harry"Even Harry joined her shrill voice, the while she waved her flag valiantly."
"Even Harry joined her shrill voice, the while she waved her flag valiantly."
And from across the field of battle swept back, mocking and defiant, Hammond's parody "Rah, rah, rah! Rah, rah, rah! Rah rah, rah! Very Ill! Very Ill! Very Ill!"
Then cheers were forgotten, for Kirby, Ferry Hill's full-back, was tearing a gash in the red line outside of right-guard. He was almost free of the enemy when Pool, the opposing quarter, dragged him down. But twelve yards is something to gladden the heart when for a quarter of an hour half-yard gains have been the rule. Ferry Hill forgot to cheer; she just yelled, each boy for himself, and it was more than a minute before Chub, leading, could get them together. This time Hammond forgot to mock and instead sent up a long, lusty slogan that did her credit:
"Rah, rah, rah! Who are we? H-A-M-M-O-N-D! Hoorah, Hoorah! Hammond Academy! Rah, rah, rah!"
Another break in the cherry-hued line and Ferry Hill was down on the opponent's thirty-yard line Jack Rogers holding the ball at arm's-length as he lay on the turf with half the Hammond team upon him. Then came two unsuccessful attempts to get through the center, followed by a double-pass that barely gained the necessary five yards. Chub was busy now and so were all the others on that side of the gridiron. Even Harry joined her shrill voice, the while she waved her flag valiantly. Again the Brown charged into the enemy's line, but this time her attack was broken into fragments and Whitcomb was borne back for a loss of six yards. A tandem on right-tackle failed to regain more than a yard of the lost ground and Pryor, left half-back, fell back for the kick. It was a poor attempt, the ball shooting almost straight into air. When it came down the Hammond right-tackle found it, fought his way over two white streaks and was finally pulled to earth on the forty-yard line. Then the tide of battle turned with a vengeance. Back over the field went Hammond, using her heavy backs in a tackle-tandem formation with telling effect. The gains were short but frequent. The wings caught the worst of the hammering, for at center Hammond found it impossible to gain, although Jones, her much-heralded center-rush, was proving himself a good match for Horace Burlen. Jack Rogers, at left-tackle, was a hard proposition, but Fernald, beside him at left guard, was weak, and not a few of the gains were on that side. On the other side Hadden at tackle was playing high, and although Gallup was doing his best to break things up, that wing gave badly before Hammond's fierce onslaught. The backs saved the day time and again, bringing down the runner when almost clear of the line. Hammond tried no tricks, but pinned her faith to straight football, relying upon an exceptionally heavy and fast set of backs. Down to Ferry Hill's twenty-five yards swept the line of battle, slowly, irrevocably. There, Bacon shrieking his entreaties and Jack heartening the men with slaps on backs and shoulders, the brown-clad line held against the enemy and received the ball on downs.
Maybe Ferry Hill didn't leap and shout! Down the side-line raced Chub and his companions, waving flags and awakening the echoes with discordant, frenzied tootings on their horns. And Mr. Cobb, quietly chewing a grass-blade, smiled once and heaved a sigh of relief.
The Brown's first attempt netted scarcely a yard. Her second, a quarter-back run, came to an inglorious end, Bacon being nailed well back of the line. Then, with six yards to gain on the third down, Pryor once more fell back for a kick. This time he got the ball off well and the opponents went racing back up the field. Hammond's quarter gathered it in, reeled off some ten yards and was brought down by Warren. Once again the advance began, but now there were fewer gains through the left of the brown line; Fernald had found his pace and he and Jack Rogers were working together superbly. The other side was still vulnerable, however, and soon, before the fifty-five-yard line had been passed, the Ferry Hill supporters saw with dismay that Hammond was aiming her attack, and not without success, at the center of her opponent's line. Horace Burlen was weakening, and although Fernald and Gallup, on either side, were aiding him all in their power, Hammond's tandem plunged through his position again and again for small gains. Bacon's voice, hoarse and strained, coaxed and commanded, but down to the forty yards went the cherry and black, and from there to the thirty-five, and from there, but by shorter gains now, to the thirty.
"Hold 'em! Hold 'em! Hold 'em!" was the cry from the wavers of the brown and white banners. But it was far easier said than done. Once more within sight of a score, Hammond was desperately determined to reach that last white line. To the twenty-five yards she crept, and then she was almost to the twenty. A long plunge through center and the fifteen was close at hand. And then, while the wearied and battered defense crawled to their feet, a whistle shrilled sharply and the half was over! And Jack Rogers as he limped across the trampled turf to the bench thanked his star for the timely intervention.
The players disappeared through the gate to the gymnasium, followed by Mr. Cobb and a handful of graduates. On the other side of the gridiron the Hammond warriors, wrapped in their red blankets, sat in a long row and were administered to by rubbers and lectured by coaches. On the Ferry Hill side the boys were singing the school song and interspersing it with cheers and blasts of tin horns. Chub sought out Roy.
"Everybody says you'll go in this half," he whispered. "If you do, sock it to 'em!"
"I won't get in unless Forrest does," answered Roy.
"Well, he's sure to, isn't he? Why, Horace is almost done up already!"
"Maybe, but ten minutes of rest brings a fellow around in great shape, and I wouldn't be surprised if he lasted the game out."
"Last nothing! Look at the way Hammond was plowing through him! Say, that's a great tandem of theirs, isn't it?"
"Pretty good."
"Pretty good! I should think so!"
"It wouldn't be so much against a team that got started quicker. Our line's too plaguey slow and half of them are playing away up in the air. Look at Hadden! Rogers ought to make him get down on his knees. Hello, here they come."
"Can we keep them from scoring, do you think?" asked one of the substitutes anxiously as the brown-stockinged players trotted back through the gate.
"Yes, I guess so," Roy answered. "But I don't believe we can score ourselves."
"Well, a tie is better than being beaten," said the first youth hopefully.
