“30, 87—”
The ball left Ellison and sped back to Tom. Archer swung to the left and crossed behind. Tom, too, was running that way now, the ball before him, and so were Treader and Houston, and so carefully were they spaced that not one of the enemy save the left end saw the ball pass from Tom to Archer behind that moving screen. But that left end, coming through inside Clif Bingham, was not able to use his knowledge to advantage, for Treader crashed into him and he went down, sprawling in the path of the runners. The Wolcott right end, speeding around, met Thayer, and that fact kept him, too, forever out of the play. Treader and Houston swept on around the right, but Tom, slackening speed, tarried while Archer, still running toward the side-line, found his position for the throw. Then a Wolcott tackle came plunging up, and Tom had his work cut out for him. As he and the brown-stockinged foe met, Archer dropped his right arm behind his shoulder, swept it forward again and threw, straight and hard, down the field from the thirty-six yards.
No one had seriously interfered with Clif when the ball had been snapped. Dodging wide, he had let the Wolcott left end past inside him. Then, warily, as though only desirous of avoiding the rough encounters behind, he sped none too hurriedly across three white marks. The Wolcott left halfback started toward him, but after one stride changed his course. To him the play was what it seemed, a fake kick and a wide sweep about the left of his line, and he hurried up to get into it. Midway between the five-yard-line and the ten Clif stopped and swung about. If the play had been timed right the ball should be already on its way. It was. So, too, was the Wolcott quarterback, and, further away, others. But the ball came faster than they, and it came true.
Clif set himself, held his hands out for it, felt it thump into them, tightened his clutch about it, turned and ran. There was but one white mark to cross before the goal-line, and he had spurned it before the enemy reached him. Then came the supreme test. The Wolcott quarterback launched himself forward, but Clif had anticipated the tackle by the fraction of a second. He twisted to the right, perilously close to the side-line, spun, saw the enemy go sprawling past, hands clutching, emptily, leaped the falling body and was safe. There was the last white streak a stride away and he had crossed it before the second enemy reached him, crossed it and dropped to earth, the battered ball held tightly wrapped in his arms!
The Wyndham Team held its banquet on Wednesday night at the Inn. There were many speeches made and many songs sung, and a whole batch of congratulatory messages were read by Captain Dave. There was one from Coach Otis and another from “Big Bill” Fargo amongst them. Nearly forty persons occupied the three big tables that had been placed end to end, but all were not team members. Besides the coaches, and Dan Farrell, the trainer, and Mr. Frost, representing the Faculty, there was a boy in a wheel chair. Several speakers of the evening had done their best to embarrass this guest; notably Mr. Babcock who had gone into sickening details in his account of how Wyndham had spiked Wolcott’s guns. But Loring bore up very well, for, after all, he was only human, and he had done his bit toward that 8 to 3 victory. They sang that charming ditty “We Beat Her” several times, though now the last line had been altered to “And what we did last Saturday we’ll do again next fall!” And finally they sang “Shadowed Walls,” all standing, and cheered for Wyndham—the long cheer with nine booming “Wyndhams” on the end—and broke up.
Wattles, waiting outside the door, took charge of Loring, and the wheel chair trundled along Oak Street with Clif on one side and Tom on the other. Ahead of them and behind echoes of the evening sounded. Carlson and Jensen, arms entwined, confided to a star-sprinkled sky that “We beat her back in ’16.” Farther behind a cheer arose. Tom, who had emptied the contents of a dish into a pocket before leaving, shared salted nuts with the others. Wattles’s refusal to partake availed him nothing. Tom stopped traffic while he filled Wattles’s mouth, and for some distance Wattles couldn’t have spoken had he wanted to.
“Wonder who they’ll elect Saturday,” mused Clif a moment later.
“Houston or Ogden,” said Tom. “Say, look here, you fellows! Here’s something I’ve had on my mind for days. How—”