CHAPTER VII

OVER THE CROSSBAR

“Swede” Hanbury’s prediction that the Wyndham cheering section would be small at Saturday’s game proved correct. The trip over the border into Massachusetts was long and costly and only about thirty fellows followed the eleven to the lair of the Highlanders. Those that went were well repaid, if a hard, fast contest that was in doubt to the end of the fourth period could make up for the combination of discomfort and bankruptcy. The team started in mid-forenoon and were in Highland in time for luncheon, but those who traveled by train missed their dinner, consumed sandwiches en route, swallowed a good deal of dust and smoke and finally arrived at their destination just too late to reach the field in time for the kick-off. Walter Treat remarked querulously to Lemuel John as they footed it along a hot highway that he couldn’t see why any one should want to build a school in an out-of-the-way place like Highland. Lemuel John, less perturbed, looked around at the surrounding hills, the green, sloping meadows and the tree-bordered trout stream that gurgled and splashed under an old stone bridge, and mildly replied that perhaps it was because the place was so pretty. Walt, digging a gnat out of his ear, sniffed in a tone suggesting that in his opinion the explanation was pretty poor.

Thirty boys――there may have been thirty-three or -four――can make quite a good deal of sound if they set out to do it, and so the dark blue’s prowess did not go unacclaimed. But Highland opposed over three hundred to Wyndham’s handful and the odds were much in her favor. It was evident from the first that the Massachusetts school had set her heart on wiping out old scores this afternoon. The cheering and singing were well organized, and there was an intensity――and something of vindictiveness, too――in the shouts that arose from across the field that told of grim determination. Highland had more to cheer for than the Wyndham devotees had in the first half of the game, for, although there was no scoring by either side, it was Highland who held the upper hand and who twice threatened the opposite goal.

That the home team was farther along in season experience than the visitor was soon apparent. Whether, as “Wink” surmised, Highland had been practicing longer than Wyndham is not known to the narrator, but it did seem that such smooth, even polished playing could never have been developed in twelve days. Highland possessed a valuable asset in a long, rangy left half back who could outpunt Ogden five or six yards every time and, besides, get much better direction than the Wyndham captain. It was Talley’s punting that finally yielded Highland’s first chance to score.

Houston misjudged one of Talley’s efforts and had to chase it back to his twenty-six yards. An attempt to regain some of the lost territory was disastrous, for a determined Highland end stayed with him across the field, and at last, trying to reverse, Houston slammed squarely into the arms of a tackle and went to earth on his twenty-three. Ogden very promptly punted, but he was hurried and the pigskin went high and only to midfield. Highland, with her supporters yelling like mad, ripped off eight yards inside Couch, and then, failing on a similar try at the other end, again punted. This time Houston was fairly under the kick and snuggled it to him on his seven yards. But a Highland end allowed only two strides, and Jeff Ogden strode back to the goal line and held out his arms.

“_Block that kick! Block that kick!_” chanted Highland.

Well, she couldn’t quite do that, but the left side of the Wyndham line did buckle badly and Ogden was hurried by a frantic tackle who somehow leaked past Sproule. He got the ball away, but it slanted to the left, barely topping upstretched arms, and was momentarily lost in the crowd along the Highland side. When it reappeared a heartless referee paced it back close to the twenty-yard line, waved an arm toward the Wyndham goal and announced: “First down! Highland!”

Highland shot a back outside tackle on her left, but the play was expected and only a two-yard gain resulted. Preparing as for a field goal, Highland used deception and sent the full back smashing into Billy Desmond. Billy gave, but only to the extent of another yard. Again came kick formation, with the performer standing just short of the twenty-seven. But Wyndham didn’t believe all she saw, and when the play resolved itself into a running forward pass the receiver missed the ball by yards. Finally Highland was forced to kick, and the pigskin passed harmlessly under the bar.

