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Secret Play

<h2>CHAPTER XIV AN UNWILLING HERO</h2> North Side used Wightson and Larue continuously, hurling them against the line from tackle to tackle and managing to work the ball from under the goal well into the middle of the field. There, however, the Second, surmising that attacks outside the tackles were not included in the enemy’s present plans, concentrated its secondary defense behind the center of its line and stopped the advance, North Side being forced to kick. The punt was poor and rolled out near the adversary’s forty yards, and from there the Second began another advance. But a fumble again lost ground and a punt went over the goal line. On a third try from their twenty yards, the North Siders managed to get Wightson clear for a twelve-yard run. A minute later Larue also squirmed free and, with the factory workers yelling their lungs out in the stand and along the side lines, North Side passed the middle of the field, and for the first time had the pigskin in High School territory. They played a hard and desperate game, caring nothing for knocks and bruises; in fact, showing a willingness to stand any sort of punishment so long as they gained ground. Concentrating their attack on Gage, at left guard, they wore that youth down, so that, finally, on the Second’s thirty-two yards, that player was withdrawn to recover his breath and nurse his injuries, and Johnson took his place. Johnson was a big Senior who knew little football, but who looked so imposing and mighty that the North Side transferred its attentions to the other guard. But Captain Nostrand was not so easy a proposition as Gage had proved, and the enemy’s advance was stopped. A desperate attempt to get a forward pass across the goal line from the thirty yards failed, and the twelve-minute period came to an end. High School punted on second down when play was resumed and Grover recovered the ball after a fumble by Quarterback Shores on the North Siders’ thirty-yard line. From there, in eleven plays, mixing forward passes with fake-kicks and end runs, High School scored, sending McCoy through right tackle for two yards and a touchdown. Brimmer, who essayed to kick the goal, failed by a narrow margin. There was no more scoring in that half, although the North Siders were threatening High School’s goal when the whistle blew. Undismayed, the audience from across the river consumed peanuts and popcorn and enjoyed themselves noisily. Nostrand returned Gage to the line when play began again and put Burns in for Sawin at right half. Getting the pigskin on the kick-off, North Side, with one or two substitutes in her line, returned to her line-bucking tactics, evidently resolved to tire out and wear down the High School defense. Wightson was the marvel of that contest. How he could perform the work that was given to him and keep on his feet, no one understood. He was always good for a short gain and seldom failed to get clear of the first defense. Only the fine work of McCoy and Burns, the latter returned to the backfield on account of his defensive ability, saved the day time after time, for, once free, the big Welshman could never have been stopped. Pete Farrar, with his one hundred and forty-odd pounds, would have been tossed aside like a chip had he ever been called on to get between Wightson and the goal line! Now and then, but infrequently during the first three periods, Larue was called on, but for the most part it was the Welshman who took the ball and banged himself, head down, against the opposing line, much as an enraged bull might have assaulted a stone wall. High School was fortunate in being able to know beforehand pretty well where the attack was coming, since Danny Shores had but few plays and those were not difficult to guess, and so was able to put her backfield defenses where it would do the most good. But for all of that, their line was showing wear and tear before that third quarter was over. North Side did not deliberately “mix it up,” and only one penalty was meted out to her because of unnecessary roughness, but her savage and desperate attacks were bound to tell. Fudge was wearing a bloody nose, which gave him a most disreputable appearance, and several other linemen showed marks of battle when the third quarter ended. By that time the North Side supporters had become impatient and were howling for a touchdown, calling on the players individually to distinguish themselves. “Get into ’em, Billy! What you scared of?” “Eat ’em up, Pat! Show us what you know!” “Give us a touchdown now! Are you goin’ to let ’em lick yer?” “Where’s yer fight, Terry? Kill ’em, boy, kill ’em!” “Give us a score, Danny! Let’s do ’em up, now.” As if in obedience to such promptings, North Side began again harder, more desperately than ever. A penalty for holding put High School back to her