Over the Line Part 7

Barley grinned. "Where do you get that stuff? Anyone who can stop that bird Drake can hit the line ... How's your knee ... better?"

The referee's whistle sounded. Judd became conscious of the wild entreaties of the Trumbull crowd. They still had faith in their team ... they knew the boys would do their best ... and now was the time when Trumbull must fight the hardest.

He nodded. On the first play Barley, at quarterback position, smacked the ball against his stomach as he came pounding through. Judd hit the line; it wavered; he went through; his feet sc.r.a.ped against the slippery sod; bodies struck him ... hands clutched at him ... but he kept on going as long as he could feel earth beneath him. When he found himself back in position and got his bearings he discovered that he had made seven yards! His team-mates were exuberant. There was a wild motley of sounds from the sidelines.

Once more he felt the ball in the hollow of his arm, finding himself plunging around the end with his hand against Barley. He saw a tackler and pushed Barley into him ... then cut in, stumbling as he did so, to avoid another muddy face which leered before him. Judd ran for ten yards before he was dragged to the ground....

The game became just one run after another; it seemed like he was continually getting up from the bottom of a heap and staggering to his position, only to start forward again--reaching out for the ball--and blindly but savagely following in the direction of his interference.

There was an outer din of noise that Judd was vaguely conscious of. He could feel a jerking pain in his leg and an aching twitch in his shoulder, Occasionally, when Barley didn't call his number, he would start forward, then drop to his hands and knees and rest. Oh, how good it seemed to be out of play! He was tired ... desperately tired ...

his whole body was sore ... he was miserably wet and uncomfortable ...

his eye-lids were almost stuck shut with mud ... his mouth was thick with the grime of it ... but he kept mumbling to himself, "I can! I can!"

Barley called time out as he fell face downward in the mud. The water boy was out on the field again. Judd blinked as a sheet of cold water struck him slosh in the face. Barley was pounding him on the back.

"Wake up, ... we're only five yards from the goal and three minutes to go..."

Judd looked up and beyond Barley. He saw the dark outline of the bleak, wet goal posts, saw the tense faces of the Canton team ... then his own fellows grouped around him.

Fenstermaker, Trumbull guard, knelt beside him. He was crying ... the tears making odd little rivulets down his blackened face. "Come on, Judd ... we'll make a hole for you!"

Judd struggled to his feet. They were all willing to help him. He was astounded at his own power to keep going. He didn't seem to care what happened. It didn't seem like it was he at all. He allowed them to set him on his feet. "You--you fellows make the hole," he said, "I-I'll go through!"

On the sidelines, under the very goal posts, the great Bob stood ...

his cap was in his hands ... his hair was wet with rain ... his feet were almost lost to view in a puddle of water ... he was unconscious of anything but the actions of his brother. A Trumbull fan, recognizing him, pounded Bob on the back. "I guess you'll have to take a back seat now, eh Bob? The kid's got it all over you!"

If Judd could have known what his brother was thinking of him then! If he could only have known that Bob was on the sidelines! But Judd didn't know a thing except that this was his fight. He wasn't even playing for the school. He wasn't thinking of any honor. His single thought was that to have failed in what he set out to do was to fail in everything.

Bob watched Judd as he swayed upon his feet; his eyes followed him as he lunged forward and took the ball once more; he lost sight of Judd for a moment, then saw him come straining through the line with a tackler hanging to his waist.

The tackler's hand slipped off ... Judd shook himself free ... Bob wanted to shout, "Look out!" as he saw Drake dive for him ... then he caught his breath as the kid dodged the fullback but slipped and fell.

Drake turned and threw himself upon Judd as Judd rolled over and planted the ball over the goal line.

The name "Billings" rang from one end of the field to the other, with the subst.i.tute fullback being lifted to his feet and pummeled by his team-mates who were crazy with joy ... but Judd was so fatigued that his attempt at a goal after a touchdown went wide. Two minutes more to play and the score 14 to 12 in favor of Canton.

It was Trumbull's kickoff, Barley begging Judd to hurry up. Judd swung his toe against the ball and started to follow his kick dazedly. The ball, water-soaked and heavy, carried to Canton's five yard line. The best Canton could do was carry it back ten yards.

