Dinner was early today, at twelve o’clock, in order that the players might have time to get over its effects before the game started at two. But no one ate much, Cal especially being extremely chary of food. He was much too anxious and excited to eat. At one the fellows left West House and went through the park toward the gymnasium. They were all rather silent, even Spud for once finding little to say. Clara alone was absent as he had agreed to wait and conduct Molly and Mrs. Linn to the field.
“Well,” said Ned once on the way over, “when we come back we’ll either be feeling a lot better or a lot worse.”
And Sandy, who grew more pessimistic and hopeless as the crucial hour drew nigh, answered:
“We’ll feel a heap worse, I guess!”
The final game drew many friends of the school to Oak Park that day and the seating accommodations were quite inadequate. Long before two o’clock the gridiron was edged with spectators. On the Hall side, reposing on a little table, lay the Silver Shield, the trophy for the possession of which some forty-odd boys had toiled and moiled day after day for nearly two months. The sun shone brightly and there was almost no breeze when the two teams faced each other for the kick-off, but there was a sharp wintery nip in the air that made the watchers along the lines turn up coat-collars and stamp about. The whistle piped and the final game began.
I’m not going to tell you of that first half in detail for more reasons than one. In the first place nothing happened. In the second place it was poorly played. Both teams, House and Hall alike, were too eager. They missed all sorts of opportunities, fumbled, played off-side, held in the line and proceeded in the most futile, headless manner imaginable. It seemed as though House was politely doing its best to hand the game to Hall, while Hall, determined not to be outdone in courtesy, was resolved to present the contest to its adversary. All during that half Cal sat on the side of the field, wrapped in a gray woollen blanket with vivid red borders, and groaned in spirit as he watched the teams tramp back and forth between their respective thirty yard-lines. For neither eleven had the remotest chance to score. When the thirty minutes was up Cal joined the others and trotted to the gymnasium.
Fifteen minutes later he was back in his blanket, the teams had changed goals, the air was colder and the shadows longer and it was now or never. A ray of sunlight, dodging past Doctor Webster’s shoulder, burned ruddily on the Silver Shield. Perhaps it was meant as an omen.
Cal wondered if Brooks would let him on. He had been wondering that for days and days. Now there was only a half-hour left and his chance seemed wofully slim. Both Dutch and Griffin were as strong as ever. Five minutes passed. Hall had the ball on House’s forty-two yards. Two plays with no gain, an attempted forward pass and House had it. A slow advance to Hall’s forty-eight yards and again the pigskin changed hands. Hall kicked on the second down and M’Crae ran the ball back fifteen yards before he was thrown. An end run by Ned gained four yards and Boyle slammed through center for three more. M’Crae kicked. Ten minutes had gone. Cal’s heart grew leaden. Time was called and Brooks turned toward the little group of substitutes.
“Hooper!” he called.