Ben Stone at Oakdale

Checked with a slight loss, the Clearporters made ready again. Once more Ben found himself vis à vis with Barney Carney, in whose faded smile there was now a slight sickly tinge.

“It’s a loively birrud ye are,” observed Carney; “but your wings can be clipped.” To which the grim-faced fellow opposite made no retort.

The signal came again, and again Stone and Carney met. This time, locked together, they struggled, neither gaining the slightest advantage. The tide of battle, however, swept to the far end of the line, toward which Oakes, the right half back, was racing with the pigskin.

It was Hayden who divined the play, and Hayden who came leaping to meet the runner. Tackling cleanly and handsomely, Bern stretched Oakes prone. As he rose he heard them cheering as they had cheered for Stone – and he had not missed that.

“That’s the stuff, fellows!” cried Roger. “That’s the way to hold them!”

Winton, watching from his position at the side of the field, permitted a crinkle of a smile to flit across his face, even though he realized that the splendid and surprising defense had been accomplished, almost unaided, by two players. At the very outset Clearport had succeeded in one thing, at least – had found the strong spots of the visiting team. Later certain weak spots which the coach was fearful of might be unmasked.

In desperation the locals made a furious slam into center, recovering, however, barely the distance lost; and then, forced to it, Ramsdal fell back to kick. Eliot was ready for this, and, seeming to gauge the distance the ball would travel, he took it cleanly and easily, shooting past the first man who came at him, dodging the second, and bringing the spectators to their feet by a run that carried him to Clearport’s thirty yard line ere he was forced out of bounds. And Winton smiled again, for another tower of strength had loomed through the smoke of battle.

The referee brought the ball out and placed it. The line-up followed, one or two anxious Clearporters being warned back ere the man in authority permitted the resumption of play.

Crouching before Carney, Stone heard Sage calling the signal. As his ears drank in the numbers, he gazed straight into the Irish lad’s eyes without a flicker crossing his face, even though he knew directly that much would depend upon him. He knew Hayden would come across with the ball, looking for the opening he must assist in making.

In another moment they were straining, breast to breast. With all his strength he sought to thrust Carney to one side. Cooper bucked Morehead handsomely, and the gap was made. Through it went Barker, with Bern at his heels. Barker sacrificed himself to Oakes, and before Ramsdal got him Hayden came within four yards of putting the ball over.

Four yards to go, and the first down! No wonder the crowd with the crimson banners seemed crazed; no wonder the blue banners were drooping on the northern side of the field.

“Like water through a sieve,” chuckled Chipper Cooper; and barely had the words left his lips when Sage began calling a signal which sent Barker into the other wing of the line.

Crane did his duty there, but Davis was weak, and Berlin met Stoker, who had hurled Spotty aside. Not an inch was gained.

“Hold ’em,” implored Merwin, “we’ve got to hold ’em!”

“Another chance, fellows,” said Eliot. “We can make it.”

Again that signal which told the visitors that Hayden would try the enemy’s right wing. Sage varied the call, but the key number was distinctly heard, and with the snapping of the ball Ben Stone flung himself bodily at the fighting Irishman. Merwin had leaped in to support Carney, yet both of them were not sufficient to check Stone and the man who was hurled against him from the rear. The Clearport line buckled and broke, and Hayden lunged through headlong for a touchdown.

“My deduction is,” panted Piper, “that it’s a snap.”

The Oakdale crowd cheered as the ball was punted out. Hayden was given the privilege of trying to kick a goal, and, absolutely confident of himself, he booted the ball against one of the uprights.

“Never mind,” grinned Chipper Cooper, as the Oakdalers spread out on the field with their backs toward the eastern goal. “It would have been a shame to spoil the fun by taking all the sand out of them right away.”

Indeed, it seemed that the visitors were too strong for the home team. Even when favored by the wind and sun, the Clearporters could not carry the fighting far into Oakdale’s territory, and they were soon compelled to surrender the ball by kicking.

Once more the lads from the inland town began bucking their way over the chalk marks, and frequently their best gains were secured through openings made by Stone and Piper. Barney Carney was livid with wrath, but his grim opponent remained outwardly unchanged. An end run by Barker again placed the visitors in a position to threaten Clearport’s goal. It was followed by a trick play, in which Barker drew attention to himself while Eliot went romping and zigzagging through a broken field and crossed the line for the second touchdown.

