Most of the California schools and colleges play Rugby football, like the English and the Australians. But a good many schools which prepare students for eastern colleges still play the American game, and among these are Santa Benicia, Hike’s school; the great San Dinero Preparatory School, where the sons of millionaires learn polo and (say the Santa Benicians) brush their teeth with gold brushes; and the Berkeley Etonian School.
The Etonians were not very dangerous, but the Santa Benicians liked to make a good meal on them, about October, to whet their teeth for Dumnor High School, and the big San Dinero game. In the game with the Etonians, the team assumes what is likely to be its final shape; so all the friends of the players come out with yells concealed in their throats, to cheer particular friends.
Poodle Darby, wearing a large and gaudy sweater, was very conspicuous on the home-ground bleachers, as the crowd flocked in for the Etonian game. He was explaining that, as Hike had been not only captain and right-half, on the Freshman team of the year before, but also easily the best player, Hike was certain to make good in the position of left-half on the school team, in which he was to be finally tried out at this game.
In the dressing room, Hike was putting on his shin-guards, singing. He was not nervous. Though he was anxious lest the coach or captain might take him out of the game, he was mad with desire to get into a scrimmage—or to be flying swiftly, in the Hustle, against a head wind; he didn’t much care which. It seemed advisable, first, however, to attend to the Etonians. He paid little attention to the knot about Poodle, which cheered him as he came out on the field. He merely started getting up steam by passing the ball.
When the team ran up against the Etonians after about the first down, they had the surprise of their lives. This time, they were not facing one of the mobs of half-sized boys which the Etonians usually called a team, but a sturdy bunch with play like clock-work and a grit that made up for their lack of weight. The Santa Benicians tried again and again to rush the ball through the line, but the Etonians hung on like bull-pups.
Once, Hike got clear with the ball, but he was tackled by two Etonians and came down in ten yards. Once, Bunk Tarver, at right-end, recovered an onside kick, just at the end of the first half, and made the only touch-down of the first half. Snifty Carter missed his goal-kick. The Santa Benicians on the bleachers cheered only half-heartedly. Where were the brilliant team-plays, the forward passes, the long runs, and the magnificent punts which they expected to see brought out of cover during this game? Where, oh, where?
And the coach, a Princeton crack, asked the same; only he asked it over and over, making most uncomplimentary references to a “bunch of butter-fingered dough-heads,” as he addressed the team between the halves. He warned Taffy Bingham, the right-tackle, that he was playing carelessly, and that the line would get a hole bored in it, unless he watched out. Taffy deliberately turned his back and paid little attention. The coach, who hated Taffy’s sneers, longed to be able to put some one else in his place, but had no one so good.
Early in the second half, Taffy was playing more carelessly than ever, though Bill McDever, captain of the team, and right-guard, used terrific language to him. And just then the Etonians got through, brushed Taffy aside, tossed on a trick, and landed a touch-down. Furthermore, they kicked goal successfully—and now their score was ahead of the Santa Benicians.
Poodle was biting the front of the seat above him, and kicking as though dying of three or four diseases at once, while the hundred rooters that the Etonians had brought danced all over each other.
Then the Etonians held the Santa Benicians down for fifteen terrible minutes, till Hike, Hike Griffin, got around left end on a fake kick, and made a forty-yard run, while the whole school gasped, afraid to breathe. A fast little Etonian, caught at him as he passed, but he shook the sprinter off with a laugh, and loped ahead. The breeze hit his face; he made b’lieve—just plain made b’lieve—that he was driving the Hustle before Congress and the President; gritted his teeth, and fled toward the Etonian goal. As he reached a clear field, the Santa Benicians all rose and bawled, “Hike, Hike, hike; hike, Hike, hike!” He hiked.