Behind the Line: A Story of College Life and Football

As for Neil, he was untroubled by nervousness. He believed Erskine was going to win. For the rest, the eve of battle held no exciting thoughts for him. He could neither win the game nor lose it; he was merely a spectator, like thousands of others; only he would see the contest from the players' bench instead of the big new stand that half encircled the field.

But despite the feeling of aloofness that possessed and oppressed him, sleep did not come readily. For a long time he heard Paul stirring about restlessly across the little bedroom and the occasional cheers of some party of patriotic students returning to their rooms across the common. His brain refused to stop its labors; and, in fact, kept busily at them long after he had fallen asleep. He dreamed continually, a ceaseless stream of weird, unpleasant visions causing him to turn and toss all through the night and leaving him when dawn came weary and unrefreshed.

Out of doors the early sun was brushing away the white frost. The sky was almost devoid of clouds, and the naked branches of the elms reached upward unswayed by any breeze. It was an ideal day, that 23d of November, bright, clear, and keen. Nature could not have been kinder to the warriors who, in a few short hours, were to meet upon the yellowing turf, nor to the thousands who were to assemble and cheer them on to victory–or defeat.

CHAPTER XX

COWAN BECOMES INDIGNANT

Breakfast at the training-table that morning was a strange meal, to which the fellows loitered in at whatever hour best pleased them. Many showed signs of restless slumber, and the trainer was as watchful as an old hen with a brood of chickens. For some there were Saturday morning recitations; those who were free were sent out to the field at ten o'clock and were put through a twenty-minute signal practise. Among these were Neil and Paul. A trot four times around the gridiron ended the morning's work, and they were dismissed with orders to report at twelve o'clock for lunch.

Neil, Paul, and Foster walked back together, and it was the last that suggested going down to the depot to see the arrival of the Robinson players. So they turned down Poplar Street to Main and made their way along in front of the row of stores there. The village already showed symptoms of excitement. The windows were dressed in royal purple, with here and there a touch of the brown of Robinson, and the sidewalk already held many visitors, while others were invading the college grounds across the street. Farther on the trio passed the bicycle repair-shop. In front of the door, astride an empty box, sat the proprietor, sunning himself and keeping a careful watch on the village happenings. With a laugh Neil left his companions and ran across the street.

"Good-morning," he said. The little man on the box looked up inquiringly but failed to recognize his tormentor.

"Mornin'," he grunted suspiciously.

"I wanted to tell you," said Neil gravely, "that your diagnosis was correct, after all."

"Hey?" asked the little man querulously.

"Yes, it was a cold-chisel that did it," said Neil. "You remember you said it was."

"Cold-chisel? Say, what you talkin'–" Then a light of recognition sprang into his weazened features. "You're the feller that owes me a quarter!" he cried shrilly, scrambling to his feet.

Neil was off on the instant. As the three went on toward the station the little man's denunciations followed them:

"You come back here an' pay me that quarter! If I knew yer name I'd have ther law on yer! But I know yer face, an' I'll–"

"His name's Legion," called Ted Foster over his shoulder.

"Hey? What?" shrieked the repair man.

"Legion!"

"I don't know what you say, but I'll report that feller ter th' authorities!"

Then a long whistle broke in upon the discussion, and the three rushed for the station platform.

From the vantage-point of a baggage-truck they watched the Robinson players and the accompanying contingent descend from the train. There were twenty-eight of the former, heavily built, strapping-looking fellows, and with them a small army of coaches, trainers, and supporters. Neil dug his elbow against Paul.

"Look," he said, "there's your friend Brill."

And sure enough, there was the Robinson coach who had visited the two at Hillton a year before and tried to get them to go to the rival college.

"If you'd like to make arrangements for next year, Paul," Neil whispered mischievously, "now's your time."

But Paul grinned and shook his head.

The players and most of the coaches tumbled into carriages and were taken out to Erskine Field for a short practise, and the balance of the arrivals started on foot toward the hotel. The three friends retraced their steps. Luckily, the proprietor of the bicycle repair-shop was so busy looking over the strangers that they passed unseen in the little stream. There remained the better part of an hour before lunch-time, and they found themselves at a loss for a way to spend the time. Foster finally went off to his room, as he explained airily, "to dash off a letter on his typewriter," a statement that was greeted with howls of derision from the others, who, for want of a better place, went into Butler's bookstore and aimlessly looked over the magazines and papers.

