Barry Locke, half-back

Time was called and both teams ministered to casualties. Major Loring seized the opportunity to take out Demille and substitute Logan. Hoskins called in a new left tackle. Not quite two minutes remained when the whistle blew again, and Broadmoor was not yet out of the woods. Captain Buckley and Ike Boardman had conferred during the pause, and now Boardman shouted: “Let’s go, Broadmoor! Locke back! Forty-four, forty-eight, ninety-one!”

Barry, a half-dozen strides from the nearer post and a full seven yards behind the goal-line, held his arms forth. The two lines smashed together as the ball shot back and Barry swung a leg through empty air. Logan, the ball hugged to his stomach, dived behind Haviland and crossbucked between Sinclair and Kirkland. But Hoskins was firm and less than a yard was gained.

“Second down!” sung the referee. “About nine!”

“Locke back! Make it good, Barry! Signals!”

“Block it!” Hoskins’s captain limped along his line, slapping his men. “Block this kick, fellows! Let’s get that score! Get into it! Fight!”

“Hold, Broadmoor!” shouted the throng that, deserting the stand, had clustered along the side-line to the left. “Hold, Broadmoor! Hold, Broadmoor!”

“Block that kick! Block that kick!” chanted the crowd across the field.

The ball left the hands of Pete Zosker and traveled toward Barry. But Pete had committed his one fault of the game. The pass was straight but short and the pigskin struck the ground a yard away. Barry got it on the bound, but already the enemy was breaking through. There was no time to steady himself and kick. He thought quickly in that instant, weighing the chances. Then he slipped the ball into the crook of his elbow, turned right, and dashed away, past the nearer goal-post, running parallel to the boundary. Tumult filled the air, but he heard nothing save the hoarse shout of Haviland, almost at his elbow: “In! In!” Barry turned, digging his cleats hard, and shot toward the goal-line. To be stopped short of it would mean the end of everything! Haviland mowed down a foe just as Barry reached the almost obliterated mark. A blue-sleeved body charged against him and hands fell about his shoulders, but he swerved and the clutch only swung him to the left, and he staggered across the line, fell, arose again, took another stride, and was hauled to earth.

When the ball was uncovered it lay not quite three yards inside. Breathless, Barry found himself leaning against Pete Zosker’s ample form, and Pete was saying huskily, contritely:

“Gee, kid! I’m sorry! Next time you’ll get it right!”

Indeed, next time it must be right, for now, when Barry had again stepped back, one of the goal-posts loomed threateningly close. It would be no hard matter to crash the ball against it, and if he did, almost anything might happen. It was third down now and ten to go. This time Pete sent the ball perfectly and Barry, fighting the impulse to hurry the punt, poised the pigskin carefully, almost deliberately, stepped forward, and kicked.

But the ball didn’t clear the line. A Hoskins forward had fought his way through and against his upflung arm the ball struck and bounded aside, to the left. Shrieks of triumph, of desperate alarm arose. “Ball! Ball!” A dozen frantic players turned in pursuit. But the chase was between Barry and a Hoskins back, and it was Barry who won. The pigskin, bouncing erratically this way and that, maintained a general course toward the side-line between the first two white streaks, and it was still bobbing along when Barry, a split-second ahead of his adversary, dropped to the turf and gathered it to him. The enemy crashed down upon him, driving the breath from his body, wrenching grimly the prize. But Barry as grimly held on. A second foe, close on the heels of the first, landed, and Barry felt a swift jab of pain strike through an ankle just as the whistle shrilled.

Some one took the ball from him and some one else jerked him erect, gibbering praise. A great hand smote him between the shoulders and a harsh but jubilant voice said:

“Great work, Locke! Oh, great work, boy!”

Barry grimaced into Buck’s grimy countenance. He meant to smile, but the throbbing in his ankle turned the smile into a painful leer.

“Want time?” demanded the captain, anxiously. “What’s wrong?”

“No,” Barry panted. “I guess I turned my ankle. I’m all right.” He detached himself from Boardman’s sustaining grasp and took a tentative step, and another. As he had purposely turned his face away from the two, they didn’t see his brows contract as he put his weight on that left foot. Well, after all, it wasn’t so bad. If he favored it a very little he scarcely had to limp. Captain Buckley looked doubtful, but Ike only said:

“Ata boy! Come on! Let’s get out of this! Hey, how much time, Mr. Referee?”

A hovering official answered:

“Forty seconds, Broadmoor! Forty seconds, Hoskins!”

Barry grinned resolutely as he once more and for the last time went back to kicking position. The grin was necessary. It was grin or grimace, for something was plainly wrong with that left foot of his. It hurt like the dickens if he even put it to the ground. Going back had to be done carefully, for if the Major saw, or the trainer, they’d want to know all about it; and what they didn’t know wasn’t going to hurt them. Some one had to kick out of there, and no else could, now that Tip Cartright was gone and couldn’t come back. Barry chose his station very carefully, tested that throbbing foot, and once more waited for the ball. This was Broadmoor’s last chance.

