Tom Fairfield's Schooldays; or, The Chums of Elmwood Hall

by Mary Hazelton Blanchard Wade

  CHAPTER IX

  TOM'S TOUCHDOWN

  "Come on now, boys, line up!"

  It was the call of Coach Jackson for the final practice of the Freshmeneleven before their first big game. The regulars were to play againstthe scrub, and, as some of the positions were yet in doubt, there weresome anxious hearts. For not a substitute but wanted to fill in on theregular eleven.

  Tom and Jack, because of the good showing they had made, were assured ofplaces, but Sam Heller, who, to do him credit, was a fairly good player,was not so certain. It lay between him and Bert Wilson, as to who wouldbe quarter-back.

  "But if I had my rights, and if that Fairfield chap hadn't come buttingin," declared Sam to his crony, Nick, "I would be sure of my place."

  "That's right," agreed Nick. "We'll have to get up something onFairfield, and make him quit Elmwood."

  "I wish I could. Say, the Sophs haven't done any hazing this term yet;have they?"

  "No, but they will."

  "I suppose so. Well, just have 'em let me down easy; will you? I'm aSoph myself, by rights, if old Hammond hadn't marked me low in maths.But have the Sophs give it to Fairfield and his chum good and proper;will you?"

  "Sure I will. We're going to do some hazing after the football game. Wethought we'd put it off until then."

  "All right, only do Tom Fairfield up if you can."

  "I will. I don't like him any more than you do. He's got too many airsto suit me--he and that Jack Fitch."

  "Line up! Line up!" called the coach, and the practice began. Sam Hellerwas called on to take his place in the scrub, which he did with nogood grace, casting envious eyes at Bert Wilson, and with a feeling ofbitterness in his heart toward Tom. And with no good cause, for Tom haddone nothing to Sam.

  "Now, boys, play your heads off!" ordered the coach. "I want to see whatsort of stuff you're made of. The best players will go against Holwellto-morrow."

  Then the scrub game began, with the Freshmen players doing their best toshove back their opponents, and the latter equally determined to make asgood a showing as possible. Back and forth the battle of the gridironwaged, with Tom jumping into every play, looking for openings where hemight wriggle through with the ball, or help the man who had it to gaina yard or two.

  "Touchdown! Touchdown!" yelled the members of the first eleven, as theygot the ball well down toward the scrub goal. "Make it a touchdown!"

  It would have been, but for the fact that Bert Wilson fumbled the ballin passing it back from centre. A scrub player broke through, grabbedthe pigskin, and was off down the field like a shot.

  "Get him, boys!" cried Morse Denton, the Freshman captain, and JackFitch, who was as fleet as some ends, was after the fleeing youth. Hecaught him in time to prevent a score being made, but the coach shookhis head at the next line up.

  "Heller, you go in at quarter to replace Wilson," he said. "I am sorry,"the arbiter added, at the look of gloom on the face of Tom's chum, "butfumbles are costly. I can't afford to take any chances."

  Bert said nothing, but he knew that he was not altogether at fault,for the centre had not passed the ball accurately. Sam Heller, with atriumphant smile at Tom, went to quarter, and the game proceeded. Butit was noticed that Sam, who was giving signals, and deciding on mostof the plays, did not give Tom as many chances as when Bert had been inplace behind the centre.

  "You want to look out for Sam in the game to-morrow," said Jack to Tomthat night, when, after gruelling practice, the regular Freshmen hadshoved the scrub all over the field.

  "Why so?"

  "Because I think he has it in for you. He'll spoil your plays if he can,and he won't give you a chance. Look out for him."

  "I will. But at the same time I don't believe he'd do anything to spoilthe chance of the team winning."

  "I wouldn't trust him. At the same time he may do nothing worse than notgive you a chance. It's going to be a big game, I hear, and the fellowwho makes good will be in line for the 'varsity next season."

  "I'll watch out. Now let's do something. Come on in Bert's room. Hefeels bad about not playing to-morrow."

  "I know. But it's forbidden to visit in other fellows' rooms afterhours."

  "Oh, what of it?" asked Tom, who liked to take chances. "We've got to dosomething. It isn't so late, and there are no lectures to-morrow."

  "All right, go ahead. I'm with you. But I hope we don't get caught. Itmight mean being ruled out of the game to-morrow."

  Bert was grateful for the sympathy of his chums, and soon felt in betterhumor. Jack offered to repeat his water pitcher juggling act, and wasonly prevented by force on the part of Tom. There was a merry scuffle,and George Abbot came in to see what was going on, at the same timebringing warning that a sub-monitor had been patroling the corridors.

  "Then we've got to be quiet," declared Tom. "Cut out your juggling,Jack."

  The four chums talked for an hour or more, and then the three, who wereout of their rooms, taking a cautious survey of the hall, prepared to goto bed, ready for the big game on the morrow. Jack and Tom just escapedbeing caught as they slipped into their apartment, but, as Tom remarked,"A miss was as good as a mile."

  Then came the day of the great game.

  "Line up! Line up!"

  "Over here, Elmwood!"

  "This way, Holwell!"

  "Rah! Rah! Rah!"

  "Toot! Toot! Toot!"

