The day of the game dawned with a miserable wet rain falling. The Canton High team and five hundred raving rooters arrived by special train at ten in the morning. Nothing seemed to dampen their spirits. They came with the intention of winning a decisive victory and having a big time in the doing.
Judd, hollow-eyed from loss of sleep through dread of the approaching conflict, met with other members of the team at eleven o'clock. Most of the boys were in good spirits. The coach had insisted that they eat at a training table and that he supervise the last meal eaten before the big game. He always got the boys in uniform early and gave them an opportunity to wear off the first wave of excitement before the game was called.
Blackwell managed to sit next to Billings. He saw that Judd was almost beside himself with nervousness, playing with his food and making a sorry pretense of eating.
"I—I'd give anything if I could get out of this…"
"No you wouldn't," prompted Blackwell, "You'd be ashamed of yourself for the rest of your life … and you know it."
Judd hung his head. He had to confess that what Blackwell said was true. Now that he had waged the fight against himself, there was a certain growing spirit which refused to let him stop. He had thought that he would quit on the last night of scrimmage but the next night found him out taking a light signal practice with the team. It was as if he had started an automobile and then wished to stop it only to find that it had gotten beyond his control. The situation was terrifying.
When Judd dressed for the game he took a white slip of paper from his wallet and folded it inside his head gear. Some of the players saw him do it and one asked, "What's that for, a shock absorber?" The question was a harmless thrust but Judd flushed guiltily. They certainly would kid him if they knew what it really was!
In the distance could be heard the yells of the rival schools and the blare of the school bands. Overhead, in the lulls, could be heard the monotonous drip of the rain. What a day for a football game! The gridiron was water-soaked and soggy. A person would get covered with dirt and wet to the skin. Nothing inviting about that to Judd.
"Fellows, I've been your coach for seven years. There has never been a game in all my experience that I have wanted to win more than this one. We will be outweighed; we will be faced by a team of veterans; but we will not be outspirited. Trumbull has always possessed the spirit that never says die. I know that every man on the first team will be out there … when his chance comes … giving everything he has for old Trumbull…." The coach's eyes passed over every boy in the squad, pausing just a moment to rest upon Billings, then moving on quickly.
The last pointed words of the coach failed to impress Judd. He seemed in a daze. Could it be possible that he was actually a sub on the first team and that he might be called upon to play? The thoughts of honor had not come to him … of fighting for his school … of fighting for anything in particular. But he did want to fight to live up to the contract … to the belief that a few people had in him.
Judd followed the other subs to a bench along the edge of the field. He sat down with Burton, second team quarterback, beside him. They watched the Trumbull eleven as it took the field amid a riotous welcoming from the umbrella packed stands. Judd studied the blue jerseyed youths of Canton in comparison with the dark red clad boys of Trumbull. It seemed to him that the Canton team was better drilled, the players moved with more snap and machine-like precision. Judd felt nervous and fidgety.
Trumbull won the toss and chose to kick off. There was a tense hum of sound as Barley, Trumbull quarterback, knelt and pointed the ball on a wet clod of dirt. Rudolph measured off the distance to kick. The opposing captains raised their arms, the referee's whistle shrilled, and the wall of red clad Trumbull warriors moved forward as the ball spun into the air.
Rudolph's kick carried to the ten yard line where Drake, Canton fullback, gathered it in and fell behind his quickly formed interference. He slipped and slid through the mud as he ran. A Trumbull player, meeting the solid phalanx at the twenty yard line, plunged low into the interference, being trampled under foot. But he succeeded in breaking the formation. Fellow team-mates tore into the advancing runners and the big fullback was downed on the thirty-five yard line after a brilliant opening run. The stands were in an uproar.
Judd had watched the play, being conscious of a peculiar pulsation in his throat. The very atmosphere seemed suddenly charged with fighting spirit … he saw the Trumbull team … now transformed into mighty gladiators … and he experienced a shocking sensation at the thought that he was one of them … in reserve.
Button pounded him on the back. "Wow! They failed to gain!" as the first onslaught of the Canton line was repulsed for a two yard loss.
Before the game was five minutes old it was sadly evident that today—of all days—weight was very likely to tell. The wet field was bound to greatly handicap the work of both teams. There would be little opportunity for fast, open field work or much passing. The plays would have to be through the line or around the end—straight football largely.
As the first quarter drew to a close, Canton had the ball on Trumbull's thirty yard line, benefiting by a series of punt exchanges. Holding desperately to prevent Canton gaining another first down, Trumbull was slowly but surely pushed backward through the mud. With one yard to go, Drake came crashing through center for three yards, battering his way with scarcely any interference to help him.
Judd seemed to feel each impact as the opposing lines strained against each other. He cringed inwardly as he heard the smack of Drake's collision with Barley, who brought the big fellow to earth. Canton's first down on Trumbull's eighteen yard line!
The first down seemed to give the heavier Canton team new life. They went to the attack with a savageness which was not to be denied. Using the sledge-hammer power of Drake … the Canton team pounded again and again at the Trumbull line. The players could scarcely be recognized for the mud with which they were bespattered.
Judd noticed Blackwell, hobbling up and down in his nervous eagerness, looking appealingly at the coach. But Coach Little shook his head. He was taking no chances by putting Blackwell in so long as there was no opportunity of his doing much good. Blackwell's value, in his present condition, would lie in his offensive ability—if he could be used at all. Judd wondered why Blackwell wanted to get into such a combat. He recoiled at the very thought that he might be called upon.
An excited cry directed Judd's attention back to the play of the moment. The Trumbull line had faltered and the Canton backfield was through with Drake again carrying the ball. Judd saw Barley brushed aside as he dove for the runner. Rudolph, the last line of defense, came dashing in and threw himself at the Canton fullback as he crossed the goal line. Drake spun around and fell heavily over the goal, landing solidly upon his tackler. A mighty cheer went up from the Canton rooters—a cheer which died out in a sudden hush when it was seen that the tackler did not rise. Trumbull players gathered about Rudolph. "Water! Water!" A boy near Judd picked up a pail and went racing out on the field, dabbing a sponge in it as he ran. Judd stared dumbly at Burton, who said: "That's tough! … Looks like Rudie's out!"
