The Great Oakdale Mystery

CHAPTER XIII.

THE TARDY QUARTERBACK

The members of the Oakdale football team were gathering at the gymnasium to dress and prepare for the game. Singly and in groups they came hurrying in to open their lockers and drag forth suits, cleated shoes, shin guards, head pieces, nose protectors and other paraphernalia. Some were in high spirits, while others, as if impressed by the importance of the approaching contest, appeared somewhat serious and grim. Chipper Cooper, always volatile and lively, persisted in perpetrating some very bad puns, being finally given a call-down by Sile Crane, who was wearing an almost funereal face.

“Oh, cut it aout,” remonstrated Sile. “Yeou’ll make us all sick with yeour senseless slop. If yeou’ve got an idee it’s goin’ to be any picnic trouncin’ them Barville fellers this arternoon, yeou’re away off yeour base.”

Chipper’s retort was particularly atrocious. “I would not debase myself by such a thought,” he said.

Harry Hopper let fly a shoe, which Cooper deftly dodged. “You’ll be murdered some day if you don’t quit it,” declared Harry.

“It wouldn’t be murder,” said Chub Tuttle, carelessly spilling peanuts from his pocket as he flung his coat aside; “it would be a noble deed for the general public good. No jury would ever convict a feller for killing Coop in a frenzied moment, following one of his alleged witticisms.”

“The assassin sure would escape on the plea of temporary insanity,” laughed Rodney Grant.

“I tell yeou, fellers, we’ve got to play some if we trim Barville,” said Crane. “I’ve got it straight from Len Roberts that they’re goin’ to chaw us up.”

“In the name of a good old English poet, let them Chaucer,” snickered Cooper, flinging himself into a defensive attitude. “Come on, you base scoundrels; I defy you.”

“Roberts is a big wind-bag,” was the opinion of Jack Nelson. “He’s always blowing about what Barville is going to do.”

“But they’ve got a coach,” said Crane. “Last year we had one, but this season, without Roger Eliot to raise the spondulicks, we couldn’t git one. They’ve got some new players, too, that are said to be rippers. I tell yeou, boys, I’m worried.”

“It’s just as bad to worry as it is to be overconfident,” said Ben Stone, the captain of the eleven, appearing among them. “It’s my opinion they’ve been trying to get our goat by setting afloat a lot of hot air about the strength of their team and their wonderful new players. If we go onto the field feeling a bit shy of them, which is doubtless what they want, they will try to get the jump on us at the start. But we’re not going to let them work that trick. Has anyone seen Sage? I wonder where he is.”

Fred Sage, who was usually one of the first to be on hand, had not arrived, and when, a short time later, he still remained absent, the captain’s wonderment took on a touch of anxiety.

“Here, Hooker,” he called to Roy, who, as a substitute, was getting into his armor, “do you know anything about Sage? He isn’t around.”

“I’ve been wondering where he was,” confessed Hooker. “I haven’t seen him since I left him in front of his house this forenoon.”

“Perhaps,” suggested Jack Nelson maliciously, “he’s suffering from an attack of indigestion. Wild duck is pretty heavy food, you know.”

“Look out,” retorted Roy, “that you don’t have to eat crow yet.”

Another five minutes passing, and the quarterback failing to arrive, Stone decided to send out for him.

“Here, Tommy,” he called to Tommy Shea, the mascot of the team, “you go find Sage and tell him to get a move on. We must have our regular warming up before the game, and I’ll guarantee Barville is on the field now. I can’t see what’s happened to keep him away. Stir yourself, Tommy.”

As the little fellow dusted out of the gymnasium there came through the momentarily opened door the sound of a hearty Barville cheer, which, doubtless, proclaimed the advent of the visitors on the adjacent field.

“They must have plenty of confidence in their team,” said Bob Collins, “for they’ve certainly sent over a big bunch of rooters. People have been coming from Barville in all sorts of turnouts for the past two hours.”

“All the more gate money for us,” exulted the optimistic Cooper. “In fancy I can hear the merry jingle of their quarters. They can give us as many as they please, but we’ll give them no quarter to-day. Nevertheless, without Sage we’d be a quarter short, and we’d feel it before the end of the first half. Mercy! I surrender! Spare me!”

