“Twenty-four seconds!” some one was crying as he took his stand. But that didn’t worry him. The play once begun, time was of no account. It was the distance and angle that caused him trepidation. He was eight yards behind the line and the line was close to the twenty-five; and the nearer goal post was well to his left. Perhaps had he been fresh, with his lungs not seemingly on the point of stopping work and his heart not pounding like a sledge, he might have faced his task with more confidence. But as it was his spine felt more like a column of water than a thing of bone and his muscles were twitching.
On the stands a deep silence had fallen. Pearsall’s cry of “Block that kick!” had dwindled away. Even the shouts of the opposing players had lapsed to hoarse mutters as Irmo, sighting, prepared to shoot the ball back. Wheaton, crouched behind the center, yelped his signals in a voice that cracked. Steve Le Gette held his trembling hands straight out, stiffened himself on his wobbling legs. Then came the thuds of meeting bodies, the rasping of canvas against canvas, the wild, unintelligible cries, the throaty grunts as Pearsall hurled herself at the enemy. But came, too, the battered brown ball, turning lazily over twice on its shorter axis and settling true into the outstretched hands awaiting it. One more brief glance at the crossbar, a quick turning of the ball, a single step forward, a powerful swing of a leg! Then forms blotted the speeding ball from his sight. The enemy was all about him, plunging past, toppling to the trampled sod.
Up and up, slowly, unconcernedly, went the ball, hung for a moment against the blue of the sky and arched downward. Midway between the posts it sailed and, for a fleeting instant, as it began its descent, it was eclipsed by the white streak of the crossbar!
CHAPTER XIX
STUART SPEAKS HIS MIND
Ten to ten!
A tied score and victory for neither team!
When the outburst that acclaimed Le Gette’s goal had finally died down a strange silence descended over the stands. Near midfield the teams were cheering each other, but the cheers sounded faint and perfunctory. The groups broke up and the players turned toward the benches and then, mingling with the throng, hurried off the field. The cheering section on the Manning side found its voice and broke into measured sound; a long cheer for the Team, a regular cheer for Pearsall—“and make it good!”—and another long cheer for Manning. The remnants of the Pearsall cheering section returned the compliment, and then the stands emptied.
It was a very quiet throng that flowed over the turf toward the campus. There is something woefully flat about a tied football game, and speculation and argument as to what might have happened bring small comfort. Many of the visitors felt cheated because there had been no subsequent spectacle, no snake dance with caps and brightly hued megaphones tossing over the crossbars, no triumphant cheering and singing. Some departed firm in the conviction that that amusement should have been provided for them irrespective of the game’s outcome!
In the gymnasium there was plenty of talk, but it flowed levelly, with no crescendos. Many remarks began with “If” and “But” and ended in the air. The general atmosphere was one of resentment rather than of regret, as though Fate had played a sorry trick. Later on, perspective came to the aid and a more philosophic mood prevailed, but just now there were moody faces aplenty in the locker room. Outside, the fellows were gathered before the entrance responding faithfully to Stearns Wilson’s every demand. Players and substitutes, coaches and managers, trainer and assistants were cheered loudly, but the sound, booming down to the wearied warriors, failed to dispel their gloom.