It was while thus engaged that Paul heard his name spoken, and turned to find Mr. Brill smilingly holding out his hand.

"I thought I wasn't mistaken," the Robinson coach said as they shook hands. "And isn't that your friend Fletcher over there?"

Neil heard and came over, and the three stood and talked for a few minutes. Mr. Brill seemed well pleased with the football outlook.

"I'll wager you gentlemen will regret not coming to us after to-day's game is over," he laughed. "I hear you've got something up your sleeve."

"We have," said Neil.

"So I heard. What's the nature of it?"

"It's muscle," answered Neil gravely.

The coach laughed. "Of course, if it's a secret, I don't want to hear it. But I think you're safe to get beaten, secret or no secret, eh?"

"Nonsense!" said Paul. "You won't know what struck you when we get through with you."

Mr. Brill laughed good-naturedly but didn't look alarmed.

"By the way," he said, "I saw one of your players a while ago–Cowan–the fellow we protested. He seemed rather sore."

"Where was he?" asked Paul eagerly.

"In a drug-store down there toward the next corner. Have your coaches found a good man for his place?"

"Oh, yes, it wasn't hard to fill," answered Neil. "Witter's got it."

"Witter? I don't think I've heard of him."

"No, he's not famous–yet; you'll know him better later on."

Paul was plainly anxious to go in search of Cowan, and so they bade the Robinson coach good-by. Out on the sidewalk Neil turned a troubled face toward his friend.

"Say, Paul, Cowan knows all about the 'antidote,' doesn't he?"

"Why, yes, I suppose so; he's seen it played."

"And he knows the signals, too, eh?"

"Of course. Why?"

"Well, I've been wondering whether–You heard what Brill said–that Cowan was feeling sore? Well, do you suppose he'd be mean enough to–to–"

"By thunder!" muttered Paul. Then: "No, I don't believe that Cowan would do a thing like that. I don't think he's a–a traitor!"

"Well, you know him better than I do," said Neil, "and I dare say you're right. Only–only I wish we could be certain."

"I'll find him," answered Paul determinedly. "You wait here for me; or, no, I may have to hunt; I'll see you at lunch. I'll find out all right."

He was off on the instant. As he had told Neil, he didn't believe that Cowan would reveal secrets to Brill or any other of the Robinson people; but–well, he realized that Cowan was feeling very much aggrieved, and that he might in his present state of mind do what in a saner moment he would not consider. At the drug-store he was told that Cowan had left a few minutes before. The only place that Paul could think of where Cowan was likely to be was his room, so thither he went. He found the deposed guard engaged in replacing certain of his pictures and ornaments which had been taken down.

"Hello!" he said. "Thought you'd cut my acquaintance too."

"Nonsense," answered Paul, "I've been trying to find you ever since last night. Where've you been?"

"Oh, just knocking around. I got back late last night."

"I was afraid you had left college. You know you said you might."

"I know. Well, I've changed my mind. I guess I'll stay on until recess anyway; maybe until summer. What's the use going anywhere else? If I went to Robinson I couldn't play; Erskine would protest me. I wish to goodness I'd had sense enough to let that academy team go hang! Only I needed some money, and it seemed a good way to make it. After all, there wasn't anything dishonest about it!"

"N–no," said Paul.

"Well, was there?" Cowan demanded, turning upon him fiercely. Paul shook his head.

"No, there wasn't. Only, of course, you'd ought to have remembered that it disqualified you here." Cowan looked surprised.

"My, but you're getting squeamish!" he said. "The first thing you know you'll be as bad as Fletcher." There was a moment's silence. "What does he say about it?" Cowan asked carelessly.

"Who, Neil? Oh, he–he sympathizes with you," answered Paul vaguely. "Says it's awfully hard lines, but doesn't think the committee could do anything else."

"Humph!"

"By the way," said Paul, recollecting his errand, "I met Brill of Robinson a while ago. He said he'd seen you."

"Yes," grunted Cowan. "I'd like to punch him. Made believe he was all cut up over my being put off. Why–why it was he that knew about that academy business! Last September he tried to get me to go to Robinson; offered me anything I wanted, and I refused. After all a–a fellow's got some loyalty! He asked all sorts of questions as to whether I was eligible or not, and I–I don't know what made me, but I told him about taking that money for playing tackle on that old academy team. He said that wouldn't matter any. But after I decided not to go to Robinson he changed his tune; said he wasn't sure but that I was ineligible!"

