Barbour Ralph Henry
Left Guard Gilbert
CHAPTER XXVI
LEFT GUARD GILBERT
THAT finished the scoring in the third period. All that Claflin could do was to bring back Brimfield's punts and try desperately to find holes in the maroon-and-grey line that weren't there. Both teams were showing the effects of hard playing, and when the third quarter ended substitutes were hurried in from both benches. For Brimfield, McPhee relieved Carmine, Lee went in for Holt and Sturges for Crewe. Claflin put in a new right end, a fresh full-back and returned her original right guard to the line-up.
McPhee brought instructions from Coach Robey. Brimfield was to hold what she had and play the kicking game. If she got within the Blue's thirty-yard line she was to let Rollins try a drop-kick.
Rollins punted regularly on second down and just as regularly Claflin rushed until the fourth and then punted back. After five minutes of play, during which the ball went back and forth from one thirty-yard line to the other, it dawned on Claflin that she was making no progress. A new full-back trotted in and displayed his ability by sending the ball over McPhee's head on his first attempt. Fortunately, though, the punt, while long, was much too low, and McPhee had plenty of time to go after the pigskin, gather it in and run back a dozen yards before the Claflin ends reached him. But after that McPhee played further back and Rollins put still more power into his drives.
With almost ten minutes of the final period gone, Claflin, grown desperate, tried what forward passing would do. The first time, she lost the ball to Thayer, and Clint got ten yards before he was thrown, but the second attempt went better and Cox, who made the catch, ran across three white lines and only stopped when Edwards dragged him down from behind. Claflin got another first down by two plunges at the right of the opponent's line and a wide end-run. Then a penalty set her back fifteen yards and she had to punt after two ineffectual attempts at rushing. Otis got through for five yards and then Rollins punted again.
The head linesman announced five minutes to play. On the stands the spectators were beginning to depart. Claflin was back on her thirty-five yards, banging desperately at the maroon-and-grey line, desperately and a bit hopelessly. A forward pass was knocked down by Captain Edwards, an assault at the left of the Brimfield line was smeared badly, Cox tried the other end and was laid low for a loss. Claflin punted.
Howard, on a double pass, swept around the enemy's left for fifteen yards and then squirmed past tackle for six more. Rollins kicked to Claflin's ten and Edwards nailed the Blue's quarter before he could move. Brimfield cheered encouragingly. But Claflin, after getting four around Sturges, punted out of danger to Brimfield's forty-seven.
"Three minutes!" announced the timekeeper.
Otis got two at centre and Rollins again fell back to kick. The ball came to him low and he juggled it. Claflin poured through the right of the line, the ball bounded back from some upthrown arm and went dancing along the field. Blue players and maroon dashed after it. Hall almost had it, but was toppled aside by a Claflin man. Carmine dived for it and missed. Then Tim Otis and a Claflin forward dropped upon it simultaneously and struggled for its possession. Tim always maintained that he got more of it than his opponent, and got it first, but the referee awarded it to Claflin and dismayedly Brimfield gathered together and lined up only twenty yards from her goal!
"Two minutes, fellows!" shouted the Claflin quarter-back exultantly. "We've got time to do it! Come on now, come on! We can win it right now! All together, Claflin! We've got them on the run! They're all-in! They're ready to quit!"
The Claflin full-back faked a kick and circled around Lee's end for a six-yard gain. Then the Blue's right half plugged the line and got three more past Hall. It was one to go on third down. Another attack on Hall was pushed back, but Claflin made it first down by sending Cox squirming around Thayer. The ball was on the eleven yards now. It was Brimfield's turn to know the fear of defeat. Edwards implored and bullied. Claflin banged at Gilbert for a yard. A quarter-back run caught Steve Edwards napping and put the pigskin on the seven yards. Brimfield's adherents, massed along the side line, shouted defiantly. Across the darkening, trampled field, the Claflin cohorts were imploring a touchdown.
"Third down! Six to go!" shouted the referee, hurrying out of the way.
"On side, Claflin right end and tackle!" warned the umpire.
The signals came again and the Claflin full-back smashed into the left of the opposing team. But it was like striking a stone wall that time. Perhaps the ball nestled a few inches nearer the goal, but no more than that. It was Don who bore the brunt of that attack and after the piled-up bodies had been pulled aside he and the Claflin full-back remained on the ground. On came the trainers with splashing buckets. Don came to with the first swash of the big, smelly sponge on his face. Danny Moore was grinning down at him.
"Are ye hurt?" he asked.
Don considered that a moment. Then he shook his head. "I'm – all right, – Danny," he murmured. "Just – help me – up."
"Don't be in a hurry. Take all the time the law allows ye." Danny's fingers travelled inquiringly over the boy's body. "Where do you feel it?" he asked.
Don kept his eyes stoically on the trainer's. If he flinched a little when Danny's strong fingers pressed his right shoulder it was so little that the trainer failed to see it. Nearby, the Claflin full-back was already on his feet. Tim came over and knelt by the trainer's side.
"Anything wrong, Don?" he asked in a tired, anxious voice.
"Not a thing," replied Don cheerfully. "Give me a hand, will you? I'm sort of wabbly, I guess."