  These were only some of the cries that burst forth from hundreds ofthroats at the annual game between the Elmwood and Holwell schools, asthe Freshmen prepared to clash in their gridiron battle.

  The game was to take place on the Elmwood grounds, and both teams wereout for practice. The crowds were beginning to arrive, and the bandswere playing.

  "Say, there's a mob here all right," remarked Jack to Tom. "A raft ofpeople."

  "Yes. I hope we win."

  "Oh, sure we will. Don't get nervous. I only wish Bert was at quarterinstead of Sam Heller."

  "So do I, but it can't be helped. I guess it will be all right."

  "Line up!"

  It was the final call. The preliminaries had been all arranged, thegoals chosen, and the practice balls called in. Elmwood was to kickoff, and the new yellow pigskin was handed to her burly centre, who waspoising it on a little mound of earth in the middle of the field.

  "Ready?" asked the official.

  "Ready!" answered both captains.

  The whistle shrilled out its signal, and the toe of the big centre metthe ball squarely. It was well kicked into the Holwell territory.

  The full-back on the latter team caught it skillfully, and started toreturn with it, well protected by interference, but Jack Fitch workedhis way through it, and tackled his man hard.

  "Good! Good!" screamed the Elmwood enthusiasts, and then the firstscrimmage was prepared for.

  I am not going to describe for you that game in detail, for it formedbut a small part in the life of Tom Fairfield. Sufficient to say thatthe gridiron battle was fairly even, and that at the end of the thirdquarter the score was a tie.

  "But we've got to win!" declared the Elmwood captain, during the restperiod. "We've _got_ to."

  "And we will, if there's a change made," declared Jack Fitch boldly.

  "What do you mean?"

  "I mean that Tom Fairfield isn't getting a fair show."

  "Oh, Jack!" exclaimed Tom.

  "That's right! You're not!" declared his chum. "Sam hasn't called onyou three times during the game. It's been all wing shift plays, orplace kicks, or forward passes, or fake kicks or something like that.Why can't we have some straight, old-fashioned football, with a rushof the half-back through tackle and guard or centre? Tom's a goodground-gainer."

  "I've played him as much as I saw proper," snapped Sam.

  "You have not!" declared Jack hotly.

  "Easy, boys," cautioned the coach. "There must be no personal feeling.Perhaps some straight football would go well, Heller."

  "All right, I'll give it to 'em."

  The whis
tle blew to start the last quarter.

  "Remember, boys, a touchdown will do the trick, and win the game!"pleaded the Elmwood captain.

  "Look out for yourself, Tom," cautioned Jack.

  "Why?"

  "Because Sam is just mad enough to make you fumble the ball and spoil aplay. Then he'll accuse you of losing the game."

  "I'll watch out."

  The play was resumed. It was give and take, hammer and tongs, with thebest players making the most gains. The ball was slowly forced down thefield toward the Holwell goal.

  "Touchdown! Touchdown!" screamed the supporters of our hero's college,and there were many of them.

  "Seven, eleven, thirty-three, Elmwood! Eight--nine--twenty-one!" calledSam.

  It was the signal for the full-back to take the ball through centre. Itwas almost the last chance, for the time was nearly up, and Tom had notbeen given a single opportunity that quarter. His heart burned againsthis enemy; yet what could he do?

  The quarter-back dropped his hands as a signal for the centre to snapthe ball back. Sam caught it fairly, and turned to pass it to thefull-back. Then, that always fatal element in football developed. Therewas a fumble. The ball was dropped.

  "Grab it! Fall on it!" yelled half a dozen Holwell players.

  The Elmwood line wavered. Could it hold?

  Tom Fairfield, a mist before his eyes, saw the pigskin rolling towardhim. He picked it up on the jump. In another moment Jack Fitch and JoeRooney, his guard, had torn a hole in the opposing line.

  "Come on, Tom!" yelled Jack hoarsely.

  And Tom, with lowered head, with the ball held close to his breast,plunged into the line. He hit it hard. It yielded. He went through witha rush, pushed by Jack and Joe. Then, seeing but a single man betweenhimself and the coveted goal, he rushed for it.

  All but the opposing full-back had been drawn in at the sight of thefumble, and the chance to secure the ball. Tom rushed at this loneplayer.

  There was a shock. Tom reeled, but managed to retain his footing. Heshoved the full-back aside, and ran on.

  "Oh, great!" he heard hundreds yell. "Go on! Go on!"

  How he ran! It was the opportunity for which he had waited. In spite ofSam Heller it had come to him. Over the white chalk marks Tom scudded,until, with panting breath, with a heart that seemed bursting, and witheyes that scarcely saw, he fell over the last line, and planted theball between the goal posts, making the winning touchdown. The otherplayers--his own and his opponents--straggled up to the last mark. Thewhistle blew, ending the game.

  "Oh wow!" shrilled hundreds of voices. "Elmwood! Elmwood! Elmwoodforever!"

  "Tom, you won the game! You won the game!" yelled Jack in his chum'sear, as Tom got up, holding his foot on the ball. "You won in spite ofSam!"

  "I--I'm glad--of--it!" panted Tom, scarcely able to breathe even yet,for he had run hard.