“Maybe it’s a hospital or something,” replied Myron. “He says he’s coming to Warne pretty soon and will look me up. I’d like to have you meet him, Joe.”
“Who’s this?”
“Why, Millard, the chap I was speaking of,” answered Myron disgustedly.
“Oh! Glad to know him. Which street do we take now?”
They parted at the gymnasium and Myron joined the throng pressing toward the field, a short block away. He looked for Millard, but didn’t see him. Later, during the intermission, he thought he caught sight of him in the throng behind the Musket Hill bench, but others intervened and he was not able to make certain.
The game started at half-past two, by which time the morning heat had been somewhat abated by a fresh breeze that blew across the oval field and fluttered the big maroon banner above the covered stand that held the Musket Hill rooters. Parkinson’s sixty odd supporters, grouped together on the other side of the field, did valiant service with their voices, but to Myron it seemed that their contribution to the din that prevailed as the two teams trotted on together was very slight. He was wedged in between a stout youth named Hollis, whom he instinctively disliked because of his high-pitched voice, and a studious-appearing boy in spectacles whose name he didn’t know. Hollis had vindicated Myron’s verdict before the teams had finished warming up by showing himself to be one of those cock-sure, opinionated and loud-talking youths of which every school is possessed. His neighbour at his left elbow proved inoffensive and only once during the game uttered any sound that Myron could hear. Then, while every one else was on his feet, shouting and gesticulating, the spectacled youth smiled raptly and murmured, “Oh, bully indeed!”
Myron purchased a score-card from a boy with a maroon band about his arm, exchanging a bright ten cent piece for a flimsy, smoochy slip of paper that, so far as the visiting team was concerned, was as untruthful as it was unlovely. The card declared that “Mullen” would play left tackle for Parkinson, that “Sawtrell” was her centre and that “Wildram” was the name of her left half-back. Myron corrected these misstatements when Captain Mellen had trotted his warriors out on the field, and some others besides, for Coach Driscoll had sent five substitutes to the fray, four linemen and a back. When Myron had got through making over his score-card it looked like one of his corrected English compositions and read as follows: Stearns, l.e.; Mellen, l.t.; Brodhead, l.g.; Cantrell, c.; Dobbins, r.g.; Flay, r.t.; Grove, r.e.; Cater, q.b.; Brounker, l.h.; Brown, r.h.; Kearns, f.b.
Myron was glad that Joe was to have his chance in a real game, and for the first period watched his room-mate so closely that the general aspect of the game was quite lost on him and he came to with a start when the teams changed fields, realising that however nicely Joe had played—and he had played well: there was no question about that—the eleven as a whole had failed to show anything resembling real football. While neither team had found its gait, Musket Hill had already threatened the visitors’ goal and only a sad fumble had held her away from it. And now, with the second ten-minute period beginning, the ball was again in the Maroon’s possession on Parkinson’s thirty-three yards. Myron sat up and took notice, deciding to let Joe play his game unaided by telepathic waves from the grandstand!
Musket Hill was a heavy team, although her players got their weight from height rather than breadth. They were, almost without exception, tall, rangey youths with an extremely knowing manner of handling themselves. Myron’s brow clouded as he watched that first play after the whistle. Musket Hill used an open formation, with her backs side by side a full pace further distant than usual. From this formation, with the quarter frequently joining the line of backs at left or right, Musket Hill worked a variety of plays: straight plunges at centre, delayed passes sliding off tackle, quarter-back runs, even punts, the latter, thanks to a steady bunch of forwards, never threatened with disaster. The Maroon played a shifty game, changing her plays often, seldom attacking the same place twice no matter what gains might result. Toward the end the latter rule did not hold good, but for three full periods she observed it rigorously, even to the impatience and protests of her supporters. Before that second period was three minutes old she had settled down into her stride and demonstrated the fact that, whatever favours of fortune might occur, on the basis of ability alone she was more than a match for her opponent.
The Maroon secured her first score less than three minutes from the start of the second quarter as unexpectedly as deftly, and Myron and his companions on the west stand had scarcely recovered from their surprise by the time the goal was kicked! The ball had been on Parkinson’s forty-two yards, after Musket Hill had punted, caught again and carried the pigskin four yards in two downs. The Maroon’s trick of punting from that three-man formation, and close to the line, had got the enemy worried. The latter was never quite certain when an unexpected kick would go over a back’s head, for Musket Hill punted without rule or reason, it seemed. To keep two men up the field at all times was impossible, and so Parkinson compromised and put Brown midway between the line and Cater. As Musket Hill had netted but four yards in two downs, it was fair to assume that she was just as likely to kick on the third down as to rush, and Brown edged further back at Cater’s call. But Musket Hill did the unexpected. There was a quick, dazzling movement behind her line and then the ball arched away to her left. Somehow an end was under it when it came down and, although Stearns almost foiled him, caught it and reached the five-yard line before he was seriously challenged by Brodhead. He had kept close to the side-line, and Brown, playing well back, was his nearest foe when the twenty-five-yard line was reached. But Brown never had a chance, for a Musket Hill youth brought him low, while a second effectively disposed of Cater a moment after. Brodhead alone stood for an instant between the Brown and disaster—none ever knew how he had managed to get back to the five yards—and for a heart-beat it seemed that the runner was doomed. But Brodhead’s tackle only spun the red-legged runner about and sent him across the final white line like a top in its last gyrations.