Under Boy Scout Colors

by Joseph Bushnell Ames

But swiftly it was borne upon him that the blame did not lie on his shoulders. A try around right end brought them barely a yard. Something had gone wrong there, too. He could not tell just what it was, but it seemed as if Slater and Torrance had failed somehow to back up Ted MacIlvaine as they should have done. The tackle’s teeth grated, and a flood of impotent anger surged over him. They were playing as they had played in practice, each fellow for himself, without even an effort to get together and tighten up.

With the inevitable kick which gave the ball to Troop One, this fact became even more apparent. Solid and compact, the blue line swept down the field with a machine-like rush that carried everything before it. They seemed to find holes everywhere in the opposing line, and only the handicap of a high wind and the brilliant work of three or four individuals kept them from scoring in the first quarter.

That such a calamity could be long prevented seemed impossible to Dale. He greeted the intermission with a sigh of thankfulness. Brief as it was, it was a respite. Sherman’s bitter, stinging onslaught on the team passed almost unheeded by the anxious tackle. He was thinking of the three remaining quarters with a foreboding that made him oblivious to all else.

To be sure, when play was resumed, the fellows seemed to show a slightly better spirit. It was as if the first dim realization of their errors was being forced upon them. But they had been split apart so long that they seemed to have forgotten how to work together in that close-knit, united manner which alone could make any head against these particular opponents. Time and time again they were driven back to the very shadow of their goal-posts, where, stung by shame or the lashing tongue of their captain, they rallied long enough to hurl back the attack a little, only to lapse again when the pressing, vital need was past.

Then, toward the very end of that second quarter, when Tompkins was just beginning to hope again, the thing he had dreaded came suddenly and unexpectedly. Some one blundered, whether Slater, or Torrance, or Ted MacIlvaine, the boy did not know. With a last swift rush the blue-clad interference charged at the right wing, through it, over it, and, hurling aside all opposition, swept resistlessly over the last six yards for a touchdown. They missed the goal by a hair, but that did not lessen the sense of shock and sharp dismay which quivered through the line of their opponents.

Dale Tompkins took his place after the long intermission, a dull, bitter, impotent anger consuming him. He was furious with the fellows who by their incredible stupidity were practically throwing away the game. He even hated himself for seeming to accomplish so little; but most of all he raged at the blond chap next to him. Some of the others were at least trying to get together, though their lack of practice made the effort almost negligible. But Ranny Phelps remained as coldly aloof, as markedly determined to withhold support and play his game alone as he had been in the beginning.

It made a hole in the line which could not escape the attention of the opposing quarter-back. Already he had sent his formation through it more than once, but now he seemed to concentrate the attack on that weak spot. Time and time again Dale flung himself to meet the rush, only to be overwhelmed and hurled back by sheer numbers. Sometimes Sanson pulled him out of the scrimmage, more often he scrambled up unaided to find his place, sweat-blinded and with breath coming in gasps, and brace himself for the next onset.

Silently, doggedly, he took his punishment, and presently, under the strain, he began to lose track of the broader features of the game. Vaguely he realized that they had been forced back again and again almost against their own goal-posts, and there had rallied, tearing formations to shreds and hurling back the enemy with the strength of despair. Dimly he heard the voice of Ward, or Court Parker’s shriller notes, urging them in sharp, broken phrases to get together. But the real, the dominating thing was that forward plunge, the tensing of muscles, the crash of meeting bodies, the heaving, straining struggle, the slow, heartrending process of being crushed back by overwhelming weight–that and the sense of emptiness upon his left.

Then came a time when things went black for an instant before his eyes. He did not quite lose consciousness, for he knew when the weight above was lifted and two arms slid around him, dragging him to his feet. It was Sanson, he thought hazily–good old Frank! Then he turned his head a little and through the wavering mists looked straight into the eyes of Ranny Phelps!

Wide, dilated, almost black with strain and excitement, they stared at him from out the grimy face with a strange mingling of shame and admiration that sent a thrill through the tenderfoot and made him pull himself together.