimson. There was scarcely a moment of delay, and then a Harvard man was sent against Yale’s left wing, which was regarded as weak. But Jack Ready was there, and he distinguished himself by bringing the man with the ball to the ground without a foot of gain.It was beginning to look brighter for Yale.“Frank Merriwell did it!” screamed Diamond in the ear of Bruce Browning. “He put the needed courage into the men. We’re going to win this game!”Browning nodded. His confidence had been restored and he was feeling better.“It would have been a cinch if Merriwell had played,” he shouted back.But their enthusiasm and confidence received a setback when a Harvard man was sent against the right wing of the Yale line, and, aided by splendid interference, cut his way through and took the ball up the field fifteen yards. It was Badger who tackled and brought the runner to earth, the interference being unable to stop the rush of the determined Westerner.Immediately following this a round-the-end play was tried, but it resulted in no gain for Harvard. The left wing was bucked again, but the needed five yards were not obtained on the second down.“We’ll hold ’em!” cried Diamond.Browning nodded.And then, by a new and surprising play, Harvard seemed to try to send the ball round the end, but shifted with the suddenness of a flash of lightning and hurled herself in one compact mass against Yale’s center. It was a surprise. Yale seemed split and overwhelmed in a twinkling. The man with the ball came through, his interferers protecting him finely. Down the field he sped toward the Yale goal, and the great throng of Harvard students rose up and thundered like the bursting of a mighty storm in the tropics.Behind the Harvard runner came defenders of the blue. The men before him were swept aside by the interference. It looked like a great, sensational run for a touch-down. Yale spectators were gasping for breath, while the Harvard crowd roared its applause and delight. Bruce Browning was speechless; Jack Diamond was shivering as if struck by a chill; Harry Rattleton was white as chalk. They realized that a run through Yale’s center at this early stage of the game might totally demoralize the Yale eleven. And the run was being made!If Frank Merriwell were in the game! That was the thought of many of Merry’s particular friends and admirers. But he was not in the game, and his best friends knew he was in no condition to go into it.The ball was in Yale’s territory, and it was being carried straight and sure for her goal-line. Two men were after the runner. They were closing in from opposite sides. One was Buck Badger and the other was Richmond, Yale’s quarter-back.“Badger will do it! Badger will stop him!”Somebody cried out the words. Then they saw Badger blocked off and baffled by Harvard interference.Yale’s thirty-yard line was reached.Five yards farther on the interferer who was giving his attention to Richmond stumbled a moment. Before he could recover, the active little Yale quarter-back went past him and flung himself like a wildcat at the Harvard man with the ball. The tackle was accurate and well made. The man with the ball went down, and Harvard had not scored, although a most brilliant play had been made—a play that would be talked about for weeks to come.Then it was the turn for the Yale crowd to yell, and they nearly split their throats. There was a pile-up and an entanglement. The Harvard man was hurt. He tried to get up and stay in the game, but when he stood straight on his feet he reeled and fell into the arms of his friends. Then they carried him from the field, covered with glory, but done for, and another man took his place.Harvard was on her mettle now. She had broken through Yale’s center, and the feat of the brave fellow just carried from the field was something to put iron into the blood of his companions.The moment the game was on again Harvard drove hard at Yale’s center, without resorting to strategy. It seemed that this repetition of her recent move was unexpected, and it succeeded, for the ball was taken to Yale’s fifteen-yard line.The goal was near, and Harvard was working for her life. In past years she had produced great defensive teams, but it was plain that her team could take the offensive this year. Yale was desperate. The advance must be checked right here. Hard-faced and desperate, the defenders of the blue lined up. Twice Harvard flung herself against the line, and twice she failed to gain an inch.