They carried Rudolph from the field and Blackwell went limping out to take his place. The Canton team lined up for the try at goal. Rudolph was regaining his senses and struggling to be in action again. Judd leaned over toward him. "You're out of it, old man," he said, soothingly. Judd thought this remark would be a great relief to one who had received such a jolt as Rudolph. But Rudolph only glared at him as another cheer told plainly that Canton had kicked goal. Score seven to nothing … favor of Canton. Referee's whistle! First quarter up.
The teams exchanged goals and Canton kicked off to Trumbull. Barley caught the ball on his fifteen yard line and ran it back seven yards before a Canton linesman struck him down on a pretty tackle. Blackwell, taking the ball on the first play, made a limping plunge around right end for a three yard gain. He was given a resounding cheer for his gameness. Two more downs and Trumbull was forced to punt. Blackwell went back and tested his footing in the mud. He shifted his weight carefully to his left foot and booted the ball, but his kick lacked the power it ordinarily contained. The punt carried a scant thirty yards and the Canton halfback who caught it came charging toward the Trumbull goal to Trumbull's twenty-eight yard line. Several attempts to tackle this elusive runner were thwarted by the slippery condition underfoot.
With the ball in Canton's possession again the relentless pound, pound, pound against Trumbull's line began anew. Despite heroic attempts of Trumbull linesmen to stop the advance, the heavier Canton line pushed and shoved and forced its way through, making a path for the seemingly tireless Drake who had been nicknamed "Mud Scow" by an ingenious Canton yell leader.
Eleven minutes of the second quarter were gone when "Mud Scow" Drake went over for the second touchdown. Judd had watched Trumbull for every foot of the water-soaked territory. He had seen Blackwell, on three different occasions, stop the slashing, slipping drive of Drake … had seen these two go down in a sea of mud … had seen Blackwell get up each time a little slower … had seen the undaunted determination upon his dirt-smeared face. And when the Canton team lined up joyously for their second try at goal after touchdown, Judd saw that Blackwell was crying … crying in unashamed fashion … perhaps he wasn't even conscious that he was crying. This was all so puzzling to Judd. He had thought of himself first in everything. He could not comprehend exactly why Blackwell should be so concerned … unless he were hurt … and suffering! It did not dawn upon him what Blackwell was actually thinking … that Blackwell, in his last year at school, felt himself unable to do his best … sensed his inability to put the punch in the team … to restore its shattered confidence … shattered because of Canton's powerful, battering attack.
The first half ended with the ball on Trumbull's ten yard line andCanton just that far away from a third touchdown! Score, Canton 14;Trumbull 0. Drake's well trained toe had added the extra point afterthe second touchdown also.
"So far the game looks like a one man offensive and the advantage of weight," Coach Little told his players between halves. "Stop this fellow Drake and you'll stop their drive. They're using him because they have to depend upon straight football and he's the strongest man in their backfield. The chances are that Canton will play a defensive game from now on and you must take the offensive in order to win. You've got everything against you today but one thing … and that's spirit. Any team that can put up the fight you have out there every minute of the half need not be discouraged. Don't think about the score. Concentrate on every play … put everything you have in it … and the score will take care of itself…"
The coach sent the same lineup back into the game.
Rudolph, swathed in blankets, sat near Judd, who watched him out of the corner of his eye. He noticed that Rudolph kept his attention centered on every move of the game. Canton kicked off, and it was Trumbull's ball on Trumbull's thirty yard line. Rudolph's lips moved at each calling of the signals. Judd unconsciously got to doing the same thing. Every time Blackwell's number was called he imagined that he was Blackwell and followed the play through in his mind. Blackwell was holding up … he was good for short gains almost every time he took the ball. But after each run he dragged himself back into position and scraped the mud from his feet as though each sticking clod held him back.
Rudolph nudged Judd after a play in which Blackwell's fatigue was most evident. "You'll get your chance pretty soon … he's about all in!"
The blood went racing to Judd's head. The entire game had been thus far like a disconnected dream to him. It had been difficult to actually associate himself with it.
"My … my chance!" he faltered.
Rudolph nodded … then clutched Judd's sleeve. "See … Blackwell's looking this way … we've got to kick … and … he can't!"
The field seemed to blur out of Judd's vision. There was a sickening buzzing in his head … he looked at Rudolph with undisguised horror on his face.
"Me … me … go in … there?"
Rudolph gave him a look of scorn and threw aside his blankets. Coach Little came up, slapping Judd on the back. "You're taking Blackwell's place, Billings …"
"Let me go in!" pleaded Rudolph, "Judd's scared stiff!"
The coach glanced sharply at the shivering substitute. The referee's whistle was screeching demandingly. Blackwell was being helped off the field.
"No, Rudie … you're done for the day. It's up to Billings."
The coach turned to Judd.
"Billings, I'm not putting you in because I want to … it's because I have to, understand? And if you show yellow … everyone in Trumbull and everyone in the state for that matter … is going to know it."
Judd ripped off his sweater. He passed Blackwell as he went out to report to the referee. Blackwell called to him. "I'm counting on you, Judd … do it for me, old boy!"
The great Bob's younger brother had a mixture of feelings … the words of the coach had aroused him more than he had ever thought he could be aroused … and Blackwell's plea had brought to him a flash of what it really meant to forget self. If Blackwell could play as he had played with a sprained ankle when every step meant a stab of pain … if Rudolph had given his best and was even now, though injured, willing to get back into the battle … why couldn't he carry on the good fight? WHY COULDN'T HE? The question suddenly became an obsession with him. And the answer began to rise up within him … "I can … I CAN!"
The ball was on Trumbull's thirty-five yard line and last down. Barley met Billings on his way out to the team. Judd had an odd thought that Barley reminded him of a man who had stuck his head out of a sewer hole and looked at him one day. Why should he think of such a curious thing as that … at a time like this? But Barley was shouting something at him … the stands were on their feet … shouting … shouting … what were they shouting? … why! … it was HIS name!