"No it isn't," said Chub. "It's the meanest kind of an ending. You've done nothing and the other fellow's done nothing and you're no better off than you were when you started. We played eleven innings with Hammond year before last and quit six to six. My, but we were mad! And tired! I'd rather they'd licked us."
"Hope I get a show," muttered the other wistfully. He was a substitute end and only his lack of weight had kept him off the team.
"There's Cobb laying it down to 'em," whispered Chub. "Watch his finger; you'd think he was in class, eh? Any new men going in? Yes there's—No, it isn't, either. Blessed if every man isn't going back! Oh, hang!"
"Some of them won't be there long, I guess," said Roy.
"Well, I must go back and get some noise. The lazy chumps don't half cheer. Hope you get on, old chap. So long!"
Presently the Ferry Hill cheer was ringing across the field, and Chub, his coat thrown aside, was out on the side-line leading as only he could. Over the fading white lines the two teams arranged themselves. From the Hammond side came a last burst of noise. Spectators scurried back to points of vantage. The referee raised his hand.
"Ready, Ferry Hill?"
Jack answered "Ready!"
"Ready, Hammond?"
"All right," called the Cherry's right-end and captain.
The whistle sounded and the game was on again.
The greater part of the second half was almost a repetition of the first. Both teams were playing straight football and it would be difficult to say which was the more aggressive. For a time, the ball was in Ferry Hill's territory, and then for another ten minutes, in Hammond's. There were many nerve-racking moments, but each side, whenever its goal seemed in danger, was lucky enough to get the ball on downs and, by a long punt, send it out to the middle of the field.
Jack Rogers kicked off to Hammond's left half-back who made fifteen yards behind good interference and landed the ball on his own thirty-five yards. Back went the right-tackle, the tandem swept forward and broke into fragments against the Brown's left wing. No gain. Once more it sprang at the line and this time went through between Gallup and Hadden for two yards. Third down and three to go. A fake kick gave the ball to the right half and that youth reeled off four yards before he was downed. The next attack, at the center, netted a yard and a half; the next, at the same place, two yards; the rest of the distance was gained outside of left tackle. So it went for awhile and once more the ball was in Ferry Hill territory.
Hammond was plugging steadily now at center and right side, Burlen, Gallup and Hadden all receiving more attention than they coveted. At last a long gain through Hadden left that youth crumpled up on the turf. The whistle blew and a big sub, tearing off his sweater, raced onto the field. Hadden was up in a minute, only to discover that his way led toward the side-line. The sub, Walker, was a trifle harder proposition for Hammond, and for awhile that side of the line showed up well, but by the time the tide had swept down to the thirty-five-yard line Hammond was once more gaining almost as she liked through right-tackle and guard. There were no gains longer than four yards, and such were infrequent owing to the good work of the backs, but almost every attack meant an advance, and not once did Hammond fail of her distance in three downs. But on the thirty-yard line Ferry Hill called a halt. The play was directly in the middle of the field and the goal-posts loomed up terribly near. Hammond's first try failed, for Bacon guessed the point of attack and Ferry Hill threw her whole force behind Burlen. Foiled there, Hammond tried right-tackle again, shoved Walker aside and went through for a scant two yards. It was third down, and over on the side-line Roy measured the distance from cross-bar to back-field and watched for a place-kick. But Hammond, true to her plan of battle, made no attempt at a kick but sent her tandem plunging desperately at the line. It was a mistake, as events proved, to point the tandem at Jack Rogers, for although the attack gained something by being unexpected, it failed to win the required distance. Jack gave before it, to be sure, and spent a minute on the ground after the whistle had blown, but when the referee had measured the distance with the chain it was found that Hammond had failed of her distance by six inches!
Bedlam let loose on the Ferry Hill side as Bacon ran in from his position almost under the goal-posts, clapped his hands and cried his signals. Pryor fell back to the fifteen-yard line, there was a breathless moment of suspense, and then the ball went arching up the field, turning lazily over and over in its flight.
Hammond captured it on her forty yards but was downed by the Ferry Hill left-end. Then it began all over again, that heart-breaking, nerve-racking advance. And this time the gains were longer. At center Hammond went through for a yard, two yards, even three. Once a penalty cost Hammond five yards, but the distance was regained by a terrific rush through Gallup, that youth being put for the moment entirely out of the play. Later, down near Ferry Hill's forty-five-yard line, a fumble by Pool, the plucky, hard-playing Hammond quarter, cost his side ten yards more. And although Pool himself managed to recover the ball it went to the opponent on downs.
I think that fumble was in a measure a turning point in the game. Hammond never played quite as aggressively afterwards. She had gained a whole lot of ground at a cost of much strength, only to be turned back thrice. It began to look as though Fate was against her. And a minute later it seemed that Fate had decided to favor her opponent. For when Pryor kicked on first down the breeze suddenly stiffened and took the ball over the head of Pool. The latter turned and found it on the bound near the ten yards, but by that time the Ferry Hill ends were upon him and he was glad to call it down on his fifteen yards. The sight of the two teams lined up there almost under Hammond's goal brought joy to the hearts of the friends of the Brown, and the cheering took on a new tone, that of hope. But the ball was still in the enemy's hands and once more the advance began. They hammered hard at Burlen and gained their distance. They swooped down on Walker and trampled over him. They thrust Gallup aside and went marching through until the secondary defense piled them up in a heap. But it was slower going now, there was more time between plays, and knowing ones amongst the watchers predicted a scoreless game. And there was scarcely twelve minutes left.
Roy, his blanket trailing from his shoulders as he moved crouching along the border of the field, prayed for a fumble, anything to give his side the ball there within striking distance of the Hammond goal. But Hammond wasn't fumbling to any extent that day; wearied and disappointed as they were, her players clung to the ball like grim death. On her twenty-five yards she made a gain of three yards through center and when the pile of writhing bodies had been untangled Horace Burlen still lay upon the sod. Roy turned quickly toward Forrest. That youth was watching calmly and chewing a blade of grass. Failing to catch his eye, Roy looked for Mr. Cobb. Already he was heading toward them. The substitute end tied and untied the arms of the brown jersey thrown over his back with nervous fingers. But the coach never looked in his direction.
