But the proudest, most important, most conspicuous figure was that of President John Smith. Increased in height by a brown derby, swelled in girth by a fat fur coat,—he had meant that the day should be cool,—with an alderman and two newspaper reporters in his train and the officials of the game his employees, he paced to and fro within the side-lines and enjoyed his greatness and the greatness of the day. Only a badge was lacking to complete happiness. In the reporters he had two friends on whose helpful services he could count. Alderman Skillen was a political power in President John’s district, with a son on the Newbury team. If only young Skillen would distinguish himself; if only Westcott’s would put up a stiff but not victorious game; if only the reporters could give the right turn to their laudatory phrases, and the alderman be properly impressed with the power and the influence and the potential value of the mainspring of it all,—the day might well mark the beginning of a strong upward twist in the life curve of John Smith. The suspicion whispered into his ear that morning by the Newbury captain that the renegade coach might have betrayed the game to Westcott’s had not so much as ruffled the surface of his optimism.
The game began. Hexam, the Newbury half-back, drove the ball on the kick-off down into the hands of Mac,[[1]] who clutched it tight, and with his jerky, darting see-saw, threaded his way up the field behind Talbot and Hardie and Eaton and any one else he could use as a cover, for thirty good yards. He went down buried deep, like a greased pig finally swamped by numbers. Then when the small Westcottites were chirping over the prospect of a quick advance to the goal line, Talbot, without trying a single rush, punted long and low, sending the ball out of bounds on the twenty-yard line.
[1]. The Westcott line-up: Hardie, Eaton, Bumpus, Ford, Channing, B. Tracy, Harrison; quarter-back, McDowell; half-backs, Horr and Talbot; full-back, Bradford.
The Newburyites now had their chance, with the length of the field before them, and hammered away with moderate success, now on this side, now on that, till Eaton broke through on a slow-starting end-play and nabbed the runner yards behind the line. Forced to kick or try a forward pass, Newbury chose the second alternative and lost the ball. Again Pete punted, to the disappointment of the eager Westcott spectators, and again Newbury started near her goal line on the slow pound-pound down the field.
A half-dozen short gains had been made, when, on a second down, Talbot pulled Roger aside. “Seven in third place means outside Eaton,” he panted. “Watch out!”
“Six, four, seven, twenty-two, forty-four!” sang out the Newbury quarter. Hardie crept in a double pace; Talbot, line half-back, advanced a step; and Eaton nerved himself for a spring. The ball moved; Eaton, moving with it, evaded his opponent and smashed into the interference behind the line. The bearer of the ball, seeing Talbot in the gap in front and Hardie swinging in upon him from outside, tossed the ball to a mate behind who let it slip through his hands. Roger threw himself at it as it fell. When the heap was split open, there lay the Westcott end at the bottom, curled round the ball like a rat around an egg.
Now, within striking distance of the Newbury goal line, Westcott’s abandoned the kicking game and took to aggressive, fast play. Sequence B carried them forward fifteen yards, a fortunate try at right end gave them five yards more, Eaton and Hardie twice opened a clean lane for Bradford through the sputtering Skillen. Even Bumpus succeeded in getting some kind of a lift from underneath on big Firman, and assisted to establish a first down. The unexpectedly fast and furious attack confused the Newbury resistance. Within the ten-yard line Mac gave himself a chance, and scurrying to the right the proper measure, squirmed over the last eight yards under Harrison’s protection and dived home past clutching hands and struggling bodies. Westcott’s had scored a certain five!
In the intermission Harrison contributed an outside-right-tackle signal which he had learned from the repetitious Newbury quarter, and Bumpus the number which usually preceded onslaughts on centre.
“Don’t try to find out anything more!” commanded Yards. “Put your whole soul into the play. You’ve got the game if you can only hold them.”
Back they trotted, with smirched faces and tired limbs, but eager and determined. Their schoolmates on the cheering benches howled joyfully at them as they passed, but a certain gentleman wearing a brown derby and fur overcoat, and accompanied by a short, rotund man, easily recognizable by his diamond shirt-stud, thick mustache, and fat, red-veined face, gave them but ungracious looks. These looks presaged words equally ungracious to be uttered after the game, but the players passed on, unaware that the eye of President John Smith rested on them in disapproval.