“Hold them, boys—hold them!” muttered Jack Diamond, as if his words could reach the ears of those dirt-covered gladiators on the gridiron.Then a pass was tried by Harvard, and right there she fumbled. It was Jack Ready who fell on the ball, and Yale breathed once more. Now the lost ground must be recovered. Yale tried to send a man round Harvard’s right end, but no gain was made. Then Derford, Yale’s left end, was literally hurled out of a formation play for a gain of four yards, and that was some encouragement.Right there three downs followed, and, as a last resort, a desperate one, Birch kicked. The wind helped him, and he got the ball off in splendid shape before a hand touched him. Hollender received the ball and sent it back on the instant. This was a mistake, for Harvard lost ground, having the wind against her, and the Yale crowd breathed a trifle easier. But the fight was entirely in Yale territory now, and Yale could not get the ball past center. Twice she came near succeeding, only to slip up when success seemed within her grasp.Harvard was cheering her men on.The half was drawing to a close, and neither side had scored. Harvard did not propose to lose her advantage. The captain called on his men to rally, and they answered. Having the ball in their possession, they began a series of terrific hammering at the Yale line. To the despair of the Yale rooters the defenders of the blue seemed weakening. Harvard made steady gains, and the ball was pushed to Yale’s thirty-yard line once more, where there was another fearful scrimmage, and when it was over Buck Badger was carried from the field with a wrenched knee.“That settles it!” groaned Browning. “I’ve never liked that fellow, but he’s been our mainstay to-day. We’re in the soup!”“I am afraid so,” said Diamond huskily. “Oh, if Frank Merriwell could take his place!”A freshman by the name of Deland came out from the reserves and took Badger’s place. The game went on, with Harvard hammering her way forward sure as fate. Yale’s twenty-yard line was reached. Then the crimson beat out three yards, a yard, four yards, two yards, and the ball was “down” ten yards from Yale’s goal-line.“For the love of Heaven, hold it there two minutes!” prayed Jack Diamond, looking at his watch.Harvard had found she could gain by driving with all her might into Yale’s line. It was brutal sort of work, but it counted, and those Cambridge men were there to win if it cost blood and limbs. Yale was making a “last-ditch stand.” There did not seem to be a man on the team who was not willing to shed any amount of gore if he could aid in the checking of those human battering-rams.Slam! Harvard drove into Yale’s right end, and the “down” had not gained a foot. Bang! Harvard rammed Yale’s center, and four yards were made.Then there was a quick change of men, and two substitutes appeared in Yale’s line. They were fresh, and they held Harvard in her next center attack.“It’ll be all over in a moment!” groaned Browning. “Harvard will put the ball over the line on her next attempt!”Then the referee’s whistle blew, and Yale was saved for the time, as the first half was ended.
It was the morning of the day before Thanksgiving, and gloom brooded heavily at Yale. The report of Merriwell’s injury had gone abroad, and the odds being offered that Harvard would defeat Yale were amazing. But what was still worse, there seemed no Yale money afloat. The backers of the blue did not have courage to accept odds of three or four to one. Never in the history of the college had there been such an absolute lack of confidence. Of course, there were plenty of men who pretended to believe that Yale would win, but they did not seem sincere, and they were not taking any chances.
Lorrimer declared that the eleven was the best Yale had put onto the field in ten years. But the astonishing record of the eternally triumphant Harvard team stared them in the face, and they knew to a man that they were going against the hardest proposition they had ever tackled.
Hodge had not held a secure position on the team, and, on account of his free talk after Merriwell’s injury, he had been dropped back with the substitutes. It is a wonder he was not told his services could be dispensed with entirely. Frank knew the men were preparing to take the train for Boston. He had expected to be with them, and he had pictured in his mind the rollicking Thanksgiving he would have. Now he was thinking it would be the most dismal for years.
There were steps outside, and then Steve Lorrimer came hurriedly in, his face flushed and his eyes downcast.
“How do you do, Mr. Lorrimer?” said Merry pleasantly. “I hope you’ll excuse me for not rising.”
Lorrimer closed the door carefully.
“Merriwell,” he said, “I’ve come to beg your pardon.”
“What?” cried Frank, astounded.