Again Pete Zosker shot the pigskin back accurately, and again the lines crashed together. Hoskins, too, faced her last chance. If she could block this punt as she had the last, she might, even if Broadmoor recovered, smash across that one short yard to a touchdown and victory. But this time the Purple-and-Gray held and Barry punted unhurriedly. There was an instant of fierce shooting pain as he put all his weight on the injured foot while the other swung along its long arc, but he gritted his teeth and went through with it. Leather met leather and the ball bounded away, well above the waving hands of the desperate, plunging foe, up into the path of the north wind, and then, lazily turning in its flight, sailed far down the field, while blue legs and gray legs started in pursuit.

Barry watched a moment from the ground, for, having punted, he had dropped in his tracks while a Hoskins forward hurdled over him. It was a great relief to sit there, but he mustn’t do it. Somewhere well beyond the middle of the field the ball had settled into the arms of a player and Broadmoor, converging, was hurrying toward it. Barry got weakly to his feet and set off. He made no effort to hide the limp now. He had done his part. If they wanted to bench him, they might.

But none seemed to heed him. The Hoskins quarter had been run outside at the fifty-yard line. Broadmoor had called time and Major Loring was sending in substitutes as fast as he could call their names: Patterson, Sisson, Van Brunt, Hall, Brush, Allen, Cruger. The milling throng along the eastern border cheered busily. Thad Brush waved Barry back as the latter slowly approached the group.

“We’ll play it safe!” he called. “Only sixteen seconds left. Watch for a forward!”

Barry hobbled back, the new quarter still excitedly chattering as they found their positions half-way to the goal. Barry wished the whistle would blow. It did at last. Beyond the widespread Broadmoor line the enemy scuttled this way and that, the ball passing from one to another. An end darted around Follen and came tearing down the field. Shrill cries of warning arose. The ball, uncertain in the gathering twilight, hurtled from beyond the confusion of running forms and Barry started into action. Behind him, gaining on his limping team-mate, sped Thad Brush. Barry, Hoskins end, and pigskin met close to the side-line. Barry was not there soon enough to spoil a splendid catch of a wonderful throw, for the long-legged end pulled the ball from the air and turned to run before Barry launched himself.

He missed his tackle, for one doesn’t leap accurately from an injured foot, but he sent the runner staggering out of bounds and, although the latter would have treated that fact as of no consequence, and took up his flight once more, a whistle blew, an official dug a heel into the turf, a horn tooted discordantly, and the game was over!

Broadmoor flooded the field, a pushing, shouting army of joy-crazed youths. Banners swirled, hats soared. Caught in the maelstrom, Barry demurred, begged, entreated, but he was quickly hoisted aloft to go bobbing across the field on the shoulders of four bareheaded, shouting fellows, his left foot dangling painfully, his countenance set in a resolute grin. On the score-board the white 6 and the white 3 showed only dimly in the dusk.

Barry lay in bed. Well, not quite that, either, for although his bath-robe had taken the place of his outer garments and a spread was pulled up to his shoulders, he could not be said to have wholly retired. Down there toward the foot of the bed his left ankle, swathed in bandages, grumbled ceaselessly. But it didn’t shoot with hot pains as it had during that journey home between Peaches and Ira Haviland. Ira had been almost laughably solicitous. One might have thought that a sprained ankle was a fatal injury! At intervals Ira had declared with emphasis:

“You done noble, young feller, I’ll tell the squint-eyed world! You’re the hen’s chin, Locke!”

And now, having eaten not very heartily of Mrs. Lyle’s supper, he stared contentedly at the single globe that partially illumined the room and thought. Gee! there was plenty to think of! The game with its glorious outcome, the cheering afterward, the Major’s painful hand-clasp and his brief, “Nice work, Locke!” The trainer’s scolding as he ministered to the sprained ankle, the walk home, his arms around the shoulders of his companions and that silly-looking foot swaying back and forth. Yes, and of Mr. Benjy timorously appearing to inquire as to his comfort, and Mrs. Lyle at his heels, dropping sympathetic, unfinished sentences. Of Davy and Betty, the former trying to express admiration for Barry’s playing and gratitude for his share in solving the mystery of the lost bond and getting the two oddly mixed while Betty laughed and tried to think of something to add to the invalid’s comfort. The best that Betty could do was to rob Toby of one of his pillows and insist that Barry have it behind him; and Barry, rather than disappoint her, allowed it there even though it was distinctly uncomfortable.

He had had scant time to talk to Peaches, for Haviland had taken things into his own hands, personally depriving Barry of his outer garments and getting him on the bed, holding forth on varied subjects connected with the game meanwhile. Then he had dragged Peaches out of the room with him.

“He needs rest,” declared Ira. “Sleep. Yeah, you go to sleep, kid. That’s what you need—sleep. I’ll come and see how you’re getting along to-morrow. You done noble, I’ll tell the squint-eyed world!”

