Part 51 (1/2)

At the play, instead of blocking, he jumped back and to one side, escaping the end who dove at his knees. Then, rus.h.i.+ng ahead, he stalled off the half and caught the fullback with a tackle that brought him to his feet, rubbing his side.

”Lawrenceville's ball. Time up for first half.”

d.i.n.k had not thought of the time. Amazed, he scrambled to his feet, half angry at the interruption, and following the team went over to the room to be talked to by the captain and the coach.

It was a hang-dog crowd that gathered there, quailing under the scornful las.h.i.+ng of Garry c.o.c.krell. He spared no one, he omitted no names. d.i.n.k, listening, lowered his eyes, ashamed to look upon the face of the team. One or two cried out:

”Oh, I say, Garry!”

”That's too much!”

”Too much, too much, is it?” cried their captain, walking up and down, striking the flat of his hand with the clenched fist. ”By heavens, it's nothing to what they're saying of us out there. They're ashamed of us, one and all! Listen to the cheering if you don't believe it!

They'll cheer a losing team, a team that is being driven back foot by foot. There's something glorious in that, but a team that stands up to be pushed over, a team that lies down and quits, a team that hasn't one bit of red fighting blood in it, they won't cheer; they're ashamed of you! Now, I'll tell you what's going to happen to you. You're going to be run down the field for just about four touchdowns. Here's Lentz being tossed around by a fellow that weighs forty pounds less. Why, he's the joke of the game. McCarty hasn't stopped a play, not one!

Waladoo's so easy that they rest up walking through him. But that's not the worst, you're playing wide apart as though there wasn't a man within ten miles of you; not one of you is helping out the other. The only time you've taken the ball from them is when a little shaver comes in and uses his head. Now, you're not going to win this game, but by the Almighty you're going out there and going to hold that Andover team! You've got the wind against you; you've got everything against you; you've got to fight on your own goal line, not once, but twenty times. But you've got to hold 'em; you're going to make good; you're going to wipe out that disgraceful, cowardly first half! You're going out there to stand those fellows off! You're going to make the school cheer for you again as though they believed in you, as though they were proud of you! You're going to do a bigger thing than beat a weaker team! You're going to fight off defeat and show that, if you can't win, you can't be beaten!”

Mr. Ware, in a professional way, pa.s.sed from one to another with a word of advice: ”Play lower, get the jump--don't be drawn in by a fake plunge--watch Goodhue.”

But d.i.n.k heard nothing; he sat in his corner, clasping and unclasping his hands, suffering with the moments that separated him from the fray. Then all at once he was back on the field, catching the force of the wind that blew the hair about his temples, hearing the half-hearted welcome that went up from the school.

”Hear that cheer!” said Garry c.o.c.krell bitterly.

From Butcher Stevens' boot the ball went twisting and veering down the field. Stover went down, dodging instinctively, hardly knowing what he did. Then as he started to spring at the runner an interferer from behind flung himself on him and sent him sprawling, but not until one arm had caught and checked his man.

McCarty had stopped the runner, when d.i.n.k sprang to his feet, wild with the rage of having missed his tackle.

”Steady!” cried the voice of his captain.

He lined up hurriedly, seeing red. The interference started for him, he flung himself at it blindly and was buried under the body of the red-haired half. Powerless to move, humiliatingly held under the st.u.r.dy body, the pa.s.sion of fighting rose in him again. He tried to throw him off, doubling up his fist, waiting until his arm was free.

”Why, you're easy, kid,” said a mocking voice. ”We'll come again.”

The taunt suddenly chilled him. Without knowing how it happened, he laughed.

”That's the last time you get me, old rooster,” he said, in a voice that did not belong to him.

He glanced back. Andover had gained fifteen yards.

”That comes from losing my head,” he said quietly. ”That's over.”

It had come, the cold consciousness of which c.o.c.krell had spoken, strange as the second wind that surprises the distressed runner.

”I've got to teach that red-haired coot a lesson,” he said. ”He's a little too confident. I'll shake him up a bit.”

The opportunity came on the third play, with another attack on his end. He ran forward a few steps and stood still, leaning a little forward, waiting for the red-haired back who came plunging at him.

Suddenly d.i.n.k dropped to his knees, the interferer went violently over his back, something struck Stover in the shoulder and his arms closed with the fierce thrill of holding his man.

”Second down, seven yards to gain,” came the welcome sound.

Time was taken out for the red-haired half-back, who had had the wind knocked out of him.