A Quarter-Back's Pluck: A Story of College Football

by Lester Chadwick

  CHAPTER XXXV

  VICTORY--CONCLUSION

  There was despondency in the quarters of the Randall players, where theygathered between the halves. Gloom sat upon the brow of every one, andthe cheery words of the coach could not seem to dispel it.

  "There's only one touch-down against you," he said. "You always playbetter uphill than down. Go at 'em now, and tear them apart! They play afierce game, but you can play a fiercer! Are any of you hurt? How aboutyou, Looper?"

  "Oh, I'm all right now. It was only my wind. I've got it back. Theywon't get through me again," declared the Snail.

  "I hope not. You're too fat; that's what's the trouble. How areyou holding out, Clinton?" and the coach turned anxiously to thequarter-back. Phil was pacing up and down the dressing-room. There was astrained look on his face, and his hand was inside his blouse, where hisfingers touched a crumpled paper. He did not seem to have heard Mr.Lighton's question. The coach repeated it.

  "Me? Why, I--I guess I can last the game out," said Phil slowly.

  "Last the game out? Why, are you hurt?" The coach was a bit disturbed.

  "No. Of course not. It was just my way of speaking. It's all right--it'sall right," and Phil resumed his pacing of the narrow quarters.

  "Guess he feels that we're going to lose," whispered Dutch Housenlagerto Tom. But Tom shook his head. There was something else the matter withPhil, and he wondered what it was.

  "Do you think they're on to our signals?" asked Holly Cross.

  "No," said Phil shortly. "There's no need to change them. I'll use thesame ones."

  "Time's almost up," remarked the coach, looking at his watch for aboutthe fifth time within two minutes.

  To the lads it seemed as if they had not had more than a minute'srespite, but they were ready for the fray again, and there was aneagerness in the manner in which they leaped out on the gridiron whichbetokened that snappy playing would follow.

  Nor was it long in coming. When Boxer Hall kicked off, amid the chorusof a spirited song, Kindlings caught the ball, and came back with it onsuch a rush, and so well protected by his teammates, that he got pastthe center of the field before he was downed. Then at the line went theRandall lads. Smashing through it, there was no stopping them. Right upthe field they came, surprising even their own coach by their steadyadvance. Phil was handling the players with a skill he had never shownbefore. Play after play he called for, and the lads responded with vim.Even a risky on-side kick was tried and was successful. Then a forwardpass netted fifteen yards, and with joy in their hearts the Randall ladssaw themselves approaching their opponent's goal-line.

  "Now, boys, play like Trojans!" cried Phil heartily, this being thesignal for four sequence plays. They were ripped off one after theother, so quickly that, as Holly Cross said, "it made the hair of theBoxers stand up." For, almost before the visitors were aware of it,though they tried their best to stem the human tide, the ball was only afew feet from the line.

  "Touch-down! Touch-down! Touch-down!" implored the cheering throng.

  "Touch-down it shall be!" whispered Phil fiercely, and he snapped theball to Holly Cross, who went through like a battering ram. There was amass of players on top of him, the ball and the line. Not until they gotup could it be seen if the pigskin was over. The referee rushed in.Slowly the players disentangled. The ball was over the line!

  "Touch-down!" fairly screamed Tom Parsons. "Touch-down!"

  His cry was echoed from the Randall grandstands, and Dutch Housenlagerbegan a dance around the team, carrying Holly Cross, Grasshopper and theJersey twins with him.

  "Kick the goal, and we'll be one point ahead of them!" cried BricktopMolloy to Holly. "Put all the power ye have to spare into your toe, melad, and boost the ball over."

  "I'll try," promised the captain, but the wind had increased, and thepigskin struck the bar and bounded back. But the score was tied, andRandall felt that she was coming into her own.

  "Fast and snappy play, now!" called Phil Clinton, and once more hepassed his hand over his head. There was an air of desperation abouthim, and Tom noticed it.

  "Maybe he's feeling sick," he thought, and he hurried over to his chumand asked him.