No one paid the slightest attention to him, however, which led him disgustedly to mutter something about casting pearls before swine.

In a short time Tommy Shea returned, followed closely by Sage, whose face was flushed and who betrayed some tokens of unusual excitement. At least, this was what the watchful Piper thought, and he became, if possible, more watchful than ever.

“Met him on the way, captain,” the mascot reported to Stone.

“You’re late, Fred,” said Ben sharply. “We’re ready to go out now, all but you. Anything the matter?”

“No – no, nothing the matter,” was the somewhat faltering answer, as Sage began ripping off his clothes, having given Tommy Shea the key to open his locker. “I had – some things to do at home, and I didn’t – I didn’t realize it was so late.”

“Lame excuse,” whispered Piper to himself. “Something has happened, sure. He’s in a perfect stew.”

While Fred was hurriedly preparing for the field, Stone called the others around him and talked to them earnestly, laying out a plan of campaign for the first quarter. At first he addressed them all in a general way, after which he singled out individual members of the eleven and gave each one advice and instructions. Ere he had gone through the list Sage was completely dressed for the game and apparently drinking in the captain’s words, although to Piper it seemed that he listened with a distinct effort which betrayed a tendency of his mind to wander.

“Just a word to you, Sage,” said Stone in conclusion. “Keep things moving on the jump. Don’t waste any time over your signals when we’re on the offensive. I have an idea that Barville will try to rush us off our feet at the start, and we mustn’t let them do that. We’ll hammer them hard as we can with straight football to begin with, and hold back our trick plays for use in emergencies. Of course if we quickly get within striking distance of their goal, and they hold us for a down that doesn’t give us a proper gain, you may see fit to try a trick or to work the forward pass. Now come on, everybody; let’s go out with a snap and show that we’re alive.”

From the gymnasium to the players’ entrance of the field was only a short distance, and Ben led his sturdy followers at a swift pace. The visitors were practicing at one end of the field, watched and encouraged by the surprisingly large gathering of Barville supporters who had followed them to Oakdale. As the shocky-haired locals dashed out into the open space they were given a lusty cheer by the majority of the assembled spectators. At once two footballs were put into use by them, and they went at the work of warming up with commendable method and ginger.

It was a hazy autumn afternoon, the sky being overcast with a filmy veil, through which the sun shone with a muffled orange glow. A tempered southwest wind was blowing steadily, but not with sufficient vigor to give much advantage to the defenders of the western goal. For the spectators on the seats, light outer wraps were needed, even though the air was not crisp enough to make first-class football weather.

With their coach watching them closely, the Barville lads were making an impression by their snappy practice, in which short dashes, every man starting fast and running low, seemed to be a particular feature.

Stone took this in at a glance, even while he did not appear to give the rival team as much as momentary attention. It was a reminder, however, that for the past week he had striven constantly to drill into the heads of his teammates the necessity for rapidity in both assault and defence, and the advantage of hitting the opposing line low and hard.

Among the followers of professional sports there can be no such genuine loyalty and enthusiasm as that shown by the adherents of school and college teams; for, as a class, the supporters of such teams are, like the players, heart and soul in the game. In most cases the contestants they are backing and on whom they pin their hopes are known to them personally, which fact establishes between them such friendly personal relations as seldom exist between masses of spectators and professionals; and always a well-earned victory is a thing to be rejoiced over by the satisfied supporter of the triumphant team, like a piece of personal good fortune.

The referee for this game came from Clearport, and was equally acceptable and satisfactory to both teams, having demonstrated in other contests his absolute impartiality and fairness. At the proper moment he walked briskly out upon the field and held a low-spoken consultation with the two captains. A coin was tossed, and, Oakdale obtaining the choice, Ben took the western goal.

The cheering of the spectators sank to a murmur, and was followed by a few tense moments of silence as the youthful gladiators spread out over the outlined chalk marks and made ready for the kick-off. Barville had been given the ball, and the referee placed it carefully upon a little soft mound of earth formed by his own hands at the exact center of the field. A short distance away Copley, the fullback, who was to make the kick, balanced and steadied himself, his eyes fastened on the huge yellow egg. The referee retreated; the whistle sounded. With tensed muscles, the players crouched a bit, ready for the dash.