"Come on, Billings! Get us out of this hole," pleaded Barley.
And when he said this … the haunting face of the sewer digger came back to Judd … came back in such a ludicrous light that Judd looked at Barley and laughed. Get him out of the hole? Certainly he would! The other players—grim, tired, water-soaked—saw Judd laugh. His first time under fire in the biggest game of the year … and he could laugh!
To Barley the laugh came as a ray of sunshine. His worries vanished.Judd had the attitude of a veteran. Barley ran along the line, kickingeach linesman as the referee's whistle put the ball again in play."Get in there and hold that line!"
There was the sloppy crunching of body against body as the slippery ball snapped back to Billings. Judd caught it, juggled it, recovered and kicked. The ball arched skyward in a twisting spiral. Trumbull ends, making a quick get away, went stumbling and sliding down the field.
Drake stood under the punt, waiting to catch it. As he reached up to grab it a Trumbull end hit him, the slippery ball eluded his wet fingers and bounced a few feet away. The other end, closing in, dove for the ball. There was a wet mass of muddy forms disputing possession. The referee dug down to the bottom of the heap. Trumbull's ball on Canton's seventeen yard line!
The first real break in the game had favored Trumbull. Barley pounced upon Judd and hugged him happily. "Good boy, Judd … we're going to score!" The team showed new spirit. Every man was on his toes. Only seventeen yards away from a touchdown! The stands began to come to life. "Yeah, Trumbull … Yeah! Yeah! Yeah!"
Signals! Judd was conscious of them … but he was also conscious that the signals had a direct relation to him. He knew, for instance, that the first play was going through left guard and that he was to form interference for the right half. The ball was passed back. Judd automatically crossed in front of the right half and charged toward the Canton left guard … but Canton had broken through … and he found himself confronted with two determined-looking tacklers. He slipped and half fell into them and both opponents fell with him. The right half plunged on over them, Judd feeling a foot on the scruff of his neck as his face went down in the mud. The play netted a bare yard.
Signals! It seemed that he had scarcely gained his feet before he was whirled into another play. Barley was pepping up the team … he was putting drive into them … and he was calling Billings' number!
Judd took the ball and fell in behind his interference. He circled the end, running wide. A tackler attempted to reach him but slipped and went down in the gummy mire. He stuck out his hand and another tackler dropped away from him. He was conscious of the rain on his face … and it seemed that for every foot he advanced … he slid two feet backward. Judd now found himself running alone. He turned in as he came to a strip of white along the edge of the field, catching a fleeting glimpse of umbrellas and huddled spectators … then he saw the big form of Drake plowing toward him with arms outstretched.
Fear overtook Judd … a fear which blotted out everything else from the daze of his thoughts. But in this instance, fear saved him. Judd made a supreme effort to avoid being tackled, and leaped past Drake just as Drake left his feet. Drake struck in a shallow puddle and rolled over and Judd fell across the goal line. He had scored a touchdown the first time that he was given the ball!
As quick to reclaim him as they had been quick to condemn him, his team-mates crowded about Judd and for the first time made him feel the glow of comradeship. Only Judd knew how unworthy of their praise he was. His touchdown had been a happy accident. His attempt to kick goal was blocked. Score, Canton 14; Trumbull 6.
Two minutes remained of the third quarter. Trumbull kicked off and the ball was downed on Canton's twenty-one yard line. Canton tried the Trumbull line for two downs and found that the line had stiffened. Trumbull was holding desperately. Then Drake dropped back as if to kick. Barley called to Billings. "Get back. Watch out for a fake punt!"
Judd had hardly gotten back when the play started. Drake was a triple threat man. He made as if to pass to the left end, then plunged through the right side of the line. Barley tackled Drake but the big fullback shook him off and started into an open field with only Billings between him and the Trumbull goal, seventy some yards away.
Judd had been living in dread of such a moment. There flashed through his mind the temptation to make a seeming effort to tackle Drake and fail. It would be easy to let on that he had slipped in the mud. And there would be no danger of his getting hurt. He saw Drake preparing to straight arm. Then Judd saw a mental picture of Blackwell with his lame ankle, running toward the self-same Drake unflinchingly and bringing him to the ground. A sudden blast of courage came over him. He ran at Drake swiftly and knocked Drake's arm aside; his arms closed about Drake's knees; the big fullback lurched to free himself, twisted his body in an adroit manner and managed to swing Judd about so that the weight of his body landed on his tackler's head. Judd experienced the same sensation that had come to Rudolph.
Barley, the first to his side … spoke harshly to Drake. "Trumbull men always play fair … this is the second man you've put out of the game!"
Drake laughed and denied the accusation.
A water boy came running up and dashed a pail of water on Judd's face. The Trumbull players crowded about, crestfallen. Judd came to … with an expression of pain on his face. He moved his left shoulder cautiously and winced as he did so. "Oh … take me out … take me out…" he whispered … "My shoulder!"
Barley picked up Billings' head gear which had been knocked off in the tackle. The stands were cheering his name. But Judd was conscious only of pain. As they helped him to his feet … he saw the coach on the field.
"I—I can't go on, sir," he said. "I—I'm hurt."
The coach examined Judd's shoulder. "It's just a wrench … you're our only hope … can't you stick?"
As the coach asked the question he took the head gear from Barley's hands and went to place it back on Billings' head. A piece of white paper fell out. The coach picked it up curiously. There was some writing on it.
"Here, sir! Give that to me! That's mine!" Judd's eyes flashed. It would not do for anyone to see what was written on it. If they did he would be humiliated forever.
"Please, sir!" as the coach began to unfold the paper. "If you'll give it back to me … I'll stick in the game!"
Coach Little shook his head perplexedly and handed him back the paper. Judd took it shame-facedly and tucked it quickly in his cap, turning away. His team-mates stared at him in incomprehensive amazement.
"He's gone nutty!" said Barley.
The players had no sooner lined up to resume play than the whistle blew for the end of the third quarter. The ball was on Canton's thirty-nine yard line and Canton's first down. Score—Canton 14; Trumbull 6.