Some three minutes before the first half ended Highland again threatened. Then a brilliant run straight through the whole dark blue’s team, by the Highland captain and left half, put the ball down on Wyndham’s eighteen, and there is no reason to suppose that a try at a goal from the field would not have scored easily. But Highland had shifted her tactics. A fresh quarter back had recently arrived on the scene and possibly he brought instructions to accept a touchdown or nothing. In any case, the mere three points which would have accrued from sending the pigskin over the crossbar were scorned and Highland set about smashing through the opposing line. That, however, was easier said than done, for, although the small gathering of Wyndham adherents couldn’t find much cause for enthusiasm, the Wyndham line was largely composed of veterans, and, if they hadn’t found themselves yet, at least they had bulk and strength. Highland used up two downs getting four yards through Smythe, tried a crisscross outside Couch that resulted in the loss of a half a yard and finally, on fourth down, heaved the ball across the line squarely into the hands of Tom Kemble. Gloom descended on the Highland cheerers, but, across the gridiron, a tiny but valiant band of visitors yelled ecstatically.

Tom didn’t make the mistake of trying to run with the ball from behind his goal, for the enemy was clustered deeply about him. He touched it to earth instead and a few seconds later play was resumed on the dark blue’s twenty-yard line and, possibly as an award of merit, Tom was sent smashing, fighting through a gaping hole on the left. He got a scant four yards and then Ogden faked a pass and Drayton, coming around, took the pigskin and went to the thirty-three and made it first down. Wyndham worked to the middle of the field, or very close to it, and the half ended.

Lemuel John had been a close and absorbed spectator, and as the two teams walked off the field he turned to Walt and said: “That fellow who was up to the room the other day said it wasn’t hard to learn to play football. He said the coach could teach you right quick. Do you think I could learn, Walt?”

Considering that Lemuel John was the host and had expended nearly three dollars for the sake of Walt’s companionship, it would have been graceful of the latter had he expressed faith in Lemuel John’s ability to imbibe knowledge, but Walt was in no optimistic mood. A ham sandwich which he had eaten hurriedly at a lunch counter was feeling like a lump of lead, the forced march under a hot sun had left him wilted and the conduct of the Wyndham School Football Team had failed to gladden his heart. He observed his companion almost coldly and said briefly: “No, I don’t.”

Lemuel John nodded quite as though the decision had been anticipated and eased his long legs so that the back of the seat in front of him would impress itself in new localities in the region of his kneecaps. A close observer, however, might have detected a faint indication of disappointment in Lemuel John’s countenance. For some three-quarters of an hour he had allowed his imagination free rein and had been out there on the sun-smitten field performing heroic deeds. Now Walt’s reply dispelled the dream and Lemuel John landed back on earth with a slight shock. Doubtless Walt was right and the manager fellow had been stringing him. Lemuel John hadn’t thought much about athletics prior to his arriving at school, but since his arrival, noting that almost every other chap he encountered engaged in one sport or another, he had been wondering if there might not be some place for him in the ranks of the athletic.

The trouble was that he had never tried anything save baseball, and then only to the extent of taking part now and then in an impromptu game among the few boys of the village. Golf was only a name to him, as were lacrosse and soccer. Hockey he had seen played after a fashion. Basket ball, too. He thought he would like basket ball if he wasn’t too big and clumsy for it. Perhaps he could go out for the track team and try shoving that big ball of metal away from his shoulder as he had seen some fellows doing only yesterday. He guessed that wouldn’t be very difficult. Then there was another ball fixed to the end of a length of steel wire, or something, which you swung around your head and let go of with remarkable results as to distance. But what Lemuel John really wanted was to take part in a real game; where there were other fellows about; where he could run and fall around, and whoop if he wanted to, and so expend some of the stored-up energy that had accumulated since life on the ranch had been interrupted by the pesky oil men. So, on the whole, seeing that football wasn’t among the possibilities he guessed he’d just sit tight until they began to play basket ball. Maybe he’d fit in somewhere then. If not, there’d be baseball in the spring. They were even playing it now, but he guessed they weren’t looking for any green hands at present.

His communings――Walt was apparently sunk in a discouraged lethargy and offered no conversation――were here interrupted by a stirring of the fellows about him and by the sudden ending of the singing which had been going on across the field. Over there four boys in white shirts scurried to positions in front of the seats and uttered unintelligible sounds, and marvelously the occupants of the seats comprehended them and responded with a burst of measured cheering. At about the same instant Lemuel John found himself on his feet, following the example set by his neighbors, saying “Rah!” at intervals and then, having indulged himself in one more “Rah!” than the others, shouting “Wyndham! _Wyndham!_ WYNDHAM!” After the final shout he eased himself back to the seat, ran a finger around the inside of his wilted collar and discovered to his surprise that the empty gridiron had become again populated and that hostilities were about to go on.

