Full-Back Foster

“Your friend Cooke wouldn’t approve, though, Foster,” said Farnsworth. “He’d say they were too complicated.”

Myron flushed, but made no answer.

“Get the team together as soon as you can, Cap,” said the coach, “and let Cater go over the new signals with them a couple of times. Mind, though, we don’t change unless it’s evident that Kenwood is solving the plays. That’s all, you fellows. Just a minute, Foster, please.”

The rest hurried out and down the stairs. Myron leaned back again in the chair with a sigh. Mr. Driscoll viewed him coldly.

“I suppose you realise that you’ve made rather a mess of things,” said the coach. Myron assented in silence. “The things you let out to this Kenwood spy may mean just the difference to us between winning and losing. I hope they won’t, but they may. I don’t believe in hitting a man when he’s down, Foster, and so I won’t say any more about it. I suppose you’re feeling rather rotten yourself.” The boy’s glance was answer enough. “I was going to have you start the game at full.” He paused and Myron’s heart sank. “I’ve changed my mind. There may be a chance for you before the game’s over, but don’t count on it. If you should by any possibility get in, Foster, I shall expect you to try very hard to make up for any mischief you’ve caused with that tongue of yours. That’s all. You’d better hustle down and go through those signals.”

When Myron had gone Mr. Driscoll frowned. “I wonder,” he muttered, “if that was the right thing. Sort of tough on him, too. And if he should get sore – Well, we’ll see.” Lifting the telephone beside him, he called the locker room. “Hello! Who is this? Oh, Mistley? Well, ask Farnsworth to come up here a minute, please.”

The manager appeared promptly and behind the closed glass door the two spoke briefly with heads close together. Then Farnsworth arose and sped out, an expression of unholy glee on his countenance, and the coach, tapping the ashes from his pipe, dropped it into his pocket and went downstairs.

Across the campus a clock struck two.

The teams that faced each other that afternoon were fairly matched in weight and, as events proved, closely matched in skill. Neither the Brown nor the Blue found herself until the first fifteen-minute period was nearly over. Each seemed to lack confidence, and those who hoped to see one team or the other take the lead at the start were doomed to disappointment. There was much punting in that first quarter, some half-hearted rushing that soon slowed down, several fumbles and not a little bad judgment. Each team appeared more intent on watching her opponent than on playing the game, and it was not until the very end that Parkinson awoke from her lethargy and got into her stride.

A fortunate forward-pass started her up, and from her own forty-two yards to the enemy’s thirty-four she took the ball on line attacks varied by one wide, swinging run by Meldrum. But the Blue was also awake now and her line steadied and Parkinson was forced to punt. Kenwood plunged twice and returned the punt and Cater caught and was downed in his tracks. Kearns made a scant yard at guard on the right of the line and time was called.

Starting again from near Parkinson’s forty-yard line, the ball went across the centre and back again. Cater was nailed when he attempted a quarter-back run to the left and Brown made four yards in two tries. Keith fell back and punted out of bounds at the twenty-five. No advantage accrued to either team for the next five minutes. Parkinson was set back for holding and Kenwood was twice penalised for off-side. The spectators’ hearts went into their throats when a Kenwood back misjudged a punt, and it looked for an instant as if the Brown was to score. But Norris missed the ball and the Kenwood quarter fell on it eight yards from the goal-line. The Blue promptly punted out of danger. Parkinson failed to gain at the Blue line and made a forward which grounded. She then punted to the enemy’s thirty yards. The half ended with the pigskin in Parkinson territory near the middle of the field and in Kenwood’s possession.

Neither team had shown ability to gain consistently at her opponent’s line. Parkinson had made two first downs and Kenwood one. At punting Kenwood had outdistanced the Brown by some five yards on each kick, but had not gained any advantage by it, since Stearns and Norris were playing the game of their lives. In short, it was still anybody’s game. During half-time the rivals contended with cheers and songs, the contest going to Parkinson by reason of a slight advantage in numbers and the possession of a brass band. It was about the middle of that fifteen-minute intermission that a small youth in the attire of a messenger boy came wandering along the edge of the Kenwood stand. “Mr. Cooke!” he droned. “Message for Mr. Cooke!”

In response a youth in a fuzzy brown overcoat arose from the group on the nearly deserted players’ bench. “All right, kid!” he called. “Here I am! Let’s have it!”

“You Mr. Cooke?” asked the boy suspiciously.