On the sidelines a small commotion was evident. The great Bob Billings had arrived! He'd intended to see the entire game but had missed train connections at the junction. It had been his desire, however, to keep Judd from knowing of his contemplated presence. The substitutes crowded around the former Trumbull star in eager admiration. Bob sought out Coach Little.
"Mister Little … my name's Bob Billings … how's the game going?"
"Too much beef for us in weather like this … the boys are putting up a great fight though!"
"How … how's my kid brother doing?"
Coach Little looked out upon the field. The teams were changing ends and getting in position to take up play in the last quarter.
"I can't understand him. He scored our only touchdown on a great fifteen yard sprint. Then he stopped that big bull … Drake … just as it looked like Drake had a clear field. Drake fell on Judd after the tackle and hurt him … He'd have quit the game then and there if it hadn't been for a piece of paper."
"A piece of paper?"
Coach Little laughed. "Yes … I found it in his cap and gave it back to him without reading it on his promise to stay in the game. I suppose the kid's sweet on some girl and was more afraid of being embarrassed than he was of being hurt!"
The great Bob's eyes clouded over, and his jaws tightened. "PoorBuddy!" he said, softly.
Out on the field Judd was having the biggest fight of his life. There surged up within him the desire to overcome the fears of the past. He remembered the morning that he took the pen and signed his name to the contract in Bob's room; remembered his coming back to Trumbull and re-entering school; remembered how he had made himself get out for football; remembered his mother's changed feelings toward his activities. He had fought this thing that he knew was not a part of him … trying … trying to shake it off … but it clung to him hardest at just the times when he wanted to do the most … when it was the most difficult to get away from … and easiest to surrender.
The paper had seemed to Judd as the only outward evidence of his determination to keep up the good fight … to conquer fear. He did not want to admit to anyone that he had broken faith with himself … he had gone so far now that there must be no turning back … regardless of consequences. And the piece of paper did mean something to Judd. It meant living up to his true self … a self which had no use for babying; a self which never recognized failure … a self which did not think of itself … first.
Judd crouched in his defensive position, a hand holding his lame shoulder, eyes on the Canton backfield. There was a sudden shift, the lines crashed and the big Drake came through again. But Judd, gritting his teeth, went forward to meet him and dropped Drake for a bare two yard gain.
"Good boy!" cried Barley, pulling Judd to his feet. "Right at 'em!"
Drake, dripping with mud and water, jogged back to his position. The quarterback said something in Drake's ear. Drake nodded and glanced at Billings derisively. The next moment he had the ball again and was circling the end.
Judd, muttering to himself, "I can! … I can!" cut through the muddy turf. Barley spilled the interference and once more Judd tore into Drake, bringing the big fellow down. But Drake had gained five yards.
Third down and three to go! Canton tried a line play. Trumbull held. Drake fell back to kick. Judd retreated to Trumbull's thirty yard line to play for the punt.
The pigskin came spinning through the heavy air toward him. He had run forward about five yards to get under it. He made the catch but slipped and fell as he started forward. As he got to his feet two Canton tacklers hit him. When Judd got up he was conscious of a sharp pain in his right knee. Time out was taken while he paced about, testing his foot to the ground.
Barley, supporting him, said in a whisper: "Tough luck, old man. You're putting up a great game. They wouldn't be in it if it wasn't for their man Drake … we've got just seven minutes … I'll tell you what I'm going to do … I'm going to give you the ball practically every play and we'll hand them some of the same medicine they've been feeding us!"
"I—I don't believe I can do you much good," faltered Judd.
Barley grinned. "Where do you get that stuff? Anyone who can stop that bird Drake can hit the line … How's your knee … better?"
The referee's whistle sounded. Judd became conscious of the wild entreaties of the Trumbull crowd. They still had faith in their team … they knew the boys would do their best … and now was the time when Trumbull must fight the hardest.
He nodded. On the first play Barley, at quarterback position, smacked the ball against his stomach as he came pounding through. Judd hit the line; it wavered; he went through; his feet scraped against the slippery sod; bodies struck him … hands clutched at him … but he kept on going as long as he could feel earth beneath him. When he found himself back in position and got his bearings he discovered that he had made seven yards! His team-mates were exuberant. There was a wild motley of sounds from the sidelines.
Once more he felt the ball in the hollow of his arm, finding himself plunging around the end with his hand against Barley. He saw a tackler and pushed Barley into him … then cut in, stumbling as he did so, to avoid another muddy face which leered before him. Judd ran for ten yards before he was dragged to the ground….
The game became just one run after another; it seemed like he was continually getting up from the bottom of a heap and staggering to his position, only to start forward again—reaching out for the ball—and blindly but savagely following in the direction of his interference.
There was an outer din of noise that Judd was vaguely conscious of. He could feel a jerking pain in his leg and an aching twitch in his shoulder, Occasionally, when Barley didn't call his number, he would start forward, then drop to his hands and knees and rest. Oh, how good it seemed to be out of play! He was tired … desperately tired … his whole body was sore … he was miserably wet and uncomfortable … his eye-lids were almost stuck shut with mud … his mouth was thick with the grime of it … but he kept mumbling to himself, "I can! I can!"
Barley called time out as he fell face downward in the mud. The water boy was out on the field again. Judd blinked as a sheet of cold water struck him slosh in the face. Barley was pounding him on the back.
"Wake up, … we're only five yards from the goal and three minutes to go…"
Judd looked up and beyond Barley. He saw the dark outline of the bleak, wet goal posts, saw the tense faces of the Canton team … then his own fellows grouped around him.
Fenstermaker, Trumbull guard, knelt beside him. He was crying … the tears making odd little rivulets down his blackened face. "Come on, Judd … we'll make a hole for you!"
Judd struggled to his feet. They were all willing to help him. He was astounded at his own power to keep going. He didn't seem to care what happened. It didn't seem like it was he at all. He allowed them to set him on his feet. "You—you fellows make the hole," he said, "I-I'll go through!"
