The Mark of the Knife

by Clayton H. Ernst

"Here's Teeny-bits!" some one yelled.

A chorus of shouts greeted the half-back, and Neil Durant came running to meet him halfway.

"I ought to murder you right now," said the captain, "but I'm so glad to see you I'll wait till after the game. Gee, I'm glad you've come."

By this time half a dozen of the team were slapping Teeny-bits on the back and he had slipped into his position behind the line. Campbell had needed no word to inform him that he was relieved of his duties at left-half; he had given Teeny-bits one startled glance and had headed for the side line. Dean called out the signals while the team ran through a series of plays. "Come on now; we're all here; let's go," cried Neil, and the team responded with a snap. The Ridgley cheering section had noticed the advent of Teeny-bits and a buzz of conversation went around, for his absence during the warming-up had been the subject of increasing comment.

Down at the other end of the field the Jefferson team was running through signals and trying punts and drop kicks. Simultaneously the teams ceased their practice and gathered at the two benches at opposite sides of the field. Neil Durant, Norris and the referee then met in mid-field and flipped a coin for choice of goals. There was little advantage, for almost no wind was stirring, but Norris, who won the toss, quickly chose the south goal and a moment later the two teams ran out and took their places. Ridgley was to kick off to Jefferson.

Neil Durant helped Ned Stillson set the ball on the mound of earth and Ned drew back a few yards. A hush had settled over stands and field; down in the shadow of the south goal posts stood Norris, bending slightly forward, eager to get the ball in his arms; in front of him were his team-mates spread out to cover their half of the field. Just beyond the center was the line of Ridgley players. Suddenly these eleven players moved, the referee's whistle cut the hush, the ball went sailing down the field and shouts arose from every quarter of the stands. The moment had at last arrived; the big game was on.

Teeny-bits felt keen and fit; his long sleep had completely refreshed him. As he raced down the field one thought was in his mind: to get into the play and tackle whatever Jefferson man caught the ball. Ned Stillson had made a clever kick-off; the leather oval flew to the right of Norris and settled into the arms of one of his team-mates, who had dashed forward only ten yards when Neil Durant met him with a clean, hard tackle and brought him solidly to earth. Even such a small incident as that evoked a howl of delight from the Ridgley stands, for such was the reputation of Jefferson that there were those who fearfully expected to see the wearer of the purple dash through the whole Ridgley team and score a touchdown at the first effort. The cheer leader ordered the short Ridgley yell for the team and the stand responded with a hoarse roar. There was scarcely a son of Ridgley gazing down on the field but whose teeth were gritted together, whose breath was coming fast, and whose voice as he shouted encouragement to the team was like the voice of a man hurling defiance to a mortal enemy.

As the two teams lined up for the first scrimmage, Teeny-bits got his first close view of Norris. The famed full-back of the purple was of about Neil Durant's height, of an impressively powerful build, but not so heavy as to appear sluggish. He looked the Ridgley team over with steady, appraising eyes; his face was keen and determined,—the very look of him indicated that he was on the field for business.

The Jefferson quarter was snapping out the signals; his voice cut the medley of shouts that echoed back and forth across the field like the shrill voice of a dog barking in a tempest. Suddenly the ball moved and the first scrimmage was on. The Jefferson right half-back had the ball and the play was aimed at center; big Tom Curwood, however, was equal to the occasion; he stopped the play before the purple-clad son of Jefferson had covered a yard beyond the Ridgley line.

A second wild howl of delight went up from the Ridgley stands; those two small incidents, the quick downing of the runner after the kick-off and the stiff stand of the Ridgley line on this first play from regular formation, had brought a sudden feeling of confidence. Down there on that white-lined field the wearers of the red had begun to show that they could hold their own. But the next play—an end run by the left-half, who made seven yards and advanced the purple within two yards of first down—brought a thunderous roar from the other side of the field.