Copley advanced, quickening his steps. With perfect judgment, he came into position with the proper stride, swung his lusty right leg with vigor, and, following the plunk of his foot against the ball, the pigskin went sailing and soaring far into Oakdale’s territory.

CHAPTER XIV.

THE FIRST QUARTER

Warren and Forest, the Barville ends, raced along in a desperate dash, closing in as the ball began to fall. Rodney Grant was waiting for the oncoming pigskin, balanced ready for action, his arms outstretched. He made a clean, fair catch, and was off like a broncho of his native state, quirt-stung and spur-jabbed. On one side Warren was blocked off, but on the other Forest came in like a charging fury and flung himself at the Texan. Down they went on the thirty-yard line, with the other players converging toward that spot.

Remembering Stone’s admonition to hustle and line up without loss of a moment, the Oakdale boys strained every nerve to get quickly into position for the first scrimmage. This was their opportunity to show Barville right off the reel what real snappy aggression meant.

“Lively! lively!” urged Stone; and, ere the line of the locals seemed fully formed, Sage began barking the signal. He spat out the numbers sharply, every one clear and distinct, and Oakdale went into Barville like a whirlwind before the visitors were fully set for defence. The result was a gain of eighteen yards, made in a style which seemed to carry the Barville boys completely off their feet, with the exception of the sturdy fullback, Copley, who yanked down the runner and prevented what had promised to be a clean break through the defence, and what might have given the man with the pigskin a running chance to score.

The home crowd went wild over this apparently demoralizing attack of the Oakdale boys, and there were many who, forming a hasty judgment, declared their conviction that the locals outclassed the visitors.

Sanger, who knew Stone as a rather slow and methodical chap, had not imagined for a moment that the Oakdale captain would spur his team to a point of such rapid aggression. The Barville leader, however, was not slow to grasp the fact that he had made an error in judgment, and his voice was heard calling sharply to his somewhat disorganized men as he ordered them to get into position to stop the next charge. Copley came up somewhat dazed by the shock of the collision with the runner; but the latter was even more dazed, and was so long about finding his place in the formation that Barville was given sufficient time to make ready for defence.

Three stingy yards were all Oakdale could make on another line plunge; and when, following this, a round-the-end run promised more satisfactory results, the argus-eyed referee dismayed the shrieking adherents of the team by penalizing the locals for holding.

Barville took heart at once and fought Oakdale tooth and nail, until the latter team was compelled to kick rather than take the chance of losing the ball on downs. Stone, who had a lusty leg, booted the pigskin into the enemy’s territory, where Larry Groove, the left halfback, scooped it on the jump, dodged Hopper, and came all the way back to the center line before he was slammed to the turf. Of course this gave the Barville crowd its chance to cheer madly, and their cries mingled with the Oakdale plaudits for the tackler.

“Ginger up! ginger up!” Lee Sanger was calling, as he crouched behind Bart Rock, the center. “Signal! signal!” Then he reeled off a few sharp numbers, and the youthful contestants leaped at one another like tigers.

Again and again they crashed together, but Oakdale stubbornly held its ground until an unexpected fluke – a bad pass and a muff – gave Sage a splendid opportunity. The ball came bounding to his very feet, with Rollins and Tuttle blocking off two of the enemy, the only ones who seemed to realize just what had happened, and Fred had time to scoop the ball up and a fine chance to get away with it for a run.

Instead of doing so, Sage stared for a moment at the pigskin, as if he did not realize what it was. And when he awoke from this brief spell of numbness and started into life and action, it was Nelson who flung himself on the oval, to be pinned down by Hope, who had finally bucked Tuttle aside.

In this manner, through the faltering of Sage, Barville, although she lost the ball, stopped what might have been a gain of ground by the locals.

Piper, who seemed to see everything, saw this, although he was too far away at the time of the fumble to get his hands on the pigskin. Sleuth glared at Sage.

“Something wrong,” he panted to himself. “First time he ever did a thing like that.”

“Wake up! wake up!” Stone was calling sharply. “Positions! Get ready! Come on, Sage, give us the signal.”

“Signal!” said Sage, and then he paused, as if collecting his thoughts. “Signal!” he repeated. “5-11-16-24.”