Because the game was so nearly over ... the Canton quarterback ordered a punt. "Mud Scow" Drake, with a self-confident smile on his dirt-rimmed face, stood with his arms outstretched waiting to send the ball far down the field ... crus.h.i.+ng the last slight hope of victory from Trumbull. It had been a terrific game ... and Drake was conscious of his power now as never before.

Barley, realizing that this was the most critical moment in the entire game, ran along the line exhorting the half dead linesmen to a final frenzied effort.

"Get in there, fellows, and block that kick! Block that kick!"

The sidelines took up the frenzied cry.

Drake's hands closed upon the ball, he raised it shoulder high and let it drop, his muddy foot came up to meet it ... but just at that instant a body shot against him ... there was the hollow plunk of a ball striking a rather soft object and a mad scramble of flying forms.

When the referee had pulled the players apart he found Fenstermaker, Trumbull guard, lying face down upon the ball. Trumbull's ball on Canton's eleven yard line ... and fifty seconds left to play!

Judd knew that he was not capable of carrying the ball another foot.

He instinctively realized that Canton would repulse any effort that Trumbull might make at running with the ball. The time was too desperately short.

Then, in a flash, there came to him the vision of practice sessions he had held with Burton, second team quarterback. Burton knew how to handle the ball, how to place it to his liking. If Burton were only in the game....

Judd spoke a few quick words to Barley and Barley ... loyal son of Trumbull ... called time out so that Burton could come into the game ... and subst.i.tute for him.

Everyone knew what was going to be attempted. Burton came racing out to Judd who had picked out the spot where he was to attempt the place kick. Three points would just win if Trumbull could make them. But the field was so soggy and the footing so uncertain. Besides ... the heavy clouds had brought dusk upon the field prematurely.

Judd removed his cap and took out the piece of white paper. He unfolded it and laid it flat upon the ground, then stepped back a few paces and Burton knelt, with hands extended, over the paper. The seconds seemed like hours.

"Hold that line!" Judd begged of the linesmen. But he need not have urged this ... tired though they were, they could be depended upon to give their all now.

The pa.s.s from the center was a bit wide but Burton caught it deftly and upended the ball upon the white piece of paper. Judd took three short steps and bit his lips as he brought his toe squarely against the pigskin ... a sharp pain shooting through his knee.

Blackwell and Barley hugged each other on the sidelines. Rudolph danced in glee. The ball had skimmed over and between the uprights ...

skimmed above the bar by a hair! The timekeeper's whistle sounded and Trumbull had won a miraculous uphill game by the score of 15 to 14!

And the fellow, who, singlehanded, had made the triumph possible--weary to the point of dropping--stooped and picked up the piece of paper, stuffing it back in his cap. The next instant he was carried away upon the shoulders of the madly joyous crowd to one of the wildest victory celebrations Trumbull had ever witnessed.

That night, refreshed by a hot shower and with his sprains carefully bandaged, Judd accompanied the great Bob to the high school campus where a huge bonfire defied the dismal patter of rain. As they stood by the fire, listening to the cheers of the student body, Bob said to Judd: "Buddy, where's that contract?"

Judd reached sheepishly inside his overcoat and pulled out a muddy piece of paper. Bob took the paper, reached over and before Judd could stop him, tossed it in the bonfire.

Silently the two of them watched the tongues of flame eat the paper up.

When the paper had become nothing but formless ashes, Bob turned to his younger brother and reached out his hand, saying in a voice that was husky with emotion: "Well, Buddy, it's gone. You don't need the contract any longer. You lived up to more than a sc.r.a.p of paper this afternoon. You lived up to the best that was in you!"

And Judd, a happy lump in his throat, could not answer. But his heart sang with the knowledge that he had won more than the football game.

He had won a lasting victory over himself.

"One of these days, Judd, old scout--you're going to be taking my place at Bartlett!" Bob continued, his arm about Judd's broad shoulders.

"I--I'd sure like to," Judd replied, warmly, "Not your place exactly ... but be making a place of my own!"

Bob grinned.

"That's the stuff!" he returned, little realizing that the following football season would bring drastic changes and see his kid brother--still quite the green, clumsy youth from the country--headed for Bartlett while he ...?

CHAPTER VI

ILL NEWS AND A NEW ARRIVAL

"Hey, fellows! What do you know? Bob's not coming back!"