[CHAPTER XX]
JIMMY HAS A CLEW
It was a rejuvenated team that met Oak Grove Academy the following afternoon. I don’t mean that it played faultless football, for it didn’t, but it had certainly come back wonderfully, and the School, looking on, marveled and perked up and, toward the end of the game, regained its old confidence and belief. It might have been argued that Oak Grove was, after all, not a very strong opponent, but that argument would have been wasted. Besides, while Oak Grove doubtless did show herself weak in one or two departments, it was still true that she had passed through a successful season, sustaining but one defeat, and that two weeks before she had held Kenly to a 6 to 9 score.
It was the first full-period game of the season, and the sixty minutes of actual playing time was filled with excitement and, from an Alton point of view at least, pleasure. From the third or fourth minute of the contest, when Oak Grove fumbled on her forty yards and watched Putney gobble up the ball and streak down the field for a touchdown, to the last twilighted moments when, her back to her goal, Alton, her line holding many substitutes, repelled the frenzied attacks of the enemy and finally punted out of danger, the interest never flagged. Jimmy stood eight yards behind the goal-line when he sent the ball corkscrewing away into the gathering gloom, and even as it fell into the anxious hands of the enemy quarter-back the last whistle sounded. The score at the end was 21 to 6.
Ned Richards gained new fame that day, not by spectacular dashes, but by the truly remarkable manner in which he ran the team. There were weak places in the line, there were faults of performance all through, but the generalship was of the best. Ned was steady in his catching of punts, too, and once or twice gained ground for his side, but it was as a commander of men and a strategist that Ned excelled. There were other heroes beside Ned, though none were really outstanding. Perhaps when all is said and done Jimmy deserved as much credit as any other player in the last two periods. He entered the game when the third quarter was a few minutes old and when, with the game secure by an 18 to 3 score, it was thought best to kick rather than rush. Jimmy surprised his audience, perhaps even Jimmy, by the length of his punts and the direction of them. Nothing hurried him or seemed to fluster him. Time and again the ball escaped the upthrust hands of the charging enemy by an apparent miracle. But escape it always did. Jimmy had no kicks blocked.
Harmon, at left half, Browne, at full-back, Nichols, at center, and Rowlandson, at left guard, played top-notch football. Captain Proctor was, as always, good, although to-day he was far from at his best. The Alton ends were not up to the rest of the forwards, and the right of the line, especially after Raleigh had replaced Stimson at guard, was decidedly weak. Tackling was not of the best, the team was penalized far too often and there were times when even Ned’s most frantic efforts failed to speed up the players. But the old fight was back again, the old will to win, and that brought victory. And victory brought joy to the School.
Even in the sudden turn from pessimism to cheerfulness, Alton did not, however, swing to the extreme. No one, perhaps, yet looked for a conclusive victory over Kenly Hall next week. Many predicted a tie, some a triumph by a few points—perhaps a goal after touchdown or even a goal from the field. But the main thing was that the Gray-and-Gold had shown that afternoon that, come what might, she was not to be trampled on; that, victor or vanquished, she would uphold the honor of Alton and its proud traditions. So the student body took hope, and high spirits reigned. If Alton was not destined to win, at best the enemy’s triumph was to be insignificant. That the School should find reason for rejoicing on so slight an excuse was, when one considered it, strange, for a preponderance of victories during recent years had endowed Alton with a perhaps excusable arrogance. A more disinterested philosopher than any of our characters might have told himself that a defeat for the Gray-and-Gold would possibly prove an unpalatable but beneficial medicine!
Naturally enough a certain restraint existed between the roommates in Number 27 Upton subsequent to Stick Patterson’s ultimatum. In spite of being quite convinced that he was acting within his rights, Stick was uncomfortable and showed it by acting in an unusually care-free and careless manner which fooled neither him nor Russell. On his part, Russell, recognizing his friend’s privilege of selling his interest as he had indicated, tried to feel no sense of injury, failed and was unnaturally polite and awkward in Stick’s presence. It was a relief to both when either could avail himself of an excuse to get away. Fortunately for Russell football affairs took precedence over all else during the next few days. The Best Second Team in the History of Alton Academy was finishing its career at full steam, and Russell was steaming with it. Monday and Tuesday saw battles royal between the first and the scrub. Wednesday’s meeting was less ferocious, since then the second was used as a battering ram and, given the ball time and again on the first team’s ten yards, was instructed to carry it over. That success came but once, and then with the aid of a half-distance penalty, spoke well for the big team’s reviving defense. Work was interrupted frequently while coaches explained and corrected, and under such circumstances the old fury of battle was sadly wanting. Thursday, though, contrary to established custom, saw one final, glorious struggle. The second, knowing that it was the last, offered life and limb and fought as never before. More than once Coach Cade was forced to intervene and caution in the interest of his charges and Coach Gaston was obliged, unwillingly it appeared, to echo the remonstrance. That was a fine and fitting finish for the second, for although the first scored a touchdown and kicked a field-goal, the scrub team took the ball away from the enemy on the latter’s forty-two yards and, growling and snarling, plunged and twisted, battered and hammered her way across nine almost obliterated white lines and set the pigskin behind the first team’s goal. That march was epic. Friendship was forgotten and no mercy was asked nor shown. Behind the retreating, amazed first team line Coach Cade barked passionate entreaties. In the wake of the second Steve Gaston, an unholy light of triumph on his lean face, roared hoarsely.
“Fight! Fight! FIGHT!” urged Steve. “Six yards more! You can do it, Second! Take it over! It’s your last chance! Don’t quit now! Smash them! Smear them! Fight, Second.”