On the side line Pryme, head-guard in hand, was trotting up and down. Coach Robey was looking across intently. Don shook himself, stretched his arms – no one ever knew what that cost him! – and trotted around a few steps. Then, out of the corner of his eyes, he saw the coach say something to Pryme, saw the disappointed look on the substitute's face and was half sorry for him. The whistle blew again and Don was crouching once more beside Thursby – why, no, it wasn't Thursby any longer! It was Peters, stout, complacent Peters, wearing a strangely fierce and ugly look on his round countenance!
"Now hold 'em, Brimfield!" chanted McPhee. "Hold 'em hard! Don't let them have an inch!"
Far easier said than done, though! A quick throw across the end of the line, a wild scramble and jumble of arms, a faint "Down!" and, at the right end of the Brimfield line, a mound of bodies with the ball somewhere down beneath and to all appearances across the goal line! Anxious moments then! One by one the fallen warriors were pulled to their feet while into the pile dove the referee. The timekeeper hovered nearby, watch in hand. Then the referee's voice:
"Claflin's ball! First down! A foot to go!"
"Line-up! Line-up!" shrieked the Claflin quarter. "We've got time yet! Put it over!"
"Fight, Brimfield!" shouted Steve Edwards. "There's only forty seconds! Hold them off! Don't let them get it! Tom! Peters! Don! Get into it now!"
"Signals! Signals!"
Then a moment of silence save for the gasping breath of the players. The Claflin quarter shouted his signals, the ball sped back, the lines heaved. Straight at the left guard position plunged the back. "Stop him!" growled Peters. The secondary defence leaped to the rescue. Back went the man with the ball. "Down!" he cried in smothered tones. The referee pushed in and heeled the mark.
"Second down! A foot and a half to go!"
Don knew now that if he had fooled Danny Moore he had not fooled the Claflin quarter-back. That quarter knew or guessed that he had been hurt and was playing for him. Don gritted his teeth and ground his cleats into the sod. Well, they'd see!
The signals again, broken into by Steve Edwards's shrill voice in wild appeal. Steve was wellnigh beside himself now. Peters was growling like a bear in a cage. Then again the plunge, hard and quick, the whole Claflin backfield behind it! Don felt an intolerable pain as he pushed and struggled. Despair seized him for an instant, for he was being borne back. Then someone hurtled into him from behind, driving the breath from his lungs, and he was staggering forward.
Peters was yanking him to his feet, a wild-eyed Peters mouthing strange exultant words. "They can't do it! No, never! Not if they were to try all night! We put 'em back again, Gilbert! We'll do it again! Come on, you blue-legged babies! Try it again! You'll never do it!"
Don, dazed, swaying giddily, groped back to his place. Thayer was muttering, too, now. Don wondered if they were all crazy. He was quite certain that he was, for otherwise things wouldn't revolve around him in such funny long sweeps. Then his mind was suddenly clear again. The Claflin quarter was hurling his signals out hurriedly, despairingly, fighting against time. Don didn't listen to those signals for he knew where the attack would come. And he was right, for once more the blue right guard and tackle sprang at him to bear him back. And then the runner smashed into sight, wild-faced for an instant before he put his head down and charged in. But Don didn't yield. Peters, roaring loudly, was fighting across him, and, front and rear, reinforcements hurled themselves into the mêlée. Don closed his eyes, every muscle in his body straining forward. A roar of voices came to him only dimly. Ages passed.
He wondered if Danny Moore had nothing better to do than eternally swab his face with that beastly old sponge! Why didn't he pick on some other fellow? Don felt quite aggrieved and tried to say so, but couldn't seem to make any sound. Then he realised that he had forgotten to open his lips. When he did he got a lot of cold water in his mouth and that made him quite peevish. He tried to raise his right hand, changed his mind about it and raised his left instead. With that he pushed weakly at the offending sponge.
"Take it away," he muttered. "I'm – drowned."
"Can you walk or will we carry you?" asked Danny in businesslike tones.
"Walk," said Don indignantly. "Let me up." Recollection returned. "Did they make it?" he gasped.
"They did not. Lie still a bit."
"Yes, but – " Don's voice grew faint and he closed his eyes again. The sponge gave a final pat and disappeared. "What – what down was that?" asked Don anxiously.
"Third."
"Then – then they've got another! Help me up, Danny, will you? We've got to stop them, you know. I don't believe they – can do it, do you? We put them back twice, you know."
"Sure you did," said the trainer soothingly. "Here you are, Tim. Take his feet. And you get your arm under his middle, Martin. So! Careful of the shoulder, boys. He's got a fine broken blade in there!"
"Wait!" Don kicked Tim's hands away from his ankles as, raised to a sitting posture by Danny and Martin, his puzzled glance swept the field. "Where's – where's everyone?" he gasped.
"If you mean the team," laughed Tim, "they're beating it for the gym."
"Oh!" said Don. "But – but what happened? They didn't" – his voice sank – "they didn't do it, did they, Tim?"
"Of course they didn't, old man! We pushed them back three times and we'd have done it again if the whistle hadn't saved them!"
"Then we won!" exclaimed Don.
"Surest thing you know, dearie! If you don't believe it listen to that band of wild Indians over in front of the gym! Now are you ready to be lugged along?"
"Yes, thanks," sighed Don.
