CHAPTER XXXI.
THE SECOND HALF.
Under the grand-stand the perspiring, blood-stained, dirt-bedaubed young heroes were being rubbed down by their admiring friends, while outside the Highland crowd sang pæans of victory.
“We’ll win this game, fellows, just as true as we play the next half to win,” said Sterndale, undaunted.
He never seemed to lose courage, but some of those tired fellows hung their heads.
“They can out-kick us,” muttered Rob Linton.
“Well, if we’ve found our weakness there, we must avoid kicking,” said the captain, guarding his words so none of the Highlanders would hear. “Perhaps they don’t know how weak we are.”
“Don’t fool yourself,” grated Scott, flashing a look in the direction of Renwood. “They were informed of all our weak points before they came to Rockspur to-day.”
“How do you know that?” demanded Dick, putting peculiar emphasis on the “you.”
Don realized that this was something he could not explain, and so he muttered:
“Never mind. I know a thing or two, and I’ve caught on to some things in this game that ought to be plain enough to you, Sterndale, if you are not stone-blind.”
“You’re all wrong, Scott, and you’ll find it out,” said Dick, positively. “The sooner you get over that feeling the better it will be for you and the team.”
Scott flushed. “Do you mean to hint that I haven’t done my level best?” he harshly demanded.
“Not a bit of it,” Dick instantly answered. “I don’t know where we would have been without you. And I’ve given you chances enough, too.”
“But you gave the ball to Renwood on the third try when the touchdown was made—and that after my run.”
“It was a trick to bother Highland some. Besides that, you were tired, and I had sent you against them twice.”
“Tired! Bah! I was over the line ahead of Renwood, and——”
“I don’t believe I’d got over at all if you hadn’t yanked me across,” broke in the voice of Renwood himself, who had overheard Don’s words by accident. “I was stuck fast when you gave that surge and seemed to pull me right through Hartford. The entire credit of that touchdown belongs to you, Scott.”
This was so frank and honest that Don was silenced for a moment, but he finally muttered:
“Well, I didn’t get it.”
There the matter dropped for a time, the men receiving notice to get onto the field again, the ten minutes of rest being over; but Don had not changed his mind in the least.
The two teams were given tumultuous greetings by their respective admirers, and, as they lined up for the concluding half, it was observed that Rockspur had not substituted a man, while three new players appeared for Highland, being Pell at right guard, Hardoak at right tackle and McCord at right half-back. It was plainly an attempt to strengthen the right wing of the visiting eleven.
“Now, git in, boys—git in an’ win!” cried old Uncle Ike. “Jest show ’em the kind of stuff you’re made of!”
It was Highland’s kick-off, and Walker drove the ball to Mayfair, who attempted to run with it, but was downed by Pell and Johnson on the home team’s thirty-five-yard line. The referee, however, announcing that Hardoak was off side, the ball was called back, Highland losing five yards as a penalty. Therefore, it was from the visitors’ fifty-yard line that Walker made his second kick, which Carter caught. Once more the game was on in all its fury, and the tide of battle ebbed and flowed with heart-breaking irregularity.
Garrison was full of confidence, having been petted and congratulated and complimented, and seven minutes after the second half began he made another try to drop-kick a goal from the field. This time, however, not being favored by the wind, he missed the goal-posts by two yards, though he came near enough to give Rockspur something of a scare.
Sterndale had been nettled by the ineffective kicking of his team, and, now, with the wind favoring him, he punted out in a manner calculated to show what he could do. It was the longest kick of the day, for the ball actually came down on Highland’s thirty-yard line. One of the visitors would have gathered it in, but he was checked by cooler heads, and the leather was permitted to roll on over the goal line for a touchback, which counted for nothing.
Highland suddenly seemed to realize that facing the wind meant different kind of playing, whereupon a time-killing game was inaugurated right away. It was not long before Sterndale saw through this, and he resolved to give the enemy such hot work that they would find time-killing would not do.
As soon as the ball again came into the possession of the home team, Dick sent Mayfair against the new men in the right wing of the Highland line to try the mettle of those substitutes. The interference was poor, and Rockspur’s left half-back was blocked without a gain. Again this play was tried, but the result was the same, and Sterndale was forced to kick.
