CHAPTER XXVII
FULL-BACK FOSTER
“That’s all, I guess,” said Coach Driscoll in conclusion. “The main thing is to play hard, fellows, and play fast. I don’t think we’ll have to change our signals. If Kenwood was on to them she’d have showed it before this. So tear in now and show what you can really do. No more sleeping on the job, no more watchful waiting. Here’s your line-up. Stearns, Mellen, Cummins, Cantrell, Dobbins, Keith, Mistley, Cater, Meldrum, Brown, Foster. On the run now!”
Myron, startled, gazed incredulously at the coach across the room. The others were heaving toward the doors, and he jumped up and followed, overtaking the coach in the corridor at the foot of the short stairway.
“I – you said – me, Mr. Driscoll?” stammered Myron.
“Yes,” answered the coach calmly. “You’re in, Foster.”
“Oh!” He darted forward, stopped and sprang back again. “Thank you, sir,” he said gratefully.
“All right, my boy.” Mr. Driscoll smiled. “You know what to do!”
Know what to do? Well, he rather thought he did, he told himself as he trotted across the little space of turf to the rope. His lips were very tight together and it wasn’t until Joe smote him resoundingly between the shoulders that he knew he had been spoken to.
“Good stuff, kiddo!” Joe was repeating. “Glad you’re back. Go to it and eat ’em up, Brother!”
The cheering was deafening. Across the trampled field the Kenwood players were already throwing aside their blankets. Near at hand the Warne Silver Cornet Band was blaring loudly, although all he got of it was the insistent thump, thump, thump! of the big drum. Then they were clustered on the side-line for a last earnest word from Jud Mellen and a minute later, spread over the east end of the gridiron, they awaited the whistle.
Myron played through the first few minutes in a queer sort of daze. He got his signals, fell into place and went through the plays, but it was much as though some one else was doing it and he was only looking on. What brought him to, in a manner of speaking, was a fine clout on his head when, Kenwood having taken the ball on downs by a few inches, the play piled through between Joe and Paul Keith and Myron found himself a part of the squirming heap two yards behind his line. The blow from some one’s shoe cleared his brain very effectively and the some one who played and the some one who looked on became instantly merged. Which, perhaps, was a lucky thing, since a minute later, after Kenwood’s quarter had fumbled and Mistley had squirmed through on top of the ball, he was called on to punt.
For an instant his nerves jangled badly while he awaited the ball with outstretched hands, but when he had it between his gripping fingers he forgot. A quick turn, a step forward, a swing of his long leg and a fine, full thud of leather against leather! Off sailed the ball, well over the up-flung hands of the enemy, straight toward the corner of the field. He side-stepped a charging Kenwood forward, went down under the kick and found his place again near the Blue’s twelve yards. Back up the gridiron presently, Kenwood kicking on the second down. Then a fake and a run to the right by Meldrum for a scant yard, a short gain past tackle on the left by Brown, and finally another punt, not so long this time. And so it went, neither side gaining her distance, both reverting to punts in the end.
Time was taken out for Cantrell, again for Katie, again for a Kenwood end, and the game was slowing up. Two penalties were awarded, and the opponents shared them. It was near the end of the third quarter now. Brounker took Meldrum’s place and Kenwood changed her left guard. Myron was dirty and bruised and panting, but so they all were. Chas had a long cut down one cheek that made him look like a desperado, but he was grinning broadly every minute. Jud Mellen was everywhere, encouraging, pleading, scolding, his voice sounding like the rasp of a file.
Brounker got clean away and was forced out at his own forty-six yards after a twelve-yard gain. The Brown flags waved and a great cheer crashed across the field. Myron charged straight at the centre, found a hole awaiting him and sped through, Joe’s voice growling above the rasp of canvas and the laboured breaths of tired lungs. “Atta boy, kiddo! Atta boy!” Back came the ball: Mistley had been off-side. Katie called Stearns around and slammed the ball at him as he sped past, but Kenwood had guessed the play and Stearns made less than a yard. Then Myron had the ball overhead and was watching Stearns running back, far over on the left. A long heave and a good one, but a Kenwood half spoiled it and it was fourth down. Myron punted. A whistle blew.
The mouthful of water no more than dampened Myron’s dry throat.
“Once I saw a whole pond full of this stuff,” panted Chas as he took the dipper from Myron.
“Shut up!” begged the other. “There ain’t no such thing!”
Jud dragged Chas aside and Joe joined Myron as they walked over to where the umpire awaited them above the ball. “How’s it going?” asked Joe. “Some game, kiddo, believe me!”
“Can’t we score, Joe?” asked Myron, scowling.
“Sure we can! We’re going to! That centre of their line’s just ready to cave, kiddo. It’s all-in from tackle to tackle. The new guy they put in for Lampley’s a cinch. Keep at ’em, Brother! You’re going fine!”
And yet the last quarter was many minutes old before Myron found any indication that Joe’s prophecy was to come true. Then, very suddenly, Brown romped through the Blue’s centre and fought for eleven yards before he was brought down. That was the first decisive gain through the Kenwood line, and the Parkinson adherents shouted frantically. But another attack at the same place was stopped for less than two yards, and a third netted nothing. A skin-tackle play, Brounker carrying, gave the Brown five yards more. Faking a punt, Myron sped to the left, cut in and got the distance. Again came the Parkinson cheers.