"Forrest!" he called. And Forrest slowly climbed to his feet.
"Porter!" And Roy was up like a flash, had tossed aside his blanket and was awaiting orders.
FORREST LOSES HIS TEMPER AND ROY KEEPS HIS PROMISE
The coach led Roy and Forrest to the field and gave them his orders.
"Get in there, you two," he said briskly, "and show what you can do. There's small hope of scoring against Hammond, but if the chance comes work their ends for all there is in it. What you've got to do—gotto do, mind!—is to keep them away from your goal-line. Forrest, if you ever moved quick in your life do it now. You've simply got to get the jump on Jones. He's a good man, but recollect that he's been playing pretty nearly an hour and is dead tired. He'll play foul, too, I guess; Burlen's face is pretty well colored up. But don't you dare to slug back at him; understand?"
Forrest nodded smilingly.
"And as for you, Porter, just you play the best game you know how. Keep the fellows' courage up; that's half of it. I'm taking Rogers out—he's not fit to stand up any longer—and you'll act as captain. I guess you'll know what to do on defense, and if you get the ball remember the ends. Try it yourself on that formation for tandem on guard; and give Whitcomb a chance, for I think you can get through between tackle and end. Don't be afraid to take risks; if you get the ball risk anything! Go ahead now!"
Roy and Porter trotted toward the group of players. As they approached Burlen and Rogers were coming unwillingly off, the former looking pretty well punished and the latter limping badly. Jack Rogers turned from his course to speak to them.
"Good boy, Forrest!" he panted. "We've got to stop them and you can do it. Porter, remember your promise!"
Roy nodded and sprinted into the group.
"All right now!" he cried cheerfully. "Get into it everybody and stop this. You fellows in the line have got to play lower. Get down there, Walker, you're up in the clouds. Charge into 'em now! Stop it right here! You can do it. Look at 'em! They're beaten right now!"
"Only we don't know it," growled a big guard, wiping the perspiration from his face onto the sleeve of his red jersey. Roy grinned across at him.
"You will know it pretty soon, my friend," he answered. "All right now, fellows! Every man into it!"
Then he retreated up the field and watched.
Hammond had replaced her left-tackle and left half with fresh men, and, when the whistle blew, went at the work again as though she meant business. A straight plunge by the new left half gained a yard through Gallup. Then the tandem formed again and again the hammering began. Presently Roy saw that Forrest had been picked out for attention and was getting a lot of it. Two gains through him in quick succession brought the ball back to the thirty yards. Roy raced up to the line, pulled Forrest about by the shoulder and shook a fist in the face of that amazed young giant.
"Forrest, if you let 'em through here again I'll lick you till you can't stand up!" shouted Roy, his blue eyes blazing. "You coward! Get in there and do something! Put that man out. Get the jump on 'em! He's half dead now!"
Forrest forgot to smile.
"All right," he growled.
After the next attack at center Roy again ran up. Forrest turned with a bleeding nose and a new light in his eyes.
"You don't need to scold," he said quietly. "He just handed me this."
"What are you going to do?" asked Roy scathingly.
"Do?" grunted Forrest, mad clear through. "I'm going to put him out of commission."
"No slugging, remember!"
"I won't slug; I'll just play ball!"
And he did. There were no more games through center while play lasted. Time and again Jones, the big Hammond center, was literally lifted off his feet by Forrest's savage onslaught; twice the pass was practically spoiled. Forrest was angry, and being angry forgot both his good-nature and his slowness. Hammond soon transferred her attention to the wings again and found a fairly vulnerable spot where Jack Rogers had given place to a substitute. But there was no chance for her to score and she knew it. Now she was only killing time, determined to keep the ball in her possession and guard her goal until the whistle blew. And she would have done it, too, had not Forrest lost his temper. That blow on the nose hurt and he set out to make life as unpleasant as possible for his adversary. He didn't slug once, but he pushed and hauled and upset Jones until that gentleman was thoroughly exasperated. Over and over he appealed to the officials to watch Forrest.
"He's interfering with the ball," he declared.
But the officials couldn't see it that way. And finally, when the ball had been worked back to the center of the field and the word had gone around that there was only five minutes of time left, Forrest spoiled a snap-back, the ball trickled from Pool's hands and Forrest plunged through and fell upon it.
Roy raced in, crying signals as he came. Time was called while the Hammond center and the Hammond captain made vain appeals to have the ball returned to them, claiming interference with the snapper-back. But, as before, they were denied and the two teams lined up again, this time with the ball in Forrest's hands.
"7-6-43-89!" called Roy, and Whitcomb, with the pigskin snuggled in his elbow, was racing around left end. All of eight yards gained, and the crowd on the side-line went wild with delight! Flags waved and horns shrieked, and over it all, or so Roy thought, could be heard the shrill voice of Harry!
It was a time for risks, the coach had said. And Roy took them. Over and over he attempted hazardous plays that ought not to have succeeded, but that did, partly, perhaps, because of their very improbability! Twice more Whitcomb was sent outside of left end; once Pryor got through for four yards between right tackle and guard; and once Kirby, full-back, hurdled Jones for a good gain. It made joy in the Ferry Hill camp and the wavers of the brown and white banners had visions of a score. But they were not considering the fact that the timer's watch proclaimed but two minutes left and that that official was walking out toward the teams proclaiming the fact.