twenty-three yards. An end run gained but a yard, and Brimmer punted almost straight into air. When the ball stopped rolling it was North Side’s on High School’s thirty-two yards. Yells of delight and encouragement came from the stand, and Danny hurled Wightson at the line again. Two yards resulted, McCoy stopping the runner. Larue made four on left tackle and was pulled down by Brimmer. Wightson again at Fudge’s position and three yards more were gained. Wightson at right guard and first down made. Twenty to go now. Danny Shores himself took the ball but made no gain. Then Wightson made three and the fullback two, and, with five to gain on fourth down, Danny faked a place-kick and sent Wightson straight into the line, plunging, dodging, straining, and made the distance by a bare two inches, as the tape showed! Pandemonium reigned in the North Siders’ camp. Entreaties, commands, threats of personal violence were hurled at the players! High School gathered herself compactly, concentrating her whole strength behind the center of her line. For North Side had tried no end of plays and seemed not to have included them in her education. But Danny Shores was red-headed, and so is a fox. A try at the center yielded a scant two feet and took the ball to the nine yards. Then the pigskin was shot back to Larue and that swarthy-faced little Canuck shot around Grover’s end like a weasel and planted the ball just behind the left goal-post! The North Side supporters were all for rushing onto the field and carrying the heroic Larue around on their shoulders, and it was all that Will Scott and the officials, aided by most of the visiting team, could do to persuade them to postpone that ceremony. When order had been restored and the delighted and noisily appreciative supporters had been cajoled back of the side line again, Danny essayed to kick the goal. But North Side’s chance to win the game there and then was lost, for the ball went well under the cross-bar, and High School shouted its relief. There were still six minutes of playing time remaining, and Captain Nostrand called on his team to make the most of it. High School kicked off and North Side caught and ran back to her fifteen yards. Larue now took the brunt of the work, but his forte was broken field running, and his attempts at the line were less successful than Wightson’s. Nevertheless, North Side made first down twice and took the ball to her forty yards before she was forced to punt. Farrar caught on High School’s thirty-three and, behind good interference, ran back to midfield. There a fumble lost a down, a forward pass failed, and Brimmer punted to the opponent’s twenty. Danny Shores made the catch, but was downed without gain and Larue tried to win through the left of the line without success. A fumble by Larue cost North Side half a dozen yards, and the ball sailed through the air to midfield again. Once more Farrar caught and ran back, reeling off ten or twelve yards before he was stopped. A forward pass, Farrar to Smith, gained seven and McCoy made it first down off left tackle. From the thirty-yard line High School advanced to the six, mixing her plays bafflingly and fighting with desperation. And then, once more on the threshold of a score, luck deserted her. Farrar, attempting a forward pass to Grover, found that end out of position for the catch, and so tried, in forlorn hope, to gain around the other side. But he was caught well back of the line and, on third down, the ball went into play on the twelve yards. A double pass to Brimmer for a plunge at the left of the line failed miserably and, as a last resort, a field-goal was attempted. But Brimmer never had a chance to get the ball away, for the whole right side of High School’s line crumpled before the savage attack of the enemy, and the fullback was downed with the pigskin in his hands. Then Fortune appeared to desert the home team utterly. Larue got clear through, eluding the secondary defense as though he was greased, and put forty yards behind him before Farrar, running desperately, brought him down from behind. From midfield to High School’s fifteen-yard line plunged the triumphant North Siders. High School was weakening every minute now. Nostrand put in two fresh linemen and replaced Burns with Sawin, but the advance went on, Larue finding all sorts of holes to squirm through, and the redoubtable Wightson, rested and chafing under inactivity, returned to the attack with redoubled fury, hurling himself at the faltering High School line for good gains. With two minutes left and the ball just inside the third white line, High School fought for time, hopeless now of victory and only seeking to stave off defeat. Twice the whistle shrilled while some real or imaginary injury was looked to, and each time North Side raged like so many tigers who had tasted blood. “One minute and fifty-six seconds,” proclaimed