For a second time the big captain of the Rockspur Eleven booted out a distance annihilator, and for a second time Highland permitted the ball to roll across the goal line, which was foxy and scientific defense, showing that the coaching of Winston had borne excellent fruit. Only a small number of the spectators appreciated the quality of the playing they were witnessing, but the Harvard coach saw it with satisfaction that he was unable to express.
With the resumption of play, Walker kicked from his kick-out line, but the oval went out of bounds and Powell crashed into Ford, who was trying to pick the ball up. The mute was stretched out for a few seconds, but he quickly recovered and resumed his place, a grim look of mingled pain and courage on his face.
“They’re trying to knock us out,” thought Don. “If they can cripple us, they’ll have the advantage, and they know it.”
This made him intensely angry, and his dark eyes glowed with a dangerous fire. He had hoped that Rockspur would be able to give Highland a severe drubbing, for all of the supposed treachery of Renwood, but that hope was growing fainter as the minutes passed and the home team gained no decided advantage in the second half. All through the game Powell had shown himself to be the most dangerous man to encounter in the line of the visiting team, and now Don fancied the fellow was using his brute strength in an endeavor to put some of the Rockspur players out of the game.
With this idea firmly planted in his head, Scott aimed for Powell in the very next scrimmage. When the energetic Highlander attempted to shoulder him aside, Scott lost his temper completely and struck Powell a heavy blow on the neck.
Instantly the whistle of the keen-eyed referee sounded, and, as a penalty for this foul, Rockspur was put back a distance of ten yards, with an equal advance for the visitors.
“Don’t do a thing like that again, old man!” exclaimed Sterndale. “We can’t afford it. Hold steady.”
“But don’t you see what that fellow is trying?” palpitated Don, who already was ashamed of his angry action. “He’s doing his best to cripple some of our men.”
“Then let him do the fouling,” returned the captain. “We can’t afford such business.”
There was no time for further words. Scott was deeply humiliated, for he knew he had, in a burst of ungoverned anger, done something that seemed to brand him as a ruffian. And this had happened after he was beginning to congratulate himself on his ability to control his passions when he resolutely set about doing so, for was he not playing football on the same eleven with the one fellow he hated more than all others in the world—had he not done his level best to drag that fellow into the glory of a touchdown?
Now, all in a moment, he realized that very little credit was due him for holding in check his hatred toward Renwood. The scales dropped from his eyes, and he saw it was to avoid humiliation and shame before his father that he was on the team, not because he had resolved to restrain the animosity for Renwood that had leaped to life within him. Of course his father had seen that wretched blow at Powell, and Don dared not look in his direction. He hung his head and was most crestfallen in appearance.
Before he knew it the Highlanders were smashing through Rockspur’s right wing, Powell was upon him, and then he was trampled down as the whirling mass of humanity swept on like a twisting tornado. When this storm had passed, a human figure was seen prostrate and motionless on the torn and trampled turf.
“Scott’s down! He’s hurt! Stop the game!”
Cries of alarm went up, the whistle sounded, and several men bent over Don.
“Give him air! Where is a doctor?”
Then Dr. Scott hurried onto the field and knelt by his son, lifting Don’s head to his knee. The boy’s eyes opened and he gasped painfully, seeming dazed for a moment.
“Where are you hurt, Don?” asked the doctor, in a steady voice.
“Hurt? I’m not hur—— It’s my side—and head!”
The injured lad had tried to start up, but a sharp pain caught him in his side and his head went round and round, while a black shadow dropped like a curtain before his eyes. Blood trickled from his nostrils, his father wiping it away.
“It’s a shame!” grated Sterndale, through his clenched teeth. “Scott’s strengthened the weak spot on the team and made the best record of anybody to-day. With him out, we’re beaten!”
These words were spoken low into the ears of Mayfair and intended for no other, but they pierced that black curtain and reached the dazed brain of the boy on the ground, arousing all his wonderful will-power and bringing him back from the brink of unconsciousness.
“I’m not knocked out!” he whispered. “Give me some water! I’ll play this game out if I die for it!”
