Читать книгу Dick Merriwell's Fighting Chance; Or, The Split in the Varsity - Burt L. Standish - Страница 9

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It must not be supposed that Bob Hollister’s course was an easy one. It was, on the contrary, desperately hard. A dozen times a day bitter thoughts and regrets for what he had given up assailed him, but he managed to thrust these aside, and, with Dick’s help, he kept doggedly at his work, encouraged by the very evident progress he made in his studies.

The story of his renunciation of football and his steady application to his books seemed to have become known to the faculty. Certain it was that, one and all, they realized what an effort he was making to stick with the class, and most of them did their best to help him along.

As for Merriwell, every minute he could spare was devoted to coaching Bob. The latter almost lived in Dick’s rooms. Every evening they went over the work for the next day together, Dick patiently explaining every point, bolstering up Hollister’s failing courage, making a regular hermit of himself for the sake of the other man’s future.

In the afternoons Bob spent his time grinding on the back work, for occasionally the professors had an annoying way of having little quizzes which covered the subjects they had gone over that term.

That was the hardest part of it all, to sit alone with a book before him, knowing all the time that the others were out on the field where he longed to be more than anywhere else in the world. At first he had to grit his teeth and exercise the utmost self-control to keep his mind from wandering; but, after a little, it came easier, though he was never wholly resigned.

At last came the day of the Yale-Princeton game. Hollister wondered desperately whether he would have to stay away from the field that afternoon. It seemed as if that would be more than he could bear. In the morning he broached the subject to Merriwell.

“About the game this afternoon, Dick,” he began hesitatingly. “It don’t seem as if I could study while that’s going on. Couldn’t I go down and watch it, just this once?”

Dick looked at him thoughtfully.

“Do you think that’s a good idea, Bobby?” he asked slowly. “Wouldn’t you feel worse on the field, not being able to play, than you would if you stayed away?”

“Gee, no!” exclaimed Hollister. “Even if I don’t play, there’d be some satisfaction watching it.”

“Come on, then,” Merriwell said quickly. “You’ve certainly done well enough to take the afternoon off.”

Thus it was that Hollister sat in the tonneau of Dick’s car as the Wizard tore down to the field that afternoon. Tempest and Blair Hildebrand sat with him, Rudolph Rose crumpled his long legs in the body of the car at their feet, while Teddy Baxter clung precariously to the running board.

Hollister felt a thrill of the old joyful enthusiasm as the car whirled through the streets. Once more he seemed to be one of them, and, as he entered the grounds and swept his eye over the already filling stands, he sniffed the air like a war horse that scents combat from afar.

But once in the dressing room, the reaction came. He saw the others strip and hurriedly don their togs; listened to their eager, excited discussion of their chances for victory; watched them troop out in a body and lope across to the gridiron; and, as he followed slowly, dispiritedly, he realized with a bitter pang that he was out of it. Instead of plunging into the contest with tingling blood and every sense alert, doing his best for his Alma Mater, straining every nerve to win a victory for the blue, he must stand on the side lines and just watch.

The thrilling, deep-toned cheers of the excited thousands would ring in his ears as before, but they would have a different sound. They would be meant for others, not for him. Somehow, he felt that if he could only have played in this one game he could be resigned about never going on the field again. If he could only show just once more what he could do—play just one more game for all that was in him, and perhaps help to win a victory, it would content him.

But it was too late. He had given his word, and the team was finally made up. With downcast eyes and bitter heart, he entered the inclosure and, walking past the grand stands, dropped down on the side lines with the subs. At least he would watch the game from the field. He couldn’t bear sitting in a stand. He had never done that in all the time he had first come out for the team.

The stands were filled to overflowing, a sea of eager, enthusiastic faces rising, tier upon tier, from the field. Flags fluttered by the hundreds, blue, mostly, but with a liberal sprinkling of the orange and black. The hum of many voices sounded like the drone of a gigantic hive of bees. The flash of many faces turned impatiently toward the closed gates as the hour approached.

At last the gates were flung open and the teams appeared. Princeton came first, and cantered briskly across the field. They were greeted by a round of applause from their adherents.

Then Yale appeared, and the stands rose to them with a yell which sent a thrill through Hollister’s heart—a thrill followed swiftly by a stab of pain. Perhaps Dick had been right when he said it would be harder here than if he had stayed away.

Yale won the toss, and, there being a rather brisk wind blowing, chose the protected goal and gave the enemy the ball. The fellows swiftly took their places to await the kick off. Presently the whistle sounded, and from that moment Bob Hollister was oblivious to time and space, the shouting crowd, the excited subs—everything, in short, except the progress of the contest before him.

