Back and forth, now tucked tight under the arm of a red or a blue sweater, now sailing luxuriously in the air, the ball was worked over the field; near Boxford’s goal, near Deal’s; or worried like a rat by a pack of terriers in the middle of the gridiron. The two teams were almost equally matched, and the first half ended without a score.
“You are doing well, young ‘un,” said Stenton to Tony, as he stood in the center of the Deal team in the locker-rooms under the Gymnasium between the halves. “Give him a chance, Drayton, and send him around right end. I think it will work.”
“All right, sir,” the little quarter-back squeaked. “I’ve been counting on Chapin mostly, but toward the end he seemed to be completely tuckered.”
Chapin looked up from the bench where he was sitting. “You were so blame winded yourself that you could hardly give the signals,” he snarled.
“Drop that kind of talk!” exclaimed Stenton. “You have been playing like a tackling dummy for the last ten minutes. If you want to lose the game for us keep that up.”
“I am playing the best game I know,” Chapin answered surlily. “If you don’t like it,” he muttered, though Stenton did not hear him, “go get another of your Third Form pets. You chucked Marsh, one of your best players.”
The second half opened, and each team seemed to come back fresher to the fray. With a few trifling exceptions there had been no injuries. Chapin seemed the only boy on whom the strain was telling, and Stenton correctly surmised that that was because he had not been keeping training. And as a matter of fact at a fatal moment his form told. The ball had been worked down well toward Deal’s goal line, and each time through Chapin. Suddenly the Boxford full-back dropped back for a kick: the center sent the ball spinning to him, and a second later he made a drop kick that sent the ball like a great bird sailing majestically between the Deal goal posts. And the score was 4 to 0 in favor of Boxford.
Pandemonium broke loose on the visitors’ side-lines, while the home boys were still with apprehension and disappointment. Soon the ball was back in the center of the field in Deal’s possession, and was being pushed, inevitably it appeared, toward Boxford’s goal, and the strident cries of “Touchdown, touchdown, touchdown!” rang across the campus from the throats of three hundred Deal boys. “How much time?” cried Sandy. “Three minutes to play!” called the time-keeper, and his ominous words were taken up and repeated by the referee. Tony felt as if his heart would break. Why, why, why, he wondered, did not Drayton give him a chance? And Jack Stenton, anxiously pacing the side-lines, wondered too. And then suddenly Tony heard Kid’s squeaky voice ring out, “Sixteen, twenty-two, one,”—his signal! And bracing nerves and sinews, he waited breathlessly as the left half received the ball, and, dodging the arms of the Boxford player who had broken through, thrust the smooth little pigskin into Tony’s arms. Away he dashed, with Chapin, Maclaren, and Thorndyke interfering, round right end. He thrust his hand into the shoulder of the opposing tackle, successfully dodged a heavy Boxford boy who had dived to tackle, and with Chapin by his side, went tearing down the field, which was perfectly open save for the frantic quarter-back of the Boxford team, who was dashing forward to intercept him. Thirty yards more and the game was won! but the quarter-back was almost upon him. “Keep ahead! keep ahead!” he screamed at Chapin, who seemed for the instant to be lagging behind. Twenty yards!—and he could see the Boxford quarter dashing diagonally across the field toward him, and almost feel his arms pinioning his legs. An instantaneous glance—yes, yes, he could make it if Chapin would only keep up with him and ward off that quarter as he made his lunge. Then, just as the Deal boys rose to a man, with a frantic cheer, the supreme moment was come. The line was reached, but suddenly Deering felt a jolt; the quarter’s arms were about his waist, as they went sprawling toward the goal-line; but another arm clothed in a red sweater had thrust itself next Tony’s body and given the ball a terrific shove. In an agony of horror, as he fell heavily to earth, he saw the football fall out of his arms, bound to the ground in front of them, and Chapin and the Boxford quarter lunge together, as they all went down in the mêlée. But the Boxford boy was on the ball and had scored a touchback!
There was a shrill whistle, and the crowd of players were about them, the Deal boys uttering harsh cries of anger and disappointment; the Boxford boys cheering in delirious joy, and above it all a hoarse voice screaming “Time! time!” Tony pulled himself together. “What’s that?” he exclaimed in bewildered fashion. “Deal this way,” yelled Sandy Maclaren; and then to him in a contemptuous aside, “The game’s over, you fool; get up and cheer.”