“Yea,” said Lorrimer, “I want to beg your pardon for dropping you the way I did. I want to tell you something, too. I never meant to drop you entirely; I did that to teach you a lesson. It was my intention to take you back onto the eleven for the game to-morrow.”
“Well,” said Frank, with a faint smile, “as it has happened, your intentions cannot be carried out.”
“Will you accept my apology?” asked Lorrimer. “I’ll make it public if you like.”
“It is not necessary,” said Frank. “I accept it.”
“I’ve tried to work the men just right so that they would be in condition, without overworking them,” Lorrimer went on. “I have held the coachers in check. I believe the men are all right physically; but they are all wrong mentally.”
“How is that?”
“They lack courage.”
“That’s bad.”
“Bad! It’s going to defeat us!”
Merriwell looked anxious.
“I’m afraid you are right,” he said, “unless you can screw their courage up. A team should not be too confident when it goes into a game, but an absolute lack of confidence means ruin in a game like this. It’s a shame. What’s the matter?”
“You!”
“I?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“The team needs you to brace it up and give it courage. I never realized before how much it depended on you.”
“Well, Lorrimer, I am awful sorry I can’t brace it up.”
“Can’t you?”
“Why, no! How can I?”
“Can’t you go to Boston with us?”
“The doctor——”
“I know, but victory for Yale may depend on it. If you could go with the men—if you could appear on the field in a uniform, I believe we’d have an even chance for victory.”
“Do you?”
“Sure thing.”
Frank sat bolt upright now, his eyes gleaming and a flush in his cheeks.
“Lorrimer,” he said, “I’ll go!”
The manager felt like uttering a shout, but he did not. Instead, he held out his hand, which Frank took, saying:
“Wiggle it carefully, old man.”
“There’s a chance for us, Merriwell!” cried Steve. “The sight of you will put spirit into the men. You will give them heart, and that is what they need.”
Frank got up.
“I’ll be ready as soon as I can get into my clothes,” he said. “Will you see that I have a cab to take me to the station?”
“You bet I will!”
“All right. You can depend on me, Lorrimer. If I knew I could help the team win this game, I’d go to Boston if I had to be carried there on a stretcher!”
Lorrimer hurried down-stairs, and within thirty minutes it seemed that the whole college knew Merriwell was going to Boston with the eleven. It created a perfect tumult of excitement. Men who, an hour before, had declared they were not going to see the game made a scramble to get ready and catch the train. Of a sudden it seemed that the aspect of things had brightened in a most wonderful manner.
“What is he going to do?”
That was the question hundreds asked.
“Is he going to play?”
Scores asked that question.
The time approached for Merry to start for the train. He came down from his room, escorted by his most intimate friends. Browning was helping him downstairs. They saw a crowd was waiting outside.
“Let me alone, Bruce!” cried Frank, who had tried to discourage the giant from offering assistance. “This is what I’m on my feet for. Give me a chance to make my bluff.”
So he walked out at the head of the party, straight as an Indian, stepping off with a brisk pace, apparently as well as ever. His appearance created unbounded astonishment, for it had been believed that he was entirely “done up.”
“What’s the matter with him, anyhow?”
“He’s a healthy-looking sick man!”
“He’s as well as ever!”
“Somebody has been playing a slick game!”
These were the exclamations. One fellow cried:
“Fellows, the cat is out! Merriwell wasn’t hurt at all! The whole business was a fake to fool Harvard! He’s fooled her, too, and Yale will win to-day!”
Frank laughed outright. Everything was moving finely.
“Talk about your clever tricks!” shouted a voice. “This beats ’em all! Hurrah for Frank Merriwell!”
They cheered, and Frank walked steadily through their midst to the cab, which he entered, his grip and overcoat being tossed in after him. Diamond, Browning, and Rattleton followed, and the cab rolled away.
“If we can keep it up,” said Frank, “we may change the complexion of things.”
All Boston seemed football crazy, for the time, at least. Blue and crimson were the colors everywhere. At noon people began turning toward Soldiers’ Field, that colossal rectangle where the battle was to take place. The work of the ticket-takers began as the spectators came dribbling in. It was a tiny rivulet at first, then a brook, then a stream, then a river, then a rushing, roaring flood.