Mr. Otis had started the game with his best foot forward, which is to say that the whole string of regulars had been used: Drayton, Weldon, Smythe, Carlson, Desmond, Cotter, Couch, Houston, Kemble, Sproule and Ogden. Toward the end he had made several substitutions, however, and these were still in force. Breeze was playing left guard, Longwell was at right end and Sim Jackson was in Houston’s place. Clif had rather expected to play, but evidently “G. G.” didn’t consider him as yet well enough versed in the duties of his new position, for Weldon had started at left tackle and was still in when the third period began. Clif had “Wink” Coles for bench neighbor, and “Wink,” who should have been filled with gratitude because, contrary to his expectations, he had been allowed to ride in the new bus, was in a most captious frame of mind and growled and snarled continuously.

“What’s he think I’m here for, the old robber? If I can’t play tackle better than Longwell I’ll eat my pads! That dumbbell wouldn’t say ‘boo’ if you slapped his face! He’s got about as much fight as a dicky bird! ‘G. G.’ gives me a sharp pain, if you want to know it.”

“Shut up, you silly coot, or he’ll hear you,” admonished Clif, grinning.

“Let him! What do I care? I’ve got a sight more business playing tackle than Longwell, and I don’t give a whoop who knows it! And the same thing goes for you. You could do twice as well as that Miss Nancy.”

“Sounds as if you didn’t particularly admire Longwell,” said Clif.

“I don’t. Not as a football player, anyway. What the dickens did Otis bring me along for if he doesn’t let me in? He needn’t think it’s any treat to sit and watch this rotten game!”

“He’s saving you, ‘Wink,’” laughed Clif. “Keeping the best for the last, you know.”

“He is, eh? He’s a piece of cheese. Bet you anything you like he’ll let Highland cop the game. He’s kept his first string in and he’s got nothing to fall back on if we get in a jam. Coach? Say, that queer couldn’t coach a team of performing seals! Who was it was talking about us getting through the season without a licking? There’s one coming right now!”

“Oh, no, not as bad as that, ‘Wink.’ Cheer up and see the old team march down the field.”

“Yeah, look at it march! Sproule got ahead of his interference and we’re set back two yards. A swell march we’ll make!”

Nevertheless there was a march, and if it didn’t reach Highland’s goal line it got within scoring distance, and if Heard, hurried in to displace Sproule and kick a goal, had put more force into his swing there might have been a score then and there. But the ball fell a few yards short and the advance was turned back. The third period ended with the pigskin on Wyndham’s forty-four yards in Highland’s possession and the score board still unsullied.

Mr. Otis began to use his substitutes in earnest now. “Wink” growlingly pulled off his sweater and relieved Longwell, Ellison went in at center and Hanbury took Captain Ogden’s job at full back. Later, one by one, those who had started came out until, with the last quarter half gone, Wyndham presented a substitute team with the single exception of Houston, back at quarter. Clif was one of the last to find employment.

A scoreless tie seemed certain when Clif pulled his head-guard on and took his place in the line. Less than five minutes of time remained――ten-minute periods were being played――and both teams――alike made up almost entirely of substitutes――seemed to have passed the possibility of scoring. Between the thirty-five-yard lines the battle raged, the second-string players eager but generally futile. So soon as either team was pushed back well into its own territory its defense stiffened and the opponent was forced to punt. Forward passes were taboo, it appeared, with both contenders, and probably for the same reason. The chance of a throw being intercepted by the enemy was too great. Yet it was, in the end, a forward pass that decided the contest.

It came when there was something under two minutes left. Hanbury, who had been doing the punting since Captain Jeff’s retirement, had steadily been distanced by the Highland kicker. Now, however, standing on his thirty-four yards, he punted high and far and the pigskin came to earth on Highland’s twenty-six, dropping straight through the arms of the quarter back. “Wink” Coles failed to arrive on the spot in time to contest possession of the ball, but he did nail the enemy before, having scooped the bobbing pigskin up, he could get away. By this time Highland had ceased hoping for that long-deferred revenge and had made up her mind to be satisfied with a tie; willing perhaps to accept a tie as a nominal victory. There had been more than one fumble within the last fifteen minutes, and Highland had decided not to risk another so close to her goal. Consequently, her punter stalked back to the sixteen yards and booted. It looked from the side lines as if the ball reached him before he was ready for it. At all events, the kick was a feeble one and the ball arched away to the left. Lou Stiles, coming up fast from down field, managed to get under it on his forty-eight and, swinging to his left, plunged squarely into a mob of players. Impetus carried him past the first tackler, and then a hurried interference gathered ahead of him and he fell in behind and went to Highland’s thirty-six. There he was fairly smothered but held on to the ball.