Almost at once he saw that Princeton had an unusually strong team. He had expected something of the sort, for all reports agreed in stating that it was the best eleven the New Jersey college had turned out in several years; but Hollister had not thought it would be quite so good as it now appeared.

With knitted brows, he watched the progress of the ball down the field toward Yale’s goal. There was no doubt in his mind that the orange-and-black fellows had made the most of some very efficient coaching. Their teamwork was splendid, and every now and then they made use of some novel play which caused Hollister to bestow upon them a sincere, if somewhat grudging, admiration.

But presently he ceased to watch their good points and bent an anxious, scrutinizing eye upon his former comrades. Something seemed to be the matter with their playing. A subtle, impalpable something, hard to define, but plainly evident to the quick mind of the man on the side line.

There was a slight absence of snap, of unity, which perhaps another might not have seen. Hollister was entirely too modest to realize that his absence from the team could make any difference. He did not see that the lack of his swift, perfect brainwork, his cheering encouragement, would be felt to any appreciable extent. And yet, that was actually the case.

Merriwell was playing a perfect game, Buckhart was at his best; but they could not carry the whole team. Don Tempest, still not perfectly strong after his long illness, and feeling the lack of the practice which he had lost, did not make a very good showing. While Phil Keran, though he was a good steady player and did his best, could never take the place of Hollister, one of the best ends Yale had ever had.

Slowly the ball was forced back. Nearer and nearer it came to the goal. Bob’s heart leaped into his throat and he could not swallow. They must not make a goal—they must not!

Then the line stiffened, the advance ceased. Two downs brought barely five yards gain. Not daring to risk another forward pass, Princeton tried a kick from the field.

The ball soared over the heads of the scrimage line. To Hollister, tense, breathless, it seemed as if it would pass over the bar, and he groaned aloud as the orange-and-black line surged forward in its wake.

The groan changed to a gasp of joy as the pigskin carromed from an upright and a tall, lithe figure leaped into the air, clutched it and dropped back.

It was Merriwell. Bob could have shouted aloud in his relief had he not been too intent on watching the outcome. For an instant the men were so involved in a tangle of flying figures and waving arms that he could not see what had become of the ball.

Then, all at once, a man darted around the end, closely followed by two others, and sped over the ground in an oblique course toward the farther side line.

In an instant Bob recognized him as Crowfoot, and realized that Dick had in some way passed the ball swiftly to the Indian, who, assisted by Elwell and Kenny, the quarter back, was covering the ground like a streak of light.

Kenny was bowled over instantly; Elwell met his Waterloo a minute afterward; but by the time Crowfoot was tackled by one of the Princeton guards he had covered thirty yards and the ball was back out of danger.

Then the whistle sounded and Hollister realized that the first quarter was over.

After the brief three-minute interval, Yale started in with a rush, carrying the ball down the field in a series of brilliant plays which did full credit to every man on the team.

They seemed to have recovered from their strange lassitude and were evidently determined to utterly annihilate their opponents.

But that was not to be done easily. Oddly enough, Princeton blandly refused to be annihilated. And so the hard-fought battle continued. Back and forth surged the lines of tattered, gasping, breathless men. At one moment it would seem that Yale had the advantage, and apparently nothing could prevent her from scoring. Then Princeton would rally and force the blue line slowly, but surely, back from the danger zone.

To the man on the side line it was sheer agony. His trained eye saw the weak points of his team even more swiftly than did Tempest, the captain. His alert brain, feverishly active, took in lost opportunities which the men on the field did not even perceive, and he was constantly thinking of how he would have made a successful play if he had only been out there with the rest.

Then began a series of minor accidents which played havoc with the Yale line. First of all, Rose was knocked senseless and had to leave the field. Then Samp Elwell twisted his ankle so that he could not stand on it; and another sub threw off his enveloping blanket, jerked off his sweater, and raced into the arena in response to Tempest’s peremptory gesture.

Last of all, Phil Keran gave out, and, after a momentary hesitation, Tempest reluctantly summoned Jarvis Blake from the side line. He was the best man left, and, perhaps, had it not been for what he had heard from Dick about the fellow, Tempest might have put him in before; for Blake had always showed up well in practice.

As Hollister saw his enemy race out and take his own place at right end, he clenched his fists so tightly that the nails cut into the flesh of his palm. This was the worst of all. Blake was now just where he had been scheming to get.