On the sidelines, under the very goal posts, the great Bob stood … his cap was in his hands … his hair was wet with rain … his feet were almost lost to view in a puddle of water … he was unconscious of anything but the actions of his brother. A Trumbull fan, recognizing him, pounded Bob on the back. "I guess you'll have to take a back seat now, eh Bob? The kid's got it all over you!"
If Judd could have known what his brother was thinking of him then! If he could only have known that Bob was on the sidelines! But Judd didn't know a thing except that this was his fight. He wasn't even playing for the school. He wasn't thinking of any honor. His single thought was that to have failed in what he set out to do was to fail in everything.
Bob watched Judd as he swayed upon his feet; his eyes followed him as he lunged forward and took the ball once more; he lost sight of Judd for a moment, then saw him come straining through the line with a tackler hanging to his waist.
The tackler's hand slipped off … Judd shook himself free … Bob wanted to shout, "Look out!" as he saw Drake dive for him … then he caught his breath as the kid dodged the fullback but slipped and fell. Drake turned and threw himself upon Judd as Judd rolled over and planted the ball over the goal line.
The name "Billings" rang from one end of the field to the other, with the substitute fullback being lifted to his feet and pummeled by his team-mates who were crazy with joy … but Judd was so fatigued that his attempt at a goal after a touchdown went wide. Two minutes more to play and the score 14 to 12 in favor of Canton.
It was Trumbull's kickoff, Barley begging Judd to hurry up. Judd swung his toe against the ball and started to follow his kick dazedly. The ball, water-soaked and heavy, carried to Canton's five yard line. The best Canton could do was carry it back ten yards.
Because the game was so nearly over … the Canton quarterback ordered a punt. "Mud Scow" Drake, with a self-confident smile on his dirt-rimmed face, stood with his arms outstretched waiting to send the ball far down the field … crushing the last slight hope of victory from Trumbull. It had been a terrific game … and Drake was conscious of his power now as never before.
Barley, realizing that this was the most critical moment in the entire game, ran along the line exhorting the half dead linesmen to a final frenzied effort.
"Get in there, fellows, and block that kick! Block that kick!"
The sidelines took up the frenzied cry.
Drake's hands closed upon the ball, he raised it shoulder high and let it drop, his muddy foot came up to meet it … but just at that instant a body shot against him … there was the hollow plunk of a ball striking a rather soft object and a mad scramble of flying forms.
When the referee had pulled the players apart he found Fenstermaker,Trumbull guard, lying face down upon the ball. Trumbull's ball onCanton's eleven yard line … and fifty seconds left to play!
Judd knew that he was not capable of carrying the ball another foot.He instinctively realized that Canton would repulse any effort thatTrumbull might make at running with the ball. The time was toodesperately short.
Then, in a flash, there came to him the vision of practice sessions he had held with Burton, second team quarterback. Burton knew how to handle the ball, how to place it to his liking. If Burton were only in the game….
Judd spoke a few quick words to Barley and Barley … loyal son of Trumbull … called time out so that Burton could come into the game … and substitute for him.
Everyone knew what was going to be attempted. Burton came racing out to Judd who had picked out the spot where he was to attempt the place kick. Three points would just win if Trumbull could make them. But the field was so soggy and the footing so uncertain. Besides … the heavy clouds had brought dusk upon the field prematurely.
Judd removed his cap and took out the piece of white paper. He unfolded it and laid it flat upon the ground, then stepped back a few paces and Burton knelt, with hands extended, over the paper. The seconds seemed like hours.
"Hold that line!" Judd begged of the linesmen. But he need not have urged this … tired though they were, they could be depended upon to give their all now.
The pass from the center was a bit wide but Burton caught it deftly and upended the ball upon the white piece of paper. Judd took three short steps and bit his lips as he brought his toe squarely against the pigskin … a sharp pain shooting through his knee.
Blackwell and Barley hugged each other on the sidelines. Rudolph danced in glee. The ball had skimmed over and between the uprights … skimmed above the bar by a hair! The timekeeper's whistle sounded and Trumbull had won a miraculous uphill game by the score of 15 to 14!
And the fellow, who, singlehanded, had made the triumph possible—weary to the point of dropping—stooped and picked up the piece of paper, stuffing it back in his cap. The next instant he was carried away upon the shoulders of the madly joyous crowd to one of the wildest victory celebrations Trumbull had ever witnessed.
* * * * *
That night, refreshed by a hot shower and with his sprains carefully bandaged, Judd accompanied the great Bob to the high school campus where a huge bonfire defied the dismal patter of rain. As they stood by the fire, listening to the cheers of the student body, Bob said to Judd: "Buddy, where's that contract?"
Judd reached sheepishly inside his overcoat and pulled out a muddy piece of paper. Bob took the paper, reached over and before Judd could stop him, tossed it in the bonfire.
Silently the two of them watched the tongues of flame eat the paper up.
When the paper had become nothing but formless ashes, Bob turned to his younger brother and reached out his hand, saying in a voice that was husky with emotion: "Well, Buddy, it's gone. You don't need the contract any longer. You lived up to more than a scrap of paper this afternoon. You lived up to the best that was in you!"
And Judd, a happy lump in his throat, could not answer. But his heart sang with the knowledge that he had won more than the football game. He had won a lasting victory over himself.
"One of these days, Judd, old scout—you're going to be taking my place at Bartlett!" Bob continued, his arm about Judd's broad shoulders.
"I—I'd sure like to," Judd replied, warmly, "Not your place exactly … but be making a place of my own!"
Bob grinned.
"That's the stuff!" he returned, little realizing that the following football season would bring drastic changes and see his kid brother—still quite the green, clumsy youth from the country—headed for Bartlett while he …?
"Hey, fellows! What do you know? Bob's not coming back!"
It was Jack Frey talking and his announcement brought exclamations of surprise and concern from the group of Bartlett men crossing the campus.
"What?"
"You're kidding!"
"If he's not coming back—good-bye football team!"
"Say, can't you guys tell when Cateye's joking?" reprimanded Benz Hoffmaster, last year member of Bartlett's backfield. "Of course Bob's coming back. He's captain-elect!"