"He's a cad," said Paul."

"And then to-day he tried to get sympathetic, but I shut him up mighty quick. I told him I knew well enough he was the one who had started the protest, and offered to punch his nose if he'd come over back of the stores; but he wouldn't," added Cowan aggrievedly.

"You–you didn't let out anything to him that would–er–help them in the game, did you?" asked Paul, studying the floor with great attention.

"Let out anything?" asked Cowan in puzzled tones. "What do you–" He put down the picture he held and faced Paul, the blood dying his face. "Look here, Paul, what do you mean by that?"

"Why, why–"

"You want to know if I turned traitor? If I gave away our signals or something like that, eh?" There was honest indignation in his voice and a trace of pain, and Paul regretted his suspicions on the instant.

"Oh, come now, old man," he began, "what I meant–"

"Now let me tell you something, Gale," said Cowan. "I may not be so nice as you and Fletcher and Devoe and a lot more of your sort, but I'm not an out-and-out rascal and traitor! And I didn't think you'd put that on me, by Jove! I've no love for some of the fellows in this college, nor for Mills, and I wouldn't care if we got beaten–" He paused. "Yes, I would, too; I want Robinson to get done up so hard that they'll throw that cheat Brill out of there. But I want you to understand right here and now that I'm not cad enough to sell signals."

"I beg your pardon, Tom," said Paul earnestly. "I didn't think it of you. Only, when Brill said he'd seen you and that you were feeling sore, we–I–"

"Oh, so it was Fletcher that suspected it, was it?" demanded Cowan.

"No more than I," answered Paul stoutly. "We neither of us really thought you'd turn traitor, but I was afraid that, feeling the way you naturally would, you might thoughtlessly say something that Brill could make use of. That's all"

Cowan looked doubtful for a moment, then he sniffed.

"Well, all right," he said finally. "Forget it."

"You're going out to the game, aren't you?" Paul asked.

"Yes, I guess so. What's Fletcher think of being laid off?"

"Well, he doesn't seem to mind it as I thought he would. I–I don't know quite what to make of him. It almost seems that he's–well, glad of it!"

"Huh! You've got another guess, my friend."

"How's that? What do you mean?"

"Nothing much; only I guess I've got better eyes than you," responded Cowan with a grin. After a pause during which he rearranged the objects on the mantel-shelf to his satisfaction, he turned to Paul again:

"Say, do you think Fletcher and I could get on together if–well, if we knew each other better?"

"I'm sure you could," answered Paul eagerly.

"Well, I think I'd like to try it. He–he's not a bad sort of a chap. Only maybe he wouldn't care to–er–"

"Oh, yes, he would," answered Paul. "You'll see, Tom."

"Well, maybe so. Going? Good luck to you. I'll see you on the field."

Paul hurried around the long curve of Elm Street toward Pearson's boarding-house, where the players were already gathering for luncheon. He found Neil on the steps and dragged him off and down to the gate.

"It's all right," he said. "I found him and asked him, and I wish I hadn't. He was awfully cut up about it; seemed hurt to think I could suspect such a thing. Though, really, I didn't quite suspect, you know."

"I'm sorry we hurt his feelings," said Neil. "It was a bit mean of me to suggest it."

"He's going to stay for a while," went on Paul. "And–and–Look here, chum, don't you think that if–er–you tried you could get to like him better? From something he said to-day I found out that he thinks you're a good sort and he'd like to get on with you. Maybe if we kind of looked after him we could–oh, I don't know! But you see what I mean?"

"Yes, I see what you mean," replied Neil thoughtfully. "And maybe we'd get on better if we tried again. Anyhow, Paul, you ask him down to the room some night and–and we'll see."

"Thanks," said Paul gratefully. "And now let's get busy with the funeral baked beans–I mean meats. Gee, I've got about as much appetite as a fly! I–I wish the game was over with!"

"So do I," answered Neil, as with a sigh he listlessly followed his chum into the house.

