Afterwards Russell believed that he didn’t get his breath again until, at ten o’clock that night, he put the light out and crawled into his bed. Things had happened swiftly after the reading of that note from the first team manager. There had been dinner at the training table in the corner of the dining hall, a dinner of which Russell ate little. His appearance had evoked only few greetings and had been accepted in a surprisingly matter-of-fact fashion. Coach Cade was absent from table and it had been Johnson who had indicated his chair and briefly explained matters, talking across Rowlandson in an aside that probably reached the entire table.

“Crocker’s out of the game to-morrow, Emerson,” said Johnson, “and we’re shy an end. Wouldn’t be surprised if you had a shot at the enemy before the game’s over.”

“I’d be surprised if he didn’t,” growled Rowlandson, entering without apology into the conversation. “Seen you play, Emerson. You’re good. Pass the beets, some one.”

“Well, anyway, you be out at two-thirty this afternoon,” went on the manager.

“I’ve got a class at two,” said Russell.

“That’s all right. They’ve allowed cuts to-day.”

Jimmy came over from the other table where the substitutes sat while Russell was still toying with a large helping of tapioca pudding and sank into the chair at Russell’s left, recently vacated by Longstreth. “Hail, hail, the gang’s all here!” whispered Jimmy joyously. “Welcome to the Brotherhood of Hard Boiled Eggs, Rus! Say, accept it from yours truly, this is great! When did they nab you? What happened to Crocker? I heard he was out on bail and the old man had shipped him to South America.”

The afternoon was a hectic nightmare for Russell. He went through a slow but grueling signal practice with the third squad, conducted about the second team gridiron by Neirsinger, made innumerable mistakes, was scolded bitterly by all hands – who couldn’t, it seemed, make allowance for one who, only a few hours ago, had been a complete stranger to first team methods – and passed a very miserable, blundering forty minutes. Followed some throwing and catching with seven other youths, and here Russell regained a measure of his self-respect. Coach Cade had a good word for him as he came back to the bench, and Russell held up his head again. At a quarter to four they went back to the gymnasium and took possession of the floor, driving out a few thin-limbed young gentlemen who had been performing aerial feats on the rings. The doors were locked, benches were dragged noisily from the walls, the big blackboard was pushed out under the light and Mr. Cade, chalk in one hand and pointer in another, began to talk. Russell was pulled onto a bench between Jimmy and Harley McLeod. They seemed anxious to make him feel at home, and he was grateful. The chalk made dots and rings and figures and lines on the board and Mr. Cade’s voice went on and on. Russell tried to understand, but he found his mind and gaze wandering. Before him, his broad shoulders rounded as he sat hands between legs, was Paul Nichols, the center. Beside him on the right was Ned Richards, two-thirds his size, his scarred hands clasped behind his tousled head. Harmon, Alton’s best half-back in several years, came next. And then Putney and Stimson and Butler. Captain Proctor was at Russell’s left, further along the roughly curving row, with Browne, whose big, long legs stretched far under the bench before him. Russell couldn’t believe yet that he was really there, that he was one of this silent congregation of the school’s elect. A member of the Alton Football Team! Maybe he would wake up presently and find that he was dreaming!

He did wake up, but not with that result. Mr. Cade, noting his wandering glance, had shot a question at him. “Emerson, what’s the count on this play?” demanded the coach sharply.

Russell, startled, shook his head miserably. “I – I don’t know, sir,” he said.

“And you never will if you don’t listen! Kindly give me your attention now.”

After that Russell managed to concentrate his gaze and his mind and began to understand. Presently they were up, eleven of them, walking slowly through a play. Twice this was done. Then: “All right,” said the coach. “Now speed it!” A confused mingling of bodies and a rush half-way down the long floor followed. Then eleven more players went through the same antics, and, finally, eleven more. Then back to the benches, and the coach went on. The shadows deepened under the balcony and the white light from the windows and skylight no longer reflected from the shiny floor. Manager Johnson switched the electricity on. The clock at the end of the hall indicated twenty minutes to six. Mr. Cade tossed down the fragment of chalk and dusted his hands.

“That’s all,” he said. “Eight o’clock promptly, please.”

They filed out and down the stairs to showers and street clothes. At six they began to assemble again at the table for supper. To-night Mr. Cade was in his place at the end of the board and conversation was general and cheerful and laughter frequent. Some of the sixteen fellows who lined both sides of the long table didn’t laugh; some scarcely talked; and Russell was of the latter number. He was feeling strangely apprehensive. To-morrow he might – indeed, if he was to believe some, undoubtedly would – be called on to play against Kenly Hall, and the realization was decidedly unnerving. Going up against the first team was one thing; that held no terrors; but facing the school enemy, the redoubtable wearers of the Cherry-and-Black, gave him a sort of sick feeling in his stomach. There were periods when he longed for his erstwhile obscurity with all his heart!

