The referee for this game came from Clearport, and was equally acceptable and satisfactory to both teams, having demonstrated in other contests his absolute impartiality and fairness. At the proper moment he walked briskly out upon the field and held a low-spoken consultation with the two captains. A coin was tossed, and, Oakdale obtaining the choice, Ben took the western goal.
The cheering of the spectators sank to a murmur, and was followed by a few tense moments of silence as the youthful gladiators spread out over the outlined chalk marks and made ready for the kick-off. Barville had been given the ball, and the referee placed it carefully upon a little soft mound of earth formed by his own hands at the exact center of the field. A short distance away Copley, the fullback, who was to make the kick, balanced and steadied himself, his eyes fastened on the huge yellow egg. The referee retreated; the whistle sounded. With tensed muscles, the players crouched a bit, ready for the dash.
Copley advanced, quickening his steps. With perfect judgment, he came into position with the proper stride, swung his lusty right leg with vigor, and, following the plunk of his foot against the ball, the pigskin went sailing and soaring far into Oakdale’s territory.
CHAPTER XIV.
THE FIRST QUARTER.
Warren and Forest, the Barville ends, raced along in a desperate dash, closing in as the ball began to fall. Rodney Grant was waiting for the oncoming pigskin, balanced ready for action, his arms outstretched. He made a clean, fair catch, and was off like a broncho of his native state, quirt-stung and spur-jabbed. On one side Warren was blocked off, but on the other Forest came in like a charging fury and flung himself at the Texan. Down they went on the thirty-yard line, with the other players converging toward that spot.
Remembering Stone’s admonition to hustle and line up without loss of a moment, the Oakdale boys strained every nerve to get quickly into position for the first scrimmage. This was their opportunity to show Barville right off the reel what real snappy aggression meant.
“Lively! lively!” urged Stone; and, ere the line of the locals seemed fully formed, Sage began barking the signal. He spat out the numbers sharply, every one clear and distinct, and Oakdale went into Barville like a whirlwind before the visitors were fully set for defence. The result was a gain of eighteen yards, made in a style which seemed to carry the Barville boys completely off their feet, with the exception of the sturdy fullback, Copley, who yanked down the runner and prevented what had promised to be a clean break through the defence, and what might have given the man with the pigskin a running chance to score.
The home crowd went wild over this apparently demoralizing attack of the Oakdale boys, and there were many who, forming a hasty judgment, declared their conviction that the locals outclassed the visitors.
Sanger, who knew Stone as a rather slow and methodical chap, had not imagined for a moment that the Oakdale captain would spur his team to a point of such rapid aggression. The Barville leader, however, was not slow to grasp the fact that he had made an error in judgment, and his voice was heard calling sharply to his somewhat disorganized men as he ordered them to get into position to stop the next charge. Copley came up somewhat dazed by the shock of the collision with the runner; but the latter was even more dazed, and was so long about finding his place in the formation that Barville was given sufficient time to make ready for defence.
Three stingy yards were all Oakdale could make on another line plunge; and when, following this, a round-the-end run promised more satisfactory results, the argus-eyed referee dismayed the shrieking adherents of the team by penalizing the locals for holding.