CHAPTER XXI

THE "ANTIDOTE" IS ADMINISTERED

High up against a fair blue sky studded with fleecy clouds streamed a banner of royal purple bearing in its center a great white E–a flare of intense color visible from afar over the topmost branches of the empty elms, and a beacon toward which the stream of spectators set their steps. In the tower of College Hall the old bell struck two o'clock, and the throngs at the gates of Erskine Field moved faster, swaying and pushing past the ticket-takers and streaming out onto the field toward the big stands already piled high with laughing, chattering humanity. Under the great flag stretched a long bank of somber grays and black splashed thickly with purple, looking from a little distance as though the big banner had dripped its dye on to the multitude beneath. Opposite, the rival tiers of crowded seats were pricked out lavishly with the rich but less brilliant brown, while at the end of the enclosure, where the throngs entered, a smaller stand flaunted the two colors in almost equal proportions.

And between stretched a smooth expanse of russet-hued turf ribbed with white lines that glared in the afternoon sunlight.

The college band, augmented for the occasion from the ranks of the village musicians, played blithely; some twelve thousand persons talked, laughed, or shouted ceaselessly; and the cheering sections were loudly contending for vocal supremacy. And suddenly on to this scene trotted a little band of men in black sweaters with purple 'E's, nice new canvas trousers, and purple and black stockings; and just as suddenly the north stand arose and the Robinson cheers were blotted out by a mighty chorus that swept from end to end of the structure and thundered impressively across the field:

"Erskine! Erskine! Erskine! Rah-rah-rah, rah-rah-rah, rah-rah-rah! Erskine! Erskine! Erskine!"

It was repeated over and over, and might, perhaps, have been sounding yet had not the Robinson players, sturdy, brown-clad youths, ambled onto the field. Then it was Robinson's turn to make a noise, and she made it; there's no doubt about that.

"Rah-rah-rah! Robinson! Rah-rah-rah! Robinson! Rah-rah-rah! Robinson! Robinson! Robinson!"

The substitutes of both teams retired to the benches and the players who were to start the game warmed up. Over near the east goal three Erskine warriors were trying–alas, not very successfully!–to kick the ball over the cross-bar; they were Devoe and Paul and Mason. Nearer at hand Ted Foster was personally conducting a little squad around the field by short stages, and his voice, shrilly cheerful, thrilled doubting supporters of the Purple hopefully. Robinson's players were going through much the same antics at the other end of the gridiron, and there was a business-like air about them that caused many an Erskine watcher to scent defeat for his college.

The cheers had given place to songs, and the leader of the band faced the occupants of the north stand and swung his baton vigorously. Presumably the band was playing, but unless you had been in its immediate vicinity you would never have known it. Many of the popular airs of the day had been refitted with new words for the occasion. As poetic compositions they were not remarkable, but sung with enthusiasm by several hundred sturdy voices they answered the purpose. Robinson replied in kind, but in lesser volume, and the preliminary battle, the war of voices, went on until three persons, a youth in purple, a youth in brown, and a man in everyday attire, met in the middle of the field and watched a coin spin upward in the sunlight and fall to the ground. Then speedily the contesting forces took their position, the lines-men and timekeeper hurried forward, and the great stands were almost stilled.

Erskine had the ball and the west goal. Stowell poised the pigskin to his liking and drew back. Devoe shouted a last word of caution. The referee, a well-known football player and coach, raised his whistle.

"Are you ready, Erskine? All ready, Robinson?"

Then the whistle shrilled, the timekeeper's watch clicked, the ball sped away, and the game had begun.

The brown-clad skirmishers leaped forward to oppose the invaders, while the pigskin, slowly revolving, arched in long flight toward the west goal. It struck near the ten-yard line and the wily Robinson left half let it go; but instead of rolling over the goal-line it bumped erratically against the left post and bobbed back to near the first white line. The left half was on it then like a flash, but the Erskine forwards were almost upon him and his run was only six yards long, and it was Robinson's ball on her ten-yard line. The north stand was applauding vociferously this stroke of fortune. If Erskine could get possession of the ball now she might be able to score; but her coaches, watching intently from the side-line, knew that only the veriest fluke could give the pigskin to the Purple. And meanwhile, with hearts beating a little faster than usual, they awaited the first practical test of the "antidote."

