Part 28 (2/2)

”Boys, it's easy to lose and it's hard to win. Don't be fooled by the rooters saying you made a game fight. What _would_ you do? Run away?

Take it from me, there's a time in every game when either team can win.

It's the team that has the sand, that's got the guts to put in an extra pound _right then_, that wins! I'm not telling you this Cornell team is easy. They're d.a.m.ned hard. But you've got weight enough, you've got speed enough, you know football enough. Now you go out there on the field, and show me you've got guts enough to win!”

With set jaws and grim, resolute hearts, the team, Neale at their head, trotted out on the gridiron. ”It's the last time you'll wear the blue and white, Neale Crittenden!” He was clanging to that note.

They were lucky to get through the first half with a clean slate.

Cornell came fast and hard, but time after time they held them and punted out of danger. The ten minutes' intermission seemed to last barely ten seconds and they were at it again, dead-locked, swaying from one forty-yard line to another. ”Looks like a tie-game, barring a fluke,” thought Neale, and then with an angry throb of alarm, ”By G.o.d, I believe we're letting up! Here's where we put in that extra pound!”

”Six, n-int-e-e-n-f-o-r-t-y-f-i-v-e!” the quarter was droning. ”No!”

cried Neale, ”Change that! Four-seven-two-eight!” It was his own straight buck, and he went into the line with a headlong hurdle. ”I'll give the signals for a play or two, Bunny,” he called to the quarter as they lined up again, ”Seven-fourteen-thirty-three,” he barked and took the ball on a cross buck, rolling and plunging for four yards, ”Three-seven-nine-four.” Again he started on the cross buck, bluffed at receiving the ball, hit the defense head down, yelling, ”Help me!” and just as he fell saw Wallace skirting outside of tackle with the delayed pa.s.s, stiff-arming the end, shaking off the defensive quarter and on for a good ten yards. As he got up, Neale grabbed Edwards round the neck and whispered, with lips close to his ear, ”We've got 'em started, Bunny!

You run the plays now. Get the idea? Shoot 'em outside, till they open up, then plug Billy and Mike through the guards. Keep mixing 'em up, and speed, _speed_!”

Bunny got the idea. He snapped out his signals, and shot his offense like a boxer hammering a groggy opponent. With Mike back, he ran Neale and Wallace outside, inside, across, on the weak side: then suddenly dropped back to straight battering-ram football, and sent Mike at the apex of a straining, stamping tandem, straight through and over the defense to the fifteen yard line. The team was crazy with success--prancing like stallions. ”Come on, boys!” Neale went a yard on a straight buck, dug his toe-cleats in as he fell, plunged and squirmed for another yard and a half. Wallace shot through a quick opening for three. With La.r.s.en back and first down, Billy sheered off inside for a couple of yards, the Swede got another two straight ahead, Mike running from position made only a bare yard, but enough!

”First down, to the line to go!” said the referee. Neale heard his signal. ”d.a.m.n the torpedoes, go ahead!” he thought. He flew at the line, bone and muscle transfigured by flaming will--a hard body dove against his knees--he staggered, leaned forward, churned his knees up and down a tenth of a second that seemed to drag for an hour, forward he staggered, strained forward, then fell. When the ma.s.s got off him he found he had got to the two-yard line. ”Give it to me again!” he whispered, pa.s.sing Bunny.

La.r.s.en stuck his blonde head close up to theirs, ”For Christ's sake, let _me_ take it! It's my last game. I won't play no more after to-day!”

”Neither will I,” thought Neale, but he nodded and they lined up with La.r.s.en back.

”Look out for a funny one,” cried the Cornell quarter, as the signals began. ”Cap and quarter had a consultation--”

As the center's fingers contracted for the snap-back, Neale shot out of his tracks, and crashed into the defensive half. ”Got him flat-footed,”

he thought, remembering as they both went down to swing his feet wide in the hope of getting the defensive quarter as well. He rolled clear at once, and looked back to see if he could be of any help. It wasn't necessary. Practically all the two teams were heaped in a human haystack, from the base of which emerged a grinning blonde face. Under the face were two huge hands some six inches over the line, clutching the ball, on which emotional Swedish eyes were weeping beatific tears.

Neale kicked a fairly easy goal. The trainer let him suck a little water from a sponge, whispering out of the corner of his motionless mouth, ”Andy says minute and a half to play. Hold the ball and line up slow!”

But the team had tasted too much blood to stall. They went down on the kick-off like a pack of wolf-hounds. They smashed two plays for a loss, and after a punt, they punched the ball to midfield before the whistle blew and the game was over.

Nicholson tossed the ball to Neale. ”Here's your ball, Cap!”

Neale saw Mike Blahoslav kissing Bunny Edwards. He himself was hugging Gus La.r.s.en, when the pandemonium from the grand-stand struck them. He was lifted on a platform of shoulders and carried to the gate surrounded by a cheering, singing, crazy mob of rooters.

”That's so,” he thought, ”there _was_ a crowd looking on!” He had not thought of the bleachers, or heard a cheer since the second half began.

They packed into the 'bus, Varsity inside, scrub on top. The 'bus went off at a gallop. For a few blocks the rooters ran along, throwing cigarettes and cigars through the windows. Neale leaned back and luxuriously lit a cigar. He had been thinking about that first cigar for the last month. Oh, faugh! It tasted hot and dry and burned his mouth.

No matter! He threw it away and leaned back in a golden reverie.

Would he ever again know such blessed unalloyed content?

Probably not.

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