“Yes, A. M. Cooke. Is it for me?”

“Yeah, that’s right: A. M. Cooke. Well, you’re wanted at the telephone.”

“Where is it?” asked Cooke, vaulting the rope into the passage. The boy waved a thumb over his shoulder.

“Out there,” he said vaguely. “I’ll show you.”

Cooke followed, winding his way through the crowd about the entrance. At the gate he spoke to one of the ticket takers. “Let me have a check, will you?” he asked. “I’m coming back.”

The boy presiding at the box smiled mysteriously. “That’ll be all right,” he said. “You won’t need any check.”

Afterwards, Cooke concluded that it was at that moment that suspicion began to creep in. But the messenger led on and he followed around the back of the stand and into the presence of four grim-looking and extremely athletic first class fellows. Cooke saw no telephone, and a frown gathered on his classic brow. The messenger was speaking. “Here he is,” he said. “I got him. Where’s me half?”

A coin changed hands. Cooke looked on curiously, a question trembling on his lips. But he didn’t need to ask that question. Suddenly the four youths encompassed him closely and he felt no further interest in telephones.

“Is your name Cooke?” asked the spokesman.

Cooke wanted very much to deny it, but knew that denial would be futile. So he said yes, and the other went on as follows:

“Well, Cooke, we don’t like your sort. There’s a train that will take you to Kenwood leaving our station in fifteen minutes. If I were you I’d try mighty hard to get it. It won’t be healthy for you around here after it’s gone.”

Cooke moistened his lips. “Why should I?” he demanded in a weak attempt at bluster. “I paid to see this game – ”

“That’s all right. You’ll get your money back. We’ve bought your train ticket, and there’s eighteen cents change coming to you. You can walk to the station comfortably in twelve minutes.” The speaker looked at his watch. “You’ve just got twelve if you start now. These chaps are going with you to show the way and see that you don’t change your mind.”

Cooke looked at the faces surrounding him, bit his lip, laughed weakly and shrugged. “I suppose you think you’re frightfully clever,” he said, “but you’re not worrying me any. I don’t care to see the game, anyhow. We’ll beat you, so what’s it matter?”

“Eleven minutes,” was the reply. “You’ll have to run if you don’t start quick.”

“Suppose I don’t choose to go?” asked Cooke defiantly.

“Why, that would be very unhealthy for you,” answered the other, a smile threatening his gravity. Cooke looked up at the stand. There were plenty of friends there, but there seemed to be no way of reaching them. At the top a few occupants of the last row were looking down curiously, but they appeared quite unsuspicious of the indignity being visited on their schoolmate. Cooke yielded.

“All right,” he muttered.

“And, one thing more, Cooke,” said the spokesman of the little committee, “it will be better if you don’t come over here with the baseball team next spring. In fact, if I were you, I’d take good care to stay away from here. We don’t like spies.”

CHAPTER XXVII

FULL-BACK FOSTER

“That’s all, I guess,” said Coach Driscoll in conclusion. “The main thing is to play hard, fellows, and play fast. I don’t think we’ll have to change our signals. If Kenwood was on to them she’d have showed it before this. So tear in now and show what you can really do. No more sleeping on the job, no more watchful waiting. Here’s your line-up. Stearns, Mellen, Cummins, Cantrell, Dobbins, Keith, Mistley, Cater, Meldrum, Brown, Foster. On the run now!”

Myron, startled, gazed incredulously at the coach across the room. The others were heaving toward the doors, and he jumped up and followed, overtaking the coach in the corridor at the foot of the short stairway.

“I – you said – me, Mr. Driscoll?” stammered Myron.

“Yes,” answered the coach calmly. “You’re in, Foster.”

“Oh!” He darted forward, stopped and sprang back again. “Thank you, sir,” he said gratefully.

“All right, my boy.” Mr. Driscoll smiled. “You know what to do!”

Know what to do? Well, he rather thought he did, he told himself as he trotted across the little space of turf to the rope. His lips were very tight together and it wasn’t until Joe smote him resoundingly between the shoulders that he knew he had been spoken to.

“Good stuff, kiddo!” Joe was repeating. “Glad you’re back. Go to it and eat ’em up, Brother!”

The cheering was deafening. Across the trampled field the Kenwood players were already throwing aside their blankets. Near at hand the Warne Silver Cornet Band was blaring loudly, although all he got of it was the insistent thump, thump, thump! of the big drum. Then they were clustered on the side-line for a last earnest word from Jud Mellen and a minute later, spread over the east end of the gridiron, they awaited the whistle.