Robinson lined up quickly. Left tackle dropped from the line, and taking a position between full-back and right half, formed the center of the tandem that faced the tackle-guard hole on the right. Left half stood well back, behind quarter, ready to oppose any Erskine players who managed to get around the left of their line. The full-back who headed the tandem was a notable line-bucker, although his weight was but 172 pounds. The left tackle, Balcom, tipped the scales at 187, while the third member of the trio was twenty pounds lighter. Together they represented 525 pounds.

Opposed to them were Gillam and Mason, whose combined weight was 312 pounds. Gillam stood between left-guard and tackle, with Mason, his hands on the other's shoulders, close behind.

The Robinson quarter stared for an instant with interest at the opposing formation, and the full-back, crouched forward ready to plunge across the little space that divided him from the opponents' territory, looked uneasy. Then the quarter stooped behind the big center.

"Signal!" he called. "12–21–212!"

The ball came back to him. At the same instant the tandem moved forward, the Erskine guard and tackle engaged the opposing guard and tackle, and Gillam and Mason shot through the hole, the former with head down and a padded shoulder presented to the enemy, and the latter steadying him and hurling him forward. Then two things happened at the same moment; the ball passed from quarter to tackle, and Gillam and the leader of the tandem came together.

The shock of that collision was plainly heard on the side-lines. For an instant the tandem stopped short. Then superior weight told, and it moved forward again, reenforced by quarter and right end; but simultaneously the Erskine quarter and left half made themselves felt back of Mason and Gillam, and then chaos reigned. The entire forces of each side were in the play, and for nearly half a minute the swaying mass moved inch by inch, first forward, then backward, the Robinson left tackle refusing to believe that their famous play was for once a failure and so clinging desperately to the ball, the center of a veritable maelstrom of panting, struggling players. Then the whistle sounded and the dust of battle cleared away. Robinson had gained half a yard.

The north stand cheered delightedly. It had only seen the Robinson tandem stopped in its tracks, and did not know that in the struggle just passed Erskine had used a new and novel defense for the first time on any football field, had vindicated her coaches' faith in it, and brought surprise and dismay to the brown-clad warriors and their adherents. If it had known as much as Mills and Jones and Sydney about the "antidote" it would have shouted itself hoarse.

Gillam trotted back to his place. His extra-padded head-harness and heavy shoulder-pads had brought him forth unscathed. On the side-line the Erskine coaches talked softly to each other, trying hard to look unconcerned, but nevertheless showing their pleasure. Sydney Burr, rather pale, was among them, and was, perhaps, the happiest of all. The bench whereon the substitutes sat was one long grin from end to end. But Robinson was far from being beaten, and the game went on.

Again the tandem was hurled at the same point, and again Gillam met the shock of it. This time the defense worked better, and Robinson lost the half-yard of gain and another half-yard on top of that.

"Six yards to gain," said the score-board. And the purple-decked stand voiced its triumph.

Robinson wisely decided to yield possession of the ball and get away from such a dangerous locality. On the next play she punted and Paul was brought to earth on Robinson's fifty yards. Now was the time for Erskine to test her offensive powers. On the first play, using the close-formation, Gillam slashed a hole between the opposing center and right-guard and Mason went through for two yards. The next play netted them another yard in the same place. Then Paul was given the pigskin for a try outside of right tackle and reeled off four yards more before he was downed. It was quick starting and fast running, and for the moment Robinson was taken off her feet; but the next try ended dismally, for in an attempt to get through the left of the line between guard and tackle Mason was caught and thrown back for a two-yard loss. Another try outside of tackle on that side of the line netted but a bare three feet, and Foster dropped back for a kick. His effort was not very successful, and the ball was Robinson's on her twenty-seven yards.

Now she tried the tackle-tandem on the other side of center, hurling right tackle, followed by left half with the ball, and full-back at the guard-tackle hole. Paul led the defense this time, and again Robinson was brought up all standing. Another try at the same point with like results, and Robinson changed her tactics. With the tandem formation, the ball went to full-back, and with left end and tackle interfering he skirted Erskine's right for seven yards and brought the wearers of the brown to their feet shouting wildly. Perhaps no one was more surprised than Bob Devoe, for it was his end that had been circled. Certainly no one was more thoroughly disgusted than he. The Robinson left end had put him out of the play as neatly as though he had been the veriest tyro. Devoe sized up that youth, set his lips together, and kept his eyes open.