The Varmint Part 50

But they did not stop. Rush by rush, irresistibly the blue left their own territory and pa.s.sed the forty-five yard line of Lawrenceville.

Then a fumble occurred and the ball went again with the gale far out of danger, over the heads of the Andover backs who had misjudged its treacherous course.

"Lucky we've got the wind," said d.i.n.k, calm amid the roaring cheers about him. "Gee, that Andover attack's going to be hard to stop. Banks is beginning to limp."

The blue, after a few quick advances, formed and swept out toward Garry c.o.c.krell's end.

"Three yards lost," said d.i.n.k grimly. "They won't try him often. Funny they're not onto Banks. Lord, how they can gain through the center of the line. First down again." Subst.i.tute and coach, the frantic school, alumni over from Princeton, kept up a constant storm of shouts and entreaties:

"Oh, get together!"

"Throw 'em back!"

"Hold 'em!"

"First down again!"

"Hold 'em, Lawrenceville!"

"Don't let them carry it seventy yards!"

"Get the jump!"

"There they go again!"

"Ten yards around Banks!"

Stover alone, squatting opposite the line of play, moving as it moved, coldly critical, studied each individuality.

"Funny nervous little tricks that Goodhue's got--blows on his hands--does that mean he takes the ball? No, all a bluff. What's he do when he does take it? Quiet and looks at the ground. When he doesn't take it he tries to pretend he does. I'll tuck that away. He's my man.

Seems to switch in just as the interference strikes the end about ten feet beyond tackle, running low--Banks is playing too high; better, perhaps, to run in on 'em now and then before they get started.

There's going to be trouble there in a minute. The fellows aren't up on their toes yet--what is the matter, anyhow? Tough's getting boxed right along, he ought to play out further, I should think. h.e.l.lo, some one fumbled again. Who's got it? Looks like Garry. No, they recovered it themselves--no, they didn't. Lord, what a b.u.t.ter-fingered lot--why doesn't he get it? He has--Charlie DeSoto--clear field--can he make it?--he ought to--where's that Goodhue?--looks like a safe lead; he'll make the twenty-yard line at least--yes, fully that, if he doesn't stumble--there's that Goodhue now--some one ought to block him off, good work--that's it--that makes the touchdown--lucky--very lucky!"

Some one hit him a terrific clap on the shoulder. He looked up in surprise to behold Fatty Harris dancing about like a crazed man. The air seemed all arms, hats were rising like startled coveys of birds.

Some one flung his arms around him and hugged him. He flung him off almost indignantly. What were they thinking of--that was only one touchdown--four points--what was that against that blue team and the wind at their backs, too. One touchdown wasn't going to win the game.

"Why do they get so excited?" said d.i.n.k Stover to John Stover, watching deliberately the ball soaring between the goalposts; "6 to 0--they think it's all over. Now's the rub."

Mr. Ware pa.s.sed near him. He was quiet, too, seeing far ahead.

"Better keep warmed up, Stover," he said.

"Biting his nails, that's a funny trick for a master," thought d.i.n.k.

"He oughtn't to be nervous. That doesn't do any good."

The shouts of exultation were soon hushed; with the advantage of the wind the game quickly a.s.sumed a different complexion. Andover had found the weak end and sent play after play at Banks, driving him back for long advances.

"Take off your sweater," said Mr. Ware.

d.i.n.k flung it off, running up and down the side-lines, springing from his toes.

"Why don't they take him out?" he thought angrily, with almost a hatred of the fellow who was fighting it out in vain. "Can't they see it? Ten yards more, oh, Lord! This ends it."

With a final rush the Andover interference swung at Banks, brushed him aside and swept over the remaining fifteen yards for the touchdown. A minute later the goal was kicked and the elevens again changed sides.

The suddenness with which the score had been tied impressed every one--the school team seemed to have no defense against the well-ma.s.sed attacks of the opponents.

"Holes as big as a house," said Fatty Harris. "Asleep! They're all asleep!"

d.i.n.k, pacing up and down, waited the word from Mr. Ware, rebelling because it did not come.

Again the scrimmage began, a short advance from the loosely-knit school eleven, a long punt with the wind and then a quick, business-like line-up of the blue team and another rush at the vulnerable end.

"Ten yards more; oh, it's giving it away!" said Fatty Harris.

Stover knelt and tried his shoelaces and rising, tightened his belt.

"I'll be out there in a moment," he said to himself.

Another gain at Banks' end and suddenly from the elevens across the field the figure of the captain rose and waved a signal.

"Go in, Stover," said Mr. Ware.

He ran out across the long stretch to where the players were moving restlessly, their clothes flinging out clouds of steam. Back of him something was roaring, cheering for him, perhaps, hoping against hope.

Then he was in the midst of the contestants, Garry c.o.c.krell's arm about his shoulders, whispering something in his ear about keeping cool, breaking up the interference if he couldn't get his man, following up the play. He went to his position, noticing the sullen expressions of his teammates, angry with the consciousness that they were not doing their best. Then taking his stand beyond Tough McCarty, he saw the Andover quarter and the backs turn and study him curiously.

He noticed the half-back nearest him, a stocky, close-cropped, red-haired fellow, with brawny arms under his rolled-up jersey, whose duty it would be to send him rolling on the first rush.

"All ready?" cried the voice of the umpire. "First down."

The whistle blew, the two lines strained opposite each other. Stover knew what the play would be--there was no question of that.

Fortunately the last two rushes had carried the play well over to his side--the boundary was only fifteen yards away. d.i.n.k had thought out quickly what he would do. He crept in closer than an end usually plays and at the snap of the ball rushed straight into the starting interference before it could gather dangerous momentum. The back, seeing him thus drawn in, instinctively swerved wide around his interference, forced slightly back. Before he could turn forward his own speed and the necessity of distancing Stover and Condit drove him out of bounds for a four-yard loss.

"Second down, nine yards to go!" came the verdict.

"Rather risky going in like that," said Flash Condit, who backed up his side.

"Wanted to force him out of bounds," said Stover.

"Oh--look out for something between tackle and guard now."

"No--they'll try the other side now to get a clean sweep at me," said Stover.

The red-haired half-back disappeared in the opposite side and, well protected, kept his feet for five yards.

"Third down, four to gain."

"Now for a kick," said Stover, as the Andover end came out opposite him. "What the deuce am I going to do to this coot to mix him up. He looks more as though he'd like to tackle me than to get past." He looked over and caught a glance from the Andover quarter. "I wonder.

Why not a fake kick? They've sized me up for green. I'll play it carefully."