Barry Locke, half-back
Dawson and reached Number 42, that study was empty and dark. Vastly
relieved, he hurried after Zo and caught up with him just beyond the
gate. The younger boy noticed that Barry’s spirits were much lighter
than before the parting in front of Dawson.
The next morning he spent a half-hour punting to Noble, between two
recitations, and then came dinner, and suddenly the morning had passed
and he had not so much as set eyes on Clyde. However, he would find
an opportunity during the afternoon’s game to square himself――if he
could! But circumstances worked against him. In the gymnasium Clyde was
constantly in company with Hal Stearns or Goof Ellingham, and when
they reached the field warming-up practice began at once and while
Clyde remained on the bench Barry went down to an end of the gridiron
with three others and punted to the backs. When the first team took
the field Barry would have seated himself beside Clyde on the bench,
but there was Hal Stearns at Clyde’s elbow. Besides, Clyde’s chilly
nod of recognition earlier in the afternoon had done little to lend
Barry encouragement. He decided to wait until the next day. He could be
almost certain of finding Clyde on Sunday.
Broadmoor’s adversary was the Murray School team, a likely looking lot
of green-hosed lads who, in practice at least, handled the pigskin very
knowingly. The afternoon was sunny but crisp, and a fairly brisk breeze
quartered the gridiron from the northwest. Broadmoor presented her best
line-up at the kick-off, and no changes were made in it until near the
end of the second period. Then Rusty Waterman went in for Sinclair at
right guard, the latter limping off on an injured ankle. Neither team
scored in the first half. The Purple-and-Gray showed much improvement
over its performance of the previous week, but Murray presented a
strong defense and the home team’s two opportunities to score were
spoiled by the adversary.
When the third period began it was evident even to the lay eye that
Broadmoor had changed her tactics. With the wind favoring her to some
extent, she started a kicking game as soon as Murray had booted the
ball from mid-field to the waiting hands of Demille. Tip Cartright
kicked on second down from Broadmoor’s fifteen yards, the wind carrying
the ball out of bounds on the enemy’s forty-two. Tip’s punts were
not all perfect, but, aided by the quartering breeze, he managed
to make many of them difficult to catch. Finally, Broadmoor having
reached Murray’s eighteen yards, Haviland and Demille were called
on, and after the former had lost a six-yard gain because an end had
been caught off-side, Cartright faked a forward-pass and Demille,
on a Statue-of-Liberty play, scuttled around the left wing and went
across just inside the boundary. But Broadmoor had to be satisfied
with six points, for Murray broke through savagely and blocked Tip’s
try-for-point. The quarter ended after two more plays and the teams
changed sides.
Cartright showed wear now, and his return punts, made only when all
other methods had failed, were becoming short or erratic. With Murray
in possession well inside Broadmoor territory, and some six minutes of
the fifteen left, disaster came. Punting from his thirty-three, he sent
the pigskin almost straight into the air and the wind caught it, played
with it a moment and then dropped it close to where it had started
from, and Murray lined up on Broadmoor’s thirty-eight yards on first
down!
A gangling green-stockinged youth romped on from the side-line and took
over the left half’s head-guard and office, and then things began to
happen. The gangling youth turned out to be a specialist in pulling
forward-passes out of the air. He could do it in more ways and from
more positions than Barry, watching anxiously from the bench, had
thought possible. Murray gained seven yards and then five with his
help. An end run added three and then the specialist took a short
heave over center and laid the ball on Broadmoor’s nine yards. From
there a quarter-back run took it to the five-yard line. Murray faked
a place-kick and shot the ball far across the field to the demon
left half and with no one near to challenge him, he seemed to have a
touchdown for the taking. But Fate took a hand. Somehow, as he ran
backward, arms stretched out for the catch, he stumbled, and, although
he instantly recovered, the ball only tipped his fingers and grounded.
CHAPTER XII
CLYDE ASKS A FAVOR
Over at the Broadmoor bench Major Loring sprang to his feet, sent his
gaze along the line of huddled forms, and called, “Locke!” Startled,
Barry pushed his head from his blanket, like an inquiring turtle, saw,
and answered. The Major led him toward the end of the bench, a hand on
his arm.
“Go in for Noble,” he said crisply, “and kick out of there. Mind you,
don’t speak to any one but the officials until after the first play.
You’ll have to work fast, Locke, for those fellows are going to block
if they can. Keep your head, boy, lock your leg, and wham it! Go ahead!”
And Barry went ahead, trailing his blanket well onto the field before
he remembered that it still hung from one arm, rather scared but still
more determined to give a good account of himself, as he ran repeating
the coach’s brief instructions.
He reported breathlessly, took Noble’s head-guard, and slipped into
position. Zinn gave the signal and he smashed in behind Haviland. There
was a moment of frantic swaying and grunting and then the whistle
and the referee’s voice:
“Second down! About seven to go!”