Two minutes was not time enough for Ferry Hill to rush the ball from the forty yards down to the goal line for a score, even when the backs were getting two, three and even four yards at a plunge. But even those who up until the last moment had hoped that the Brown by merit or fluke would win out could not but feel almost satisfied at the ending of the game. For now Ferry Hill was outplaying Hammond man for man, in spite of the fact that what superiority there was in age and weight was with the rival team. Both elevens were tired, but Ferry Hill was the least so, and to her admirers it seemed that her warriors fought harder, more determinedly every moment. Chub, watching anxiously between vocal efforts, came to this conclusion and turned to Sidney Welch, who, having failed to make the team, was patriotically doing his best to cheer it on to victory.
"Sid," said Chub, "if we had another quarter of an hour to play we'd lick 'em sure as fishing! Why, we're playing better every minute! And look at Roy Porter! The chump is just getting warmed up! Did you ever see a team run any finer than that, eh? And look at the way he gets around himself, will you? Why, he's all over the shop and into everything! He reminds me of Snip out in the barn. I saw Snip kill a rat, bite the cow's leg, chase a fly and scratch his ear all inside of ten seconds one day. And Roy's just like him. And, just between you and me, Sid, the fellows are working better for him than they did for Bacon, but maybe it's because they're finding their pace. If only Whitcomb could get away around the end! The whistle will blow, I'll bet a cookey, just when we're on the edge of a score! Why doesn't Roy try a quarter-back run, I wonder? Look at Jack Rogers; he's over there on the ground, see? I'll bet he doesn't know whether he's on his head or his feet, and I don't believe he could tell you his name this minute if you asked him. Fact is, my boy, I feel rather better myself for talking every minute; it sort of keeps my heart out of my mouth. And as for you, Sid, that button will be off in just about two more turns. Here, let's give 'em a cheer."
Chub leaped to his feet and in a moment the slogan was thundering across the field to where eleven brown-clad figures were forming once more against the foe. And it did them good, that cheer; it proclaimed confidence and affection, and it heartened them so that when the dust of battle had blown aside the man with the ball lay across the thirty-yard line!
It was maddening. Only thirty yards to go, only six trampled white lines to cross, and not time enough to do it, unless—Roy called for time to tie a lace and while he bent over his shoe he thought hard. Ever since he had taken charge of the team he had been studying the disposition of the enemy's force. He had one more trump to play, a quarter-back run. He had kept it for the last because he did not want to appear to be seeking personal glory. For that reason he had given every one of the backs, as well as the two tackles, a chance. But while they had made good gains they had failed to get clear for a run. And now he was surely entitled to a try himself. Not that he was very hopeful of succeeding where the others had failed, for Pool, the rival quarter, was a veritable wonder and time and again had called the play in time to allow the back-field to spoil the run. But time was almost up—there could scarcely be more than a minute and a half remaining—and it was now or never.
The ball was on Hammond's twenty-eight yards and well over to the left of the gridiron. Pool had halved the distance to his goal and was standing there on his toes, somewhat over toward the right, watching like a lynx. The whistle blew and Roy called his signals. Right tackle fell back of the line and left half and full formed behind him in tandem. The attack was straight at center, and with Forrest heaving and shoving and half and full pushing from behind tackle went through for two yards. Again the same formation and the same point of attack. But this time Hammond's backs were there and the gain was less than a yard. It was third down and a trifle over two to go. Once more the signals and the tandem. But as the backs, led by right tackle, plunged forward, Roy, with the ball hidden at his side, dodged behind them and sped along the line toward the right. For a moment the ruse went undiscovered, but before he had reached his opening between tackle and end Pool had seen him and had started to head him off. Then, as luck would have it, Roy's own right end got in his way and Roy was forced to run behind him. That settled the fate of the attempt at a touchdown. Pool was close up to him now. Roy ran across the field in an attempt to shake him off but to no purpose. He had not gained a foot, and he knew it. There was no use in heading toward the side of the field any longer; he must try to capture the necessary two yards. So, swinging quickly, he headed in, got one of the yards, made a brave attempt to dodge the wily Pool and came to earth.
"Hammond's ball; first down!" called the referee.
Roy trotted back up the field, trying his best not to show his disappointment. Hammond was not going to take any risks there in front of her goal and so her quarter fell back for a punt. Pryor ran back to cover the left of the field. Roy heard the signals called and then saw the Ferry Hill forwards plunge through in an endeavor to block the kick. Then the ball was arching up against the darkening sky. For a moment it was impossible to judge of the direction. Then Roy was running to the right and back up the field. It was a splendid punt and must have covered all of fifty yards, for when it settled into Roy's arms he was near his own thirty-five-yard line.
For once the tuckered Hammond ends were slow in getting down and for a moment Roy had an open field. With Pryor leading he dashed straight up the middle of the gridiron. At least he would put the ball back in Hammond territory. Ten yards, and then Pryor met the first of the enemy. Roy swerved and dodged the second. Then the foe was thick in front of him. The Ferry Hill players turned and raced beside him, forming hasty interference, and for a while he sped on unmolested to the wild shrieks of the watchers. Then the Hammond left half broke through and dove at him. Somehow, in what way he could never have told, he escaped that tackle, but it had forced him toward the side of the field. The fifty-five-yard line was behind him now. Back of him pounded the feet of friend and foe alike; ahead of him were the Hammond right half and quarter, the former almost at hand. Roy edged a bit into the field, for the side-line was coming dangerously near. Then he feinted, felt the half-back's clutch on his knee, wrenched himself loose and went staggering, spinning on. He had recovered in another five yards and was running swiftly again. He had little fear of being caught from behind, for he believed himself a match for any runner on the Hammond eleven, but in front of him was Pool, coming up warily with eager outstretched hands, striving to drive him out of bounds. Roy cast an anxious glance toward the goal-line and his heart leaped. Already he was passing the thirty or twenty-five-yard line and the final white streak looked encouragingly near. Then he shifted the ball to his right arm and turned acutely toward the middle of the field. Pool was directly in his path now as Roy, fighting for breath, sped on straight for the goal. For one brief instant of time the quarter's eyes burned into his. Then the decisive moment had come, and Roy, taking a deep breath, gathered himself. Forward shot the enemy in a splendid diving tackle, clutching fingers outspread. But the fingers grasped empty air, for as he left the ground, Roy, the ball clutched tightly against his breast, leaped upward and forward, clearing him by a foot!
leap"Roy ... leaped upward and forward, clearing him by a foot."