Inside the seats of the stadium gradually became covered with all sorts of wraps and all colors of ribbons. There were pretty girls in crimson sweaters, and just as pretty ones wearing Yale blue. There were men with flags and with their colors pinned to their coats. By one-thirty it seemed that the great stand was filled, but there was not the slightest decrease in the steady flow of people rolling inward from the four corners of the field.
The college men poured in and gathered in compact masses, Yale on the east and Harvard on the west. They were exuberant and overflowing with life, and they were armed with megaphones.
It was near two o’clock, when, of a sudden, the Harvard men sent up a long, roaring yell, that sounded like the call of a lion to battle. In an instant, from the opposite side of the arena, the Yale bloodhounds began to bay. The dull tramping of the oncoming host could be heard no longer. In the midst of the uproar came the lilt of far-away songs. The pulsing beat of a drum was borne to the ear. The megaphones blared and roared and lapsed to silence at times. In those brief intervals the strong wind could be heard playing amid the sea of waving pennons with a sound like the humming bow-strings on a battle-field of old. The blood throbbed and leaped in the veins, and the excitement and expectancy of the hour was intoxicating.
In front of this vast and heaving concourse was the level field of battle, marked with white lines, like the ribs of a skeleton.
It was exactly five minutes past two when the roaring suddenly broke forth with fury it had not hitherto attained, and onto the field suddenly came the gladiators who were to struggle for the supremacy. Shaggy and lion-maned, they were armored and prepared for the terrible battle that was impending. And all eyes were turned upon them, while the college men stood up and waved their colors and roared and roared again. That great mass of human beings broke out into a flutter of crimson and blue color. Amid those men who came out thus upon the field was one for whom the eyes of two-thirds of the college men and football cranks within that enclosure searched. The cheering lulled, and a Yale man shrieked:
“There he is! There’s Frank Merriwell!”
What a sound followed, coming from the throats of that gathering of Yale students. It was a note of greeting, exultation, and joy! The man on whom it seemed that their hopes centered had trotted onto the field with the others. There was no longer a doubt but it was a trick, all this business of Merriwell having been severely injured. The preliminary practise began. Men fell to chasing the ball about and falling on it. There was some signal-practise, and then:
“The game is going to begin!”
The two captains were seen to walk aside from the others, together with the referee, who took a coin from his pocket and spun it in the air. The toss fell to Yale. Birch did not hesitate. He gave Harvard the ball and took advantage of the wind. Then the battle lines were formed in the center, and the substitutes came down along the ropes.
Frank Merriwell was with the substitutes. Hundreds of Yale men were puzzled by this. They had expected to see him go onto the field, and now, for the first time, they began to get an inkling of the real truth—they began to suspect that he was not in condition to play.
“What’s the matter with Merriwell?”
“Why doesn’t he go on?”
“What are they doing with him, anyhow?”
“If he can play, they ought to play him!”
“There is something wrong about this.”
Amid the uproar could be heard these remarks coming from Yale men.
“Hollender is going to kick off!”
There was a hush. The Harvard full-back stepped off from the ball lying on the turf and sized it up. He balanced himself carefully, while the rest of the twenty-one young panthers waited with every nerve and muscle taut. Then, with a rapid forward movement, Hollender swung his foot against the ball, and away it sailed over the Yale forwards like a flying bird.
There was a rumbling rush of feet on the hard turf. Under the ball stood Richmond, on Yale’s twenty-five yard line. He caught it fairly, but barely had he done so when he was slapped to the ground, and two tons of Harvard beef piled upon him. The game was fairly on, and all present, players and spectators, felt that it was to be the greatest game in history to date.
