“Me? Oh, I don’t mind. You see, Danforth, he’s keeping us out of it because we’re too precious to take chances with. Looking at it in that way, you see, it’s a fine old compliment to our worth and abilities.”
“I don’t look at it that way,” murmured Harry.
“Might as well. Hello! Look at that!”
A Norwich back, the ball tucked into the corner of his left arm, was streaking down the field, evading player after player of the opposing team and crossing one white line after another, while the stands broke into wild, unintelligible tumult! Only Jones, playing well back, stood between the Norwich runner and the goal, and hundreds of voices died into silence as the two forms, one speeding desperately and one advancing alertly and cautiously, drew near. Then a great shout of triumph and relief from the supporters of the home team broke forth, and Peel murmured: “Good old Jonesy! Tackled like a man!”
For Jones had brought down the runner on the twenty-four-yard line with as pretty a tackle as had been seen all season, and Norwich’s hope of winning the game died a sudden death. Coach Worden hurried a new end into the field in place of Shallcross, and the teams lined up on the twenty-four yards. But Norwich’s bolt had been sped. Three attempts at the tackles gained but six yards, and when the left half fell back to kicking position and held his hands for the ball nearly half the Barnstead forwards came rushing through upon him and the ball, striking a leaping figure, went bounding back up the field. The substitute end fell on it near the forty yards, and Dyker punted down the field and out of bounds at Norwich’s thirty-yard line. Three minutes later the game was over, and Barnstead had won by the narrow margin of one point. Harry, trotting back to the gymnasium in the wake of the players, forgot his enmity against the coach in the satisfaction of victory.
IV
Barnstead celebrated that evening. Not that the school was unduly elated because of the victory over Norwich, nor that the score was anything to be especially proud of, but merely because football enthusiasm was rampant and the afternoon’s success, slight as it was, provided an excuse. As soon as supper was over the fellows congregated in front of School Hall and began cheering. Songs followed the cheers, and then a voice cried: “We want to march!” The suggestion won immediate favor, and in almost less time than it takes to tell it the fellows were falling into line four abreast, two hundred throats were singing the school anthem and the march had begun. Shouting, cheering, singing, pushing and jostling, the long column swung around the corner and began the circuit of the campus.
Harry found himself between Tracey, who had been with him when the celebration began, and a substitute tackle named Cummings. Linking arms, they followed on, adding their quota to the noise and hilarity. The procession paused at each dormitory to cheer the resident instructor, and wound four blocks out of bounds to reach Mr. Worden’s rooms in a little white clapboarded cottage. The noise soon brought the coach to the doorway and, when the throng had quieted down, he made a short speech that rekindled the waning enthusiasm. After that the procession headed back to the campus, paid a visit to the principal’s residence and finally disbanded in front of School Hall. As it was a Saturday night there was no imperative need of studying, and so Harry and Tracey followed a discordant group of revelers across to Hutchins Hall and spent an hour with Joe Phillips and his roommate, Bert Means, talking football and predicting an overwhelming victory over St. Matthew’s.