This time Roger kicked, and he lifted the pigskin squarely over the center of the crossbar.

Even to Winton it had begun to seem as if Oakdale was too strong for the locals. He was glad indeed that Clearport had not yet located certain weak spots of which he had entertained serious apprehension, but he knew they had not done this mainly on account of their half demoralized condition.

Following that second touchdown, Oakdale seemed to let up somewhat. This brought a frown to Winton’s face, but he could do nothing until the half was finished.

Toward the end of the first half the visiting team took another spurt and seemed to have things pretty much its own way. Hayden was the principal ground gainer, and it was Stone who provided effective interference in assisting him to make his greatest distances. Twenty-five yards from the line, however, the locals stood firm. Then Sage called for a play by which Hayden was to pass the ball to Eliot just before dashing into the formation which had proved so effective. Eliot was to attempt to round the end.

This was carried through, Stone slamming into Carney in the regular manner. Hayden came at him from behind, while Eliot, having secured the ball, sought to race past Pete Long.

Something smote Ben with a terrific shock, and a sudden pall of darkness fell upon him. He sank to the ground just as Eliot was tackled and dragged down and the referee’s whistle shrilled the signal which told that the half was over.

CHAPTER XIX.

BETWEEN THE HALVES

Stone recovered to find some one sopping his face with a cool, dripping sponge. They had carried him off the field, and he was lying on a blanket behind the tiered seats, over the upper tier of which bent a row of sympathetic faces. His teammates were around him, being kept back by one or two fellows who insisted that he should have air.

“What – what’s matter?” he mumbled thickly, as he tried to sit up.

“Easy, old fellow,” said the voice of Roger Eliot, who had been applying the sponge. “You were knocked stiff in that last scrimmage.”

“Scrimmage?” echoed Ben uncertainly, vaguely fancying he had been in a fight with his bitter enemy. “Did Bern Hayden – ”

“It wasn’t Hayden. We tried to fool the Clearporters into thinking he’d again go through with the ball, but he passed it to me. They downed me, though, just as the half ended.”

“Oh,” said Stone, remembering at last, “we were playing football.”

“That fightin’ Irishman must have soaked ye,” observed Sile Crane. “You had him crazy all right, the way you bucked him around.”

“Carney did not hit me,” declared Ben positively.

Winton, like Eliot, had been working to bring Stone round. “Well,” he observed with satisfaction, “you seem to be all right now. I reckon you can get back into the game for the next half, can’t you?”

“Sure thing,” was the prompt answer. “I’m not hurt any.”

“That’s the stuff,” applauded the coach, rising to his feet. “That’s the spirit that wins. Some of you fellows need a little more of it. Rollins, you’re bigger and heavier than that man Hutt, but he’s walked through you four or five times. Brace up and stop him. Davis, you’ve got to show more nerve. Don’t be afraid of cracking yourself when you try to tackle; you’re not crockery. Look alive, Tuttle, and get into the plays quicker. Sometimes you take root in your tracks.”

“Great ginger!” gasped Chub in astonishment over this call-down. “I thought we were all doing pretty well.”

“Give him a peanut, somebody, to brace him up,” chuckled Chipper Cooper.

In another moment Chipper was shivering beneath the withering eye of the coach.

“You’ve got a whole lot to learn about football,” said Winton. “Move your feet when you go down the field under a kick. Davis can run around you twice and be ahead of you at the place where the ball falls.”

“Oh, jiminy crickets!” gasped Cooper. “I’ve got mine! Stop your grinning, Spotty.”

“You all let up after that second touchdown,” continued Winton. “Did you think you had points enough? Have you a notion that there’s danger of overexerting yourselves? You should have had two more touchdowns, at least. Clearport was growing better toward the last of it, and you fellows acted as if you had caught the hookworm. This kind of a football game is never won till it’s finished, don’t forget that. If you quit a little bit in the next half you’re liable to get it put all over you. Those fellows are good; they’re better than you are, but they don’t know it. Let them wake up to the fact, and you’ll be lucky if they don’t play you off your feet. You’ve got to keep them so busy they won’t find time to realize how good they are. Hayden, I’d like a private word with you.”