Harvard, with all the experience of the past year and the record of wonderful work thus far this season, was confident that she would give Yale the worst trouncing she had ever received. On the other hand, Yale was desperate and determined to win back her lost laurels. It was amazing how those men had been cheered and encouraged by Frank Merriwell. He had put stiffening into the back-bones of all of them, and he had made them feel that the game belonged to them by decrees of fate if they were willing to work for it.
There was an untangling, and then the human tigers stood there glaring into each other’s eyes.
Yale’s first play was to give the ball to Badger for a plunge against Harvard’s right wing. The stocky Western man made a gallant attempt, but the gain was slight, for the Harvard end closed in about him and swamped him. Ready, quivering, alert, the Harvard men were on their mettle at the outset, and it was plain that Yale was up against a hard proposition.
Birch decided to try a kick from close behind the line, but one of the rushers was called out, as if he was to run with the ball. He kicked, but it seemed that his toe hardly touched the pigskin when those Harvard wildcats were upon him. A big Harvard athlete partly blocked the ball, and Jack Ready, who was well in the play, succeeded in recovering it for Yale at the Harvard fifty-yard line. Neither Badger’s plunge nor the attempted kick had proved a success, and the Harvard rooters were whooping their joy.
But Yale was undaunted, and again a kick was tried from behind the line. Again the man was beaten down, but this time the Harvard gladiators were too late, and the ball sailed through the air, came to earth, and rolled out of bounds at Harvard’s fifteen-yard line. But Harvard got possession of the leather, and there she lined up for her first assault on the Yale line.
Across the field rolled a great chorus of voices singing a song to inspire the defenders of the crimson. There was scarcely a moment of delay, and then a Harvard man was sent against Yale’s left wing, which was regarded as weak. But Jack Ready was there, and he distinguished himself by bringing the man with the ball to the ground without a foot of gain.
It was beginning to look brighter for Yale.
“Frank Merriwell did it!” screamed Diamond in the ear of Bruce Browning. “He put the needed courage into the men. We’re going to win this game!”
Browning nodded. His confidence had been restored and he was feeling better.
“It would have been a cinch if Merriwell had played,” he shouted back.
But their enthusiasm and confidence received a setback when a Harvard man was sent against the right wing of the Yale line, and, aided by splendid interference, cut his way through and took the ball up the field fifteen yards. It was Badger who tackled and brought the runner to earth, the interference being unable to stop the rush of the determined Westerner.
Immediately following this a round-the-end play was tried, but it resulted in no gain for Harvard. The left wing was bucked again, but the needed five yards were not obtained on the second down.
“We’ll hold ’em!” cried Diamond.
Browning nodded.
And then, by a new and surprising play, Harvard seemed to try to send the ball round the end, but shifted with the suddenness of a flash of lightning and hurled herself in one compact mass against Yale’s center. It was a surprise. Yale seemed split and overwhelmed in a twinkling. The man with the ball came through, his interferers protecting him finely. Down the field he sped toward the Yale goal, and the great throng of Harvard students rose up and thundered like the bursting of a mighty storm in the tropics.
Behind the Harvard runner came defenders of the blue. The men before him were swept aside by the interference. It looked like a great, sensational run for a touch-down. Yale spectators were gasping for breath, while the Harvard crowd roared its applause and delight. Bruce Browning was speechless; Jack Diamond was shivering as if struck by a chill; Harry Rattleton was white as chalk. They realized that a run through Yale’s center at this early stage of the game might totally demoralize the Yale eleven. And the run was being made!
If Frank Merriwell were in the game! That was the thought of many of Merry’s particular friends and admirers. But he was not in the game, and his best friends knew he was in no condition to go into it.
The ball was in Yale’s territory, and it was being carried straight and sure for her goal-line. Two men were after the runner. They were closing in from opposite sides. One was Buck Badger and the other was Richmond, Yale’s quarter-back.
“Badger will do it! Badger will stop him!”
Somebody cried out the words. Then they saw Badger blocked off and baffled by Harvard interference.
Yale’s thirty-yard line was reached.
