A well-kicked goal added another point to the six, and the teams went back to the centre of the field once more. To Myron it seemed then that Parkinson realised defeat, for there was that in the attitudes and movements of the players that had not been there before. It was not dejection, but it might have been called the ghost of it. And yet for the remainder of the period Parkinson took and held the upper hand and the half ended with the ball in her possession on her forty-eight yards.
Myron wanted to talk over the game very badly, but the youth with spectacles was doing what appeared to be an intricate problem in algebra on the back of his score-card, while as for the stout boy on his other side, he had heard enough of his conversation already. Just now he was knowingly informing his companion that the trouble with Parkinson was that she needed a decent coach. His brief glimpse of Millard—if it really was Millard—distracted him for a moment or two, and after that he listened to the joyful sounds from the Musket Hill side and felt rather disappointed and lonesome.
[CHAPTER XVIII]
MYRON GETS HIS CHANCE
I should like to tell how Parkinson found herself in the last half of the game and won the contest. But nothing of that sort happened. Coach Driscoll started the third period with all his regulars in the line, and, in consequence, Musket Hill found slower going. Gains in the line were far less frequent, and only outside of tackles was the Maroon likely to win territory. But the home team clearly out-punted the visitors, although, in the final period, Garrison was pulled back from the line to swing his toe for Parkinson. Musket Hill made but one long advance in the last twenty minutes, and, as before, a forward pass was the method chosen. Keene, who had taken Stearns’ place at left end, was caught napping badly, and Meldrum, the left half, who should have seen the signs and been on guard, found himself tied up with the enemy. The result was a fine thirty-seven yard gain that placed the pigskin on Parkinson’s nine yards.
From a Parkinson point of view, the most encouraging feature of the day developed then when the Brown line, forced back to its six yards and then to its four, and finally retired to its two for being off-side, stood firm and took the ball away a foot from her goal-line. It was then that the west stand shouted and cheered and that Myron, silent a moment for want of breath, heard his spectacled neighbour give vent to the enthusiastic remark already recorded. But no team can win who can’t score, and Parkinson couldn’t score. On attack she was decidedly weak. The ability was there, but the team had not yet learned to make use of it. Individually, nearly every fellow in the Brown line played really excellent football, but teamwork was missing. For a brief four or five minutes at the beginning of the last quarter there came a semblance of it, and Parkinson, securing the ball on a punt near her thirty yards, managed to work it down to the enemy’s thirty. Guy Brown was the bright particular star, and, aided by Meldrum, tore off gain after gain through a weakened left side of the enemy’s ranks. But when Musket Hill brought in two substitutes to bolster the point of attack the advance petered out, and when Brown had twice failed to gain and Kearns had lost a yard on a wide end run, Parkinson was forced to punt. That punt marked the end of Parkinson’s defiance. From then on she plugged away doggedly to avert a worse defeat and, aided by the over-zealousness of Musket Hill’s several substitutes and by the sharp-eyed officials, succeeded. When the final whistle blew Parkinson was down on her twelve yards, her back again to the wall, and only that whistle saved her.
Musket Hill appeared more than satisfied with her score of 7 to 0. It was only her second victory over Parkinson in many years of contest, although there had been ties and close scores, and Myron, standing in his place with the other Parkinsonians and cheering bravely, witnessed a hilarious celebration as Musket Hill overflowed the field and began a sinuous snake-dance from side to side and from goal to goal. Then came a hurried scramble for the four-forty-eight train and a tedious and, for his part, dejected journey back to Warne. He hoped that Millard would show up, although that engaging youth hadn’t spoken of returning by that train. He didn’t, however, and Myron had a dull time of it.
The next afternoon, being Sunday, he and Joe visited Andrew Merriman, and later they rescued Zephaniah from his box-stall and, accompanied by that joyous companion, took a long walk into the country. The afternoon was ideal, although too warm for brisk walking. Andrew spied some butternut trees up a lane and they prospected. But the nuts were still green, for no hard frosts had visited them yet. The boys found a sunny spot nearby and stretched themselves out on a bank of ferns and Zephaniah had a monstrous adventure with a cricket and got tangled in a blackberry vine and fell off a stone wall and, in short, spent the most glorious hour of his young life.
Andrew and Joe did most of the talking that afternoon. Myron was in a rather gloomy frame of mind, although he couldn’t have found any explanation for the fact. Andrew rallied him once on the score of his silence, and Myron said he was tired. After that he really thought he was. Joe was in high spirits. He had been pitted against a worthy adversary yesterday and, during the time he had faced him, had had a glorious time. Every one said that he had outplayed his opponent, and Joe knew it. He regretted that Mr. Driscoll had seen fit to put Garrison in his place in the last half, however, earnestly assuring Andrew and Myron that if he had stayed in he would have had “that guy Fraser eating out of my hand in the last quarter!” But a good tussle always cheered Joe up wonderfully, and the effects of that strenuous twenty minutes lasted him for several days: just as a fine big vari-coloured lump under his left eye did!