Myron played through the first few minutes in a queer sort of daze. He got his signals, fell into place and went through the plays, but it was much as though some one else was doing it and he was only looking on. What brought him to, in a manner of speaking, was a fine clout on his head when, Kenwood having taken the ball on downs by a few inches, the play piled through between Joe and Paul Keith and Myron found himself a part of the squirming heap two yards behind his line. The blow from some one’s shoe cleared his brain very effectively and the some one who played and the some one who looked on became instantly merged. Which, perhaps, was a lucky thing, since a minute later, after Kenwood’s quarter had fumbled and Mistley had squirmed through on top of the ball, he was called on to punt.

For an instant his nerves jangled badly while he awaited the ball with outstretched hands, but when he had it between his gripping fingers he forgot. A quick turn, a step forward, a swing of his long leg and a fine, full thud of leather against leather! Off sailed the ball, well over the up-flung hands of the enemy, straight toward the corner of the field. He side-stepped a charging Kenwood forward, went down under the kick and found his place again near the Blue’s twelve yards. Back up the gridiron presently, Kenwood kicking on the second down. Then a fake and a run to the right by Meldrum for a scant yard, a short gain past tackle on the left by Brown, and finally another punt, not so long this time. And so it went, neither side gaining her distance, both reverting to punts in the end.

Time was taken out for Cantrell, again for Katie, again for a Kenwood end, and the game was slowing up. Two penalties were awarded, and the opponents shared them. It was near the end of the third quarter now. Brounker took Meldrum’s place and Kenwood changed her left guard. Myron was dirty and bruised and panting, but so they all were. Chas had a long cut down one cheek that made him look like a desperado, but he was grinning broadly every minute. Jud Mellen was everywhere, encouraging, pleading, scolding, his voice sounding like the rasp of a file.

Brounker got clean away and was forced out at his own forty-six yards after a twelve-yard gain. The Brown flags waved and a great cheer crashed across the field. Myron charged straight at the centre, found a hole awaiting him and sped through, Joe’s voice growling above the rasp of canvas and the laboured breaths of tired lungs. “Atta boy, kiddo! Atta boy!” Back came the ball: Mistley had been off-side. Katie called Stearns around and slammed the ball at him as he sped past, but Kenwood had guessed the play and Stearns made less than a yard. Then Myron had the ball overhead and was watching Stearns running back, far over on the left. A long heave and a good one, but a Kenwood half spoiled it and it was fourth down. Myron punted. A whistle blew.

The mouthful of water no more than dampened Myron’s dry throat.

“Once I saw a whole pond full of this stuff,” panted Chas as he took the dipper from Myron.

“Shut up!” begged the other. “There ain’t no such thing!”

Jud dragged Chas aside and Joe joined Myron as they walked over to where the umpire awaited them above the ball. “How’s it going?” asked Joe. “Some game, kiddo, believe me!”

“Can’t we score, Joe?” asked Myron, scowling.

“Sure we can! We’re going to! That centre of their line’s just ready to cave, kiddo. It’s all-in from tackle to tackle. The new guy they put in for Lampley’s a cinch. Keep at ’em, Brother! You’re going fine!”

And yet the last quarter was many minutes old before Myron found any indication that Joe’s prophecy was to come true. Then, very suddenly, Brown romped through the Blue’s centre and fought for eleven yards before he was brought down. That was the first decisive gain through the Kenwood line, and the Parkinson adherents shouted frantically. But another attack at the same place was stopped for less than two yards, and a third netted nothing. A skin-tackle play, Brounker carrying, gave the Brown five yards more. Faking a punt, Myron sped to the left, cut in and got the distance. Again came the Parkinson cheers.

“We’ve got them going, Parkinson!” cried Katie. “They can’t stop us now! Make this good, fellows! Play hard!”

“Hard! Hard!” croaked Jud, smiting the crouching men. “Into it! Get into it, Parkinson!”

But there was a long road to travel and time was speeding, and although three times the Brown made her distance by narrow margins, on the twenty-three yards, with the Blue’s goal beckoning, Kenwood rallied and held through three downs. Then, while the shouting stands became silent, Paul Keith fell back and judged the distance to the cross-bar. Kenwood swayed and gasped, her quarter shrilly calling on his men to “Block this kick! Block it! Block it!” Back sped the ball, was dropped —

A groan arose from the Brown stand. Far to the right of the goal travelled the ball. The blue-stockinged warriors danced and shouted in glee. Keith’s head dropped despondently as he turned back up the field. “Seven minutes to play,” called the field judge. Then they were battling again.