There was an hour or longer of respite after supper, but it didn’t help Russell much to regain his courage and peace of mind. The school talked football incessantly. No other subject was for the moment acknowledged to exist. Long before it was time for him to accompany Jimmy to the gymnasium the fellows were flocking to the Assembly Hall for the final cheer meeting. Football songs sounded on all sides. Fellows who couldn’t sing them, whistled. They just wouldn’t let you forget for a minute, thought Russell resentfully.

Back in the gymnasium, Mr. Cade and the blackboard came again into action, but now there was a veritable “quiz,” and the players were called on to answer questions that, as it seemed to the new member of the team, might have floored the inventor of football himself! Signal practice once more followed, several plays were again run through and then “Johnny” put aside his pedagogic manner, pushed the blackboard aside and talked to them very quietly for ten minutes during which time a dropping pin would have caused a stampede of alarm. What he said doesn’t matter. Coaches all say pretty much the same thing all over this broad land on the eve of the big battle. But “Johnny” got it across, and grave faces looked back at him and told him things that tongues couldn’t have put in words. And then there was a sudden silence broken at last by Captain Mart.

“Three cheers for Mr. Cade, fellows!” cried Mart passionately. “Come on! Come on!” Then there was a cheer for Alton, and they went out rather silently and sought their rooms. Overhead a star-pricked sky promised a fair day for the supreme test. Russell fell asleep at last just after midnight had sounded.

Russell was not late for chapel the next morning only because Stick, in spite of all protests and pleas, pulled him bodily from bed. The bell was ringing as they went tumbling down the stairs and they reached the goal just as the final stroke sounded. Doctor McPherson, as was his yearly custom, added to the prayer an intercession for the football team. “For those of us who do contend this day in manly sport we pray thy countenance. If in thy sight they be deserving, give them, O Lord, strength of soul and of body that they may attain their goal.”

Breakfast was a melancholy meal, for under the pretense of merriment and nonchalance lay dubiety and dread. To Russell it seemed that he had awakened to a Roman holiday for which he was cast in the rôle of the Christian Martyr. After breakfast, with a long two hours ahead of them, he and Jimmy walked over to the Sign of the Football. Stick was already busy, for trade was brisk to-day, and promised to be brisker. The counter was fairly piled with pennants of Alton and Kenly colors, with small gray-and-gold megaphones and with arm-bands of the rival hues. Russell took his place behind the counter with his partner and managed to forget for a short time the impending fate. But after he had made the wrong change twice he decided to let Stick manage alone. Jimmy had gone to the back of the store where Mr. J. Warren Pulsifer seemed unusually busy and unusually cheerful. Out on the street again, Jimmy chuckled and, in reply to Russell’s unspoken question, said:

“Well, J. Warren’s got his release, and the old boy’s as happy as a lark!”

“His release?” echoed the other.

“Yes, he’s going out of business, Rus. Packing up right now. Monday you’ll have the place to yourself.”

“But, how – why – ”

“That’s what I wanted to know,” chuckled Jimmy. “Well, J. Warren says that what happened Thursday night settled it. Says he thought it all over carefully and decided that Aunt Mary – or whatever her name was – wouldn’t want him to continue the business after it had become dangerous. Aunt Mary, he says, was very tender-hearted, and he knows that she wouldn’t approve of his getting beaten up merely to keep to the terms of the will. It sounds sort of weak to me, but he’s perfectly satisfied with his reasoning, and he’s the doctor! Funny, isn’t it?”

Russell laughed for the first time that day. “Funny? I should say so!” Then he sobered suddenly. “Look here, though, Jimmy, that puts the whole place on us! What about the rent?”

“Well, J. Warren’s lease isn’t up until the first of the year, so you fellows will have six weeks, nearly, to look around. But if it was me, I’d take the whole premises, Rus.”

Russell was thoughtfully silent for several minutes. Then he nodded resolutely. “That’s what we’ll do, Jimmy,” he declared. “Something tells me that the Sign of the Football is going to be a success. Of course, it will mean nearly twice as much rent, and we’ll have to sign a lease for a whole year, but – still – ”

“Nothing venture, nothing have,” said Jimmy gayly. “The store’s going to be a winner, Rus. Accept that from yours truly. You’ve tied the can to old Crocker, and he won’t trouble you again, I’ll bet. From now on you’ll have clear sailing, old son. Such is the prediction of James W. Austen. The W, Rus, stands for Wisdom!”

CHAPTER XXIV
“WE’VE WON!”

