Coach Bonner ran in five substitutes, Bowen at right guard, Peet at right tackle, Hanser at right half, Barnes at full and Weston at quarter. Monty, one of the blanket-wrapped line on the bench, witnessed Bowen’s departure for the trampled battle field with disappointment. He had been hoping that Mr. Bonner would decide on him for the place. But Bowen was an old hand and a better player, and, in spite of disappointment, Monty acknowledged the wisdom of the coach’s choice. Kinley was still holding down the right guard position and would certainly come out before long, but when he did there was Hersum ready, or, if not Hersum, then Little. Monty couldn’t see where he came into it today.
Middleton made no more changes in her line-up. Grafton’s new backfield worked less smoothly than the old and the last quarter was but three plays old when Hanser was driven far back when attempting a wide end run and there pulled to earth by two desperate opponents. It was then fourth down, with nearly eighteen to go, and Weston kicked from close behind the line. The ball was sent away too low and a Middleton forward knocked it down and most of the twenty-two players went after it. When it finally came to a stop it was smuggled under the canvas jacket of a Middleton tackle on Grafton’s eighteen yards.
It was the home team’s time to celebrate. A fine hubbub broke forth in the stand and along one side of the field as the two teams lined up almost under the shadow of the north goal. Grafton made a desperate defence of that goal, but some of the second-string fellows were found wanting. She staved off that touchdown as long as she could and twice the distance had to be measured, but in the end—it took Middleton her full allowance of eight plays to do it—an obnoxious halfback bored through and when the tangle of squirming bodies was pulled or hurled aside he was found to have placed the ball just two inches over the line!
An equally obnoxious tackle added another point to the six and Grafton kicked off to Middleton. There was still something like eight minutes of the period remaining and the Grafton supporters had lost their feeling of security. Middleton came back hard. In the first mix-up Weston was hurt and Blake came back to quarter. Middleton began at the wings again and tried hard to reach scoring distance of the Scarlet-and-Gray’s goal. Several plays netted good gains, but a fumble and a penalty equalized matters. A desperately long forward-pass that ought never to have succeeded did succeed and again Grafton found herself almost under her goal. The Middleton rooters were cheering and shouting wildly now. Coach Bonner sent Musgrave back to center and Winslow to left half. Another forward heave struck the ground. Middleton began a hard battering of the right side of the enemy’s line and made short gains there. Grafton held fast on her twenty-one yards and kicked on second down. Middleton started back from the middle of the field and came fast. An end run went around Bellows for a dozen yards and Bowen was punctured again for six. Hanrihan stopped the next attack and sustained injuries. Gordon replaced him. A forward-pass netted a short gain for Middleton and then the fullback banged at Bowen again and romped through for first down.
Monty, watching dubiously, heard his name called. Mr. Bonner was curling a finger toward him. “Go on in,” said the coach briefly. “Send Bowen out. You can stop those gains if you get the jump, Crail. Tell Blake to play his backfield deeper on the shifts. Keep your eyes open, Crail, and show your mettle.”
The coach shoved him toward the field and Monty hurried in, pulling his head protector down.
“Report to the referee,” cautioned Tray as he passed, and Monty sought that official.
“Right guard, sir,” he announced.
“All right, Crail,” greeted Winslow breathlessly. “Who’s off?”
“Bowen. Where’s Blake?”
“Here! What is it?” And then, when Monty had delivered his message: “All right,” he said. “Come on now, Grafton! Get down and under ’em and heave ’em back! Let’s take that ball away!”
Monty stepped in between Musgrave and Gordon and faced his opponent, a square-shouldered youth with a dirt-stained face and a grimly set mouth. Middleton tried him out on the first play and Monty proved that time no better than Bowen. But the secondary defence backed up and the gain was short. Then an end run was stopped for a loss.