It was the former line-bucking play, which, through experience thus quickly obtained, Barville was ready to meet. Instead of a gain, the result was a loss of two yards, the visitors actually bearing the line of the home team back.

As the tangled mass of men untwined, following the blast of the whistle, Sage heard Stone calling in his ear:

“Vary it, Fred. Something else; something else, quick!”

The quarterback gave himself a shake. The men were hopping into the line-up, and the Barvilleites, now equally alert and ready, were planting themselves for defence. Straight old-fashioned line-bucking, with no varying plays, had already become ineffective, and Sage gave the signal for the double pass and the criss-cross. The ball went to Nelson, who shot toward the right, Grant closing in as if to support him, but passing across his very heels and taking the pigskin as he passed. Cooper blocked the right end off. Piper put his body into the right tackle and bore him in the opposite direction. A hole was opened at precisely the proper moment, and through it went the Texan at full speed.

The main body of the enemy’s back field had been led into starting in the wrong direction. The right halfback, who was one of these, saw through the play a moment too late to reach Grant. The fullback, however, came charging across, forcing Rodney out toward the side line. It seemed that the Texan would be run out of bounds, but ten feet from the border of the field he deceived the charging fullback by a sudden half-pivoting swerve, and the would-be tackler’s fingers barely scraped his canvas jacket as he shot by.

The crowd rose and roared, for Grant was flying over the chalk marks with giant strides, followed by the players of both teams. Head thrown back, nostrils expanded, Rodney covered the ground as if his very life depended on it.

“Touchdown!” howled the excited Oakdale spectators. “Touchdown! touchdown!”

There was no preventing it. Over the Barville goal line went Grant, planting the ball favorably for a goal. He did not seem to hear the school cheer, which, with his name tagged at the end, came rolling across the field. His manner was grim and businesslike; his attention was entirely centered upon the matter in hand.

There was no need to punt the ball out. Brought forth properly by the referee, it gave Oakdale a most favorable chance to boot it over the bar, and Stone performed the trick.

As the teams changed positions on the field, the Oakdale captain found time to rest his hand for a moment on the shoulder of Sage and speak a few low, hasty words to him. In response Fred nodded.

Soon they were at it again, but Barville, apparently nothing disheartened, resumed the struggle more fiercely and grimly than ever. The tide of battle ebbed and flowed, neither side gaining any great advantage, until presently a long, shrill blast of the whistle announced the end of the first scrimmage.

As the boys jogged off the field, Chipper Cooper gave Piper a slap on the back, crying:

“Well, we put one across on ’em all right.”

“Yes,” nodded Sleuth; “but Sage lost an opportunity for us before that. He isn’t right to-day. There’s something the matter with him, or I’m a dunce.”

CHAPTER XV.

THE PLAYER WHO BLUNDERED

The elation of the Oakdale players over making a touchdown and goal in the first quarter was quickly subdued by their captain, who, in the privacy of the gym, sternly informed them that they should have done much better.

“It was a lucky stab, nothing less,” said Ben. “Only for the resourcefulness and speed of Grant, they would have held us scoreless. We threw away fine opportunities, one splendid chance in particular; and, although we got the start on them to begin with, we made nothing by it. Unless we do better, we’ll be outplayed in the next quarter, mark what I say.”

After this bit of general talk, he selected several of the players for special advice and criticism. Lastly he spoke to the quarterback, whose eyes, although fixed on Stone, held a far-away look, which seemed to indicate lack of attention.

“Sage,” said Ben sharply, “Sage, listen to me.”

“Yes, sir,” said Fred, with a start.

“Several times you were woefully slow with your signals, and you know that the swift aggression of a team depends mainly upon the quarterback. No matter how prompt and ready the players may be, they can’t play fast when a quarter dawdles over his signals. It’s not like you to be slow, and I fail to understand it. You missed a fine chance to take advantage of a Barville fumble, and, only for Nelson, those chaps would have obtained possession of the ball after losing it on a bungling pass and letting it bound to your very feet. Are you sick?”

Fred’s face was crimson. “No, sir, I’m not sick,” he answered. “I’m all right.”

“Then it’s up to you to get into the game and play as if you were all right.”

“I will, depend on it,” promised the quarterback.

Before the boys returned to the field Roy Hooker found an opportunity to speak privately with his friend.