Cateye shook his head soberly, taking a letter from his inner pocket.
"I wish I was only kidding," he said, as fellow students gathered around, "But this is straight dope. The man running the Billings farm is sick and Bob's decided to stay home a year to help his mother take care of things…"
An involuntary groan went up. Bob had been Cateye's room-mate. The two of them were also veteran members of the team, Cateye at left guard and Bob at fullback. Beyond having been the most popular fellow in school, Bob had been acknowledged the greatest player in Bartlett history. His absence would be felt off the field and on.
"But we can't let Bob stick out there on the farm!" protested Benz, "We need him too much here. Read the letter, Cateye. Let's get the details."
Cateye unfolded the letter obligingly.
"'Dear Pal,'" he read, "'I've put off writing this as long as I could, hoping that somehow things would work out so I wouldn't have to write at all. But, Jack, there's no use trying to kid myself, as much as I'd like to be back with you this year, I'm just not going to be able to make it. You see Mr. Duncan's been mighty sick for the past couple months and the doctor says he'll have to take it easy for at least half a year and that means only one thing—I've got to stick here and help mother run the place.'"
"Gee, that's tough!" muttered Curns, veteran right end.
"'But I'm sending someone in my place,'" continued Cateye, still reading, "'My kid brother, Judd—who, I think, is a natural born football player. He's worked on our farm the past four years when he hasn't been going to school and, since Bartlett doesn't bar Freshmen from her varsity, I'm hoping he shows up well enough to make the team. He's big and strong but awkward and somewhat backward. You can do a lot for him, Cateye, if you will. He's never been any further than the little old home town, except the summer he visited me in the city, and the trip to Bartlett seems like a coast to coast journey to him. But he'll get this taken out of him the first few days there and you'll really find him a corking, dependable fellow when you get to know him. I've tried to teach him a few things about football as it's played in college but he still has lots to learn. He starred, though, in the big game with Trumbull High last season. And, Cateye, if you'd like to do me a favor … I almost hesitate to suggest this … but if you could see your way clear to taking Judd in as your room-mate … well, I'd never get over appreciating it. Tell the gang how sorry I am not to be coming back. Looks like, even without me, this year's prospects for a winning team, are very bright. Go to it! And don't stop till you've cleaned up on Pennington. Your old sidekick—Bob…'"
Fellow students consulted one another with glum glances. No doubt now about Bob's not returning. Suppose they'd have to make the best of it. But what do you suppose the kid brother whom he was sending was like?
"So Bob wants you to room with a farm hand!" joshed Benz, "Well, that's what I'd call a test of true friendship. Just what are you going to do about it?"
Cateye nodded. "Why not? Bob was a farm hand at that rate—when he first came on here. His brother, Judd, can't be so bad and if there's a chance of his developing into good football material…"
"You said it!"
"Bob ought to know good football material when he sees it."
Cateye grinned. "There's a postscript I didn't read you," he added,"About Judd's arriving at two-five this afternoon …"
"Hey, that's only half an hour from now!"
"I know it, and I've an errand I've got to do first," said Cateye, "But let me give you the rest of this postscript before I beat it. Bob goes on to give his brother a boost by saying: 'Judd's in great physical trim already. You should see him tackle three hundred pound hogs out here on the farm and throw 'em…'"
A howl at this.
"Better keep out of his way, Benz!" warned Curns, "You don't weigh that much but how you eat…!"
Benz made a move in Curns' direction, Curns retreating.
"Let me finish!" pleaded Cateye, "I'm in a big hurry, guys."
"Shoot!"
"Sure! Go ahead!"
"'… and, with Coach Phillips to instruct him on kicking, just watch Judd boot that old pigskin'." concluded Cateye. "How's that for a real send-off?"
Benz whistled, "Looks to me," he laughed, "Like Bob's trying to insure his brother getting a great reception by doing a rave about him. He's got my curiosity aroused at that. I'd like to look the boy over. What do you say, fellows, we all meet Judd at the train?"
The suggestion was made impulsively and received just as impulsive a seconding.
"Good idea!"
"Give Judd a grand welcoming for Bob!"
"Make him feel at home!"
"All right," agreed Cateye, "Meet you at the train then." And he was off about his business.
The afternoon train, packed with merry students returning to Bartlett after a long summer's vacation, puffed slowly and with apparent weariness up the slight grade and came to a stop not more than a block from the college. Although Bartlett was some three miles from anything which resembled a town it happened to be located near a railroad and the company, on special occasions, had conferred a favor upon the students by stopping at the college, thus saving numerous transportation bills.
As the train pulled in, some fifteen or twenty students, led by Benz Hoffmaster, pushed to the front of the platform and peered eagerly through the passing windows, hoping to catch sight of the youth pictured in Bob's letter. Cateye, as yet, had not put in an appearance. He would have been of no help as to identification, however, for none in Bartlett had ever seen this expected new arrival. But it was likely that Judd, in some manner, would betray his identity.
Returning students, piling from the coaches, were swallowed up by awaiting friends and roommates who swarmed about them, amid much backslapping and handshaking. Everyone was glad to see everyone else back. The confusion was such that the group on the look-out for a strange face and a someone to whom the surroundings were obviously new, about reached the conclusion that one Judd Billings had escaped their notice.
"Or maybe he got so homesick he jumped off the train and's walking back to the farm," suggested Benz.
At this instant attention was drawn to the last occupant of the last coach who stumbled awkwardly off the car platform and looked dazedly about.
"There he is!" went up the shout.
Big-boned, apparently well-muscled, and of solid build, the new arrival presented a picture of strength but handled himself so clumsily as to provoke the curious interest of any passerby. In each hand he gripped a bulging suitcase.
"Hey, Judd!" called Benz, and started in his direction, followed by the group.
Startled at the sound of his name, the new arrival looked toward the charging reception committee. He drew back uncertainly as Benz dashed up, holding out his hand.
"You're Judd Billings, aren't you?"
The new arrival nodded, eyeing the fellows surrounding him with growing suspicion and uneasiness.
"Welcome to our college!" called Curns.
