Part 50 (1/2)

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.