Perhaps that lost score had its effect, for Kenwood was soon in Parkinson territory. As far as the thirty yards she went before she was stopped. Her punt went over the line and the ball came out to the twenty-five. Two attacks at the Kenwood centre brought the distance. Kenwood had new material in her line now. Brown tried an end and got three. But he was hurt and Vance took his place. Vance was stopped for a slight loss when he tried left tackle. Myron gained four through left guard and Brounker followed with three more. The tape left the ball in Parkinson’s possession. Another forward, Myron to Stearns, failed. The ball was in mid-field now and there were but three minutes left. The stands were already emptying slowly. Coach Driscoll began sending in substitutes, fellows who had worked hard and deserved their letters. Joe was gone, Cummins, Cater, even Keith, who alone might score a field-goal should Fortune give the opportunity. Warren had taken Cater’s place. Warren was fresh and eager and undismayed. His signals came snappily, and he pushed the wearied veterans hard.

“Make it go!” he chanted. “Make it go! Don’t give up the ball! There’s time enough left to score. Here’s where we get away from them. Come on, Parkinson! Show your grit!”

Brounker and Vance gained. The Kenwood line was weakening fast now, but Myron feared that it was too late. Vance again, past left tackle on a criss-cross. Then Myron, sliding off left guard for the needed distance. Well past the fifty-yard line now, and still going, but with seconds remaining instead of minutes and the time-keeper’s eyes glued to the dial of his watch. If only they could get past those Kenwood backs, thought Myron! The Blue line was pasteboard now, but the backs still fought hard and held firm. Somewhere near the enemy’s thirty yards Warren called a sequence and Myron’s heart leaped. If they played quickly, smoothly, they must get through! Brounker tried left of centre and piled through, but was nailed by Kenwood’s backs. Four yards! Then, without signals, the team snapped into the next play. A quick shift to the right, Brounker sprang away to the left, the ball sped back straight from centre and Myron caught it. Kenwood sensed danger now and shifted back to meet it, but Myron was already charging past the left of the line, the interference working like a charm. He was through before he realised it and only a surprised quarter-back stood between him and the goal!

Ahead and at his right sped Vance, tuckered but still game. Behind him weary feet pounded. In his ears was a mighty noise that he knew for the wild, imploring shrieks of friend and foe. Through it came the dull thump, thump! of the bass drum. Twenty yards more now, and the quarter, white-faced and desperate, running toward him with clutching fingers. Then Vance was down, run out, and Myron was alone. Fifteen yards and the Kenwood quarter-back poising for his tackle! Myron gave a little toward the side-line, slackened his pace and then, with a final demand on his strength, sprang forward again at renewed speed. The quarter-back leaped. Myron felt his arms at his hips as he spun on his heel. One arm fell away, but a hand closed inside his leg above the knee and a great weight pulled at him. One plunge, a second, and the last line was swimming in his sight. Then, as if by a miracle, the clutching hand was gone, and, freed of the dragging burden, Myron stumbled, fell to his knees, recovered and went on, straight across the last white line to victory!

Parkinson did not add a goal to her touchdown. She did not even try, for the crowd that overspread the field refused to be dispersed, and, since the last second of play had ticked itself off just before Myron had reached the line, no one insisted very hard. Parkinson was satisfied with that lone 6; and if Kenwood was not, why, that was of small moment! Blue banners waved, the band led, the victors followed, caps floated across the goal bars, the big drum said Thump! Thump! Thump! and pandemonium reigned supreme over Parkinson Field.

Some four hours later, Andrew Merriman, crossing the campus on his way to Sohmer, almost collided with a small and visibly excited youth who, panting an apology, added: “They’ve elected the new captain! I got it from a waiter!”

“Have they, son? Well, who is he?”

“Bet you couldn’t guess! I’ve told three fellows already and not one of them guessed right!”

“Then there’s no use in my trying,” replied Andrew amiably. “Suppose you tell me.”

“It’s —Cummins!”

“No!”

“Yes, it is! What do you think of that? Why, no one expected he’d get it!”

“No one,” chuckled Andrew as the youngster disappeared into the gloom. “Anyway, no one but Cummins!”