"Roy ... leaped upward and forward, clearing him by a foot."
From there to the goal-line was only a romp, although he had to fight hard for breath and although the defeated right half-back was close behind him all the way. Straight between the posts he staggered, placed the ball on the turf and rolled over on his back beside it. Somewhere they were cheering madly and nearer at hand people were shouting. Then, recovering from his momentary giddiness, Roy opened his eyes, shut them again because someone was slapping a great cold, wet sponge over his face and then sat up. Someone gave him a hand and he got on to his feet, swayed a little dizzily and then found himself in the grip of what at first seemed a bear and afterwards turned out to be Jack Rogers.
"You remembered your promise, Porter," Jack was saying softly, "and I'll not forget mine. You're a trump!"
Pryor failed miserably at the try for goal, but who cared? Surely not Jack Rogers, leading the cheer for his defeated rivals; nor Roy, dodging his fellows as he tried to steal away to the gymnasium; nor Harry, waving her brown and white flag and shrieking lustily; least of all the throng of fellows who, with banners flying and tin horns sounding, danced madly around the field in the November twilight.
RED HAIR AND WHITE RABBITS
A fellow can't make a touchdown in the last thirty seconds of play, and so win the game for his school, without affecting his position. No matter what he was before, after that he's a hero and a saint and a public benefactor all rolled into one. Roy's case was no exception. He woke up Saturday morning a rather unimportant and quite unpopular person. He climbed out of bed Sunday morning to find that, metaphorically, the world was his! As soon as the bell had rung the difference was apparent. There was no more dressing in silence, no more waiting till the others were through for a chance at the wash-room. It was "Morning, Porter! How are you feeling after it?" "Hello, Mr. Quarter-back! How'd you sleep?" "Here, Stearns, get out of here and give Porter a show; he's been waiting hours!" And in the midst of it Chub came tumbling upstairs half dressed to sit on Roy's bed and delay matters so that they barely scraped into dining hall between the closing doors.
Well, you and I aren't going to begrudge him the satisfaction the changed conditions brought him. Life has been using him rather badly for six weeks or so and he surely deserved some compensation. The only fly in the ointment was the thought that, after all, the sudden popularity was his only as a clever quarter-back, that, for the rest, he was still, to the fellows, the tale-bearer. But in this he was not altogether correct, for the majority of boys argued that any chap who could display the qualities that Roy had shown on the football field must of necessity be all right, and that if he had told on Horace and Otto and the others he must have had some good reason for it. But Roy couldn't know this, and so he was rather unresponsive through it all and held himself aloof from all save Chub and Jack Rogers and Tom Forrest. He was polite enough, but if any of his admirers hoped at that time to make friends with him they were doomed to disappointment. But there was still another that Roy admitted to a certain degree of friendship, and that other was Sidney Welch. Sid became a most devoted admirer, followed Roy about like an amiable puppy and was content to sit and watch him in awed admiration as long as Roy would let him. Sid, whose overwhelming ambition was to make the first eleven and aid in defeating Hammond, had hero worship in its most virulent form. After two or three days of Sid's attention Roy got so that he would dodge out of sight when he saw the youngster coming.
It required some bravery on Sid's part to show open admiration for Roy, for Horace still ruled the school, and the juniors especially, with an iron hand, and Sid was, as he well knew, courting dire punishment. But it was a time of open revolt against Horace's supremacy and Sid, with many others, escaped chastisement. Horace hated Roy worse than ever, hated Tom Forrest because that youth had succeeded where he had failed, and, now that he had nothing to gain by seeming friendliness toward the football captain, even threw down the gauntlet to Jack Rogers, who, happy as a clam over the outcome of the game and over the receipt of a letter from Johnny King, paid no attention to Horace. Otto Ferris, disgruntled over his failure to make even the second team save as a substitute, shared Horace's sentiments with enthusiasm and aided that youth to the best of his ability in his efforts to discount Roy's triumph. But it was a hard task that they had set themselves, for Roy had won gratitude as well as admiration. Ever since the previous autumn when Hammond had triumphed unfairly over the Ferry Hill eleven the school had looked forward almost breathlessly to revenge. And now it was in no mood to withhold adulation from the one who had secured it for them. And so, ere a week had passed, the revolt had grown to well-defined proportions.
The nucleus of the anti-Burlen camp was comprised of Roy, Chub, Rogers, Forrest and Sid, for at the end of three or four days Sid had thrown off the yoke. To this handful of revolters came others as the days passed; Bacon, the quarter-back, who had been almost the first to wring Roy's hand and congratulate him, Whitcomb, Fernald and Post, of the eleven, and a few others. There were no open hostilities between the opposing camps, but before the Christmas vacation arrived the school was sharply divided and every fellow there had been forced to take sides with either Horace or Roy, for in some manner Roy had come to be considered the leader of the opposing force. But before this other things had happened which had a bearing on the matter.
About a week after the Hammond game Dr. Emery arose one morning after breakfast, at which time it was customary for him to make announcements, and said that he wished to correct an erroneous impression which had prevailed for some time.
"At the commencing of school this Fall," said the Doctor, absent-mindedly polishing his glasses with a napkin, "there occurred an unpleasant incident. One of the new boys was taken from his bed in the Senior Dormitory by a number of the older boys and given a bath in the river. As hazing has always been prohibited at Ferry Hill the guilty ones were promptly punished. It has only been within the last day or so that I have learned of an unfortunate thing in connection with the matter. It seems that the student who was hazed was suspected of having given information leading to the discovery of the culprits. As a result, I am informed, this student has until very recently—in fact until the game with Hammond Academy—been held in disgrace by his fellows. I am not going to discuss here the justice or injustice of the attitude assumed by you; my purpose is to remove the stigma of deceit from an innocent boy. This boy, when summoned before me the morning following the incident, declared that he believed he knew the leader of the escapade, having recognized his voice. The identity of the others he did not know. When asked for the name of the leader he declined to give it. And, in accordance with our custom, he was not pressed."