This brought a blaze of greetings.
"How's Bob?"
"Let's take your grips!"
"Cateye'll be here in a minute!"
"Tackled any hogs lately?"
"Here! Here! You fellahs lay off! I can handle these bags myself!" The new arrival jerked at his suitcases to pull them free from hands which reached for them. "Let go or I'll …!"
"But, Judd …!" protested Benz, surprised, "We only mean to …!"
"None of your tricks now!" warned the fellow Bob had sent, "I've heard of you college guys. You're not going to haze me. I'm looking for Mr. Jack Frey …"
"We're all friends of his!" insisted Benz, "Here, let me introduce us.Reading, left to right, is Potts, Curns, Pole, Neil … Hold on, Judd!Where you going?"
Evidencing no interest in meeting the bunch, the new arrival had been anxiously searching the station platform for signs of anyone who might be looking for him. He now moved toward the small waiting room which served as an excuse for a depot as this junction stop was not often used by the railroad.
"Listen, Judd!" Benz blocked the way. "You're not going to pull that high hat stuff around here. We've come to meet you out of respect for Bob and we…"
"You let me through!" demanded the new arrival, prodding Benz with his suitcases.
"And what if I don't?" Benz wanted to know, "You haven't been around much, have you? 'Bout time you were learning a few things!"
"You gonna let me through or not?"
There was fire in the new arrival's eye. He wasn't in the mood to be kidded. This stepping off the train into a college atmosphere and being met by a bunch of hoodlums who wanted to slap him on the back and take his grips away from him and rush him off with a lot of "hurrahs" didn't set well. Judd Billings was homesick for one thing; he'd been warned to have nothing to do with strangers, for another; and his natural backwardness in meeting people only added to his quite unaccountable attitude of reserve and resistance. Jack Frey was the one person Judd was prepared to meet. If later Jack should vouch for these fellows, all well and good. Until then he intended to keep them at arm's length.
"See here, Judd!" spoke up Potts, "You're acting like a rube!"
"I'll say he is!" seconded Benz, "Try to befriend him and…"
Giving Benz his shoulder, the new arrival, with a sudden, unexpected shove sent Bartlett's veteran football man sprawling.
"Oh ho!" cried Pole, "So the party's getting rough!"
Regaining his feet, Benz approached Judd angrily.
"Put down those suitcases!" he demanded, "I want to take a crack at you."
The new arrival attempted to edge out of the group surrounding him.
"Leave me be," he said, "I don't want to be hurting anybody!"
This brought a chorus of defiant laughter.
"I dare you to put those suitcases down!" challenged Benz.
Judd hesitated, looking about him warily. The train had gone on and most of the passengers had departed with their friends. In the distance a figure was advancing on the run.
"I tell you fellahs, I …"
"So you're afraid, eh?"
The new arrival stiffened at this, his fingers twitched, and he fastened upon Benz a coldly penetrating look. Judd's fear of physical contact was no more. The suitcases dropped to the cinder platform and hands went to hips.
"I reckon I can't stop you, if you're hankering for a fight," came the words with a drawl.
Somehow this clumsy broad-shouldered figure took on an appearance of power as he seemed to forget himself, which bred respect.
"Go easy, Benz!" warned Neil, sizing Judd up, "No use starting trouble."
"I'm not starting it," retorted Benz, "I'm finishing it."
With that the ringleader of the ill-treated reception committee swung a vicious right hook to the new arrival's jaw. Judd's left arm flashed up to block the blow. At the same moment Judd took a quick step forward and brought his right fist into play. It caught Benz almost on the point of the chin and spun him about in a circle.
"Say, the rube can fight!" exclaimed Potts, surprised. "Boy, he's sure different from his brother!"
"Here, fellows! What's the big idea?"
The figure of Cateye hurled itself between as Benz, reeling, staggered back toward Judd, bent on retaliating.
"Let me at him!" pleaded Benz, furiously, "I'll show him he can't get away with this stuff. So Bob sent him, eh? What a lemon!"
Cateye sized up the situation quickly.
"My name's Frey," he explained to Judd who was standing by quietly, hands again on hips, "Bob asked me to meet you, I'm sorry to be late. What seems to be the matter?"
"These fellahs wouldn't let me alone, that's all," said Judd, simply.
"We come to meet him and he gives us the cold shoulder," declared Curns, "Afraid we're going to make off with his precious suitcases or smash his straw hat or throw dust in his eyes!"
"We college guys are bad eggs and no mistake!" put in Neil, sarcastically.
"My mother told me not to have anything to do with strange people," added Pole.
"Will you please tell Mr. Billings, for his own enlightenment, that he's among civilized people?" requested Potts, icily.
"These fellows are all right," Cateye assured, as Judd gazed about him doubtfully, "They didn't mean anything. They're all good friends of Bob's. They just wanted to show you a good time. You probably took them too seriously. Come on, Judd, we'll take your things to my room."
Relieved, the new arrival stooped and picked up his suitcases. His face wore a sheepish look but he offered no apology for his conduct. Rather he seemed anxious to get away from the bunch.
"A—am I goin' to bunk with you?" he asked of Cateye.
"Bunk?" repeated Cateye, "Oh, sure! You're going to be my room-mate."
"Heaven forbid!" said someone.
"Take him away," urged Benz, "We don't want anything more to do with him."
And without another word being spoken Cateye set off with Judd, the new arrival stalking along, carrying the two bulging suitcases easily, scorning Cateye's offer of aid.
"That guy's cooked his goose at Bartlett!" declared Benz, feelingly,"And from now on, guys, he's just a plain rube to me!"
"Rube's the right word!" agreed Pole.
"That's what we'll call him after this!" decided Curns, "Rube!"
And so, one Judd Billings, sent to Bartlett by his highly esteemed brother Bob, stepped off into a new world, for him, on the wrong foot.
"But, Judd," argued Cateye, weakly, "I never sleep with my window wide open like that. Especially this time of year. Why there is frost on the ground in the morning and the room will be cold as ice when we wake up!"