Five yards farther on the interferer who was giving his attention to Richmond stumbled a moment. Before he could recover, the active little Yale quarter-back went past him and flung himself like a wildcat at the Harvard man with the ball. The tackle was accurate and well made. The man with the ball went down, and Harvard had not scored, although a most brilliant play had been made—a play that would be talked about for weeks to come.
Then it was the turn for the Yale crowd to yell, and they nearly split their throats. There was a pile-up and an entanglement. The Harvard man was hurt. He tried to get up and stay in the game, but when he stood straight on his feet he reeled and fell into the arms of his friends. Then they carried him from the field, covered with glory, but done for, and another man took his place.
Harvard was on her mettle now. She had broken through Yale’s center, and the feat of the brave fellow just carried from the field was something to put iron into the blood of his companions.
The moment the game was on again Harvard drove hard at Yale’s center, without resorting to strategy. It seemed that this repetition of her recent move was unexpected, and it succeeded, for the ball was taken to Yale’s fifteen-yard line.
The goal was near, and Harvard was working for her life. In past years she had produced great defensive teams, but it was plain that her team could take the offensive this year. Yale was desperate. The advance must be checked right here. Hard-faced and desperate, the defenders of the blue lined up. Twice Harvard flung herself against the line, and twice she failed to gain an inch.
“Hold them, boys—hold them!” muttered Jack Diamond, as if his words could reach the ears of those dirt-covered gladiators on the gridiron.
Then a pass was tried by Harvard, and right there she fumbled. It was Jack Ready who fell on the ball, and Yale breathed once more. Now the lost ground must be recovered. Yale tried to send a man round Harvard’s right end, but no gain was made. Then Derford, Yale’s left end, was literally hurled out of a formation play for a gain of four yards, and that was some encouragement.
Right there three downs followed, and, as a last resort, a desperate one, Birch kicked. The wind helped him, and he got the ball off in splendid shape before a hand touched him. Hollender received the ball and sent it back on the instant. This was a mistake, for Harvard lost ground, having the wind against her, and the Yale crowd breathed a trifle easier. But the fight was entirely in Yale territory now, and Yale could not get the ball past center. Twice she came near succeeding, only to slip up when success seemed within her grasp.
Harvard was cheering her men on.
The half was drawing to a close, and neither side had scored. Harvard did not propose to lose her advantage. The captain called on his men to rally, and they answered. Having the ball in their possession, they began a series of terrific hammering at the Yale line. To the despair of the Yale rooters the defenders of the blue seemed weakening. Harvard made steady gains, and the ball was pushed to Yale’s thirty-yard line once more, where there was another fearful scrimmage, and when it was over Buck Badger was carried from the field with a wrenched knee.
“That settles it!” groaned Browning. “I’ve never liked that fellow, but he’s been our mainstay to-day. We’re in the soup!”
“I am afraid so,” said Diamond huskily. “Oh, if Frank Merriwell could take his place!”
A freshman by the name of Deland came out from the reserves and took Badger’s place. The game went on, with Harvard hammering her way forward sure as fate. Yale’s twenty-yard line was reached. Then the crimson beat out three yards, a yard, four yards, two yards, and the ball was “down” ten yards from Yale’s goal-line.
“For the love of Heaven, hold it there two minutes!” prayed Jack Diamond, looking at his watch.
Harvard had found she could gain by driving with all her might into Yale’s line. It was brutal sort of work, but it counted, and those Cambridge men were there to win if it cost blood and limbs. Yale was making a “last-ditch stand.” There did not seem to be a man on the team who was not willing to shed any amount of gore if he could aid in the checking of those human battering-rams.
Slam! Harvard drove into Yale’s right end, and the “down” had not gained a foot. Bang! Harvard rammed Yale’s center, and four yards were made.
Then there was a quick change of men, and two substitutes appeared in Yale’s line. They were fresh, and they held Harvard in her next center attack.
“It’ll be all over in a moment!” groaned Browning. “Harvard will put the ball over the line on her next attempt!”
Then the referee’s whistle blew, and Yale was saved for the time, as the first half was ended.