A suppressed hum of applause swept over the dining hall. Roy stared fixedly at a salt-cellar.
"Fortunately," continued Doctor Emery, "the instructor in charge of the Junior Dormitory, Mr. Buckman, happened to be awake when the party returned and so identified most, if not quite all, of its members. He reported the matter to me, as he was required to do, and I meted out such punishment as the offense merited. Naturally, had I known before that the student was being made to suffer I would have made this explanation at once. As it was, and as I have said, I learned of it only yesterday, and then not from one of the school, from whom, it would seem, information of such a nature should come, but from one whom, it appears, has the welfare of the school closer at heart than most of you, my daughter."
"Bully for Harry!" cried Chub quite audibly. And the sentiment met with instant applause that grew in volume until the instructors commanded silence.
"I believe," went on Doctor Emery, with a slight smile, "that since the game with Hammond Academy the student in question has become re-established in the respect and—ah—affection of the school." (The applause threatened again to drown the speaker.) "And so it seems scarcely necessary for me now to bespeak for him a reversal of opinion." ("No, sir!" This from the irrepressible Chub.) "You will, I am sure, each one of you, wish to make such amends as possible for your former treatment of him. He, I trust, holds no resentment. Indeed such a sentiment would not become him, for, while his refusal to try to put himself right with his fellows shows a certain commendable pride, yet it was hardly fair under the circumstances. That is all, I think, on that subject. I wish to see the following at my office after breakfast."
Then came the names of half a dozen fellows, which none, barring, possibly, the fellows themselves, heard. For each table—and there were five of them—was eagerly discussing the news; and it was wonderful how many there were who had "known all along that Porter wasn't that sort!"
But the public vindication, while it disabused the minds of a few who still doubted, and explained what had happened to those who had already ceased to blame Roy in the matter, did not bring about any apparent difference in the school's treatment of him. He already stood first in school opinion and all the vindication in the world couldn't have placed him any higher. He had won the game from Hammond; that was sufficient for most fellows.
In view of Doctor Emery's disclosure you have already found me guilty of having neglected to enumerate with Roy's adherents one of the staunchest and most important. For it was no little thing to have Harry on your side, even if she was only a fourteen-year-old girl; and that has been proved already and will be again before the story is at an end. But it was unfortunate that Harry's good offices should have led to an estrangement between her and Roy.
It all came about in quite the most unforeseen manner. Roy had promised to play tennis with her the afternoon of Doctor Emery's announcement. They had had quite a few contests already and Harry had proved herself more than a match for Roy. To-day they met outside the cottage, Harry bringing her own racquet and one for Roy, since tennis had scarcely been included in his education and he possessed no racquet of his own. Unfortunately Roy started the conversation by accusing Harry of having broken her promise. That was an awful accusation to bring against her, since she had an almost quixotic regard for the given word. Stung, she made no effort to set herself right, only declared sullenly that she had done no such thing. Roy had not greatly cared, but her curt denials aroused his impatience.
temper"'My, what a temper!'"
"'My, what a temper!'"
"But, Harry," he protested, "you must have! He said so!"
"I didn't! I didn't! I didn't!"
"But, Harry, that's nonsense, you know."
"I didn't break my promise," she answered angrily.
"Well, then I'd just like to know how he found out. Of course I don't care much if you did tell him, only—"
"You've just as good as said I've told a lie!" cried Harry, turning suddenly with reddening cheeks.
"I haven't, Harry."
"You have, too! So! And you—you're very impolite!"
"Oh, pshaw, there's no use in getting mad about it. I only said—"
"I'll get mad if I want to," said Harry hotly. "And I guess I can keep a promise as well as you can. You're just stuck-up because you made that old touchdown!"
"I'm not!"
"You are!"
"My, what a temper! Just what you'd expect of a girl with red hair! Why, I wouldn't—"
But he stopped there, for Harry's face went suddenly white with rage and she gasped as though he had struck her.
"Now look here, Harry," he began contritely. But Harry had found her tongue and he got no farther.
"Oh, you coward!" she cried, trembling. "You—you beast! I know my hair's red, and I don't care if it is! And, anyway, I'd rather have it red than just no color at all, like—like a fish!"
"Harry, I didn't mean—"
"Don't you speak to me again, ever and ever! I don't want to see you! I hate you, hate you, hate you, Roy Porter, and I'll never speak to you again as long as I live!"
"Oh, if you want to be nasty about it," muttered Roy.
But Harry had turned and was running swiftly along the path, trying her best to keep back the angry tears that threatened every moment to disgrace her. Roy watched her go, whistled softly, and then followed slowly after.
"What a little spit-fire!" he muttered with a laugh that was half angry and half regretful. "I don't see what I said, anyhow, except that her hair was red. And it is, as red as fire! If she wants to stay mad she may for all I care."
And then, two days later, there occurred an incident which still further widened the breach between them.
Mr. Buckman opened his desk in Room B in School Hall and stared in amazement. It was the first recitation and the class in geometry watched interestedly. The instructor held forth a white rabbit in each hand.
"Who put these in here?" he demanded sternly.
There was no answer. The class was smiling broadly, but Mr. Buckman's expression prohibited the laughter they longed to indulge in.
"It was a very funny joke," continued Mr. Buckman scathingly, "only, unfortunately, one of the rabbits has been stupid enough to die and so is unable to appreciate it. The other one appears to be on the point of dying. I presume that they belong to Miss Harriet. I fancy she will appreciate the joke heartily. I hope to be able to discover the perpetrator of the delicate jest, in which case he will undoubtedly get all the applause he desires."