With a look of surprise on his face, Bern followed the coach, who stepped aside from the others. In a moment Winton was talking to him in low tones.

“By gum!” said Sile Crane. “He sorter handed it right out to the whole of us, didn’t he? I kinder thought he was goin’ to praise us for our fine work.”

Cooper poked a thumb into Piper’s ribs. “He didn’t say anything to you personally, did he, Sleuth? Wonder how you got by? Morehead had you groggy in that last smash.”

“Yes,” admitted Sleuth, “we butted our cocoanuts together, and my deduction is that he’s got more head than I have.”

“Oh, you villain!” exclaimed Chipper. “You trespasser on my sacred preserves! I should have thought to say that myself. Look at Bern; he’s getting excited. Wonder what Winton’s drilling him for?”

Hayden was indeed showing traces of excitement, for his face was flushed, his hands clenched, and he shook his head with an air of angry denial.

“I saw you,” said Winton, in a low, calm tone, “I saw you slug Stone on the jaw with your fist, Hayden; it’s useless to deny it.”

“It’s very strange,” sneered Bern, “that you were the only one who saw it. Where were the referee’s eyes?”

“Following the ball, doubtless. Carney swung Stone round sidewise as you lunged into the scrimmage, for doubtless he thought you had the ball, and he was trying to block you. It gave you a chance to hit Stone squarely on the side of the jaw, and you smashed him. Perhaps I was the only person who observed it; I hope I was. You’ve played a brilliant game, Hayden, and you can’t afford to let your temper and your hatred of Stone mar your record. Only for the fine style in which he blocked off the opposing guard, you never could have made such good gains. He doesn’t know you hit him, for he didn’t see you; and he won’t know unless I – ”

“I deny that I did it,” muttered Bern sullenly.

“And while you deny it you’re aware that I know you did. Settle your personal grudges off the football field; that’s the thing to do. Don’t think for a moment that I’m taking sides in this quarrel between you and Stone; I know nothing of the merits of the matter, and it’s no affair of mine. Nevertheless, if I should see you do another wretched trick of that sort I’d stop the game to pull you off the field.”

“You’re only the coach; the captain of the team would have something to say about that.”

Winton’s eyes flashed. “I’m the coach, and as long as I continue in that capacity I’ll exert my authority to pull any man out of the game. You have a nasty temper and a revengeful disposition, my boy, and it will be for your advantage to learn to curb yourself. Would you like to see Clearport win this game?”

“Certainly not.”

“I thought not.”

“Clearport can’t win. We’ve got them beaten now.”

“So that’s what you think. If you had seen as many football games as I have, and if you had watched this one from the side-lines, you would realize that there is not as much difference between these two teams as there seemed to be. If they ever discover our weak spots and get busy on them, they’ll make us go some yet. The line is none too strong, and the loss of Stone would weaken it frightfully. Furthermore, what do you imagine the fellows would think of you if they even suspected that you had tried to knock Stone out – and you might have succeeded if the half hadn’t ended just as you slugged him. I’m not going to say anything more; I think I’ve said enough. But don’t forget that I have my eyes on you.”

Not a word of this conversation had reached Stone’s ears, yet, sitting on the blanket and looking toward Winton and Hayden, Ben somehow obtained a slight inkling of the truth. This suspicion was strengthened as Winton finished speaking and turned away; for, in spite of himself, Bern could not help glancing toward Stone, and his eyes wavered beneath the boy’s steady, questioning gaze.

Piper, having stretched himself on the ground near Ben, had likewise fallen to watching Hayden and his accuser.

“My deduction is – ” began Sleuth.

Two short, sharp blasts from the referee’s whistle told that the intermission was over and the time for the second half to begin had arrived.

CHAPTER XX.

ONE WHO WAS TRUE

In less than two minutes after the resumption of play the spectators perceived that a great change had taken place in the home team, for the Clearporters had returned to the field firmly resolved to redeem themselves, and they went into the struggle with a snap and dash that temporarily swept the visitors off their feet. Tricked by a crisscross in the second scrimmage, Oakdale permitted Oakes to get round the right end, Spotty Davis being effectively and easily blocked by Stoker, while Crane let Butters through, and the left tackle of the locals flung himself before Hayden, preventing a tackle.