“We’ve got them going, Parkinson!” cried Katie. “They can’t stop us now! Make this good, fellows! Play hard!”
“Hard! Hard!” croaked Jud, smiting the crouching men. “Into it! Get into it, Parkinson!”
But there was a long road to travel and time was speeding, and although three times the Brown made her distance by narrow margins, on the twenty-three yards, with the Blue’s goal beckoning, Kenwood rallied and held through three downs. Then, while the shouting stands became silent, Paul Keith fell back and judged the distance to the cross-bar. Kenwood swayed and gasped, her quarter shrilly calling on his men to “Block this kick! Block it! Block it!” Back sped the ball, was dropped —
A groan arose from the Brown stand. Far to the right of the goal travelled the ball. The blue-stockinged warriors danced and shouted in glee. Keith’s head dropped despondently as he turned back up the field. “Seven minutes to play,” called the field judge. Then they were battling again.
Perhaps that lost score had its effect, for Kenwood was soon in Parkinson territory. As far as the thirty yards she went before she was stopped. Her punt went over the line and the ball came out to the twenty-five. Two attacks at the Kenwood centre brought the distance. Kenwood had new material in her line now. Brown tried an end and got three. But he was hurt and Vance took his place. Vance was stopped for a slight loss when he tried left tackle. Myron gained four through left guard and Brounker followed with three more. The tape left the ball in Parkinson’s possession. Another forward, Myron to Stearns, failed. The ball was in mid-field now and there were but three minutes left. The stands were already emptying slowly. Coach Driscoll began sending in substitutes, fellows who had worked hard and deserved their letters. Joe was gone, Cummins, Cater, even Keith, who alone might score a field-goal should Fortune give the opportunity. Warren had taken Cater’s place. Warren was fresh and eager and undismayed. His signals came snappily, and he pushed the wearied veterans hard.
“Make it go!” he chanted. “Make it go! Don’t give up the ball! There’s time enough left to score. Here’s where we get away from them. Come on, Parkinson! Show your grit!”
Brounker and Vance gained. The Kenwood line was weakening fast now, but Myron feared that it was too late. Vance again, past left tackle on a criss-cross. Then Myron, sliding off left guard for the needed distance. Well past the fifty-yard line now, and still going, but with seconds remaining instead of minutes and the time-keeper’s eyes glued to the dial of his watch. If only they could get past those Kenwood backs, thought Myron! The Blue line was pasteboard now, but the backs still fought hard and held firm. Somewhere near the enemy’s thirty yards Warren called a sequence and Myron’s heart leaped. If they played quickly, smoothly, they must get through! Brounker tried left of centre and piled through, but was nailed by Kenwood’s backs. Four yards! Then, without signals, the team snapped into the next play. A quick shift to the right, Brounker sprang away to the left, the ball sped back straight from centre and Myron caught it. Kenwood sensed danger now and shifted back to meet it, but Myron was already charging past the left of the line, the interference working like a charm. He was through before he realised it and only a surprised quarter-back stood between him and the goal!
Ahead and at his right sped Vance, tuckered but still game. Behind him weary feet pounded. In his ears was a mighty noise that he knew for the wild, imploring shrieks of friend and foe. Through it came the dull thump, thump! of the bass drum. Twenty yards more now, and the quarter, white-faced and desperate, running toward him with clutching fingers. Then Vance was down, run out, and Myron was alone. Fifteen yards and the Kenwood quarter-back poising for his tackle! Myron gave a little toward the side-line, slackened his pace and then, with a final demand on his strength, sprang forward again at renewed speed. The quarter-back leaped. Myron felt his arms at his hips as he spun on his heel. One arm fell away, but a hand closed inside his leg above the knee and a great weight pulled at him. One plunge, a second, and the last line was swimming in his sight. Then, as if by a miracle, the clutching hand was gone, and, freed of the dragging burden, Myron stumbled, fell to his knees, recovered and went on, straight across the last white line to victory!
Parkinson did not add a goal to her touchdown. She did not even try, for the crowd that overspread the field refused to be dispersed, and, since the last second of play had ticked itself off just before Myron had reached the line, no one insisted very hard. Parkinson was satisfied with that lone 6; and if Kenwood was not, why, that was of small moment! Blue banners waved, the band led, the victors followed, caps floated across the goal bars, the big drum said Thump! Thump! Thump! and pandemonium reigned supreme over Parkinson Field.
Some four hours later, Andrew Merriman, crossing the campus on his way to Sohmer, almost collided with a small and visibly excited youth who, panting an apology, added: “They’ve elected the new captain! I got it from a waiter!”
“Have they, son? Well, who is he?”
“Bet you couldn’t guess! I’ve told three fellows already and not one of them guessed right!”
“Then there’s no use in my trying,” replied Andrew amiably. “Suppose you tell me.”
“It’s —Cummins!”
“No!”
“Yes, it is! What do you think of that? Why, no one expected he’d get it!”
“No one,” chuckled Andrew as the youngster disappeared into the gloom. “Anyway, no one but Cummins!”