“Get a brace on, Fred – get a brace on,” urged Roy. “If you don’t, they’ll blame it on our little outing last night. I never saw you so punk before. Your wits seem to be wool-gathering.”

“I guess that’s right,” acknowledged Fred regretfully. “I’ll get into gear now. Watch me.”

“Has anything happened to worry you?”

“Nun-no,” faltered Sage, “not a thing.” But, somehow, Roy felt that his chum had not spoken the truth.

The second quarter opened quite as fiercely as the first, but with Barville plainly prepared for quick, savage work and ready to contribute her part of it. Indeed, the visitors seemed the more aggressive, even though Oakdale improved all the opportunities that were offered; and, presently, after some eight minutes of play, the home team found itself making a desperate defence on its own thirty-yard line. Right there, after a first down had yielded no gain, Barville tried the forward pass and executed it successfully, cutting down the distance to the home team’s goal by fully one half.

“Hold them, boys – you’ve got to hold them!” was the cry from the Oakdale crowd.

“Got ’em going!” came from the visiting spectators. “Keep it up, boys! Put the ball over for a touchdown! You can do it!”

Barville had found a weak spot in Oakdale’s line, and, mercilessly buffeted and battered, Bob Collins, the left guard, showed signs of grogginess. With only fifteen yards to gain, the visitors followed the forward pass with another assault on Collins, which, although they made only a slight gain, left him groaning on the ground. Promptly attended by a doctor, Collins pluckily tried to stand on his pins and resume his place in the line; but the moment he was released by supporting hands he staggered, being prevented from falling only by the quickness of Nelson in catching him.

Stone saw that Collins could not continue and ordered him to the side line, at the same time calling for Hooker. Surprised that he should be selected from the waiting substitutes, Roy promptly responded.

“Get in there at left guard, Hooker,” directed Stone, “and see if you can stop that hole.”

Fresh and exultant, Roy took his place in the line, and, when Barville tried the quality of the substitute, the hole was found to be stopped effectively. Not another foot could the visitors gain through Oakdale’s left wing.

Blocked and held, Barville apparently decided to try for a field goal, even though success at that would leave the home team still in the lead. It was Stone, however, who suspected a fake and hurriedly warned his players; and Ben’s perception baffled the smashing charge of the visitors, who were held for the final down, thus losing the ball.

Of course no time was lost in booting the pigskin away from that dangerous point.

Nothing daunted over this failure, Barville resumed the battering process, occasionally varying it with an end run or some peculiar piece of strategy of her own concoction. But the locals, stronger on the defence than the offence, refused for the time being to let the enemy regain the lost advantage.

In the last minutes of the quarter, with Oakdale in possession of the ball, Sage once more betrayed surprising slowness and even symptoms of confusion in giving the signals. This was true to such an extent that finally, in desperation, Stone went in at quarter himself, letting Fred play fullback. And even then Sage was slow about getting into the plays.

The quarter ended with the score unchanged.

In the second period of rest the Oakdale captain drew the quarterback apart from the others and talked to him with great earnestness. Of those who watched the two, Piper took special note of the fact that Sage seemed discouraged and downcast, and it was evident that Stone was seeking by every possible manner of encouragement to brace him up. With Fred at his best, no one else on the team could fill his position nearly as well, and for this reason Ben was extremely loath to make a change.

Collins, having recovered from the gruelling he had received, was anxious to get back into the game, and he made an appeal to Stone the moment Ben finished his talk with Sage. Hooker, however, had done surprisingly well, and the captain told Collins that he would have wait until, during the course of the play, an opportunity offered for him to return.

The Oakdale boys were now showing few signs of elation, for the second quarter had led them to realize that the two teams were more evenly matched than they had supposed, and that, doubtless, they had been rather lucky in securing six points in the first quarter, to say nothing of their success in holding Barville in check after that.

In the last minute before they returned to the field, Stone called all the players around him and hastily gave them a plan of action. As soon as the ball came into their possession, unless they should chance to get it so close to their own line that a kick would be necessary, they were to line up and attempt a series of three varied plays, without waiting for signals. He was careful to make them all understand precisely what those plays were to be, and in what order they would be carried out. Having made certain that no man misunderstood these directions, he led them back to the gridiron.