Then the teams lined up and Bob forgot even that. It became apparent at once that the change had not been for the better. Princeton had been obliged to put in only one substitute, and her advantage showed very plainly.

Strive as the Yale line did against them, the solid phalanx of the opposing team made its way inexorably down the field. There were occasional rallies, to be sure, but never once did the orange and black fail to make their required gain; and at last, with a sob in his throat, Hollister saw the pigskin forced over the line and heard the Princeton crowd thundering its joy.

The goal was kicked, and, before the second quarter was over, Princeton had scored again on a drop kick, and was nine points to the good.

Things looked very black for Yale.

Hollister did not leave his place on the grass. He could not bring himself to go back to the house with the team. He had not the heart. And so he lay there viciously jabbing the blade of his knife into the ground, his brow drawn into a scowl, his brown eyes full of a strange mixture of longing and pain.

He had been watching Blake’s playing, and it had taken him only a few moments to see how much it fell short of his own. Hollister was not in the least conceited, but he had a keen sense of sizing a fellow up on the field and had always viewed his own good points and shortcomings as dispassionately as he did those of any one else.

Watching Jarvis Blake, he knew that he himself could have done better. Blake was a good player, but he was deficient in some important qualifications, principally initiative and speed in starting.

Time and time again, Bob saw him fail to take advantage of an opportunity which might have meant a gain of yards to his team. Once, in his excitement, he had shouted a warning to the substitute, only to realize what he was doing and choke himself into silence.

The third quarter started off with a fresh swing. The rest had done all the men good, and evidently there had been some straight talk in the athletic house which heartened them and brought them to a realizing sense of the gravity of their position.

The ball was forced down to within the thirty-yard line without a pause. Hollister, watching eagerly, soon saw whose brain was dominating the work. Almost every time the pigskin was passed to Merriwell. And, with quite as much regularity, the brilliant senior responded nobly.

He seemed to be everywhere at once, slippery as an eel, dodging hither and thither in a most bewildering fashion, sometimes passing the ball to Crowfoot, or another on whom he could depend, but always making gains, ever advancing, until Bob found himself sitting erect, his cheeks burning and his eyes sparkling as he watched this amazing exhibition of almost perfect football.

Would he make it? Could he possibly hold out to reach the line? Suddenly his question was answered.

The quarter back ripped out a rapid signal which Bob could not hear perfectly; the ball was snapped back; there was a bewildering, lightninglike, intricate pass. Hollister gasped. It was his improved crisscross play, the last thing he had worked out before he had left the team.

The pigskin seemed to leap from one man to another like a thing endowed with life. For a minute he lost track of it, and then he caught his breath swiftly as Merriwell sprang out of the mêlée, the pigskin tucked under his arm, and raced over the turf as if he were as fresh as the moment he had first set foot on the field.

The Princeton crowd was taken by surprise. The pass had been so cleverly made that most of them thought the ball was being sent around the other end, and there was a surging rush in that direction, which left a comparatively free field for Dick.

Too late they saw their error and trailed after him.

There were but two men between him and the coveted goal. He could easily outdistance the first, who was a little to one side, but the full back would have to be dodged.

As he ran, he watched the man keenly, wondering just what trick he would have to bring into play to get away from him. The fellow stood alertly on his toes, watching, waiting, ready to spring to one side or the other, as the case might be.

Dick came on without slackening his speed, swerved suddenly to the right, whirled, darted the other way, and all in such a brief moment that to this day Princeton’s full back hasn’t the least notion of how he was fooled. He only knew that by the time he had turned Dick was a dozen feet away, speeding on toward the goal.

The next instant the full back gave a grunt of triumph and stretched himself, for the Yale man suddenly staggered, tried wildly to recover, and then fell full length to the sod.

A groan of horror went up from the stands, followed by deathlike stillness.

Then, to the amazement of the onlookers, they saw that, instead of lying where he had fallen, Merriwell spun end over end, and the next instant he was on his feet again. But he ran with an appreciable limp.

It was a tense moment. The full back was gaining. Slowly, but surely, he crept up and the distance between the two lessened. Dick ran with more and more apparent effort, and it was plain to all that he must be suffering tortures.

Now the full back’s fingers touched him, but could find no hold on the smooth canvas. The next instant they clutched his waist, and clung there with a firm, dragging grip.

Five yards more! Could he ever make it?

Struggling, dragging, straining every nerve and muscle, Merriwell flung himself over the line; and, as he did so, a great sigh arose from the spectators, merging into a crashing burst of sound, for they realized that the ball was over.