“Well, send some one. Hollins, you come.”
So Bert went back, even more surprised than before, and Mr. Cade said: “Take it here, Hollins. Let’s see what you can do. We ought to get a score this time.”
It was fourth down and Don Riding called for kick formation with Franklin back. Bert took his place behind right tackle, the signals started and the ball shot back. Franklin, however, had had woefully little practice at taking the pass from center and he made a poor job of it. The cry of “Ball! Ball!” arose piercingly as the lines swayed. Bert jumped to the right to head off an opponent who was leaking through, and just at that moment something bounded against his leg. He threw himself outside and let the adversary stumble past him. Then he was running toward the trickling ball, one of several in pursuit. A lucky, half-hearted leap on the part of the pigskin coincided with Bert’s swoop, and he straightened up, tucking the ball tightly to him, and started ahead. A falling player sent him staggering to the right, but he recovered and headed in. It looked like a forlorn hope, for the enemy seemed closing in on him. Then, however, Tolman shot past him and went crashing into the nearest of the foe and Bert sped around the falling forms and found his pace.
It wasn’t difficult after that. Only one tackler threatened and a straight-arm sent him spinning aside. Bert had picked up the ball near the Scrub’s forty-yard line and by the time he was racing over the twenty he was a good two yards in advance of the nearest foe. The Scrub safety man had run in at the warning of the fumble and he was a poor third when the goal-line was reached. Bert crossed it winded but serene and yielded gracefully to the vindictive tackle of the first pursuer. Mr. Cade, trotting slowly up, said: “Good work, Hollins! Nice dodging. Never mind the try-for-point, fellows! First kicks off!”
Returning somewhat breathlessly up the field, Bert puzzled over the coach’s reference to dodging. Bert couldn’t remember having dodged once! However, he had won praise from Mr. Cade, and that was certainly good luck! For that matter, the whole proceeding, he reflected, had been a matter of luck! He guessed the touchdown wouldn’t raise his stock much.
Yet, on Tuesday, the indications were that it had, and that he had slipped overnight a little farther up the list. He knew this by two tokens. One was the speculative look he surprised on Larry Keys’ countenance. The other was the fact that when Larry, who had succeeded Pete Ness at right half, went out in the second session of the scrimmage game Jake’s summons was: “Hollins! Go in at left half, boy!”
He played some six minutes that day, remembering better now to keep his head up and look for the opening. Once that proceeding served him well, for on an off-tackle play something went wrong and his own full-back and the opposing end were blocking the hole. Seeing it in time, he sped on out, closely pursued by the Scrub left end, side-stepped an enemy back and went around for seven yards. Then he stood and listened while Coach Cade made a few critical remarks to Oscar Couch. The First took revenge to-day for yesterday’s 6 to 6 tie, piling up three touchdowns on the enemy. One of these was put across while Bert was in, and, although it was Couch who took the ball over, Bert had a fine part in the conquest of those last eight yards and felt as triumphant as any one when, the heap of bodies having been disentangled, the pigskin was found to be well across the mark.
That afternoon Fitz Savell had another try at end, left this time, and Joe Tate looked extremely worried during the experiment. There was no doubt that Savell had the making of a brilliant end-rush, although since that position seemed well supplied with talent there was no apparent reason for sacrificing a good backfield man. Finally Tate was restored to his place and Fitz was later seen at left half once more. Returning to Upton from the gymnasium after practice, Chick voiced uneasiness to Bert. “Wonder what Johnny’s idea is in letting Fitz play end. The man’s a half-back and a mighty good one, and it would be a queer piece of business to try to make an end of him in the middle of the season. Anyway, we’ve got four good ends right now.”
“Who’s the fourth?” asked Bert. “Tate and Shelfer and Kruger, sure, but who’s the other?”
Chick grinned. “Your Uncle Dudley, son. Of course I oughtn’t to call myself good, but you’ll excuse it.”