  "I don't feel just right," answered Phil. "But I'm not sick. I'm allright. Don't say anything. We're going to win. We're going to win!" herepeated fiercely. "I'm going to run the team to another touch-down.After that--after that," he faltered--"well, it doesn't matter, afterthat."

  The ball was kicked off. An exchange of punts followed the scrimmage,and Boxer Hall got the ball. Her players began some good work, butRandall was ready for it. Several of the best men were tackled so hard,though not unfairly, that time had to be taken out for them to recover.Then Pinstock had to retire because of a twisted ankle, but, to offsetthis, Jerry Jackson was knocked out and Everet took his place.

  For a few minutes it seemed as if Boxer Hall was going up the field foranother touch-down, but Randall braced in time. Then a sudden changeappeared to come over Phil. He had been playing for all he was worth,but now he seemed a perfect whirlwind as he called snappily to his mento take the ball through. And they did it. Through holes torn first onone side between tackle and guard, or guard and center, and then on theother wing, Everet, Holly Cross or Kindlings butted their way. Philvaried this with some end runs and then called for his favorite play,the fake right-half back and tackle shift, when Kerr took the ball onthe fly and went through the opposite side of his opponents' line withit. The play netted fifteen yards, and placed the ball on Boxer Hall'stwenty-yard line.

  The time was fast drawing to a close. Could Boxer hold the linesufficiently to prevent Randall from scoring again, making the game atie? Or could Randall break through? Those were the questions every onewas asking.

  "Now, fellows, for the 'Conquer or Die' song," called Bean Perkins, andduring a silence that followed a brief consultation between Phil andHolly Cross there welled out over the gridiron the inspiring strains of"_Aut Vincere Aut Mori_!"

  "Signal!" cried Phil, and he gave one for a forward pass. He got theball off in good shape, but Nottingham, the burly guard of Boxer Hall,broke through, and jumped right at the quarter-back, hoping to break upthe play. Phil went down under him, and when Kindlings had been stopped,after a few yards' advance, the quarter-back did not get up.

  "Phil's hurt!" cried Tom, and his heart reproached him for keeping quietabout the warning. "That was done on purpose!"

  There was a rush to where Phil lay. Nottingham was bending over him.

  "There was a rush to where Phil lay"]

  "By Jove, old man!" he exclaimed contritely. "I didn't mean to hurt you.Hope I didn't tackle you too hard."

  He began rubbing Phil's hands. Holly Cross passed his fingers over thequarter-back's head.

  "He got a nasty bump!" he exclaimed. "Bring some water."

  The cold fluid revived the injured lad. He struggled to get up.

  "Lie still!" insisted the captain.

  "I'm--I'm all right," replied Phil, though faintly. "My head hit astone, I guess. Give me a little water, and I'll go on with the game!"

  "He's got pluck!" exclaimed Nottingham admiringly, but neither he norany of the others knew the full extent of the quarter-back's pluck. "I'mawfully sorry, old man," went on Nottingham, who was one of the bestfellows in the world. "I didn't mean to come at you so hard."

  "That's all right," spoke Phil gently, and he tried to smile. "We'regoing to beat you for that."

  He got to his feet inside the required two minutes.

  "Signal!" he cried, but there was lacking in his tones some of hisold-time vigor. He called for a play between guard and tackle. Right atNottingham the play was directed, and Dutch Housenlager was to makeit--big Dutch, who seemed to be all bone, muscle and sinew. A gleam wasin Phil's eyes as he gave the last letter of the signal.

  There were but four yards to go to make a touch-down. Could Randall doit? "They must do it! They would do it!" Phil was deciding for the wholeteam. He felt that they must make t
hat distance, if he had to carry theentire eleven on his shoulders. Snail Looper was about to snap the ballback. Boxer Hall was bracing as she had never braced before. It was nowor never. If Randall got a second touch-down it would mean practicallythat she would win the game and the championship.