the Timer. “All right now, fellows!” piped Danny. “Over with it! Here’s where we score again!” “Hold them, Scrub!” shouted Nostrand hoarsely, and, “Throw ’em back!” yelled Farrar. “Get down there, Shaw! Play low, fellows! Get under ’em and throw ’em back!” Then—well, no one ever had a very clear idea of what immediately ensued. All that is known is that somewhere between the North Side center and Wightson the ball went astray and that for the longest four seconds on record it bobbed and trickled about under the feet of fully half the contending players. But after that what happened was just this. Fudge Shaw, who, perhaps, owed his presence at center more to his ability to keep his eyes on the ball than to any other feature of his playing, was one of the first to cry “Ball! Ball!” Also, he was one of the first to break through. Unfortunately, he came through on his hands and knees and his first effort to capture the erratic pigskin only sent it further afield. But Fudge, by a miracle of spontaneity that must have shocked his system dreadfully, rolled to his feet, seized the bobbing ball from under the outstretched hands of a North Side player and staggered off with it! Having done that much, Fudge was willing to call a halt, and he proved it by stopping stock-still and, looking back, inviting someone to lay him low. But, as it happened, he was for the moment unchallenged, and instead of a tackle he received the exultant, imperious, entreating cries of his team-mates to “Run, Shaw!” “Go it, Fudge!” He heard those cries plainly, in spite of the counter-cries from the momentarily befuddled enemy, and, although they chimed in not at all with his inclinations, he obeyed them and started, somewhat irresolutely, toward the far-distant goal. Fudge was not built for speed. There was no unnecessary fat on his somewhat rotund body, but his legs were short and stocky and his strides, lengthen them as he might, covered scant territory. But, despairingly he ran, with the enemy momentarily drawing nearer and nearer, a grim, flaming-haired Danny, with “Danger” written all over him, in the lead. To say that Fudge despaired because the enemy promised to stop his flight would be wide of the truth. Fudge despaired because they didn’t hurry up and do it! Fudge had not the slightest desire in all the wide, wide world to race at breakneck speed down that interminable field and become a hero. The price was too large! If someone would only take the ball from him, it would be fine! And, as if in answer to Fudge’s wish, Danny Shores gained until he was close behind. And Fudge, half closing his eyes, awaited the shock of that tackle. But it didn’t come! Feet spurned the turf behind him, a purple-stockinged figure raced up, Danny Shores went reeling to earth and Fudge was again out of danger, free to carry that ball in triumph over some eighty yards! The player who had cleared Danny from his course was the fleet-footed Grover and with a world of entreaty in his eyes and voice, Fudge half turned, held the pigskin out and faltered laboredly, “Take it!” But Grover had shot his bolt. He fell behind. Only his voice followed Fudge: “Run, Shaw! You’ve got it!” So poor Fudge, his short legs twinkling so fast that they became a mere purplish-yellow blur, ran! And behind him came friend and foe. Midfield now, and still uncaptured! Only fifty yards more! Only! The stand was shouting wildly. From the side lines, where raced shrieking partisans of the visitors, came cries of rage, of encouragement, of despair! One by one the High School interference, hastily formed but effective, performed their duty and fell behind, and now only one of the enemy pursued and only one of the High School players followed. At the forty yards Fudge was gasping painfully for breath. At the thirty he was ready, more than ready to give up. If only, thought Fudge, someone would pull him down! He resented the fact that he was allowed to run his legs off, and held it in for weeks against Danny Shores’ team that they had so easily allowed themselves to be put out of the running! At the twenty-yard line Fudge saw the goal-posts distinctly for the first time and the hope that perhaps, after all, he might reach them without dying first came to him and encouraged him. He never once looked back. He only hoped each moment that hands would seize him and pull him to earth. But Fudge’s hope was idle, for, near the fifteen-yard line, Farrar made a final despairing effort, flung himself in the path of the pursuing North Sider and together they subsided, too weak to move for many moments. And then, with the shouts of the spectators beating on his ears like the sound of distant surf, Fudge, unwilling hero of the contest, fell across the last white line and sank into peaceful coma! <hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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