Barry Locke, half-back
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.”