CHAPTER XXXII.
THE FINISH AND THE BLOW.
What was up? The Highland spectators watched the men on the field with languid interest, regarding the game as safely won. Somebody declared it was “all over but the shouting.” The one who said this already was so hoarse from shouting that his voice sounded like the croaking of a huge frog. The blue-and-white was down; the crimson was aloft.
Don Scott, his breast heaving from recent exertions, was seen to poise himself securely on his pins, while Renwood crouched just behind Chatterton, who dallied with the ball between his feet.
“They’re going to try a drop-kick from the field,” laughed somebody on the Highland bleachers. “It’s the last gasp of the dying calf.”
Flip went the ball, but Renwood handled it awkwardly in his excitement and made a poor pass to Scott. Don, however, for all of his fiery nature, now seemed calm as an old-fashioned clock, and he gathered in the quarterback’s pass, deliberately turning and poising the leather while the Highland rushers were fighting madly to tear their way to him.
The great egg dropped, struck, and then was lifted with a clean, swinging kick. It flew over the hands outstretched to stop it, carrying with it the fortunes of this remarkable game. The hush suddenly became intense as all eyes followed the oval, which went straight and true as a cannon ball between the goal-posts and over the cross-bar. When it struck the ground pandemonium broke loose, for this beautiful kick in the last minute of the game had given Rockspur five more points and placed them ahead, the score being 11 to 9.
The game was won, and Dick Sterndale gathered Don Scott in his arms and hugged him with a bear-hug, while the mad crowd bellowed and thundered and the bleachers to the right of the grand-stand became a heaving sea of blue-and-white billows.
But there could be no delay, for thirty seconds of play remained, and the ball was brought back to centre for Highland to kick-off. With tears in his eyes, Lee Walker kicked the ball in a half-hearted manner. It was captured by Mayfair, and then the whistle sounded and the end had come.
Onto the field poured the roaring crowd, while the players caught Scott up to their shoulders and bore him aloft, cheering and singing. Such handshaking, such hugs, such dances of joy! Everybody tried to reach the hero of the day. It was remarkable how two girls made their way through that swaying, seething mass of humanity, but they did so, and when Don was lowered for a moment he discovered Zadia Renwood clasping both his hands and congratulating him. His face burned like fire, and he found himself unable to utter a word in response.
Although they felt bad over losing the game at the last moment, the Highland players congratulated the victors, ending with a promise to beat them in the third and concluding game of the series.
Then there was more cheering, more handshaking and demonstrations of joy, and the boys finally found their way to the dressing-room beneath the grand-stand, where scores of admirers were ready to rub them down.
Among the Rockspur players was but one man who did not seem bubbling with satisfaction and happiness. Scott observed that Renwood did not seem elated, and his heart swelled with mingled anger and satisfaction, as he fancied the fellow had been completely balked in his treacherous designs.
In the midst of the chatter of voices somebody announced that Leon Bentley had been captured by Sim Drew, brought back under arrest and confined in the village lock-up.
This information re-awoke Don to his own troubles and reminded him that his father had not appeared to congratulate him after the game was over. Immediately he decided that the doctor, receiving information of the arrest of Bentley, had at once left the field to interview the captured rascal. This being true, it seemed certain that he still suspected his son and had hastened to learn from Leon’s lips if his suspicions were well founded.
“He might have waited a little!” the boy mentally cried. “But I suppose he thought we had lost the game anyway, so he failed to see the finish. I’m sorry. He’ll get the whole thing out of Bentley; but, unless, the fellow lies, no matter what else he learns, he’ll find out I had no part in the forgery of that check.”
The possibility that, to partly shield himself, thinking the doctor could not be so severe if Don should be implicated, Leon might assert that Don was associated with him in the check business startled and appalled Scott.
“He won’t dare!” he panted, half aloud. “If he does——”
“What ails you, old man?” asked Sterndale. “One’d never dream by the look on your face that you won the game for us to-day. You took that pass splendidly, and——”
“Saved me the disgrace of making a foozle at the critical moment,” said Renwood, coming up with half his clothes on. “I owe you thanks, Scott.”
“You owe me nothing!” Don blazed, instantly. “I rather fancy you would have felt more like thanking me if I had fumbled your pass.”
Dolph turned pale and stared hard at the lad who had won the game.
“What do you mean?” he asked. “Do you insinuate that I——”
“I insinuate nothing,” interrupted Don, hotly; “but I think what I like. We didn’t lose the game to-day, Renwood, for all of the traitor on the team.”
There could be no misunderstanding his meaning. Dolph’s voice shook as he said:
“You are insinuating, and I want to tell you now that if you mean to cast that slander on me, you lie!”
Don was on his feet, and he had fallen back against the board wall of the dressing-room. His right hand gripped something that was standing there, and then the demon of uncontrollable anger possessed and mastered him.
The next moment, with a stick of wood, he struck Renwood to the floor!