  Back came the ball. Phil passed it to Dutch, and up against the solidwall of flesh went the big right-tackle. You could almost hear theimpact over in the grandstand. Behind him were his mates. In front ofhim, pulling and hauling on him, were more of them. On either side werethe Boxer Hall players, who had been torn from their places to make ahole. From either side they came leaping in to stop the gap--to stop theadvance of the man with the ball. On and on struggled Dutch. He feltthat he was not himself--that he was but a small part of that seething,struggling mass--an atom in a crushing, grinding, whirling, heaving,boiling caldron of human beings. Breaths were coming short and quick,eyes were flashing. It was push and shove, haul, slip, stumble. Playerwas piled on player. Tom Parsons and the other ends were on the outside.Holly Cross was pushing and shoving, glad if he felt the mass in frontof him give but the fraction of an inch.

  Then, from somewhere beneath that mass of humanity, came the voice ofDutch Housenlager.

  "Down!" he called faintly.

  The heaving human hill slowly settled down, as when the fire iswithdrawn from under a boiling kettle.

  The whistle blew. Slowly the mass was disintegrated. Sore, bruised,scratched; bleeding some of them, lame most of them, desperately anxiousall of them, the players fell apart. Dutch was lying on his face, hisbig back arched. The ball was not to be seen. Had there been a fumble?The goal line passed beneath the stomach of the big tackle. Slowly hearose, and then such a shout as rent the air.

  For the ball was under him! It was over the line! He had made thetouch-down!

  Oh, how the stands vibrated with the yells, the cheers, the songs, thedelirious leaping up and down, the stamping of feet and the clapping ofhands! How the Fairview girls shrilly screamed their college cry! How itwas caught up, swallowed and silenced by the booming cheers from theRandall cohorts!

  For Randall had won. Even if she could not kick the goal, she had won,as there remained but one minute more of play. But the goal was kicked.Holly Cross saw to that, and then, with a final, useless kick-off,and after the final whistle had blown, the Randall players gatheredtogether, their arms about each other, and cheered heartily and mightilyfor the victory.

  Dutch was hoisted to the shoulders of his mates protestingly, andcarried about. The Boxer Hall eleven was cheered, and they gave back aperfunctory, complimentary yell for their opponents. They had beenbeaten where they hoped to win. Beaten twice in the season by theirformer victims. It was humiliating.

  "Here!" cried Holly Cross. "Up with Phil Clinton. He piloted the team tovictory!"

  "That's right!" shouted Bricktop. "Up with him!"

  But Phil was running toward the grandstand at top speed; toward the Asection where, he had told Tom, Madge and Ruth sat.

  "He's hurrying to receive the congratulations of Madge," thought Tombitterly.

  Holly Cross took after the fleeing quarter-back.

  "Come here!" he cried.

  "Can't," answered Phil desperately, and the captain saw that his facewas drawn and strained.

  "Why not?" demanded Holly.

  "Because--read that!" and Phil held out a crumpled telegram. SlowlyHolly deciphered it:

  "Come at once. Your mother is dying."

  It was signed with Phil's father's name.

  "When did you get this?" asked the captain slowly, while the otherplayers gathered about.

  "It came just--just before the game," answered Phil. "I must go--andget my sister. We must start for Florida--at once."

  "Just before the game?" said Holly in a low voice. "Just before thegame? And you played, knowing that--that your mother was--was----"

  Holly faltered. There was a huskiness in his voice.

  "I played the game," said Phil simply. "I--I didn't want to tell youfellows, for fear you'd put a substitute in. But I'm going, now," and heturned toward the grandstand.

  "Talk about pluck!" exclaimed Holly Cross. "If that isn't the bestexhibition of it, I never want to hear of any."

  "Pluck!" murmured Bricktop Molloy. "He's pluck personified. Poor Phil!"and the big left-guard turned aside. Slowly Phil's mates watched himmaking his way to where his sister sat. The gridiron was swarming withspectators now. Bean Perkins came running over.

  "We'll have a great celebration to-night!" he cried to the players andthe substitutes.

  "No!" said Holly Cross simply.

  "Why not?"

  "Because Phil's mother is dying. He's got to go to her."

  Up the grandstand leaped Phil. Tom had hurried after him, ready to dowhat he could to aid his chum to get a train. Phil saw Ruth and Madgetogether. At the sight of her brother Ruth cried:

  "Oh, Phil, wasn't it glorious? I'm so glad you won! Why--wh--what's thematter?" she gasped at the sight of his pale face.