Mr. Buckman bore the rabbits out of the room and the class, much soberer, looked questioningly about and whispered inquiries. But everyone professed ignorance on the subject.
"Ought to have his head punched, whoever he is," growled Chub to Roy. And the latter heartily agreed.
When the class was dismissed Harry was waiting, with a white face and blazing eyes, in the corridor. She made for Roy instantly.
"They're both dead," she cried, "and I hope you're satisfied. Of all nasty, mean things to do, Roy Porter, that's the very meanest! I should think you'd be ashamed of yourself! I should think you'd be ashamed to look at me!"
"I don't know anything about it," protested Roy earnestly. "I'm awfully sorry, Harry, honest!"
"Do you think I believe that?" demanded Harry, brushing aside the tears that would leak out in spite of her. "You did it to get even with me, I know you did! I don't care what you do to me, but it was cowardly to kill my poor rabbits!"
"Harry, I give you my word—!"
"I don't want your word! I wouldn't believe you, Roy Porter! You're a mean, contemptible thing!"
"Oh, very well," said Roy angrily, walking away. "You can think whatever you like; I don't care!"
But he did care, nevertheless.
After dinner he spent a few minutes in the office, but his straightforward denial convinced Doctor Emery of his innocence. The affair remained a mystery, although Chub professed to have no doubts in the matter.
"Nobody but Horace would think of such a thing," he asserted. "And if Harry had any sense she'd know it."
But Harry was apparently firmly convinced of Roy's guilt and all he received from that young lady during the next week was black looks.
Meanwhile an event of much interest to the school was approaching and the incident of the white rabbits was soon forgotten by it. Every year, on the afternoon of Thanksgiving Day, was held the Cross Country Run. There was a cup for the individual winner and a cup for the class five of whose entries finished first. Ferry Hill had developed cross country running into something of a science. The annual event always awakened much interest and the rivalry between the four classes was intense.
There were no handicaps, all entries starting together from the steps of the gymnasium, taking off north-east for three miles to the village of Carroll, from there to a neighboring settlement called Findlayburg and so home by the road to the gymnasium, a total distance of six miles. At Carroll and Findlayburg they were registered by the instructors. In deference to the cross country event Thanksgiving dinner was postponed until evening. It was customary for the football players to remain in training for the run, and this year they had all done so with the exception of Forrest, Gallup and Burlen, whose weights kept them out of the contest. No one was prohibited from entering and even the youngest boy in school was down for the start. One year the junior class had captured the cup and ever since then succeeding junior classes had striven mightily.
As always there were favorites, and this year Chub, Roy and a Middle Class boy named Townsend were considered to have the best chances. Roy himself was doubtful of his prowess, for, while he could sprint and even do a quarter of a mile in good time, he had never tried long-distance running. But Chub gave him a lot of good advice, assured him that he stood a good chance to win and ended up with: "Anyhow, it's the best training in the world and will do you a whole lot of good even if you don't get the cup." So for a week preceding the day of the contest the countryside was sprinkled with boys panting up the hills, loping through the woods and trotting doggedly along the frosty road. And at two o'clock on Thanksgiving Day afternoon thirty-four boys awaited the word in front of the gymnasium.
THE CROSS-COUNTRY RACE
There were boys of all ages between twelve and eighteen in the group which awaited the word from Horace Burlen. And there were all kinds and descriptions of costumes. It was a frosty nippy day, cloudy and with occasional gusts of wind, but nevertheless several of the runners wore cotton running trunks and short stockings, and the expanse of bare leg between hose and trunk required lots of rubbing and slapping to keep the blood in circulation. Others were warmly attired in knickerbockers and sweaters. Roy had taken Chub's advice in the matter of apparel, and wore short trousers, woolen stockings, his crimson sweater and a pair of spiked running shoes. Chub was similarly dressed, as was Jack Rogers and a number of others. The Juniors had evolved a wonderful plan whereby certain of their runners were to save themselves until the final turn toward home and were then to pitch in and beat everything in sight, and they were gathered in a group plotting excitedly in whispers. Sid Welch was asking every fellow who would pay attention to him whether he thought he could last through the race. Sid had worn off eight pounds during the football season, but had already begun, greatly to his despair, to put them back again. Chub told him that if he'd run the last part of the race backwards he might finish—some day. And Jack assured him that they would see that dinner was kept warm for him.
"I'm going to keep with you fellows," said Sid, "if you don't mind." And he glanced devotedly toward Roy.
"You honor us," answered Chub with a low bow. "Just keep right alongside Roy and if he tries to run away from you make him take your hand. What do you weigh now, Sid?"
"Find out," answered Sid impolitely.
Whereupon Chub tried to catch him and Sid led him a wild chase through the crowd, finally seeking protection behind Roy. Roy, however, refused to be drawn into the affair and Sid was duly made to apologize for his cheek. By that time Horace was giving instructions again.
"The course is the same as last year," he announced. "At Carroll you must give your names to Mr. Cobb, who will be on the porch of the Windsor House and at Findlayburg you must give them to Mr. Buckman at the corner store. The finish will be at the gate here. No fellow whose name doesn't show on both Mr. Cobb's and Mr. Buckman's list will stand any show, so you want to be sure you get checked. All ready now, fellows. Get back of the gravel there, Townsend and Young. Are you ready? Go!"
The throng moved forward at a trot, pushed and scrambled through the gate and went across the field. At the farther side was the first obstacle, a high rail fence, and Sid had his first mishap there at the outset. He reached the top of the fence beautifully and then deliberately fell over on the other side into a mass of brush and wayside weeds. Chub paused to pull him out and put him on his feet again and Roy waited for them. As a consequence, when they had crossed the road, surmounted a stone wall and had begun to breast the long slope of meadow on the other side the three were well toward the rear of the crowd. By the time the hill-top was reached the field of runners was well spread out and not a few of the younger boys were already losing interest in the affair. Jack Rogers was well toward the front now and Chub suggested to Roy that they close up with him. So there was a little sprint along the ridge of the hill and they soon found themselves alongside Jack and with barely a half-dozen runners ahead of them. But the sprint had played havoc with Sid's wind and he was puffing like a young porpoise.
