“Thank you, sir, but possibly I’d better wait now until the football is over. That is to say, if you’re quite certain he is all right.”
“Was this morning, anyway. I talked to him coming out of dining hall. There they come! Grafton! Grafton!”
There had been a good deal of singing and cheering during the absence of the teams, but now the uproar became positively deafening. Everyone stood up and shouted long and loudly and, if they had pennants, waved them. Bowles stood up too, but he didn’t shout, although he almost wanted to! Then a quick, sharp cheer broke forth from one side of the field, and a long, growly cheer floated back from the other, and the players came into sight again around the corner and went to their benches. And Bowles, watching eagerly, saw Master Hugh! But what a disreputable looking Master Hugh! Bowles almost dropped in his tracks! No wonder, indeed, that they called him “Hobo”! A pair of old gray summer trousers, a faded blue sweater, a diminutive cloth cap on the back of his head, and a pair of kicked-out tan shoes on his feet! Bowles groaned and was, oh, so thankful that her Ladyship was not there to witness the disturbing sight! And then others cut off his view and somewhere a whistle blew and the cheering began again and—
“Come on, Grafton! Let’s score now!” yelled a voice in Bowles’ ear, and an elbow dug sharply into his side and someone behind him sent his respectable derby over onto the bridge of his respectable nose. Bowles rescued his hat and gave his attention to the field. The ball was floating lazily aloft in the sunlight and under it the players were running together. Then it came down, a boy got under it and clasped it to his stomach, dodged this way, feinted that, was caught, escaped, ran a few yards and was pulled down. Bowles thought he could almost hear the thud of that body!
“Extremely rough,” he murmured, “oh, very.”
But after that he gazed, at first interested and then fascinated, and soon forgot whether football was rough or otherwise! His neighbor, supplying the unsought-for information that his name was Stiles, threw light on the endeavors of the conflicting groups briefly, succinctly, and Bowles began to fathom the philosophy of the game. Minutes passed. The play surged this way and that, the ball, however, straying never very far from the center of the gridiron. The teams were evenly matched, it seemed. Toward the end of the third period Mount Morris tried a difficult field-goal from the enemy’s thirty-eight yards, but the ball fell far short of the goal and came speeding back in the arms of Nick Blake. They seemed now to be doing more kicking, for the pigskin was frequently in air. Once Vail, playing back with Nick, fumbled a punt and a groan of horror arose from around Bowles, but the next instant Vail had shouldered a Mount Morris end aside and himself fallen on the bouncing ball.
Beside Bowles, his neighbor sat on the edge of the seat and squirmed and yelped and shouted: “Get him, Ted! Get him, you chump!... Here we go, fellows! Oh, look at that! Forty-five yards if an inch! Keyes can’t punt a bit, can he? He’s no good at all, is he? Forty-five yards! That’s all! Just forty—— ... Oh, bully, Winslow! Oh, great stuff! Right through! Three yards easy! How many downs is that? What? It can’t be! Oh, all right. We’ll do it, just the same! They can’t stop us now! We’re on our way to a touchdown! Get into ’em, Keyes! That’s the stuff! Rip ’em up! What’d I tell you? Four more! Oh, there’s nothing to it, I tell you, nothing to it at all!”
Down on the Green-and-White’s twenty-yard line now. Mount Morris weakening a little. Two subs going into her line. Grafton as fresh as ever, barring Trafford, perhaps. Trafford had a fierce jolt that time in the third quarter. Enough to put most fellows out of the game. All right now! Second down and eight to go! No gain? Well, Vail can’t do it every time. Besides, they were looking for him. Two downs left. Seven to go? Then he did gain a little. Here we go! Right through—— Nothing doing! Who had the ball? Keyes? Too bad! Bully chance to score! Have to kick now. Well, three points is better than nothing, let me tell you! Who’s going to—— What’s the matter? Oh, quarter over? Gee, but that was short! All right, everyone up now! Let ’em have it! “Rah, rah, rah, Grafton! Rah, rah, rah, Grafton! Grafton! Grafton! Grafton!”
Bowles found he was clutching his knees tightly, doing no possible good to his respectable trousers, and straining his respectable gloves. Odd how excited one got about football! Extremely rough, football, but—er—most interesting and—er—manly, of course. Oh, rather! Ah, they were starting again at the other end of the field! A scarlet-legged youth was standing well behind his fellows with outstretched arms. Hello, he’d kicked it! Why didn’t the people applaud? What was wrong? Oh, it had to go over that stick, eh, and it hadn’t gone over? Oh, yes, of course. Most regrettable!
Back to the kicking game again now. Long punts, thrilling catches and wonderful runs nipped in the bud by desperate tackles. Now and then an attempted forward pass by Grafton, but never successful. Mount Morris playing as if she’d be satisfied with an 0 to 0 tie, taking no chances with the ball in her possession, playing it safe always. Grafton growing more desperate every minute as the time shortens. Sending Vail and Keyes banging into the left of the Green-and-White line for short gains, whisking Blake and Winslow past tackle or outside end for slightly longer ones, until again the ball is near the twenty-five yards. Now the gains are shorter. Mount Morris plays doggedly, hurling back attack. Three downs and only five yards gained. Back to the thirty-two stalks Keyes. A hush settles over the field and stand. The quarter’s signals are heard plainly. A brown streak into Keyes’ hands, a swinging foot, a moment of suspense, and a groan of disappointment. Again he has failed!