The few shrill cries which had risen from the northern side of the field became a chorus of shouts, and those shouts swelled into a roar as Oakes got past Eliot and raced onward, with a few pursuers straggling out behind in a fruitless effort to overtake him.

Winton, who had lighted a cigar, chewed savagely at the weed and smote his knee with his clenched fist.

“Just what I was afraid of!” he muttered.

Over the goal-line went Oakes for a touchdown, cheered wildly by the delighted crowd beneath the blue banners. The ball was punted out and caught, and Oakes held it for Ramsdal to lift it with a sure and handsome kick over the crossbar.

“We can’t afford to let them repeat that performance,” said Eliot regretfully.

But the locals, retaining the ball after the kick-off, carried it fifteen yards in a swift dash before they were stopped. Having their courage restored and being spurred on by Merwin, they lined up and lunged into the scrimmage before the visitors were wholly prepared, and a gain of nine yards through center might have developed into another sensational run had not Eliot himself nailed the man with the pigskin.

Cheer after cheer was flung across from the northern side of the field. The visitors on the southern side answered bravely, yet not wholly without a note of distress and alarm.

“Got yez going, me bhoy,” grinned Barney Carney into the face of Ben Stone. “Oi belave it’s our turrun now.”

He was not the only one who believed this; the whole team believed it. And when a body of contestants in any game get the idea that they are bound to succeed, it is doubly difficult to stop them. The Clearporters had talked it over; they had decided that the left wing of the visitors was stronger than the right. Stoker had told them that Spotty Davis was “soft as mush.” Nevertheless, they were crafty enough not to betray immediately their plan to batter at that right end, and by shifting their movements rapidly, they kept their opponents guessing. Round Davis and through the line between him and Crane they occasionally shot a runner for good gains, which carried them on again and again just when it seemed that they had been checked.

Eliot entreated Davis; he begged, and then he scolded. Spotty, feeling the weight of the battering hurled upon him, swiftly lost heart; and when in a sort of blind despair he finally tackled a runner head on, he was the one who remained stretched on the hard ground after the ball was down.

“Come, Davis – come,” called Eliot, “get up and get into the game. For goodness’ sake, take a brace!”

Spotty groaned dolefully. “I can’t,” he whimpered, with a choke in his voice. “I can’t; I’m done up.”

Roger turned toward Winton, who lifted his hand in a signal, to which the Oakdale captain replied with a nod. Walker, Stone’s seatmate at school, was promptly sent out by the coach; and the little fellow came running without hesitation, trembling with excitement, delighted because he was to have a chance in the game.

His head hanging, Davis staggered off the field and fell prostrate upon the ground, hiding his face on his curved arm. “I was getting the whole of it,” he mumbled chokingly. “They were bound to do me.” But no one paid any heed to his muttering or to the tears he shed.

Stoker laughed at Walker, but the little chap soon demonstrated that he was on the field to do his handsomest as long as he lasted; and, despite the greater weight of the opposing end, he was able to keep the fellow busy. For a time this change seemed to put a little new life into the Oakdalers; but even though they got the ball, they could not hold it long, and, checked near the center of the field, they found themselves compelled to surrender the pigskin by kicking.

Clearport came back again with the dash and go which had so surprisingly altered the run of the game. Merwin made a successful quarterback run; Boothby gained a little ground through center; and then Stone, breaking through Carney, slammed a runner down for a loss. Right on top of this the locals were penalized for holding, but the rising courage of the visitors was dampened when the home team pulled off a handsome forward pass that yielded double the distance needed.

Even though Oakdale fought every inch of the ground, being at last fully aroused to the danger, Clearport repeatedly worked the crisscross with good effect and brought into play still another well-executed forward pass that landed them up against the goal-line, where, after being held for two downs, they finally pushed the ball over by barely six inches.

Apparently the tide had turned most decisively, and it was not strange that some of the easily discouraged Oakdalers felt that they were surely beaten. If the captain thought so, however, he succeeded marvelously well in hiding his feelings, trying his best all the time to brace his teammates up, encouraging the equally staunch, chiding a few who showed symptoms of wavering, and entreating one or two who apparently had lost heart.