Johnny Zinn, trotting back from a deceptive sortie toward the left
of the line, called signals as he came: “_Locke back! Twenty-seven,
sixty-one, fourteen! Twenty-seven, sixty-one, fourteen!_”
Barry shuffled his feet two yards behind the goal-line, came to rest,
stretched his hands toward the stooping Sisson. Beyond the line of his
own forwards, he saw the swaying, eager forms of the enemy, feinting,
pawing the air, desperation on every face. Then something brown left
the trampled sod ahead of him, grew larger as it turned lazily over
in its flight, and came to rest in his outthrust hands. Ten yards
away turmoil and confusion sprang to life. Forms leaped against the
sky as Barry took his step, dropped the ball, and swung a stiff right
leg through its arc. There came to him the reassuring concussion of
leather against leather, but he sensed it rather than heard it, for the
air was filled with cries and the pounding of feet and the rasping of
canvas-clad bodies. Then a charging enemy hurtled against him and he
went spinning aside and rolled over and over on the turf.
When he found his feet again the scene of battle was far off, for the
ball had covered more than forty-five yards and, its flight deflected
by the wind, had escaped a Murray back and bounced across the side-line
squarely in front of the Broadmoor bench and the Broadmoor coach.
Barry went limping up the field, trailing the green-hosed youth who
had thrown a hundred and sixty pounds against his ribs. The ball was
being stepped in midway between the forty-five and the fifty yards.
Broadmoor, on the stand, was still voicing its satisfaction. Johnny
Zinn, coming back to safety position, grinned at Barry.
“Corking work, Locke!” he commented as he passed.
Murray had asked for time and was mending her offense with new
material. But there were seconds left now instead of minutes,――not
more than ninety of them,――and the score on the board up there was
not destined to change. Murray tried desperately to get a man loose,
throwing thrice to the tall forward-pass specialist, but twice the ball
grounded and once only did he get his hands on it, securing then six
yards with Barry clinging to his legs. And then, with the Murray punter
stepping back, the end came, and Broadmoor had won, 6 to 0.
Barry, secretly still thrilled by the memory of that punt, though
trying hard not to show it, followed the well-worn path that led across
the field to the gymnasium, a silent member of a vocally triumphant
stream of players. He still limped a little, but he wasn’t aware of it.
He was supremely glad that he had come through so well. He wondered
if Major Loring was pleased. Some one ranged alongside and Barry
recognized behind a mask of grime the broad countenance of Pete Zosker.
“Lucky thing you got that guy, Locke,” said Pete, affably.
Barry stared up, perplexed. It seemed to him a strange way in which to
refer to a punt. But he nodded and Pete added:
“He’s a mighty good hand with those things. Wish we had him!”
“You mean...?” murmured Barry.
“Yeah, that long-legged half-back of theirs. If you hadn’t stopped him
that last time I’ll bet he’d have scored. He can run, that long-legged
kangaroo!”
It dawned on Barry then that the center was talking about his tackle
in the last minute of play and not about the punt, and he hurriedly
readjusted his thoughts.
“Oh!” he said. “Well, I guess Zinn would have got him.”
“Not a chance,” declared Pete, convincingly. “I don’t believe any
one could stop that cuss after he once got started!” Pete drew away,
leaving Barry sorely perplexed. Not a word about that forty-five-yard
kick, made with the enemy charging wildly down on him, made by one who
had never before that season taken part in a game with an outside team!
Not even mention of it! As for that tackle of the chap who had received
the forward-pass, why, it hadn’t seemed to him worth a thought. He had
been the nearest to the enemy and had instinctively made for him. By
good fortune he had got him. Any fellow could have done that, could
scarcely have avoided doing it, but that punt――well, he guessed that
even Pete Zosker wouldn’t have done any better under the conditions!
In the locker-room two others rendered brief commendation for the
tackle, one, Harris, right end, declaring that Barry had “sure saved
the old game that time!” Barry was unresponsive. He wanted very much
to say: “Well, but what about my punt from behind the goal-line? Where
were you when that happened?” But of course he didn’t. His feelings
were somewhat salved later, though, when Major Loring paused on his
way out to say: “That was well done, Locke. I was pretty sure you could
do it.” Barry was almost certain that the coach was referring to the
punt and not the tackle.
Once, while he was achingly divesting himself of his togs, he looked
across the room to find Clyde staring at him. Clyde’s expression was
queer, Barry thought. It seemed composed about equally of resentment,
puzzlement, and respect. Barry smiled. Clyde’s grimace as he turned
hastily away was doubtless meant for a smile, too, but it was a painful
effort.
Barry’s name was in the city paper the next morning. There was a very
brief account of the Murray game, and under the word “Substitutions”
occurred the following: “Locke for Noble.” That was all, but since it
was the first time his name had ever appeared in a metropolitan paper
he was decidedly thrilled. He cut out the story and treasured it.
After dinner that Sunday he turned his steps resolutely toward Number
42 Dawson. Clyde was at home and alone, and Barry somehow received the
impression that the other had been expecting him. Clyde was friendly,
almost anxiously so, and the lately patronizing manner was strangely
absent. Barry was too much pleased to wonder. They talked of several
things connected with Hazen, New York, and their folks, before the
subject of the previous day’s game was introduced by Clyde. Clyde was
flattering in his praise of the other’s performance, so insistent that
Barry became uncomfortable and broke in with: