field in the Harvard game, and no time was taken out on Yale’s
  account.”

  It is safe to say that no harder football is played in the country
  than at Exeter and Yale; yet the reports from these centres of the
  game bear little resemblance to the lurid tales of murder and
  mutilation which newspaper correspondents delight in. The worst
  injuries from football known to the writer have occurred in games
  played by workingmen out for a holiday, or by untaught, unfit lads
  trying what they imagined to be football.

-----

Dr. Brayton stared incredulously. “I shouldn’t want that doctor’s job.
You must have a good trainer.”

“We have,” said the boy, simply.

The interview was apparently over. Wolcott put on his coat. “Would you
mind telling me what kind of fellows it is dangerous for?” he asked.

“The overtrained and the undertrained; the weak and the flabby; and the
man who plays against dirty football.”

“What about me?” asked Wolcott.

But Dr. Brayton would not answer. “I’ll see your father this evening,
and he may hand on to you my opinion, if he chooses. If he _does_ let
you play, I shall expect of you two things: first don’t get hurt;
second, beat Hillbury, as in my day we sometimes failed to do.”

That evening Wolcott hovered within sound of the door-bell, and watched
from a retired place as the parlor maid opened the door. He heard Dr.
Brayton ask for Mr. Lindsay and saw him shown into the reception room.
After an endless half-hour he was ushered out, and Wolcott went boldly
in. Mr. Lindsay was standing in deep thought.

“I want to know my fate, father,” said the son, looking eagerly down
into his father’s eyes.

“Do you still want to play in that foolish game?”

“There is nothing in this world I want more.”

“Then if you hold me to my promise I shall be forced to let you do it,
though it is against my better judgment. Brayton has gone back on me.”

Wolcott’s face shone with joy. “It’s awfully good of you to give in.
Can’t you come to the game? You’ll see that it isn’t so bad as they
pretend.”

“Thank you for the invitation, but it is unnecessary,” said Mr. Lindsay,
grimly. “I shall be there! And if I’m convinced in the course of the
contest that you are risking life or limb, I shall take you out, Dr.
Brayton or no Dr. Brayton.”

There was joy in the football clique on Monday morning when Wolcott
returned with the good news. He joined in the practice once more that
afternoon, and went into his game like a storage battery recharged, full
of fire and dash and strength. The head coach and the trainer took his
case to heart in their after-practice consultation, and the result was
that the work of the last week was materially lightened. The last signal
practice left the team fresh, vigorous, and eager for the fray.

                             CHAPTER XXIII
                             THE FIRST HALF

Mr. Lindsay sat in one of the upper rows of seats close to the cheering
sections, and gazed with amazement at the streams of people pouring in
through the gates and along the side of the white-checked rectangle. It
was a beautiful sight in the bright sunlight of this clear, cold
November day, the circle of sober buildings keeping dignified watch on
the hillside, the slopes thronged by an impatient crowd, and the wide
circumference of field animate with floating banners, gay-ribboned
dresses, and eager, joyous, expectant faces. Around him on every side
were merriment and youth and a fulness of vigorous, happy, hopeful life.
Men whose schooldays lay a dozen years behind them hallooed to their
mates over his shoulder; college boys revived school memories in his
ears; at his knees sat the “kid brother” of some Seatonian, awed into
silence by the importance of the occasion; while the boy’s elder sister,
excited by the novel scene and less concerned for the outcome, chattered
gayly with her escort. In these surroundings, with his antipathy to the
whole proceeding strong within him, Mr. Lindsay felt like a survivor of
a past generation, as isolated as a man who knows only his own language
in the strange babel of a foreign port.

A few tiers below, the solicitous father caught sight of a fringe of
gray beard appearing on either side of a round, fur-capped head. Here at
last must be a kindred spirit, mourning with him this squandering of
money, this waste of time, this wanton imperilling of young lives. But
the fur cap revolved, and a merry, smiling face turned toward the seats
above—the youngest, happiest, jolliest face in all the Seaton sections!
Mr. Lindsay was discouraged. He lost hope of sympathy from this
audience—more like Spaniards at a bull-fight than reasonable, civilized
Americans.

From the hill beyond came the sound of a low-pitched staccato chant,
growing gradually clearer till from behind the red-steepled building
emerged a dark, compact line of advancing boys. It was the Seaton school
marching to a man to support their team. They came slowly on, four
abreast, planting the left foot to each letter as they spelled the
school name, chanting their way around the field to the cheering
sections. It was the chant of conquerors,—strong, hopeful, revealing and
inspiring confidence. Mr. Lindsay thawed a little under the warmth of
the general enthusiasm as he watched these stanch followers crowd to
their seats.

“They evidently believe in their team,” he thought to himself, and he
felt a natural touch of pride as he recalled the praises of Wolcott
contained in those letters from Ware and Laughlin. The present scene
threw a new light on their earnestness.

Meantime on the Hillbury side the band appeared, with the whole
contingent of Hillburyites trooping after. They pushed on to their seats
in silence, leaving to the music a free hand; but once established,
their cheers rang sharp and clear across the field. Mr. Lindsay watched
with admiring interest the four distant cheer leaders swinging their
batons with identical stroke, and ruling the three hundred voices as a
conductor rules an orchestra.

“They are better cheerers,” he was thinking,—the crowd across the field
always seems to cheer the better,—“yes, they are certainly better
cheerers, but our marching was more effective.” And while he was
laughing softly to himself that he should thus identify himself with
these youthful, misguided lunatics, a great roar rose about him at the
sight of a score of strapping, brown-suited, red-legged wild men who
came tumbling over the side ropes into the field. Here they divided, a
knot of eleven following the ball in signal practice up the field, while
the rest in red blankets and sweaters streamed across to the Seaton
side-lines.

The Seaton volley of welcome was still reverberating when over the same
side ropes leaped the Hillbury squad, looking massive in heavy,
blue-lettered sweaters, and a knot of blue legs flashed down the field
behind another ball. And now were heard cheers and counter
cheers,—cheers of Hillbury by Seaton and of Seaton by Hillbury, cheers
for both captains from both sides, cheers for the general cause, cheers
to keep up the spirit, cheers of hope and of defiance. The practice
squads broke up; big blue legs and big red legs met in the centre of the
field; the gladiators shook each other by the hand, and turned to a wiry
little man wearing a white jersey with a college letter upon it, who
tossed a coin into the air and examined it as it lay upon the ground.
Red-legs said something, the referee nodded, the captains hurried to
their men, sweaters came off, headguards went on, the players scattered
to their places. When the field cleared itself of sweater bearers,
sponge holders, and water-pail carriers, the Hillbury side was singing
its well-learned song of defiance which Seaton was straining its vocal
chords to drown. The Hillbury tackle was propping the ball with a bunch
of moist earth for the kick-off, and the Seaton eleven was sprinkled
over the field with their backs to wind and sun.

Mr. Lindsay looked across the field at Laughlin and marvelled; he looked
at Wolcott, whose place was nearer, and admired. Laughlin was ponderous
and powerful, built for strength but also for slowness; Wolcott was
alert, graceful even in his clumsy clothes, his face aglow with perfect
health, his every movement showing physical strength, but the strength
of the horse, not of the ox.

The referee lifted his arm: “Ready, Seaton?[4] Ready, Hillbury?”

-----

Footnote 4:

  The Seaton line-up. Line from left to right: Read, Hendry, Lindsay,
  Bullard, Laughlin, Bent, Pope; quarter-back, Jackson; half-backs,
  Wendt and Buist; full-back, Milliken.

-----

The captains cast a final look behind them and nodded. The referee’s
whistle sounded. Davis, who kicked off for Hillbury, dashed at the ball
and sent it flying up to the Seaton ten-yard line, speeding after it
with the whole heavy Hillbury line. Buist caught the ball, dropped it,
picked it up again, and twisted his way behind the backs a dozen yards
down the field. Here he went down on the ball with half a dozen upon
him, and the first scrimmage was on.

The shouts died on Seaton lips as the partisans waited for the first
prophetic play. They could not cheer, for their hearts were in their
throats, and no one regarded the cheer leaders, and the cheer leaders
regarded only the lines poised for the spring. Would the Seaton attack
penetrate? Would Hillbury’s strong line hold? Wolcott, resting on his
knee, with eyes fixed on the ball, waited for the signal. He knew what
it was to be, for the plan had already been made to send the first
assault beyond him, not on Laughlin’s side, where it would be expected.
At the first number of the signal he was on his finger-tips and toes. As
the ball moved he shot forward, caught the heavy man opposite with full
momentum just as the latter was getting under way, and forced him back
upon the line half. When, an instant later, Buist came smashing into the
hole with the one hundred and eighty pounds of bone and muscle known as
Milliken driving behind him, Wolcott, abandoning his man, swung round to
meet the back, and holding him up with the aid of Milliken and Read,
swept him on yard after yard until the Hillbury men finally dragged them
all to the ground together. For the fraction of a second the two elevens
became two squirming heaps and a connecting link—a heap where the ball
had been, a heap where it now was, and a trail of prostrate bodies
marking the route of advance.

“Terrible, terrible!” thought Mr. Lindsay, as he gazed fascinated at the
unintelligible scene. But the Seaton supporters thought it anything but
terrible, for they cheered and cheered again in ecstasy at the ten-yard
gain, while the heaps of bodies resolved themselves as by miracle into
two lines of very vigorous men. At the next signal Wendt bucked the line
beyond Laughlin, by which three yards were gained; and Milliken ripped
through the narrow crack between Lindsay and Bullard, and falling his
length beyond the line, made the first down. Then Jackson tried a
quarter-back run to open up the line, and thanks to his interference, to
his surprise and joy, got round the end and ran out a dozen yards down
the field.

  THE PILE THAT COVERED THE BALL THREE YARDS BEYOND.
  _Page 271._
]

The play was now near the middle of the field, bringing the rear of the
Seaton line for the first time within Mr. Lindsay’s line of vision. He
saw Milliken receive the ball and leap at the line like a tiger
springing on its prey. He saw the centre open and take him in, saw the
struggling mass behind the Hillbury line and the pile that covered the
ball three yards beyond; but he had not seen that it was the Seaton left
guard who opened the way and made the play possible. Around him the
spectators were exclaiming and chuckling with delight, and exchanging
explosive praises of the irresistible Milliken. On the side-lines,
however, where the experts were gathered, another name was mentioned
first, the name of the Seaton guard who was “handling” his heavy man.

The team was going now with the momentum of success and hope. Buist
drove his way through behind Laughlin. Wendt found a hole inside left
end, Jackson called back his right tackle and sent him through the left
side for a decided gain; then he brought back the left tackle, and
apparently started a similar play for the other side. The interference
charged hard and fought desperately as they struck the line, but the
ball was not with them. Jackson, after pretending to pass to the tackle,
had held it a moment and tossed it to Wendt, who sped through the centre
unexpected, and with Wolcott at his side, and Read, the Seaton end, not
far away, seemed for a moment likely to get by the last Hillbury back
and score a touchdown. Wendt, however, slowed down to let Wolcott
interfere, and a Hillbury pursuer overtook him and laid him low.

“Twenty yards now to a touchdown,” said the Harvard student on Mr.
Lindsay’s right. “They’ll make it in about six downs if they can only
hold the ball.”

Mr. Lindsay nodded and smiled. He still disapproved, but he was enjoying
where he could not wholly understand and did not at all wish to enjoy.
He turned to his friendly neighbor with a question on his lips, but
before the question was out, the game again drew his whole attention and
that of his neighbor. In some strange way the ball had slipped from the
grasp of the Seaton back, and the quick Hillbury tackle had thrown
himself upon it. The blue-stockinged back, who had been playing far in
the rear, came running up to the Hillbury line, while Jackson turned and
scampered back to the centre of the field. A groan ran along the Seaton
benches; the ball was Hillbury’s!

“What a rotten fumble!” ejaculated the Harvard student. “Who made it,
Bill?”

“Milliken,” snapped back the disgusted Bill. “He ought to be hung!”

On the field no one asked that question, but the men in the line said
things under their breath; and sore at heart that the fruit of their
toil should be lost just as it seemed within their grasp, turned
discouraged but dogged to their defensive game. “Never mind, fellows,”
rang out Laughlin’s voice. “We can hold ’em. Get into the game, every
man. Watch the ball!” And they stooped to their places, determined to
hold the ground they had gained.

The first attack was straight at centre, but the Seaton trio played low,
and the Hillbury runner struck a wall and stopped short. Then came a
double pass for an end run by Joslin, the speedy back; but Hendry, the
Seaton tackle, burst through and drove the runner into Read’s arms with
a loss of a yard. So Hillbury was forced to punt, Jackson got under the
ball in the centre of the field, and was downed in his tracks by the
Hillbury end.

Then began another series of short advances toward the Hillbury
goal-line, through Laughlin, through Lindsay, Hendry through the other
side, an attempt at an end run, a wing shift with Milliken plunging
outside tackle, Hendry again, another delayed pass, left guard back, and
straight hard smashes of backs through the centre. The result of the
experimenting was that Wolcott’s side of the line was the more
frequently called upon, especially the hole between guard and tackle.
Hendry and Read did not always succeed in boxing their end. Wolcott
sometimes failed to get his man where he wanted him; the Hillbury
secondary defence often nullified his efforts; but for some reason
Jackson found that here was the line of least resistance. On the defence
no one held like Laughlin. On the attack he was always sure, always
eager to do his own work and help out Bent, crushing his way like an
ice-breaker through the line. Two yards behind Laughlin were always to
be counted on with assurance. His very weight and strength and hardness
made him terrible. Yet the gains through Wolcott were often greater. He
blocked no one’s way; he made his hole and turned in it to drag the
runner on; he got into plays for which he might have shirked the
responsibility; he was where the ball was, where it was going to be the
next instant, wherever his strength and help were needed, pushing and
pulling and dragging and keeping his men on their feet.

They were on the ten-yard line now. The spectators around Mr. Lindsay
were excitedly guessing on the distance yet to be covered, which some
put at five yards, others at fifteen. On the Seaton side not a cheer was
uttered. The whole student audience hung on the play in tense and eager
silence. Hillbury was shouting full and strong and regular, “Hold! hold!
hold!” which fell on the ears of the Hillbury champions like a rallying
trumpet call. Hendry came flying from his post, took the ball from the
quarter, and swung hard into the line, beyond the other tackle. Down he
went without an inch of gain. Laughlin dropped back and drove Buist
through Hall. “Three yards! The third down!”

“Hold! hold! hold!” Into these syllables the whole Hillbury cheering
force was concentrating its strength and hope. The Hillbury line heard
and gathered themselves together for a final desperate resistance.
Wolcott heard and heeded not, for the signal was ringing in his ears,
and he knew that the last responsibility was upon him. Laughlin was back
once more, this time to play the shunting locomotive for Milliken. The
track lay over the spot on which Wolcott was standing. Hendry did his
work well. Wolcott’s shoulder was at Moore’s hip almost before Moore had
moved; the tandem jammed its way into the narrow opening, over the line
half-back, like a squadron of horse over a thin line of infantry, and
down in a wild heap of friend and foe four yards farther on!

It was a first down with but three yards to the goal line!—three yards
in three downs, an easy task for a strong line flushed with victory,
which had already battered its way from the middle of the field. Wendt
made a yard outside of right tackle in a cross buck. Then Hendry fell
back for the ball, and the heavy wedge, with Laughlin at its apex,
Hendry in the centre driven along by Buist and Milliken and Jackson
pushing behind, piled the Hillbury defence on either side of its course
as a snow-plough masses the snow right and left as it drives its way
through a heavy drift. Hendry was yards across the goal-line when the
wedge broke.

While Jackson was bringing out the ball and adjusting it for Bullard’s
kick for goal, Wolcott with dry lips and panting breath, but joy
unspeakable in his heart, was watching the antics of the Seaton
audience, which danced and yelled and cheered and waved flags in a
frenzy of delight. Somewhere in section D was his father, in what state
of mind he hardly dared guess; but he remembered with relief that but
few stops had been made on pretence of injuries, while not one on either
side had left the field; and he fervently hoped that his anxious father
was observing the scene of carnage without distress. As a matter of
fact, Mr. Lindsay was at that moment thinking very little about carnage
and very much of the possibility that Bullard would fail to kick the
goal. The ball sailed between the tips of the goal-posts, the crowd
shouted, the players scattered to their new places, and Mr. Lindsay
resigned himself with surprising cheerfulness to a continuation of the
brutal contest. Above him the enthusiastic Harvard men were extolling
the Seaton line in general, and in particular the solid centre, where
the big captain and “Beefy Bullard” and that green man Lindsay, “as
quick as nine cats and strong as a bull,” held the line with an anchor
that wouldn’t drag.

Seaton kicked off and Joslin of Hillbury got the ball and zigzagged back
to the twenty-five-yard line. Thence Hillbury worked ahead a dozen yards
and punted. Jackson, who received the punt, was too eager to get away,
and fumbled. In an instant the Hillbury end was upon the ball. Now the
bank of blue ribbons had something to cheer for, and the vehemence and
volume and splendid evenness of the mighty chant which swept across the
field put hope into the hearts of the blue, and suggested to the red
that the first score might after all have been a mistake. Wolcott
remembered Laughlin’s remark of the night before, that a punter and two
good ends, with the help of a fumbling back on the other side, could
beat the best line that ever played; and felt his heart sink. Had
Hillbury detected the Seaton weakness? But Laughlin showed no sign of
discouragement.

“Hold ’em, fellows, hold ’em! Stop ’em right here!” And the first charge
was downed in a heap as it struck the line. The ball went back to Cates,
the Hillbury quarter, who dashed toward the end of the line.

“Quarter! quarter!” yelled Laughlin, bursting through at Cates’s heels.
The whole Seaton line poured after Cates. But Cates had held the ball
only a moment, and shot it to Joslin, who darted for the other end of
the line, where one of his backs and the end and tackle were in waiting.
The Seaton end fell before the assault, and Joslin, running clear, raced
down the field with Brooks, the Hillbury end, before him, and only
Jackson between himself and the goal-line.

What happened then happened quickly. Jackson flung himself at the
critical moment straight at the man with the ball. His arms enclosed
three legs, two belonging to Brooks and one to the man with the ball. He
went down with the two legs tightly clasped, but the one tore away; and
Joslin, free and swift as an arrow, sprinted over the white chalk-line
to the Seaton goal-posts.

A few minutes later, with the score six and six, Hillbury lined up for
the third kick-off. Wolcott felt relieved as he saw the ball settle into
Read’s grasp, for Read was safe. The ball was down on the thirty-yard
line, and the heavy Seaton machine started immediately to hammer its way
down the field. A delayed pass gave ten yards, a quarter-back run
another ten, but the advance was mainly by steady driving of strong men
in unison against a desperate, but yielding defence. Now on one side,
now on the other, with Laughlin back, or Lindsay or Hendry locked in an
irresistible interference with Milliken, Wendt, and Buist, the ball drew
nearer the Hillbury goal. Now a swaying mass rolled its way through the
struggling line as a steam shovel eats into a sandbank; now a narrow gap
would open and a single man be dashed into it, as an express train into
a tunnel.

Mr. Lindsay watched, fearful yet fascinated. What strength! what
splendid unity of action! what perfection of training! The admiration
for physical strength and vigor inherent in the Anglo-Saxon race, the
love of a fair fight in an open field, was asserting itself in him. He
apprehended something of the absorbing joy of the game. Here was a
contest of men, not in jugglery and sword play, not at arm’s length and
with dainty tricks of hand and wrist, but face to face and breast to
breast, with foot-pounds counting double and weakness a sin.

Again the ball drew near the Hillbury goal. The half was nearly over; a
score if made must come soon. On the fatal ten-yard line Jackson again
fumbled, and though Buist fell on the ball, his quickness was of no
avail, for it was a fourth down. With despair in their hearts the
panting Seaton line saw the fruit of their labors wrested from them.
Hillbury took the ball, Rounds fell back and waited with outstretched
hands for the pass.

“Through on him now!” cried Laughlin. “Wolcott!”

In the last word was an appeal which wrung Wolcott’s heart. He had
broken through in practice games and blocked kicks, but here it seemed
impossible. Taking in the position of his adversary at a single glance,
he riveted his eyes on the hands that held the ball, and waited tense as
a coiled spring. As the Hillbury centre’s hands contracted on the ball,
he leaped forward, caught Holmes by the left arm and jerked him around,
and shot by toward the ball.

The pass was high. Rounds reached for it and drew it down into position
for a punt. As he caught the ball Lindsay struck the quarter and bowled
him over; as the ball rose Lindsay rose, met it squarely with his chest
and sent it bounding beyond the goal-posts against the fence which
separated the spectators from the end of the field.

The Seaton rushers had streamed through the broken Hillbury line at
Wolcott’s heels, and without slackening speed raced for the ball; the
Hillbury backs were no less quick. Together they dived for the ball,
covering it in an instant under a heap of bodies which were still
squirming when the referee’s whistle called a peremptory stop. Little by
little the tangle was loosened. At the bottom lay Hendry and under
Hendry the ball! The half closed a few minutes later with the score
eleven to six.

                              CHAPTER XXIV
                             THE GAME ENDS

In the short intermission both teams took account of stock and heard
some vividly suggestive words from the coaches. The problem for Seaton
was to keep the score as it was. A successful trick play, the fumble of
a punt, a lucky end run by the fleet Hillbury back, might turn the
present advantage into ultimate ruin; for from two touchdowns and two
goals results a score of twelve points, while the two touchdowns and one
goal which Seaton had achieved had yielded but eleven.

“If they get another touchdown, they’ll beat us,” declared Laughlin;
“we’ve simply got to hold ’em.” And the others nodded emphatic
agreement, and in various forms repeated the sentiment. There was no
lack of comprehension of the situation.

The coaches drew the captain into a corner apart.

“I’ll bet you’re going in,” whispered Wolcott to Durand. “These fumbles
have sewered Jack, and they’re afraid of a punting game. If you do go
in, try to forget where you are and play just as you did last Tuesday on
the second. Yell your signals good and loud, and don’t try to be so
terribly fast. I’ll risk you for tackling and hugging the ball.”

Durand didn’t answer, but he felt a thrill from crown to toe, a sudden
uplift of joy, and as sudden a reaction of doubt and fear.

The coaches turned. “Durand starts at quarter,” said Laughlin. “No
fumbling now! If we get the ball, hang to it like death and fight for
every inch. Hold ’em on the first down, and we’ve got ’em licked.”

Jackson winced under the pitying glances. He had failed,—failed
terribly; but for that blocked kick? the score would now be a precarious
tie. Yet it was hard to be cut off from any chance to retrieve himself;
to know in advance that his error, though forgiven, would not be
forgotten; that whatever befell the team, his own defeat was assured. He
turned hard round to wink back the tears that would well into his eyes;
but a moment later he was running over the signals with Durand and
trying to help him to a knowledge of the weaknesses of the men against
him.

Hillbury was already out, the men alert and hopeful, as if the odds were
in their favor; for their coaches had laid out a plan which was to lead
to victory. A new man was in guard’s place opposite Wolcott; but the
Seaton player had less thought for his opponent than for Durand’s
experiment, and less for Durand than for the game to be played. He
charged fiercely down on Bullard’s kick-off, as if he felt no heaviness
in his weary limbs. The Hillbury end got the ball and dashed furiously
down on Wolcott’s side; but the Seaton guard caught him squarely and
low, and downed him hard. Then Hillbury tried a double pass for an end
run, and finally smashed her way through left tackle to a first down.
After that Seaton held and Rounds punted. The ball went to the new back,
of course; and Durand, though he held the ball, was pulled down before
he had run it back across the second chalk-line. Seaton pushed up the
field again a dozen yards and was forced to punt, and Hillbury had a
chance again on her forty-yard line.

Hillbury tried a single quick dash outside Bent, gaining three yards
with apparent ease, then unexpectedly kicked. It was a long sailing
punt, that seemed to float on and on with the help of the wind as if it
were never to drop. Durand, who was playing well back, whirled suddenly
and ran, then turned and gathered the ball in. Squeezing the precious
thing tight in the hollow of his arm, he shot forward, sidestepped clear
of the Hillbury end, who lunged at him, and tacking in and out of the
loose swarm of friend and foe, he threaded his way with erratic,
darting, shuttlelike movement beyond the middle of the field. When he
went down, every spectator around Mr. Lindsay was on his feet yelling
admiration.

“Now’s our chance,” cried the Harvard student jubilantly, as he resumed
his seat. “Rip ’em up there, quarter-back; smash ’em through the centre;
put another knot in that score!”

But instead the quarter sent Buist at the end. The Hillbury end dodged
into the interference and threw the Seaton runner back a yard. Through
the centre only two were gained, and Seaton, fearing to lose the ball,
punted. Howe got it on his ten-yard line and carried it valiantly back
across several white lines.

The Hillbury full drew back to punt. Buist was already scuttling into
his back field when Hendry, who saw something in the attitude of the
backs to arouse suspicion, exclaimed sharply, “Fake! fake!” But it was
too late. While he was speaking the ball was snapped, the Seaton guards
ploughed through to block the expected kick, and Joslin with the ball
under his arm, and two interferers beside him, darted for the right end.
Hendry was boxed; Read got tangled in the interference; Wendt just
touched the runner with his finger ends as he flung himself at the
fleeting mark; and Joslin, the fastest sprinter, barring one, in both
the schools, had almost an open field to the Seaton goal-posts.

The “almost” was the little quarter-back crouching in the distance, his
eyes glued upon his fast approaching foe. It was an awful moment; the
Seaton sympathizers caught their breaths and sent their hope in a single
mighty yearning to the aid of the last defender of their goal. Durand
saw nothing but the man charging with the ball, felt no fear of the
critical instant, but only intense eagerness to meet the man squarely
and get his arms around those flashing legs. Step by step he moved
forward, in catlike watch of every movement of his opponent, who was
bounding toward him in strong, free leaps. A dozen yards away Joslin
swerved suddenly to run around his man. At the moment Durand shot
forward to cut the runner’s path. For one critical instant only was the
Hillbury man within his reach; but that instant Durand felt in every
nerve of his body, and his body acted of its own volition. He did not
reason nor question; it was as if some mysterious electric force
suddenly caught him with irresistible impulse and launched him against
his foe. Down the two went in a whirl of legs; and only when Durand had
disentangled himself from the quickly formed heap and scrambled to his
feet, did his mind awake to the success of the play.

But the stop to the Hillbury advance was only temporary. Three yards
were gained through Bent, and on a second trial three yards more. They
had “found” Bent. Laughlin tore off his head-guard and flung it far away
to the side-lines, hoping to see better where to strike. He played still
farther out to support the weak side. Again the Hillbury charge went
crashing through the Seaton tackle. When the players extricated
themselves from the mêlée, one big form still lay outstretched upon the
ground. It was Laughlin!

The trainers came hurrying in with water-pail and sponge and liniment.
The fallen man was got upon his feet, his face mopped, his condition
eagerly inquired for. A bruise at the edge of his hair above his eye
showed the mark of a heavy boot.

“Dizzy?” asked the trainer, anxiously.

“A little,” responded the player; “but it doesn’t amount to anything. I
can go back now.”

“You’d better take your head-guard again,” urged the trainer.

But Laughlin tore himself away from the solicitous group. “I’m all
right,” he declared savagely. “Play the game!”

The lines formed again amid tremendous applause from the Seaton side, as
the injured man went bravely back into the fray.

The Hillbury quarter, shrewdly guessing on the probabilities, drove his
heaviest back against the Seaton captain. For the first time in the game
a hole was found at right guard, and when Milliken and Buist stemmed the
charge, the ball lay six yards down the field. The next attack was at
Bent, the third through Laughlin. The fourth in the same place stretched
the Seaton captain again upon the ground.

“Dave, you’re hurt! You oughtn’t to go on,” pleaded Wolcott, taking
Laughlin’s head in his lap. The captain’s eyes moved uncertainly; he
seemed suddenly stripped of his strength. In a moment, however, the old
spirit returned, and he rose determined.

“I’m all right,” he insisted. “I’m all right; play the game!”

Laughlin was the captain; his orders were not to be questioned.

A plunge at the Seaton left was squarely met, another on the right
penetrated five yards. Laughlin was down again. Time was called, and
Collins came running in with his water-pail.

“Tell him to go off,” urged Wolcott. “He doesn’t know what he’s about.
It’s cruel to let him stay here!”

The trainer shrugged his shoulders; he was not master on the field.
Laughlin lifted himself unsteadily to his feet. The applause on the
Seaton side had ceased; instead, ominous shouts of “Take him out! take
him out!” were heard along the bank of crimson and gray.

“I’m all right,” persisted the captain; “I can play;” and he started
back to his place. Wolcott grasped his arm.

“Dave!” he cried in despair, “you aren’t fit to play. Go off and let us
finish the game. You aren’t yourself at all. Do what I say, please!”

But Laughlin snatched his arm away and turned toward the line.

Wolcott threw himself before him. “Answer me one question, and I won’t
say another word. Where are you going to college, Harvard or Yale? Just
answer me that.”

With stupid eyes Laughlin gazed into his friend’s face. “Harvard or
Yale? Harvard or Yale?” he repeated. “It’s one or the other, but I don’t
seem to know which—” Then straightening up, he shouted: “We’re wasting
time! Set ’em going there! Get into the game!”

But Wolcott’s test question had shown convincingly Laughlin’s
incapacity. The coach was allowed to come on the field, and together
they labored with the bewildered but stubborn fellow, who, like the
famous Spartan captain, refused to retreat while the enemy was still
before him.

Only when Poole and Ware were called in, and their personal appeal was
added to the pleas of Wolcott and the coach, did the dazed captain give
way, and allow his friends to lead him from the field. Wolcott, who had
sometimes played on the right side, went over into Laughlin’s place,
Butler succeeded Wolcott, and Conley replaced Bent.

“Lindsay will act as captain,” said the coach, as he left the field.

“Hold ’em, fellows, you can do it! Keep watch of that ball!” The new
captain took naturally to his duties.

The Hillbury quarter tried the new guard, but Butler was fresh and
strong, and determined to prove his value; he charged hard and quick,
and the attack was thrown back as a sea wave from a cliff. Joslin was
sent at Pope’s end; but Conley went through and shattered the
interference, and Pope downed the sprinter before he had reached the
line. Then the Hillbury full-back retired for a try at goal, and the
Seaton guard on one side and tackle on the other sifted through the line
and plunged upon him. The ball went wide; Durand, getting it safely,
touched it behind the goal-line, and the team went back to the
twenty-five-yard line. A sigh of relief, like the whisper of the wind,
soughed audibly along the Seaton benches, as the ball was punted far up
the field, and the play started once more in less dangerous territory.

The game was now near its end. The sun was setting; darkness would soon
descend upon the field. Hillbury, discouraged at the failure to score
when the opportunity had seemed so bright, played with less fire and
speed. On the third down, with but a yard to gain, a Seaton linesman
scented the play and tackled the runner behind his own line. The ball
was in Seaton hands in the middle of the field. Wolcott whispered to
Durand, the signals rang out, the quarter-back took the ball, dodged
around Hendry, edged by the Hillbury back, and behind Lindsay and Wendt
twisted his jerky, slippery course past half-a-dozen frantically
grasping Hillburyites to the open field. Here, if his speed had equalled
his agility, Durand might have carried the ball directly to a touchdown;
but Joslin caught him from behind, and throwing him without mercy,
strove to wrench the ball from his hands. Durand clung to it
desperately, and Seaton had the ball on the twelve-yard line. From here
across the goal-line was but a question of half-a-dozen determined
drives.

After this third touchdown there was no more anxiety on the Seaton side.
The followers cheered from happiness now, and assurance that the great
contest was won—not because the team needed support. It was hearty
cheering, but tumultuous and ragged.

Across the field Hillbury, undaunted to the end, with full volume and in
splendid unison, sent forth their exhortation. And when, a few minutes
later, with the weary lines still struggling in mid-field, the referee’s
whistle announced the end, the Hillbury sky-rocket call was still
sounding clearly in Seatonian ears.