  "Mother!" he exclaimed huskily. "Didn't--haven't you a telegram?"

  "Yes. Did you get one, too?" and she fumbled in her muff. "Oh, Phil, I'mso happy! She's all better! The operation was a success, and she's goingto get well! I got mine just before the game, and I supposed you did,too. I was waiting for you to come to me, but I guess you didn't have achance. Oh, I'm so glad!" and she threw her arms around her brother'sneck.

  "Going to get well? Operation a success? Why, I--I didn't get a telegramlike that!" exclaimed Phil in bewilderment.

  "There's mine," said Ruth, producing it. "I left word to forward anythat might come to Fairview to me here. I gave the number of my seathere to the Fairview operator, and I got the message just before playbegan. But didn't you get yours?"

  Before Phil could answer a diminutive messenger boy pushed his waythrough the crowd.

  "Is dis Phil Clinton?" he asked boldly.

  "That's me," replied Phil quickly, but he hardly knew what he said.

  "Den here's a message fer youse. I tried t' git it t' youse before degame, but de cop wouldn't let me in on de grass. So I stayed and seen descrap. Hully chee! But it was a peach! I'm glad youse fellers won. Signdere!" and the lad held out his book with the message in.

  As in a dream Phil signed, and then tore open the envelope. The messagewas a duplicate of the one his sister had.

  "Any answer?" asked the lad, as he gazed in admiration at Phil, and Tom,who stood close beside him. "Hully chee! But youse is husky brutes,"spoke the modern Mercury, but it was only his way of properly admiringthe football heroes.

  "Yes, there's an answer," said Phil, and he scribbled on a piece ofpaper a bystander thrust into his hand this telegram:

  "Dear Dad: Best news I ever got! We won the game!"

  And he signed it with the names of his sister and himself.

  "May I add my good wishes, not only on the recovery of your mother, buton the way you played the game?" asked Madge, blushing, and holding outher hand to Phil. He clasped her fingers in his.

  "Same here!" cried Tom, as he caught a roguish glance from the eyes ofRuth. "Oh, but I'm glad for your sake, old man!" and he gave Phil such aclap on the back as to make the teeth of the quarter-back clatter. "I'mso glad!"

  "I know you are," said Phil simply, and as he shook hands with his chumhe knew, somehow, that the little cloud that had come between them hadpassed away.

  "Tra, la, la! Merrily do we sing and dance!" cried Tom in the exuberanceof his feelings. "Come down on the field, Phil, Madge, Ruth, and we'llplay 'Ring Around the Rosy'!"

  Laughingly they descended with him, and added to the merriment of thethrong by gaily circling about in it.

  But, with all his joy, Phil was puzzled. Where had the first telegramcome from? Had it been a mistake? Had the operator blundered? He saidnothing to his sister about the message received just before the game.

  The good news quickly spread among the Randall players, and they soonarranged for a celebra
tion. A big fire was kindled, on it were throwntheir football suits, for the season was over, and then the championeleven broke training. A dinner was served that night in the gymnasium,and many girls from Fairview, including Ruth and Madge, attended.

  "But I can't understand where this message came from," Phil was sayingto Tom and Sid a few hours later in their room. "Jove, but it almostknocked me out when I got it! But I knew I had to play the game." He wasexamining the telegram he had first received.

  "Let's see that message," said Sid, and he scanned it closely. "That's afake!" he said suddenly.

  "A fake!" repeated Tom and Phil.

  "Yes. There's no check number on it. No message is ever sent out withouta check number on it. This never came over the wire. Some one got holdof a receiving blank and an envelope, and played this brutal trick.Maybe it was one of the Boxer Hall fellows. He wanted to get your nerve,so you'd drop out of the game."

  "I don't believe it was a Boxer Hall chap," said Phil.

  "Then it was some one who had a grudge against you," insisted Sid. "Wecan inquire at the telegraph office and find out, maybe."

  Tom uttered an exclamation. He had suddenly thought of the mysteriouswarning he had received. Quickly he brought out the torn pieces ofpaper. He saw it all now. The warning had been intended to cover thetelegram--not a physical danger, but a mental one. Rapidly he explainedhow he got the note.

