“Well, my lad,” panted the latter, “could you discern from where you were just what kind of a cyclone struck us?” But Jimpson was too much interested for such levity.
“Do you think I’ll get in this half, Gates?”
“Can’t say. Take a look at Sills, and judge for yourself.”
That gentleman was having his lame back rubbed by a trainer, but he appeared to Jimpson good for at least another quarter of an hour.
It seemed but a moment after they had reached the rooms that the word of “Time’s up, fellows,” was passed, and renewed cheering from without indorsed the fact. But a moment or two still remained, and that moment belonged to Brattle. He stood on a bench and addressed the hearers very quietly:
“We’re going to kick, this half, fellows. I want every man to get down the field on the instant, without stopping to hold. I don’t think they can keep us from scoring at least once more; but every man has got to work. When the time comes to put the ball over the line, I expect it to go over with a rush. Let every man play the best game he knows, but play together. Remember that lack of teamwork has often defeated us. And now, fellows, three times three for Harvard!”
And what a yell that was! Jimpson went purple in the face, and the head coach cheered his spectacles off. And then out they all went on a trot, big Gates doing a coltish handspring in mid-field, to the great delight of the Crimson’s wearers. The college band played; thirty thousand people said something all together; and then the great quadrangle was silent, the whistle piped merrily, and the ball soared into air again.
Jimpson took up his position on the side-line once more, and watched with envious heart the lucky players. For the great, overwhelming desire of Jimpson’s soul was to be out there on the torn turf, doing great deeds, and being trampled under foot. He watched the redoubtable Sills as a cat watches a mouse. Every falter of that player brought fresh hope to Jimpson. He would have liked to rise and make an impassioned speech in the interests of humanity, protesting against allowing a man in Sills’s condition to remain in the game. Jimpson’s heart revolted at the cruelty of it.
Some such idea as this he had expressed to Gates, that morning; and the big center had giggled in deep amusement; in fact, he had refused to recognize the disinterested character of Jimpson’s protest.
“Don’t you think,” Jimpson had pleaded, “that I might ask Brattle to give me a show in the second half?”
“No, I don’t,” Gates had answered bluntly. “You’re an unknown quantity, my boy; as the Frenchies say, you haven’t ‘arrived.’ For a player who hasn’t ‘arrived’ to try to give the captain points would be shocking bad taste. That’s how it is. Sills is a good player. As long as he can hold his head up, he’ll be allowed to play. When he’s laid out, Brattle will give you a show. He can’t help himself; you’re the only chap that he can trust in the position. And look here; when that time comes, just you remember the signals, and keep your eyes on the ball. That’s all you’ll have to do. Don’t take your eyes off the leather, even if the sky falls!”
Jimpson remembered the conversation, and thought ruefully that it was easy enough for a fellow who has everything that heart can desire to spout good advice to chaps on the side-lines. Perhaps if Gates were in his (Jimpson’s) place he’d not be any too patient himself. The score-board said fifteen minutes to play. Sills still held up his stubborn head, and Jimpson’s chances grew dimmer and dimmer as moments sped.
Harvard’s kicking tactics had netted her long gains time and again, and twice had she reached Yale’s 10-yard line, only to be grimly held and hurled back. Yale, on the other hand, had only once reached scoring distance of their opponent’s goal, and had been successfully held for downs. Veterans of the game declared enthusiastically, between bets, that it was “the snappiest game of the decade!” and supporters of Harvard said among themselves that it was beautifully conducive to heart-disease. Perhaps never had the two colleges turned out teams so evenly balanced in both offense and defense. The bets had become “one to two that Harvard doesn’t score again.”
Harvard’s quarter had given place to a substitute, and her left guard had retired injured. Yale had fared no better, possibly worse, since her crack full-back had been forced to yield to a somewhat inferior sub. And now the hands on the score-board turned again, and only ten minutes remained.
The ball was down near Harvard’s 40-yard line, and when it was snapped back, Sills took it for a “round-the-end run.” But Yale’s big left half-back was waiting for him, and the two went to earth together near the side-line and almost at Jimpson’s feet. And then it was that that youth’s heart did queer feats inside him, and seemed trying to get out. For Sills lay a while where he had fallen, and when he could walk the doctor had sent him from the field. Brattle beckoned to Jimpson. With trembling fingers Jimpson struggled with his sweater; but had not a neighbor come to his assistance, he would never have wriggled out of it before the game was called.
Brattle met him, and, laying an arm over his shoulder, walked him a few paces apart. Jimpson’s heart, which had become more normal in action, threatened another invasion of his throat, and he wondered if everybody was looking on. Then he stopped speculating, and listened to what the captain was saying.
“We’ve only eight minutes to play. The ball has got to go over, Jimpson. I’ve seen you run, and I believe you can make it if you try. The ball is yours on the second down. Try the right end; don’t be afraid of swinging out into the field. Whatever you do, don’t let go of the ball. If Turner puts you through the line, keep your head down, but jump high. Now, go in, and let’s see what you can do.” He gave Jimpson an encouraging slap on the back that almost precipitated that youth into the quarter, and Jimpson saw the broad backs before him settling down, and heard the labored breathing of the men.
“Ninety-one, twenty-eight, seventy-three, sixty-four – six!”
Jimpson suddenly found himself pushing the left half-back against a surging wall of tattered blue. Then some one seized him about the waist, and he picked himself up from the ground eight feet away from the scene of battle.
“That’s what comes of being so small and light,” he growled to himself, as he trotted back. But the thirst of battle was in Jimpson’s soul, and he marked the Yale end who had treated him so contemptuously.
The try between right tackle and end had netted a bare yard, and Jimpson tried to look self-possessed while his back was running with little chills and his throat was dry as dust. The next chance was his, and he waited the signal anxiously, to learn whether the pass was direct or double. The other half-back imperceptibly dropped back a foot. The quarter looked around. The lines swayed and heaved.
“Twenty-seven, sixty-three, forty-five, seventy-two – five!”
Jimpson leaped forward; the left half-back darted across him, the quarter passed neatly, and, with the Harvard left end beside him, he was sweeping down to the right and into the field. The Yale end went down before the mighty Cowper; and Jimpson, sighting a clear space, sped through. He could feel the field trailing after him, and could hear the sounds of the falling men. Before him in the distance, a little to the left, came the Yale full-back. Almost upon him was the Yale left half, looking big and ugly. But, with a final spurt, Van Brandt ran even, and gave the shoulder to the enemy; and as they went down together, Jimpson leaped free, and, running on, knew that at last he was left to shift for himself. Of the foes behind he had no fear; of the full-back running cautiously down on him he feared everything. But he clutched the ball tighter, and raced on straight as an arrow toward the only player between him and the goal that loomed so far down the field.
He heard now the mighty sound of voices cheering him on, saw without looking the crowded stands to the right; and then something whispered of danger from behind, and, scarcely daring to do so, lest he trip and fall, glanced hurriedly over his shoulder into the staring eyes of a runner. And now he could hear the other’s short, labored gasps. Before him but a scant ten yards was the full-back. Jimpson’s mind was made up on the instant. Easing his pace the least bit, he swung abruptly to the left. He well knew the risk he ran, but he judged himself capable