Change Signals: A Story of the New Football

by Ralph Henry Barbour

It was long after ten o’clock when regular breathing from across the room told Kendall that his roommate was asleep. He waited five minutes more to make certain and then arose softly, donned trousers and jacket over his nightgown—Kendall had not yet become so stylish as to affect pajamas—and thrust his bare feet into his canvas “sneakers.” Making certain that the electric torch was in his pocket, he opened the room door noiselessly and peeked out. The dimly lighted hall was empty. Leaving his door slightly ajar, he scuttled to the stairway and stole down. Two of the faculty, Mr. Collins, the Assistant Principal, and Mr. Frye, lived on the lower floor and Kendall had no desire to encounter them. Mr. Collins’s transom, however, was dark, and although a light showed in Mr. Frye’s study, it was further down the corridor and well out of sound.

As he expected, the big outer door was locked. But the key was on the inside and it turned without a squeak. The door was not so quiet, but it is doubtful if it made nearly so much noise as Kendall thought. He crept through with his heart in his throat, feeling like a burglar leaving the scene of his depredations. In another moment he was swallowed in the darkness.

Cautiously, treading on the grass and keeping as close as he might to the front of the buildings, he made his way to Oxford. All was quiet as yet. As his eyes became accustomed to the darkness he found that he could see for some little distance. There was the flagpole, a grayish streak in the gloom, and he thought he could make out the edge of The Prospect beyond. Some stars showed, but for the most part they were obscured by clouds. It was an ideal night for desperate deeds, Kendall reflected, and he shivered pleasurably as he ensconced himself in the doorway of Oxford. He wondered what time it was, but had no way of determining. Suddenly a drumming sound reached him and he listened acutely. It grew and grew and at last resolved itself into the rush of a night freight bearing down from the east. Presently a ruddy glow smote the darkness away to the left as the fireman fed coal to the pounding engine. Then all was blackness again, and the roar of the train as it rushed through the cut a little distance away filled the night. After a moment Kendall could see the tail lights as the train swept across the bridge into Greenburg. Hoarse and low came the distant whistle of a steamer on the Sound. Then quiet settled down again.

Although the day had been unseasonably warm, the night held a chill that was fast getting through Kendall’s scant attire. And the stones felt very cold under the worn soles of his rubber “sneakers.” He wished that the enemy would make its appearance and have done with it. And at almost the same minute, as though in answer to his wish, there reached him faintly the sound of a creaking carriage from beyond the slope. The sounds ceased. Kendall, straining sight and hearing, waited, his heart pounding against his ribs. Minute after minute passed. Time and again his imagination peopled The Prospect with skulking figures, and more than once he was certain that he heard voices. But when the enemy did appear it was from an unsuspected quarter.

Kendall had been so sure that they would creep up over the edge of The Prospect that he never took his eyes from that direction until a sound at his left, the faintest sound imaginable, summoned his gaze. They had come by the drive, after all, banking, doubtless, on the darkness to remain undetected. When Kendall first saw them they were almost halfway across the turf between the drive and the flagpole, which, from where he hid in the entrance of Oxford, was a scant twelve yards distant.

Kendall’s hand, which had been clutching the electric torch for many minutes, tightened and his finger sought the button. But he waited a moment longer, waited while they reached the flagpole, four darker blots in the darkness, and paused there. Then two of the forms separated from the others, one advancing to the right and the other to the left and kneeling, apparently, on the turf. Only once the sound of a voice reached Kendall. Then he thought he heard the word “brush” uttered in a low tone. And then up went his arm, his finger pressed on the button and—

Darkness as before!

The torch had failed to work! Frantically Kendall pressed the button, but it was no use. What was the matter? The torch had been all right earlier in the evening, for he had tested it more than once. Perhaps—! Hurriedly he unscrewed the lens at the end and felt of the tiny lamp inside. That was it! It had become sufficiently unscrewed to break the connection. He tightened it with trembling fingers, put back the lens, again pointed it at the base of the flagpole and pressed the button.

A path of white light leaped before him into the darkness. In that brilliant flood of radiance every object stood out sharp and distinct as though in a flash of lightning. [At the pole], frozen into immobility, [stood a boy with upraised arm]. Beside him a second boy leaned to dip his brush in the can of paint. At the edge of the radiance, to left and right, the two watchers knelt on the grass like Indian scouts and gazed with wide, frightened eyes into the glare of the torch. The picture lasted but an instant. Then came one sudden exclamation of alarm and four figures were scuttling for the edge of The Prospect, their shadows fleeing before them. Then they were gone. Kendall raced after. The light from the torch swept the long, steep slope. Two of the boys had reached the bottom safely, but the others were rolling over and over, pellmell, legs and arms thrashing the air as they went. But not a sound escaped them. At the bottom they picked themselves up and plunged into the blackness beyond the limits of the torch’s radiance.