The Spirit of the School

by Ralph Henry Barbour

[“Lockhard ... was streaking around the right end of his line.”]

But now the field, friend and foe alike, had taken up the chase, while ahead, coming warily down upon them, was the Fairview quarter back. Both Lockhard and Hansel were fast runners, though the latter could at any time have outstripped the other. For the moment danger from behind was not pressing, and Hansel gave all his attention to the foe ahead. Running abreast of Lockhard, he called to that youth to keep out. Then he made straight for the quarter back. But the latter was an old hand, and was not to be drawn from his quarry. As they came together, Hansel found with dismay, that the enemy had fooled him, and had got between him and Lockhard. Desperately Hansel crashed into him, but the quarter, giving before the attack, kept his feet, and the next instant sprang at Lockhard.

Down went the latter just as Hansel, swinging about, swerved to the rescue, and as he fell the ball bounded from his grasp and went bobbing erratically toward the side line. Hansel was on it like a cat on a mouse, and before the quarter or the nearest of the pursuit could reach him had dropped upon it, found his feet again after rolling over twice, and was off once more toward Fairview’s goal.

From the sides of the field came a confused inarticulate roar as the spectators, on their feet, watched with anxious hearts the outcome of the race. Five yards ahead of the nearest pursuer sped Hansel, running like a flash. Behind him, with outstretched, clutching hands, ran the Fairview right end. Back of him friend and foe were strung along the field. Hansel’s feet twinkled above the thirty-yard line. Beside him, dangerously near, was the white boundary line, but he dared not edge farther toward the middle of the gridiron lest it prove his undoing. Another white line streak passed beneath him, and then a second. The goal line was clearly in view. But he had played through almost seventy minutes of a hard game, and his limbs ached and his breath threatened at every stride to fail him. Once he faltered—that was near the fifteen-yard line—and a note of triumph burst into the pandemonium of sound from the watchers. But he struggled on again. The ten-yard line was almost under foot when he felt the shock of the tackle. Grimly he hugged the ball, struggled to advance, did manage to cross the white streak, and then stretched his length on the turf, hunched his head out of danger, and had the last breath driven from his body as the foremost of the pursuit hurled themselves upon him. Somewhere, very, very far away it seemed, a whistle blew. And then he knew nothing more until the big sponge splashed over his face, and he regained consciousness to find them pumping his arms up and down and kneading his chest. He smiled up into Bert’s anxious face.

“All right,” he murmured faintly.

And in another minute he was back at his end of the line and Bert was telling them that there was only a minute to play, and that they’d got to get through. The ball was eight yards from the last white line and Fairview, desperate and ugly, was between.

“All right, fellows!” shouted Cotton. “Everybody into it! Signal!”

Then Hansel was running back to shove and grunt behind a confused mass at the center of the line. Canvas rasped against canvas, short groans and cries of exhortation filled the air, and somewhere in front Bert, with the ball clasped tightly to his stomach, was fighting inch by inch, foot by foot, toward the goal line. Then something gave somewhere and Hansel went stumbling forward into a confused maelstrom of legs and bodies, while against his ears burst a sudden tempest of shouts. He found his feet, hurled some one, friend or foe, he never knew, from his path, and emerged from the mass of fallen players to see Bert, white and unconscious, lying sprawled upon his back across the goal line with the ball well over.