  "I didn't say anything to you, Phil," he concluded, "because I was--Iwas afraid you'd laugh at me. And I kept my eyes open in the game."

  "I understand," spoke the quarter-back. "But who sent this warning?"

  Sid was eagerly examining it, for Tom had pasted the torn piecestogether.

  "I have it!" cried Sid. "Langridge sent this!"

  "How do you know?" came from Phil and Tom at once.

  "Because that's the kind of paper he uses. It has a peculiar water-mark.I'll show you. I have an old baseball note I got from him last term."

  Sid brought out his note. The two were compared. The paper was exactlysimilar, and there were even some characteristic similarities in thewriting, though one was in script and the other printed.

  "Langridge sent this," decided Sid, and the others agreed with him.

  "Then who sent the fake telegram?" inquired Phil.

  "Gerhart, for all the world!" exclaimed Sid. "The cad! To play such abrutal trick!" Sid caught up his cap.

  "Where are you going?" asked Tom.

  "I'm going to confront him with this evidence, and have him run out ofcollege!" burst out Sid. "This ends his course!"

  But Gerhart had anticipated what was coming, when he saw that the crueltelegram he had sent Phil had had no effect, and that the pluckyquarter-back continued playing. He evidently knew the game was up, andfled. For, when Sid called at the fashionable eating club, where Gerhartand Langridge had recently taken a room, he found only the former'varsity pitcher there.

  "Where's Gerhart?" asked Sid savagely.

  "Gone," said Langridge, and he began to shake. He trembled more when Sidthrew down the incriminating evidence, and blurted out the story.

  "It's all true," confessed Langridge. "Gerhart stole the telegraph blankand an envelope, while I kept the agent busy talking about some money Iexpected to get. Gerhart made me go in the scheme with him, but I--Icouldn't stand it, and I sent Tom the tip. I'm done with Gerhart. Hefaked the message to Phil and hired a boy to deliver it. I'm throughwith him!"

  "I should think you would be!" burst out Sid, walking about the room. Itwas in confusion, for Gerhart had hurriedly departed. Sid's eye saw abottle on the closet shelf. "What's this, Langridge?" he asked. "Why,it's liniment! The same kind Phil had, and which stiffened my hand! Howdid it get here? It's the same bottle that was broken--no, it can't be,yet there's the same blot on the label. How in thunder----"

  Then Langridge confessed to that trick of Gerhart's also.

  "He ought to be tarred and feathered!" cried the angry Sid. "If I hadhim here! But you're almost as bad, Langridge. You helped him!"

  "I know it. I'm going to leave college, if you'll only keep still aboutthis. Will you?" pleaded the cringing lad.

  "Yes; for the sake of the college, not for you," spoke Sid, and that ishow only the three chums knew the real story of the dastardly meannessof the two cronies. They thought they were well rid of their enemies,but they were mistaken. Those of you who care to read further of thehappenings at Randall College may do so in the next book, to be called"Batting to Win." In that volume we shall meet all our friends again,and learn what Sid did during the greatest baseball game of the nextseason, and when the collegiate championship hung in the balance.

  "Well, it's all over but the shouting," said Phil to his chums, as theysat in their room that night. From without came the joyous cries ofthose who were celebrating the football victory.

  "All but putting a bronze tablet in the gym, to commemorate the pluckyou showed," added Tom.

  "Aw, forget it!" spoke Phil, as he got into a more comfortable positionon the creaking sofa. "Anybody would have done the same to see his teamwin."

  "Maybe," said Sid softly as he got up from the easy chair to look at hisfavorite football picture.

  Then came a silence in the room, and the fussy little alarm clock hadmatters all to itself. It ticked away at a great rate.

  Tom, who had been standing near the window, crossed to the oppositewall, and stood before the picture of a laughing girl. Phil saw him,smiled, and then, he, too, slowly arose from the decrepit sofa and wentcloser to a photograph of another girl. Thus the three stood, and theclock ticked on with quick, impatient strokes, and not a word wasspoken.

  THE END