Wyndham asked for time, and, with the frantic shouts of the small but devoted band of rooters almost drowning the opposition cheers, held a conference. Houston, acting captain, hoped only to get the pigskin forward another ten yards, from where, if fortune favored, Whitemill could kick a goal. When the whistle blew again he tried “Swede” on a quick slam at the right of the enemy line, and “Swede” got a scant three yards. On a play that started like the first, “Swede” again thrust at the guard-tackle hole, but this time it was Whitemill who carried and who swung outside of end. But a Highland half back had sensed the deception and stopped Whitemill after a two-yard advance, and it was third down and five to go.

McMurtry came on from the bench and sent “Swede” out. McMurtry was a drop kicker of some ability, and Houston knew that Mr. Otis had sent him in to try a field goal. But there was still a down to be spared, and every yard gained made McMurtry’s attempt more feasible. Houston called for a shift that sent the left end across to the other side, took the ball from center on a long pass and started to the left. Clif’s play was to block momentarily and then go around to a position about eight yards behind the line of scrimmage. The opposing end triumphantly swept him aside and tore through only, however, to run foul of Stiles. Clif circled back, the Highland secondary defense moving to its right, and found position just as Houston, having paused and turned, swept the ball away an instant before the enemy leaped upon him. The pigskin came straight and Clif got in unchallenged. He even made his start toward the goal before the adversary threatened. Then he had his hands full. The play called for a straight journey, for it was designed to secure only a short gain, but Clif’s progress was barred in front and he swung perforce to the right. He eluded the Highland full back and angled toward the side of the field, a fleet-footed end close on his heels and the safety man coming across fast to intercept him. He had already secured first down and might have considered his task completed, but the goal line beckoned and only three trampled white marks lay between. Realizing that he would be run out of bounds if he kept on his present course much further, he suddenly swung to the left, escaped the end by the length of a finger and headed straight toward the nearer goal post. For a few strides Breeze kept him company. Then Breeze went down and the safety man sprang. At the same instant a second desperate Highlander launched himself at the runner from the left. Clif tried to side step, but his race was over. The next instant he was fairly buried.

He got up at last, rather dizzy and winded, to find the nearer goal post but twelve yards away, Houston jabbering impatient commands and the tiny Wyndham cheering section beside itself with delight. But there was anxiety in that delight, for the remaining seconds numbered only twenty-odd. The ball was to the right of the goal, making the angle fairly difficult for one of McMurtry’s kicking ability. But Houston didn’t dare risk a play to center it for fear that the fast-ticking seconds would run away. So McMurtry went back to the twenty-two yards, decreasing the angle considerably, and, amidst a sudden silence, took a high pass from the center, stepped forward as the Highland players charged, and swung a scuffed shoe.

Perhaps the ball knew that time couldn’t be called until the play was completed, for surely no pigskin ever took longer to sail twenty yards through almost breathless air! McMurtry had sought to put it high, impressed at the moment of kicking by a sudden realization that the goal was dangerously close, and he succeeded. Up and up went the lazy ball, turning slowly over and over. Clif, watching spellbound, thought it would never start down! But it did at last, and doing so it seemed to be possessed by a strong desire to see what the right-hand post looked like at close quarters! Afterwards McMurtry declared feelingly that that infernal ball had taken ten years off his life and that he wouldn’t be surprised to awake in the morning and find that his hair had turned white!

The ball tried its best to reach that post and cross outside of it, it seemed, but it couldn’t quite make it. It floated leisurely down a scant two feet inside, and then, as though angered by its failure, hurried its flight and fell to earth halfway between goal line and end line. And a man in a gray running shirt who had been regarding its progress from behind the goal raised both arms for a moment before he made after it.