                              CHAPTER XXV
                            ON THE WAY HOME

Mr. Lindsay climbed stiffly down the tiers of seats, and edged his way
past the side-lines into the field, over which the exultant crowd had
suddenly scattered, like leaves flung broadcast by a whirlwind from the
gardener’s neatly ordered pile. He wanted to make sure that Wolcott was
unhurt and to congratulate him upon his escape. This, at least, was his
avowed object. Within his heart, however, lurked another motive, less
definite and unacknowledged, to show some recognition of the work the
boy had done; some appreciation of the skill, the physical power, the
coolness and alertness of mind, the tremendous persistence, which had
marked Wolcott’s play from the beginning. There are boys before whom a
teacher must sometimes feel like standing uncovered, so much more
faithful and sufficient do they seem in their places than he in his.
Some such impulse of respect Mr. Lindsay felt, as he pushed by the
stragglers toward the groups about the players. It was not the
victory,—he cared nothing for that,—nor the silly boys’ enthusiasm for
an athlete; the play as an achievement, as an example of what training
and determination and hard endeavor could accomplish, appealed to him in
spite of himself.

But to know where Wolcott was to be found was one thing, to get at him
another. Around each group of players crowded the hero-worshippers, who,
though they shifted and squirmed and danced in and out of their places,
still kept a serried line of backs to the outer world, and offered no
practicable opening to a middle-aged intruder, awkwardly conscious that
he was out of place. As he stood wavering on the outskirts of the
throng, there passed within his reach an eager, glad-faced youth, with a
red badge on the lapel of his coat, a megaphone in his hand, and, as Mr.
Lindsay discovered on addressing him, a hoarse voice in his throat. The
youth halted, heard the stranger’s appeal, and dived unceremoniously
under the elbows of the outer circle. Soon the circle parted again and
Wolcott popped forth, making haste a little stiffly, and showing a face
on which smears of mud were streaked by rivulets of sweat, but shining
with exultation.

“We did it, father, didn’t we?” he cried, as he caught Mr. Lindsay’s
clean glove in both his grimy hands. “Oh, it was splendid! You can’t
imagine the fun; I wouldn’t have missed it for anything! Didn’t Milliken
buck the line, though? When he once got his nose by my shoulder, they
simply couldn’t stop him. And Hendry was all over the lot—there seemed
at least two of him. And Paul Durand! Wasn’t that the cleanest tackle
that ever was made? If Joslin had got by that time, I believe we’d have
been done for. You’ll never see anything better than that if you go to a
hundred games!”

“I dare say not,” calmly interposed Mr. Lindsay, who had no desire to
see one more game, not to mention a hundred. “Did you get hurt?”

“Not a bit!” answered the young man, cracking the smooch of mud by a
sudden laugh. “I’ve a scratch or two, and my left hip seems to work as
if it needed a little oiling, and I’m pretty tired, but that’s all. How
did you like it? Wasn’t poor Dave in hard luck to have to go out just
when we needed him most? It was dead silly in him to throw away his
head-gear like that!”

“I’m glad it wasn’t you,” observed Mr. Lindsay, dryly.

“He’s all right now except for a headache,” went on Wolcott, eagerly.
“He really didn’t know what he was about when he went off. The first
thing he asked when he came to himself was whether Hillbury got the
touchdown.”

“Come, Lindsay, don’t be hangin’ round here, gettin’ cold,” interrupted
an authoritative voice from behind. “Hustle over to the gym, there, and
get a bath and rub-down as soon as ever you can.”

Mr. Lindsay turned in surprise and beheld a businesslike man in a
sweater, whom he immediately recognized as the guardian of pail and
sponge, who had so suddenly scurried into the field on several occasions
when an ankle was to be rubbed or a face bathed.

“This is Mr. Collins, our trainer,” said Wolcott, looking ruefully at
his father. “I shall have to do what he says. You’ll find me over at the
gymnasium if you care to come.”

And while Wolcott trotted slowly away toward the Hillbury gymnasium, the
trainer continued, as if his interruption needed excuse: “It’s risky for
’em to be hanging round in sweaty clothes after a game like that; but
they will do it. You have to watch ’em all the time, if you want to keep
’em up to the mark. They’re boys, not men, and it’s sometimes pretty
hard to make ’em take proper care of themselves.”

“I judge that you have succeeded,” remarked Mr. Lindsay. “They seem to
be in excellent condition.”

A smile of perfect satisfaction lighted Collins’s face. “Right on edge!
That son of yours played the game to-day. I knew it was in him. He’ll
make a great player in college if they don’t spoil him.”

Mr. Lindsay received this prophecy with less enthusiasm than might have
been expected of a proud father, and turned to watch the boys gathering
for their triumphant march to the station. They were off now in a long
line, proudly counting the score as a marching chant. They counted loud
and strong as they circled the field; they counted up the hill and past
the brick buildings on its crest. And as they filed away into the
twilight on the other slope, the sound of their counting still came back
to vex the much-enduring ears of Hillbury.

The trainer’s last words were in Mr. Lindsay’s mind as he wended his way
toward the gymnasium, following the direction given him by a sad-eyed
Hillbury lad. He knew little about football,—though more perhaps than he
wanted to know,—but he had heard enough and seen enough to be sure that
Wolcott had contributed quite as much as any one else to the Seaton
success. Yet not a word had passed the boy’s lips that showed any
consciousness of superiority. “Fine!” thought the father, with pride.
“But that is in the boy, not in the game. It’s the old strain
reappearing. The Lindsays have always been men of action rather than
braggarts.”