“Watch this, Tom!” counseled Winslow. “Look out on the right there! Get that man!” The attack on the line was a fake and the quarter was stealing out on the left, looking for an opening. Monty shook himself free of the mêlée and started across in the wake of Gordon. Tray was out of it now and the Middleton interference swept in. Gordon went down, taking his attacker with him, and Monty, stumbling over the two forms, strained for the runner. Winslow was beside him, and it was Winslow who made the tackle. Down went the runner like a keg of nails, the Grafton captain’s arms closing like vises about his legs. Monty had slewed aside and had poised himself to drop in front of the runner when something big and dirty-brown leaped in front of him. It was the ball. It bounded once erratically and then Monty had it, had tucked it into the crook of his left arm, had wheeled and was leaping up the field.
But the enemy hedged him in and he had scarcely struck his gait when the first striped-legged player dove at him. Monty swerved, stumbled, but got by. Then the enemy were all about him, it seemed, and he could only clutch the ball more desperately and wait for the tackle, meanwhile, however, plunging straight ahead, right arm thrusting at eager bodies, grimly resolved to gain every inch possible before he went crashing to earth. Cries of friend and foe arose about it. One of his own men leaped in front of him, smashed into a Middleton player and went down. Monty leaped over the writhing legs, tore loose from hands that tried to grasp his knees, staggered and recovered. Before him was open field, but behind him came pounding feet.
Not until that instant did he measure the distance that lay between him and success. The play had begun near Grafton’s twenty-five-yard line and Monty had captured the ball at about the twenty. Now he was crossing the thirty-five, and nearly two-thirds of the field stretched before him. He was no sprinter, was Monty, but he could set a good pace and keep it up for a long while, and now he had the advantage of being fresh and untired. His leg and back muscles had felt stiff and sore when he had trotted onto the field a few moments since, but he had quickly forgotten the fact, and now it was only a knowledge of his inability to run fast that troubled him. Had he been Winslow or Ordway or Nick Blake he might have left the pack behind without much difficulty, but as it was he feared every moment to feel arms wrap themselves about him. He dared not look back directly, but, near the forty-five yards, he stole a sidewise glace. A confusion of moving bodies rewarded the fleeting look. He got the impression that one was dangerously near and the rest well behind. He was heading straight for the goal-posts, and in doing so, since he had started his race from well toward the side of the gridiron, he was, perhaps, giving his pursuers a slight advantage, traveling a few feet further than they in case they had begun the pursuit nearer the middle of the field. The difference could be only slight as to distance, but it might mean just the fraction of a second that would defeat him. He straightened his course and no longer focussed eager eyes on the goal. Breathing hurt him now and the muscles down the front of his legs ached as he forced himself on at a pace he had never before attempted.
He was well past the middle of the field before he heard the shouting from the stand and the side lines. He realized now that the shouting had been going on from the first, but it had been only a meaningless roar in his ears. Now he mentally pictured the tense faces on the crowded stand and along the ropes and felt an alien sympathy for the hundred who were shouting their throats dry in encouragement of his pursuers. For he knew that only a tithe of that uproar meant a desire for his success. It was those behind whom the cries acclaimed. The runner’s strained face twisted in a grim smile as he realized it, and, smiling, he found new resolution to win his race. It is generally the under dog who fights hardest.
Past the enemy’s forty now, and still free! The footsteps pounded behind on the frosty turf and yet seemed scarce nearer. If only he could hold on a few moments longer! Barely more than a half dozen trampled white lines remained to be crossed. If only he dared look behind! His head was falling back now with every plunge, the arm that held the ball seemed nerveless. Once he stumbled slightly, enough to throw him out of his stride, and it seemed whole minutes to him before he had settled back into the dogged pace. His steps were shorter now. His feet were leaden and every lift was made at a greater effort. Once, near the twenty-five yards, he heard his name called gaspingly, but he knew better than to heed. It was a trick of the enemy. It was only later that he realized the error of that reasoning.
On and still on! Across the twenty-yard-line, over the fifteen! The footsteps behind sounded farther away, but he would take no chances. The lime lines were an interminable distance apart. It seemed to Monty that he spent minutes between one and another and that he lifted his aching knees a dozen times. He wondered why the pursuers failed to reach him, for he was sure that he was moving no faster than a walk! Then, abruptly, but one white mark lay ahead, and a sudden certainty of triumph filled him with joy. Even if he was caught now, he could, he told himself, struggle on for that last five yards. Already two were gone and the goal line dragged itself to meet him. Another stride and another and the line passed waveringly underfoot. Instinctively he turned to the right toward the posts, but the turning mixed his feet up and he fell to his knees. Weakly he arose once more and went on. He was dimly aware of the thud of meeting bodies nearby. He covered the last twenty feet fairly in the act of falling, so that when the nearest goal-post swam past his misty sight he had only time to put his arm out before he stretched his length on the sod.