Remembering, Barry smiled. Well, he hoped he had “done noble.” At least well. He wished Peaches would come back from supper, for he had questions to ask. Then, as though in answer to that wish, the outer door opened below and footsteps sounded on the stairs. Some one, though, was with Peaches. Barry could tell it from the noise. The some one was Clyde.

A minute later Barry was saying:

“Pshaw! I’ve only got to stay in a couple of days! I’ll be skipping around as good as new next week.” Clyde looked relieved. Peaches told of the bonfire that was building over on the marsh, of incidents happening during supper.

Clyde broke in with:

“Wish you could have been there, Barry. You’ve never heard such a riot in your life! The Doctor had to come in and stop it, finally. No one else could!”

Presently Barry managed to get in one of the questions he wanted to ask:

“Shut up a minute, will you, Peaches? Listen now. How did you find out about Rusty Waterman?”

Peaches grinned, hugged a knee, and cheerfully explained:

“It was easy to one of my acumen. In the first place, I couldn’t quite believe that Allen here had written that thing. It didn’t look plausible, somehow. So I went to the Major and asked to see the letter. He said I could take it along if I’d sleuth about a bit. Well, the first thing I did was to call on Whitwell. He had sold that typewriter to Allen, you see, and I wanted to find out if he had sold another one that printed the B out of alignment. When I got to his room in Meddill I discovered that he roomed with Rusty. That’s when I had a hunch. Well, Whitwell said that one machine was the only one that was crazy and that he had meant to try and fix it before he left it with Allen.

“‘I noticed it one day last week, when Rusty was playing with it,’ he said. ‘I didn’t play with it,’ growled Rusty. ‘Sure you did! You wrote a letter or something on it. Don’t you remember? Sunday; wasn’t it?’ I caught Rusty’s eye just then and I said, ‘Rusty, the coach wants to talk with you.’ Well, he blustered and said he didn’t have time to see Loring, and what was it all about, anyway? But he did come along, finally, and the Major put him through the third degree, to the king’s taste. Rusty caved and came clean. Said he wanted to get square with you for something you’d done. Said he had taken a carbon of the letter and was going to mail it to the Major when it looked like the first part of the plot had flivvered, but he got cold feet. Something must have tipped him off that all was not well.”

“I know what it was,” broke in Clyde. “He was with me the day I found that note about L. having heard from P. I couldn’t make head nor tail of it and showed it to him. He said he couldn’t, either, but I guess he did!”

“What did the Major say to him?” asked Barry.

“The Major,” replied Peaches, grimly, “said a plenty! Say, there’s one thing the army does for you, fellows: it gives you a perfectly grand command of language! I guess the Major used most of his before he got through. Rusty looked like a wilted turnip. Finally the Major said he wasn’t going to take the matter to faculty as long as Rusty behaved himself, and after that, just when the poor guy was recovering his—his—you say it, Barry.”

“Equanimity.”

“Thanks. Recovering his equanimity, the Major informed him that he was out of football for this year, next year, and all the years to come, or words to that effect! That got Rusty, and he pleaded hard, but Coach wouldn’t listen to him; just opened the door.”

“I wish,” Clyde said, preparing to depart, “you fellows would drop around at my diggings sometimes.”

“Surely will,” answered Peaches, politely. “And there’s nothing to keep you from coming here once in a while, Allen, is there?”

“Why, no; no indeed! I’ll do that, of course. Well, see you later, Barry. Don’t—”

“Hold on a minute,” interrupted Barry. “Is that a bargain, you two?”

“Bargain?” asked Clyde.

“Yes, that you’ll come here and Peaches will go with me to see you. Is it?”

“As far as I’m concerned,” answered Clyde, a trifle stiffly.

“Same here,” said Peaches, slyly enjoying the situation.

“Well, then,” pursued Barry, looking from one to the other, “suppose you shake hands on it.”

“Piffle,” muttered Clyde, looking much embarrassed.

“Well,” said Peaches, “just to oblige a dying friend, Allen!”

Although his eyes danced, he gravely avoided Barry’s smile as he and Clyde clasped hands across the bed.

At the same moment Major Loring and “Jonah” Mears, sitting before a crackling fire in the coach’s room, talked and smoked in a comfortable, well-earned leisure. They had discussed the game exhaustively, and now conversation had become more desultory, broken by periods of silence.

“That young Locke was a lucky find,” said Mr. Mears, musingly.

The Major smiled.

“More than a find, Jonah,” he replied; “a discovery.”

“Yes.” The other refilled his pipe slowly. “Yes, and I like the youngster’s style. He’s got real football spirit. Handles himself pretty, too. Of course, he’s young yet, and light; give him another twenty pounds—”

“Give him another year,” said the coach, softly, “and then watch him! Barry Locke has the stuff they used to make knights of, and crusaders; the stuff that nowadays makes football heroes. I wish I had a few more like him, Jonah. He—” the Major gently tapped his pipe against an andiron—“he’s the right sort.”