"Well, I can't see any harm in good ventilation. I slept in the barn most all this summer an' I don't look sick, do I?" said Judd, for the third time.
Cateye looked him over. No, to be sure, Judd didn't look very sick. In fact he seemed exceedingly robust. One hundred and ninety-six pounds, most of it worked into well formed and almost abnormal muscles.
"I can't say that you do look sick," admitted Cateye, "That's just why you can stand it. But I,—I'm not used to such outdoor measures. Do you want to turn this room into a park?"
"Not eggs-actly a park, but I believe in lots of fresh air an', …"
"Have it your own way then!" growled Cateye, savagely, seeing the uselessness of further argument.
He ventured no more remarks but watched Judd's every action curiously, musing: "I can't see Bob's idea in wishing this bird on me—even if he is his own brother—but I've taken him in now and I'll stick it out to the end."
Meanwhile Judd had removed a wallet from his pocket and was in the act of secreting it between mattress and springs.
"I say, Judd, what's the idea of hiding your wad? Nobody will steal it. There aren't any thieves about here!"
Cateye, already in bed, raised himself upon his elbow and eyed his new room-mate interestedly.
"You never can tell, Mister Frey. I had my dinner swiped this noon an'I'm not takin' any chances!"
"For heaven's sake, Judd, call me Cateye. Everybody else does."
"Well, I reckon I can," replied Judd, slowly, having completed the action of hiding his wallet to his evident satisfaction.
"Those feet and those hands," sighed Cateye to himself, "would makeBabe Ruth turn green with envy!"
Judd struggled awkwardly into a home-made nightshirt.
Cateye buried his head in a pillow and bit his lip to keep from laughing outright. "Ye Gods! And is this only the beginning?" he asked himself.
The question was almost immediately answered.
"Gee mackerel!" howled Judd, as he rolled into bed and sunk down amidst the folds of a soft feather mattress. "This may be the ticket for babes but it's no place for me! I can't sleep on anything soft. It's bad for the spine. Me for the floor!"
"You're not going to sleep on the floor!"
"You bet I am!" mumbled Judd, emphatically, dragging the bed sheets off and arranging them on the floor. "I lay out straight when I go to sleep. I don't tie myself up in any fancy bow knots!"
Cateye rolled over with a groan, "What next?"
Judd, at last satisfied, switched out the lights and deposited his minus two hundred pounds upon the floor. "This is the life!" he breathed fondly a few minutes later. Then the sandman bagged Cateye for three solid hours of sleep.
It must have been one o'clock or after when Cateye awoke. At any rate it was late,—very late, and Cateye was so sleepy,—but what was that peculiar sound?
Cateye came to his senses like a flash and sat bolt upright in bed. The moon was casting a pale, white shadow into the room and the air was noticeably chilly.
"I thought I heard someone shout," Cateye sputtered, his teeth inclined to chatter, "but I guess it was only a bad dream." He listened intently for a few moments. All that he could hear was the labored breathing of Judd who seemed to be enjoying his slumber immensely. Cateye laid down and tried to sleep once more but found sleep impossible. He fell to thinking of Judd and Bob and then of Judd again.
Suddenly a voice, unmistakeable this time, spoke out of the darkness. "Yes, I'll be home in time for dinner, mother. I've only got three acres left to plow."
The hair on Cateye's head began to re-arrange itself. "What on earth can it be?" Cateye gasped through shut teeth to keep from crying aloud. "There,—that voice again!"
"Get up, Nancy! Whoa, Nell! Gee—haw! Tarnation, but this land is rocky! Don't see why Dunk wants this land plowed anyhow!"
"Why, oh, why did I take that guy in for a room-mate?" moaned Cateye."He even gives himself away in his sleep!"
The talking recommenced. "No, I didn't fix the harness. I thought I'd wait till after supper…. the young whip-snap! He stole my dinner! If I ever lay hands on him I'll,—I'll—"
At this juncture, Judd, making a strenuous effort, rolled over upon the floor and opening his mouth wide broke into loud sonorous snores.
"Thank heaven he's at least stopped talking!" grunted Cateye, much relieved and wiping the cold perspiration from his brow. "I hope he doesn't walk in his sleep too!"
The snoring increased into a steady rumble.
"Shall I waken him?" Cateye asked himself. "I can't sleep through an artillery engagement." But, on second thought, he decided to lay low and accept the bombardment. After all, he was only doing this as a favor to Bob, but the favor was getting to be a pretty big one.
How long Cateye held the fort he did not know but the cannonading ceased as the campus clock was striking three and relieved from duty he fell asleep at his post.
He awakened again at five A.M. conscious of someone astir in the room.Judd was up and dressed!
"Why so early, Judd?" whispered Cateye, "We don't usually rise until seven here."
But Judd seemed to feel that he had already overslept since he always used to be up at four A.M. He never could sleep after four o'clock and besides he told Cateye jokingly, "I have the cows to milk an' the chores to do before breakfast."
"That's too bad," grunted Cateye, "And you've worked hard all night too!'
"Me? I had a grand old snooze!"
"Snooze nothing! You plowed three acres of land, fixed a harness and, …"
"Huh! Is that what you call kiddin'?" Judd began to grow suspicious.
"Call it anything you like," snapped Cateye, his patience gone, and bound to have it out. "You talk in your sleep, snore like blazes, and I imagine you'll walk, too, when you get the lay of the land!"
Judd's suspicious looks vanished and a sheepish grin spread over his face. "Never mind that, Cateye," he said, "I can't help it. It runs in the family."
This was the last straw and when it broke it took with it Cateye's rising anger. Judd's sense of humor had saved the day. In spite of himself, Cateye laughed.
"Put her there, Judd," he cried, softly, holding out his hand. "You're not at all like your brother but I fear I am going to like you. If you can stand that fracas, I can, only please leave some long intervals between your performances."
Judd stretched out his big, brawny hand and crushed Cateye's firm palm in his.
"Judd! Let go! Do you want to maim me for life?" protested Cateye, trying to withdraw his hand from Judd's strong embrace.
"That's another one of my failin's," apologized Judd, "I always grip too hard!"