But oh, the delicious feel of that ground under him! He wondered if one felt as he did before one fainted. If only he could get air into his empty lungs! He tried hard to take long breaths, but could only pant, and the breath seemed to get no further than his throat. The inside of his head was swirling around and around curiously and he couldn’t see. Then he found that he had closed his eyes, which explained the darkness, and opened them weakly and saw a blur of russet-green. That was the grass. Perhaps if he turned over on his back——
The question was settled for him, for someone laid hands on his shoulders and turned him face upwards. And someone shouted “Water!” in a perfectly thunderous voice, and Monty wondered if he would ever be able to shout like that! The next moment he was snatched back from semi-consciousness by hands tugging at his left arm. They were trying to get the ball away from him! And he had thought them friends! He resisted with every ounce of strength left him and opened his eyes to a glare of blue sky that pained him and said as loud and defiantly as he could: “Down!”
The person beside him heard the whisper and laughed pantingly. “All right, Crail,” he said. “Drop the ball and give me that arm.”
Monty looked up and saw the face of Hobo Ordway bending over him. He sighed and released his tense muscles. Ordway began pumping his arms and Monty shook his head weakly. “I’m all right—now, partner,” he murmured. “Just—a little—short of breath.”
Further speech was impossible, for something very cold and dripping obliterated speech and sight. Monty squirmed and said “Ugh!” and wrested an arm away from Ordway. “Gosh! Want to drown a fellow?” he demanded.
“Lie still,” replied a callous voice. The sponge went on sopping and Monty decided that, after the first shock, it felt rather pleasant. He was breathing more easily now, although his lungs still felt hot and scraped, but when he raised his knees he had to groan.
“Where is it?” asked Davy Richards.
“Just my legs, thanks,” explained Monty, very elaborately since he had an idea that his voice was not yet in good working order. “They are awfully tired.”
“I’ll fix ’em!” The sponge left his face and went sopping down on the fronts of his pants. It took a moment or two for the water to penetrate the canvas and the padding, but when it did it felt wonderful against those aching legs. “How’s that?” asked the trainer.
“Great, thanks! I guess I’ll get up.”
“No hurry. You’re not wanted.”
“Not wanted? Why not?”
“Williams is in.”
“Williams! In my place? What for?” Monty sat up very suddenly and stared amazedly toward the field. At the farther end the game was going on without him! Monty gave a lunge that almost sent Davy on his face and struggled to his feet. “Here,” he cried, “I’m in that!”
“No, you’re not, lad. You’re off. You did your share. Come on across to the bench and get a blanket on you.”
“But—but I made the touchdown, didn’t I?” demanded Monty anxiously.
“Sure you did. And Winslow kicked goal. Come on now.”
“But—when? Where was I? Do you mean they kicked goal while I was lying there?”
“They did. Maybe you wanted them to wait for you,” said the trainer sarcastically.
“Oh!” Monty suffered Davy to put an arm under his elbow and lead him across the corner of the gridiron. “He might have let me play it out,” he added after a moment.
“Sure, you’d be playin’ a fine game, wouldn’t you? There’s only a minute or two more, lad. Let the other fellow have his chance.”
As they neared the bench a smattering of applause met him, but Monty scarcely heard it. “How far behind was the other fellow when I crossed the goal line?” he asked Davy.
“Do you mean Ordway?”
“No, I mean the—the Middleton fellow; the one who chased me all the way down.”
“There wasn’t any Middleton feller,” replied Davy. “They never had a chance.”
“What!” Monty sank to the bench, wide-eyed, open-mouthed. “Do you mean to tell me that I was running away from one of our fellows?”
“Ay,” answered Davy, with a chuckle. “It was you and Ordway alone after the forty yards, and you gained on him all the way!”
“Snakes!” groaned Monty.