For nearly an hour Russell had sat, blanketed, tense of nerves, on the narrow bench on the Alton side of the field and watched the fortunes of battle. There had been no scoring. Twice Kenly’s red-stockinged warriors had threatened the home team’s goal, once trying a drop-kick from an almost hopeless distance and once piling up on the twenty-three yards for three downs and no gain and then hurling a hit-or-miss forward pass that, fortunately for the defenders, had missed! Once Alton had rushed as far as Kenly’s eighteen yards where an off-side play had spoiled her chance of scoring. A desperate fake kick, with Harmon taking the pigskin around left end, had lost the ball on the nineteen. For the rest of the time the two teams had edged back and forth across the almost obliterated fifty-yard line, rushing, passing, punting, playing somewhat ragged football to be sure, but playing it very desperately.

Now the Gray-and-Gold was back in the gymnasium, sore and battle-scarred; weary, too, but not knowing it. And the minutes were ticking away fast toward the second half. Manager Johnson, watch in hand, pale-faced and as nervous as a wet hen, walked a sentry beat between the door and the benches. Coach Cade had said his say, and he and Captain Proctor and Ned Richards were conferring soberly together.

“Time’s about up, Coach!” called Johnson.

The group of three broke up. The coach nodded to the manager and then held up his hand. “Same line-up,” he announced, “except Longstreth at right half and Emerson at right end. All right! You know what to do, fellows! Let’s get them this time!”

There was a cheer, hoarse, deafening, and then they crowded eagerly about the door, pushing and shoving good-naturedly, laughing, pranking, until, outside, they waited for Mart Proctor to take the lead. Then they trotted back to the gridiron, while the long Alton cheer broke forth from the stand.

Russell, keeping close beside Jimmy, tugged his sleeve. “Jimmy,” he asked with dry lips, “Jimmy, did he say me at right end?”

Jimmy turned and laughed at sight of Russell’s face. “Yes, you lucky dog! For the love of Pete, don’t look like that, Rus! What’s the matter?” Jimmy knew, but pretended he didn’t. Russell grinned crookedly and wet his lips with his tongue.

“I – I’m scared!” he croaked.

“Fine stuff! Hand it on! I’ll be with you pretty soon, son, and we’ll show those red-legs how to play football!”

During the first half of the game McLeod had played left end and Lake right. Harley had showed himself just as much at home on the left of the line as in his accustomed position, but Lake, first substitute, had not equaled him. Lake had been boxed far too often, and, once, when he had missed a tackle almost under Kenly’s goal, the Cherry-and-Black’s quarter had dodged his way along the side line to the forty yards before he had been pulled down by Richards. Coach Cade had determined to try a new right end for the third quarter. Perhaps when the fourth period began Lake would go back again. Meanwhile new blood might help.

Kenly kicked off and Longstreth captured the short kick and was brought down with no gain. From the twenty-eight yards Alton began her journey. Kenly’s line from guard to guard was impregnable. That had been already proved. Her tackles, too, were clever and not easily fooled. In short, gains through the Kenly line were few and far between, and Alton had recourse now to end runs and occasional forward passes. Russell’s stage-fright lasted through two plays. Then he forgot to be scared, forgot everything but his overmastering desire to serve and win. After all, this was not greatly different from playing against the first. Those red-legged, red-sleeved opponents seemed no more in earnest than the old opponents and played no more desperately. The big, square-jawed tackle who faced him at times was no more formidable than Mart Proctor had been. In fact, Russell began to think that Mart was the better of the two, especially after Ned Richards, with a cunningly concealed ball, whizzed inside the big tackle for four yards.

Like the first half, the second proved the teams too evenly weighted and skilled for long gains by either side. Two yards, three, two yards again, and then a punt. Sometimes one or the other managed an end run that brought a larger gain, but neither team made first down by straight rushing until the third quarter was almost done. Then Kenly worked a criss-cross of a pattern as old as the hills and got seven yards through Stimson, placing the pigskin on Alton’s thirty-eight. Yet two minutes later the Gray-and-Gold was again in possession and Ned Richards’ voice was chanting his shrill signals.

Back and forth across the middle of the field went the ball. Penalties for off-side were many. There were a few for holding. Each team suffered about equally from these. The quarter came finally to an end and the rivals drew away and the ball was taken across the field and deposited close to the forty-five-yard line. Raleigh and Mawson trotted on, then Linthicum. But Lake did not come back. It didn’t occur to Russell to give consideration to this fact. The whistle blew again and the lines once more tensed. On the stands the prospect of a no-score game was already a favorite topic of discussion. The teams were too well matched for anything short of a miracle to break the dead-lock. Alton accepted the likelihood with better grace than Kenly, for Alton, until a few days since, had looked for defeat, and anything short of that was to be accepted with thanksgiving. Kenly, however, knowing of her ancient rival’s long-continued slump and realizing her own powers, had come to Alton looking not only for victory but a decisive and glorious one. Of the two forces it was Kenly Hall who saw the time shortening and the game drawing to an inconclusive end with the less satisfaction.

