Barry Locke, half-back
him. Hoskins faked a kick and shot a short pass over the left side of
the line which grounded. Followed a conference, and then, postponing a
touchdown for the time, the quarter patted the turf some eight yards
back of his center and knelt beside the spot. Broadmoor made a heroic
effort to crash through and smear that kick, but she failed and the
ball sailed from the thirty-yard line straight across the bar, and the
figure 3 appeared on the score-board beneath Broadmoor’s 6.
For the rest of that quarter Hoskins, having tasted blood, raged like a
devouring lion. But once a forward-pass fell into Demille’s hands and
averted a possible disaster, and once, well inside Broadmoor territory
again, a penalty for holding set the visitors back and necessitated a
punt. The third quarter ended with the ball in Hoskins’s possession on
her own forty-one yards.
Just before the end of the period Major Loring arose from his place
near the end of the bench and seated himself beside Barry. For several
minutes he talked in low tones, while Barry, staring thoughtfully
ahead, nodded at intervals. When time was called Barry shed his blanket
and walked to where the referee was guarding the newly placed ball.
“Locke, right half-back, sir,” he announced.
“Broadmoor right half out,” called the official as the men gathered.
Cartright yielded his head-guard silently and limped off to a welcoming
cheer. Ike Boardman the irrepressible winked genially at Barry as he
passed on his way back. Barry grinned, rather nervously. Hoskins took
up her task once more, shooting her demon half-back at every angle and
getting four, five, sometimes six yards at a time until she neared the
thirty. There the advance slowed and finally paused, and when a tricky
double-pass had failed to gain, the Blue-and-Orange tried a desperate
venture. The ball was on Broadmoor’s thirty-three yards, and the wind,
now blowing strongly, was against the attacker. Nevertheless, Hoskins
elected to try a placement kick. The stands grew silent as the Hoskins
kicker went slowly back and the quarter settled himself to take the
pass from center, so silent that Ike Boardman’s hoarse challenge was
heard plainly.
“Get through ’em, Broadmoor! Smear ’em up! Block this kick! Fight, you
guys! fight, I tell you! Block it! Block it!”
The ball touched the ground just short of the forty-yard line and
although Broadmoor did plow through desperately and nearly spoiled the
attempt, the pigskin sailed safely above the upstretched hands of the
leaping enemy and straight for the goal. It went well above the bar
and past the posts, and the Broadmoor adherents in the stand endured
a miserable moment of anxiety until an official waved negatively.
Then relief expressed itself in a mighty shout. The wind that at
first seemed to favor the brave enterprise had turned traitor at the
last instant and whisked the ball just outside the left-hand upright!
Hoskins deserved that field-goal, for the attempt had been a gallant
one and well executed. But such jests of Fortune are common enough in
football, and the loser learns not to complain. Hoskins felt the blow
but scorned discouragement.
Two drives at the Blue-and-Orange center yielded six yards, and then
Barry was sent back and punted. With the wind behind him he became
in reality the fabled “Punting ace,” for the ball went well over the
heads of the Hoskins backs and rolled to their twelve yards before it
was recovered. Had Larry Smythe been in fresher condition or Follen
a faster end, the game might have been decided then and there, for
the Hoskins quarter had difficulty in capturing the bobbing oval. But
as it was, the ball was safely downed when Larry settled against the
quarter’s head. Hoskins, on the first play, got a back around Follen’s
end for nine yards. Blue-and-Orange pennants flapped in the wind and
Hoskins cheers boomed forth. The enemy was again on her way!
Straight to mid-field she went, Broadmoor fighting hard but
unsuccessfully to stay the rush. Hoskins swept across the half-way
line with a twelve-yard forward-pass, sent an end around the enemy’s
left for six more, and finally made it first down on the Broadmoor’s
thirty-seven. The minutes were ticking away fast, but not fast enough
for the watching friends of the home team.
Up on the top row of the wind-swept east stand, Zo Fessenden shook
with cold and excitement. Many of his erstwhile companions had deserted
him for the more sheltered ground below, and now he was able to lay his
instrument beside him and, his hands in his pockets, stamp and shiver
and shake unencumbered. His teeth chattered whenever he parted them
to cheer or groan. Just now groans were more frequent than cheers,
for the east stand had grown ominously silent. There was something so
inexorable in the way in which the enemy tore off her gains that even
the optimistic grew faint-hearted. Broadmoor was fighting gallantly,
savagely, yielding ground grudgingly enough, but Broadmoor appeared to
have lost some of her coherence; some of her spirit, too; and while
the west stand kept up an unceasing riot of sound, the efforts of the
Broadmoor cheerleaders met with but a sorry response.
Once it was necessary to measure with the chain to determine whether or
not Hoskins had gained her distance, but Fate was good to her and the
referee waved her on. Every one realized that Hoskins would not try for
a field-goal short of a fourth down, for a field-goal would only tie
the score and Hoskins ached for a victory. And so when she presently
went through the motions of staging a try from placement, none of the
enemy team was fooled and the wide run around the end that eventuated
was stopped for a yard loss. This time Broadmoor had something to cheer
for, and she made the most of the opportunity. Yet, before she had
ceased, Hoskins had punched through Ellingham for three more.
Goof, weary and battered, was called out and Hal Stearns went in.
Sinclair, too, was taken out, but despite the fresher warriors Hoskins
crept on to the sixteen. It was as though the defenders sensed defeat
then. In spite of Captain Buck’s entreaties, in spite of Ike Boardman’s
threats, in spite of themselves, discouragement weakened the efforts of
every player. They didn’t mean to weaken, didn’t want to, didn’t know
that they did, but the fact that they had lost faith in themselves was
evident. It was evident even to Zo, shivering up there in the chill
gloom of early twilight. Zo saw and realized and hated the knowledge.
He shouted encouragement at the height of his shrill young voice, not
caring that he shouted almost alone. He saw the invader draw closer and
closer to that distant last white line, and so, finally, driven to it
by some inner impulse, with trembling fingers he opened the case beside
him, lifted out his violin, and, standing, drew the bow across the
strings.
At first heads turned and faces scowled or grinned at the slim figure
standing back up there outlined against the gray sky. Then a low voice
started the words and others joined. One by one, then by dozens, the
fellows arose to numbed feet, and the volume grew. Zo had chosen the
school song. Perhaps it was no great composition, but the slow, tuneful
music welled sweetly from his instrument, clear above the sounds of the
field, and stilled at last the noisy triumph of the farther stand. The
players heard it, too, and thrilled to it. By the time Zo had played
it through once and started again every voice on the east side of the
gridiron was singing the words. Solemnly, sweetly, the last verse fell
over the field:
“Sunny fields, in memory you stretch before my eyes.
You are smiling at me under azure skies.
I can see the river winding once again
And the shadows moving slowly o’er the plain.
Sunny fields of Broadmoor, back with you I’d be,
Back among old comrades ever dear to me.
Always I’ll remember, always I will praise
Sunny fields of Broadmoor; happy, happy days.”
The song ended, Zo’s bow held long on the last clear note; and as it
died to silence, silence held the stands. Then a great burst of sound
came: applause, hearty, sincere, and sympathetic, from across the
wind-swept field; acclaim, ecstatic and passionate, from the home
stand; a burst of sound that went on and on and grew higher and higher
and presently became a thunderous repetition of one word:
“_Broadmoor! Broadmoor! Broadmoor! Broadmoor! Broadmoor!_”
And down in front of the north goal, wearied and battered but believing
again, eleven heroes dug their cleats on the four yards and wrested the
ball from the enemy!
CHAPTER XXVI
THE RIGHT SORT
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