"Slow work so far," called Jack.
"Why don't you set the pace awhile?" asked Chub.
"I'll take it through the woods," Jack answered, "if you'll take it from there to the village."
"All right. Say, Sid, you'd better drop our acquaintance now. You've done beautifully and I wouldn't be surprised if you came in pretty near first—counting backward. But you don't want to overdo it at the start, you know."
Sid shot a doubting and suspicious glance at him, shook his head and puffed on.
Now that he had got his second wind, Roy found it exhilarating, this trotting up and down the slopes in the cold November afternoon. There was a fine glow in his face, the gusts of cold wind that met him now and then felt good as they ruffled his hair and the half-frozen turf offered firm hold to his spikes. He would have liked to speed ahead and try conclusions with the Middle Class boy who was in the lead, for he was not in the least tired and felt now as though he could run for weeks. But they had covered only a scant mile and three-quarters, according to Chub, and that meant plenty of hard work ahead. Down a hillside sprinkled with rocks and low bushes they went, forded a sandy stream, scrambled over a tumble-down wall and entered the woods. Here Jack, with a sprint, took the lead and made fast going. For the first hundred yards it was difficult work, but after that they found themselves on a grass-grown road which wound and twisted about over stumps and fallen logs. Many a youth took a cropper hereabouts, and among them was Sid. When Roy saw him last he was sitting on a rotted tree which had proved his Waterloo sadly watching the procession go by. And a procession it was by this time, for the runners were strung out in single file for a quarter of a mile.
Roy and Chub were running fourth and fifth as they left the woods and found themselves on the edge of a wheat field with the church tower of Carroll a half a mile away. Jack dropped back and Chub took his place at the head of the line. It seemed to Roy that Chub let up on the pace a little, but it may have been only that it was easier going here along the edge of the field. At all events, Roy was glad of it, for the work was beginning to tell on him. And he was still gladder when Chub, at the corner of the field, leaped the wall and went trotting down a lane and from there into a country road. In another minute or two they were jogging along the village street and Roy could see Mr. Cobb, paper and pencil in hand, on the steps of the old brown hotel near at hand. Quite a little group had formed about him and the runners swept along to a chorus of criticisms, laughter and applause. As they passed Mr. Cobb, they cried their names and were answered;
"Eaton!"
"Eaton!" And the instructor checked the name on the list he held.
"Pryor!"
"Pryor!"
"Townsend!"
"Townsend!"
"Rogers!"
"Rogers!"
"Porter!"
"Porter!"
"How are we making it?" sang out Jack as he passed.
"A minute and a fraction behind the record!" was the reply.
"Hit it up, Chub!" shouted Jack.
"Go to the dickens!" answered Chub. "Who wants the lead?"
"I'll take it," Pryor replied.
"All right." And Chub dropped back to Roy.
"Minute and a fraction—be hanged!" he gasped. "I'll bet—we're right on—time! How you coming?"
"Getting tuckered," answered Roy. "How much farther?"
"Not quite—three miles. Ouch! Stepped on—fool stone!"
"Better save your wind, you two," advised Jack.
"Wish I had some to save," thought Roy.
Then there occurred the first division in the ranks. Pryor left the road and scrambled over into a field. Jack, Chub and Roy followed, but Townsend kept to the road and others as they came up followed him.
"What's the matter—with the road?" asked Roy.
"Longer," Chub answered briefly.
They jogged up a steep hill, turning to the right at the top and then went down at a brisker pace, Roy wishing his sweater wasn't quite so heavy. All the spring had gone from his feet now and the exhilaration was forgotten. It was just hard work. The downward slope lasted for quite a way and Roy judged that Pryor was letting himself out in the hope of reaching the road again before the others who had kept to it arrived. There was a bad bit of brush to struggle through, and then came the wall and the road. As they climbed over they looked backward, but only a farmer's wagon was in sight.
"Beat 'em!" gasped Chub.
On the road they slowed down considerably and Roy gave silent thanks. He knew now that he would never be able to keep up with Chub and the others, but he was determined to stick it out as long as he could. Presently a little group of buildings came into sight ahead; a store, a blacksmith shop, a tumble-down shed and three houses. Mr. Buckman was awaiting them in front of the store, supported by the storekeeper and a handful of loungers.
"Are we ahead?" shouted Pryor as they came up. "Yes, and ahead of the record," was the answer. "All right, Pryor. All right, Rogers, Eaton and Porter."
Then they were past, trotting along a frosty, rutted country road.
"Anyone want the lead?" grunted Pryor.
"How about you, Roy?" asked Jack.
But Roy shook his head dumbly and Chub moved up to the head of the group. The wind had increased and was blowing icily out of the north-east, but it was almost behind them and so helped them along. Pryor nodded towards a dead beech tree beside the road. Jack nodded back.
"Two miles more," he said.
"Road or hill?" asked Chub, looking around a moment.
"Don't care," answered Pryor.
"Hill," said Jack.
At a turn of the road Chub left it to the right and the others followed.
"Is this—shorter?" asked Roy.
"About—even thing, I think," answered Pryor.
"A whole minute shorter," said Jack.
Roy sighed for the road as he dragged his feet up a little hill and saw before him a rough bit of country in which rocks and stunted bushes sprang everywhere. For the next quarter of a mile they were always either going up hill or going down; level ground was not on the map thereabouts. Jack took the lead again presently and Chub fell back to where Roy was heroically striving to keep his place. At last Roy stumbled over a root, went head over heels into a clump of bushes, and sat up with the last bit of breath knocked out of him. Chub had stopped, grinning. Roy shook his head and waved his hand for the other to go on.
"Hurt?" asked Chub anxiously.