Once, soon after the last period started, Ned Richards brought the Alton stand to its feet with a thirty-yard run that, for one ecstatic moment seemed to spell a touchdown. But he was spilled on Kenly’s twenty-four, and, although Alton chanted lustily for a score, two rushes made no headway, a forward-pass grounded and Linthicum’s effort at a drop-kick was a sad performance. Coach Cade began on his reserves then, and from that moment new men appeared at short intervals. Jimmy joined soon after the period started, and afterwards came Cravath and Johnston and Smedley and still others.

Russell had long since proved Coach Cade’s wisdom. Harley McLeod was no more fleet of foot under kicks than Russell, nor were there more gains at Russell’s end of the line than at the other. At tackling Russell showed himself earnest and certain, and no Kenly back, having caught the booted ball, moved after Russell’s arms had clutched him. He was streaked of face, sore of muscles, lame of leg, but gloriously happy.

Kenly was becoming almost hysterical now in her mad efforts to score. Forward-passes that were on the face of them forlorn hopes sailed through the air. Twice the Cherry-and-Black almost made them good, but once Captain Proctor saved the day and once it was Russell who at the last moment shouldered the expectant catcher aside. Alton tried her best to win, but she indulged in no risky plays. To keep the ball and get a back away inside or outside tackle was now her only hope until she could reach a point inside the enemy’s thirty yards. Once there, she would try a field-goal. But the backs couldn’t get away, at least, not far. Kenly watched Harmon, and subsequently Mawson, as a cat watches a mouse. So, as through the former periods, the ball remained well inside the two thirty-five-yard lines and, so far as scoring was concerned, the game was already evidently at an end.

The time-keeper announced four minutes, then two. The stands were emptying. Kenly, who had risked all on her first-string men until now, began to hurl new warriors into her army. Every other moment the pauses were prolonged by the appearances of hurrying, eager substitutes. The shadows were deepening about the field and over on the Alton stand the hundreds of voices were singing the spirited pæan that is reserved for victory. The ball was on Alton’s forty-six yards and it was the third down. Linthicum took the pass from Richards and hurled himself at right tackle for one scant yard. It was fourth down and five to go now. Jimmy stepped back slowly, held forth his hands. Four times he had punted far and true, but this time it was to be different. Cries of “Hold ’em, Alton!” and cries of “Get through, Kenly! Block this kick!” broke forth hoarsely. Then the lines swayed, were torn into fragments. A Kenly forward hurled himself high in air and met the kicked ball against his helmet. The pigskin bounded back up the field toward the Alton goal. Half a dozen players tried for it and missed. Then, in the blue haze of twilight, the watchers saw a figure detach itself from the mêlée and cut across toward the side line. Shouts of warning, of joy, of despair floated up from the field. The scattered forms there, like hounds on the track of the fox, sped helter-skelter after the fleeing player. Now he was blocked, now he had broken free again! Past midfield he went, heading in again toward the center of the trampled expanse. Friend and foe were about him and his flight seemed ended a dozen times. Yet always, by a sudden turn, a wrenching to left or right, a quick thrust of a straight arm, he managed to break away. Now he was out of the confusion, the field was trailing astern. He was passing the thirty-five yards under flying feet. Between him and the nearing goal no enemy lurked, for Kenly’s quarter had been drawn out of position by the blocked kick. But that quarter was in hot pursuit a half-dozen strides behind. Back of him the rest of the players were strung out for many yards.

The fox faltered once near the twenty, and the nearer hound lessened the intervening space, but a third actor had joined them now. Close to the fifteen yards he made his final desperate effort. Drawing even with the red-legged pursuer, he launched himself sidewise. Together the two went down and rolled over, and the fox ran free! Another white line passed under his feet, and another. Bedlam had broken loose on the Alton stand and that last faint streak was crossed to the wild exultation of victory! And having crossed the line, Russell set the ball down and set himself down beside it. Then he closed his eyes while the nearer goal-post swayed like the mast of a vessel in a heavy sea!

It was Jimmy who reached him first, Jimmy who, panting and exhausted, threw an arm about his shoulders and rubbed streaming eyes against a dirty sleeve. “Oh, Rus!” muttered Jimmy. “Bless your heart, son! We’ve won! Do you get it, Rus? We’ve won the old ball game!”