At the gymnasium door he proved his right to be admitted, and some one
showed him to the Seaton quarters. There he found Wolcott with a towel
about his loins, and Milliken similarly clad, Hendry just getting into
his shirt, and Durand dressed still more simply in nature’s garb of
muscles and sinews, with a most glorious smile crowning his athletic
figure, like the laurel wreath of a Greek victor. The boys greeted him
cordially, and went on undisturbed with their rubbing and dressing,
gloating over the grand events of the day. Over in the corner, propped
against the wall, sat Laughlin, nursing a splitting headache, but
clothed and in his right mind, and keenly interested in every
reminiscent detail. Presently Poole came in, and accompanied Mr. Lindsay
to a more convenient waiting-place outside. There after a time Wolcott
joined them, and together they strolled toward the station at a pace
adapted to the supposedly weary condition of the player.

Here was hilarious confusion. The little station was full, the platform
thronged, while the constantly increasing crowd were straggling over the
tracks indifferent to danger. The cheer leaders saw their opportunity,
and bellowing through their megaphones, kept the way clear for the
passing trains. In the press on the platform Wolcott found Mr. Graham,
whom his father was glad to meet again; also Mr. Lovering, and Tompkins,
who had of course come out from Boston to see the game. Later Poole
presented Ware, and while Mr. Lindsay exchanged compliments with the
manager, Poole laid hands on a passing Peck, and brought him to be
displayed.

“This is Donald Peck, Mr. Lindsay,” said Poole. “You have probably heard
of him from Wolcott.”

“Oh, of course,” answered Mr. Lindsay, who during the exciting afternoon
had seen so many boys, dressed and undressed, and heard so many names,
that he was not quite certain where to place the newcomer. “I am very
glad to meet you. Were you one of the players, too?”

“Oh, no!” said Donald, shocked at the assumption. “I never could get on
any team. I’m not man enough.”

“You are probably just as well off,” replied Mr. Lindsay. “I don’t
entirely believe in this athletic craze.”

Poole now ventured a remark, and Donald slipped away. A moment later
Wolcott appeared from the other side with another lad in tow.

“Here is Duncan Peck, another of my friends. He rooms on the same floor
with me.”

“I’m very glad to meet you, sir,” said Duncan, who, slow though he might
be in the classroom, was always ready with a polite phrase. “You came to
see your son play, I suppose.”

But Mr. Lindsay was not to be taken in. “I am happy to meet any of your
friends, Wolcott,” he said, “but this young gentleman hardly needs a
second introduction. Poole brought him up a moment ago.”

“Oh, no, sir,” replied the smiling Duncan, promptly. “You must have
mixed me up with some one else. I am sure that you have never seen me
before.”

Mr. Lindsay stared blankly at the glib youth, wondering what could be
the object of this evident falsehood.

“This is Duncan,” explained Wolcott. “It was another copy of him named
Donald, that Poole introduced. You really must see them together.
They’re the pride of the menagerie.”

At this moment Poole brought up the fugitive again, and standing him
beside his brother, asked Mr. Lindsay to tell which he had first met.
And while Mr. Lindsay stood in puzzled amusement, there was a scream
from a near-by locomotive, and the cheer leaders began shouting through
their megaphones again: “KEEP OFF THE TRACK! THIS IS NOT OUR TRAIN! THIS
IS THE TRAIN FOR BOSTON! KEEP OFF THE TRACK!”

“That’s my train,” said Mr. Lindsay.

“Come back with us and see the celebration!” cried Wolcott.

For a moment Mr. Lindsay felt tempted, not by the celebration, of
course, but by a desire to linger in the society of these friendly lads
among whom he felt the full charm of vigorous, light-hearted, unsoured
youth. Second thoughts came quickly. “I think I have had about all the
celebration that is good for me; I am as tired now as if I had played
the game.”

The train crept cautiously in. Mr. Lindsay said good-by, and, jostled by
other passengers eager for seats, climbed the steps of the platform. The
circle of boys at his back cried good-by again and waved their hands.
Behind them still others roguishly took up the shout, and violently
swung their arms, until the whole platform seemed to be waving salutes
and shouting adieus. And Mr. Lindsay, squeezed by the crowd and deafened
by the shouts, dropped into a seat exhausted, thankful for the
comparative quiet of the rumbling train. After all it seemed hardly as
dangerous for a boy to play football as for his father to attend the
game.

The happy throng left behind by the departing train waited, patient
though by no means silent, for its own long line of cars.

“I say, Wolcott,” said Tompkins, sidling up for the fifth time with
congratulations; “this isn’t much like our funeral here last June, is
it? That was a terribly sour-looking bunch! There wasn’t a man in it who
didn’t look like a yaller dog born with a tin can tied to his tail.”

Wolcott laughed, not at Tompkins, but from pure joy of heart. At the
moment there flashed into his recollection the words Laughlin had
uttered when the possibilities of football had first presented
themselves to the new boy. “It’s a great thing to win a Hillbury game;
it’s fine just to play in one, but to win,—win fairly and squarely,
because you’re a better team and know more football,—why, it’s like
winning a great battle.” He understood it now, understood it all; and
his face sobered as he contrasted the joy of an accomplished victory
with the uncertainty and discouragement of the heavy task which Phil was
facing, as captain of the nine, with but a scanty nucleus of a beaten
team to support him.

Some such thought must also have entered Tompkins’s ecstatic brain, for
he turned toward Phil, who was staring in solemn vacancy out across the
tracks, and dropped his hand affectionately on the ball player’s
shoulder.

“It won’t happen again, will it, Philly? You’re going to give us a
winning nine!”

“I’m going to try to,” replied Phil, quietly.

How he tried, and what came of the trying, will be told among other
things, in the next volume of the series, “With Mask and Mit.”