Water was placed to his lips, his face was wet with it, and then he got up, with his father’s arm about him. The breathless spectators saw him push that arm off and step away, staggering a bit, but gathering himself and growing steadier. Then, after a last moment of hesitation, the doctor turned away and the players prepared to resume the game.
The Rockspur yell came over the field, with Scott’s name exploding at the end like a huge firecracker. It was a sound to stir the blood, and it seemed to restore the right half-back of the home team to complete strength.
Then the game was resumed. Don caught a look of satisfaction from Powell, and he knew the Highland left tackle felt that he had evened the score.
The pluck of Scott gave Rockspur new life, the onslaught of the visitors being checked. But time was flying, and, as yet, no opportunity had arrived for the home team to make the coveted score. Highland was fighting beautifully to hold her own till the time was up.
There were many swift changes, but most of the struggle took place near the middle of the field, and the hopes of the Rockspur spectators fell lower and lower as the second half waned and drew near a close. With every sharp play by the visitors the bleachers to the left of the grand-stand heaved with crimson and shrieked with joy. The bleachers on the other side tried to keep it up, but a note of doubt and failing confidence had crept into the cheering. Old Uncle Ike, however, remained undaunted, declaring over and over that, “Our boys will git there yit.”
“It’s a shame!” fluttered Dora Deland; “but I felt sure we’d lose when I heard they’d taken Don Scott back. Just see how he lost ten yards for us by striking that Highland fellow!”
“As it happened, that made no difference,” said Zadia Renwood, immediately. “I think you are unjust to Don Scott. He has played splendidly.”
“What has he done? He hasn’t made a touchdown. Dolph did that.”
“After Don Scott’s run had made it possible. Rockspur owes to Scott the points it has made.”
“You’re just the queerest girl, Zade!” exclaimed Dora. “You know Don Scott hates your brother.”
“Is that a good reason why I should be unjust to him? Look! look! He downed that Highland fellow that time!”
Don had been waiting for the opportunity, and, with the ball tucked under his arm, he shot out from the midst of the interference, lowered his head and bowled Powell over handsomely. He made a gain of ten yards before being stopped by Walker.
After that, Scott felt a little better, for he had shown that Highland’s left tackle was vulnerable.
In the next scrimmage Jotham Sprout was put out of the game with an injured back, and it was necessary to fill his place with Thad Boland. Boland had the brawn to stop the gap in the line, but his slowness was well known to Highland, and they tried to take advantage of it, which brought the brunt of the battle on the right wing of the home team and gave Scott all he could do.
With only five minuses of play remaining, neither side had scored in the second half, and there seemed no prospect that a further score would be made.
“It’s no use,” said some of the Rockspur spectators. “We can beat those chaps at baseball, but they are too much for us in this kind of a game.”
Highland had the ball, and was playing to hold it as long as possible. Don saw this, and he fairly ached in his desire to get hold of the leather. The ball was down for a scrimmage, and he pressed up into the line between Linton and Boland. He heard the signal and fancied he understood it. Then Davis snapped back to Fisher, and Highland’s quarter-back attempted a long pass to Powell, who had dropped slightly behind the line for the ball.
The play was balked, for right through between Hartford and Dow shot a pantherish figure, and the oval did not reach Powell’s clutch. Don Scott had intercepted the pass, and he went by Garrison like an express train overdue and trying to make up time. But the hopes of the Rockspur spectators were dashed when he was brought down by Walker on Highland’s forty-yard line. It seemed that the last chance ended right there.
“Oh, you can’t do it, you know!” sang the visitors on the bleachers.
Sterndale lost not a second. He tried to get Scott round Highland’s end, but no gain was made. Next he gave the ball to Mayfair and smashed into the enemy’s centre, getting five yards.
Once more the Highlanders became rooted. It was impossible to jar them. Already some of the visiting spectators were pressing toward the gate, regarding the game as won by their team, for but one minute of play remained. Having given up hope, not a few of the Rockspurites were leaving the grounds, unwilling to remain and witness the rejoicing of the victorious Highlanders.
“The boys did well,” they were saying, “but they were outclassed.”
Then there was a hush. Something was going to happen. What could it be?