There was a hush as Ramsdal prepared to try for goal. The defenders, lined up behind the posts, crouched, ready to charge; and as Clearport’s full back booted the ball Hayden leaped forward and upward, his open hands stretched high above his head. His fingers barely grazed the leather, but did not check the flight of the ball; if anything, they lifted it a trifle and aided in shooting it over the bar.

The home crowd was still making a terrific uproar as the two teams once more spread out upon the field, and there was every reason why that portion of the spectators should rejoice; for Clearport had won the lead by a single point, and the course of the game in the second half seemed to promise beyond doubt that this lead could be held.

The moment the ball came again into the possession of the locals they retained it and resumed their rushing tactics. Pounding their way into Oakdale’s territory, they marched on by short but sufficient gains toward yet another touchdown, the line of the visitors being pierced at almost every point save that defended by Ben Stone, which had been found practically invulnerable. Again and again it was the players in the backfield, Eliot, Hayden or Barker, who checked the assaults and prevented still larger gains. Winton’s fears that Oakdale would prove weak in defense had surely been well grounded. To add to the dismay of the visitors, they were penalized for fowling on their own thirty yard line, and the distance thus lost made the situation seem absolutely hopeless. Almost every spectator believed Clearport destined to add further points to her score.

In the darkest moment, however, with the locals beating Oakdale back against the goal-line, Fred Merwin fumbled. The ball, snapped to him by Corbin, twisted out of his fingers and bounded off to one side. Even as he flung himself at it he saw a figure that had cut through Barney Carney flash before him. The ball was scooped from the ground in a marvelous manner, and Merwin, having miscalculated, clutched at the heels of the fellow who had secured the pigskin – clutched but could not hold fast, even though his fingers touched the stocky ankles of Ben Stone.

How it was that Ben got that ball up from the ground and kept his feet no witness could tell. For two or three strides it seemed that he must plunge headlong with it, and then he regained his equilibrium and brought a gasping chorus of cries from the southern side of the field as he ran on toward Clearport’s goal. Nevertheless, he had given his left ankle a wrench, and every step hurt like the jab of a knife. With his teeth set, he hugged the ball beneath one arm, the other thrown out stiffly to fend off a dark figure he saw coming at him; and he left the would-be tackler jarred, dazed and knocked to his knees.

Once more every spectator was standing, and from opposite sides of the field came cries of dismay and wildly palpitant shouts of joyous encouragement.

It was Boothby, the swift left half back of the locals, who slowly but surely cut down the man with the ball. Had Ben found it possible to run barely a trifle faster, he could have carried the pigskin over the line. As it was, he made a thrillingly sensational run, and Boothby, shooting at him from behind, brought him down less than fifteen yards from Clearport’s goal. Slammed to the ground, Stone held fast to the huge yellow egg, and the next he knew Eliot was patting him on the back and telling him how good he was.

With the two teams preparing for the scrimmage, the Oakdale captain moved up and down behind the line, touching first one and then another of his comrades as he urged them to get into the play like fiends.

“We’ve got to do it right now,” said Roger, “and we can.”

Panting, Stone heard Sage calling the signal, and at the sound of the key number every nerve in his body went taut as a bow-string; for it was the play by which the most effective gains had been made in the first half – Hayden was to go through Clearport’s right wing with the ball. Ben knew he was expected to make the opening for the runner. If the work was well done, there was a chance that Bern might cover the remaining distance and secure a touchdown.

The remembrance of what had happened at the very finish of the first half struck Stone like a blow between the eyes. He doubted not that it was Hayden who had slugged him, yet now he was expected to assist that fellow in a play which might give him the glory of winning the game.

Winning the game – that was it! that was everything! Nothing else counted. The fellow who would let a personal grudge interfere was not worthy to wear an Oakdale uniform.

Tuttle snapped the ball, and Stone went at Carney like a thousand of brick. Already the Irishman had been led to respect his opponent, and, even though his backbone had weakened not a whit, he could not withstand the charge which swept him from his pins and spun him aside.