The first half of the Beechcroft-Fairview game may be easily disposed of. There was no scoring, nor did either team get within scoring distance of the opponent’s goal. From the moment Beechcroft kicked off, and the Fairview left tackle caught the ball and brought it back ten yards before being downed, the battle raged hotly in the center of the field. Not once did Fairview get beyond her enemy’s thirty-yard line, and not once did Beechcroft penetrate even so far into the opponent’s territory. After a few tries at the ends, which ended disastrously for her, Fairview buckled down to hammer-and-tongs football. There were no weak places in the light-blue line, and time and time again Fairview failed by the merest fraction of a foot to gain her distance. There was almost no kicking. On one occasion, having been driven back to her twenty-five yards, Beechcroft punted, in the hope that Fairview would fumble. But, although Hansel was waiting beside the red-and-blue left half back when the ball came down, that player went to earth with the oval firmly clasped.

It was uninteresting playing, or it would have been, had not the two or three thousand persons who looked on been enthusiastic partisans. The worst of it all, from a Beechcroft point of view, was that during that first period of play, Fairview showed herself a little better in defense, and noticeably stronger in attack. When the whistle blew, the two teams, panting and exhausted, were above Beechcroft’s thirty-five-yard line. The home team, joined by the blanketed substitutes, trotted up the terrace to the gymnasium, while the visitors retired into the shelter of the two barges which had brought them from the station. The crowd moved about, such as were not fearful of losing good seats, and for ten minutes the green presented a scene of gayety quite unwonted. Then back came the light-blue players, and were welcomed with thundering cheers; and out tumbled the Fairview men and received their meed of applause.

Beechcroft had the west goal. It was Fairview’s kick-off. Bert received the ball and made well over twenty yards through a crowded field. An attempt to get around Fairview’s left end lost four yards, Conly being thrown back. A tandem play with Bert carrying the ball netted three yards. On third down, with six yards to gain, Cotton kicked. The ball went almost straight into the air and came down into the crowd. Love, the Beechcroft left tackle, recovered it. After that, by alternate attacks at guards and tackles, Beechcroft advanced the ball by a series of short rushes for thirty yards. On the opponent’s thirty-eight yards she was held for downs, and the pigskin went to the red and blue.

Fairview began a merciless hammering at the right side of Beechcroft’s line, confining her attention largely to Mulford at tackle. Beechcroft’s hopes dwindled. Back down the field advanced the red and blue, slowly at first, then, as Mulford weakened, faster and faster, making gains of three, four, even six yards at a time. Hansel went to the rescue of his tackle, and Lockhard and Bert threw themselves time and again at his back. Had the secondary defense not been what it was the story of the second half might be speedily told. On her twenty yards, Beechcroft called for time. Mulford, weak and white, and woe-begone, was taken out and Carew took his place. A tentative try at the newcomer proved to Fairview that she must look elsewhere for consistent gains. A clever double pass enabled her quarter to get around King, at left end, and he reeled off twelve precious yards before Cotton nabbed him. Beechcroft was now almost at her last ditch, and a score for the red and blue looked certain. A tandem went through for two yards between Royle and Stevens, and the Fairview right half dug himself into Love for one more. Then it was third down, with two to go. Beechcroft was almost under her crossbar; only five yards lay between the ball and the goal line. From across the field came the incessant appeals of the light-blue adherents to “Hold ’em! Hold ’em! Hold ’em!”

And hold them she did. Not an inch was gained by the next play, although the Fairview tandem smashed viciously at right guard and the balance of the team threw themselves behind it. The attack was crumpled up, and when the piled-up mass of bodies was disentangled the ball lay fairly on the white line.

Down the field sailed the ball, and under it raced Hansel. On Fairview’s forty yards it plumped into the arms of the red-and-blue quarter who, the next instant, was on his face on the turf, three yards nearer his goal, with Hansel hugging his legs. Then it began all over again, that remorseless charge down the field. Fairview’s fast, heavy backs crashed into the opponent’s line for short, steady gains. Near the middle of the field the light blue received the ball on penalty, only to lose it again the next moment by a fumbled pass from Cotton to Lockhard. A weak place suddenly developed at center, where Royle, despite his size and weight, had been clearly outplayed all along by the man opposite him who, although many pounds lighter, was quick and heady. Past Beechcroft’s thirty yards crashed the conquerors, past her twenty-five, past her twenty. Then time was called for an injury to Bert. But even as the spectators discussed hopelessly or cheerfully, according to the colors they wore, what would happen if the Beechcroft captain was taken out, he was up again and was limping along his line, thumping the fellows on back or shoulder, and hoarsely calling upon them to hold.

Two downs netted Fairview three yards. Captain and quarter held a consultation, and then right half dropped back for a place kick from the thirty-yard line. Quarter threw himself upon the turf, and the onlookers held their breaths. Back flew the ball on a good pass, quarter caught it, turned it, cocked it toward the crossbar, and right half, with a quick glance toward the goal, stepped forward and kicked. But Beechcroft, goaded by desperation, had broken through, and the ball rebounded from Stevens’s broad chest as he sprang into the air. Half a dozen men threw themselves toward it, but it was Royle who captured it.

For a time the tide of fortune seemed to have turned. Beechcroft hammered desperately at the Fairview line and managed to work the ball back to her fifty-yard line. But there Carew was caught holding, and Fairview received fifteen yards. Cotton kicked poorly, and it was Fairview’s ball again on her fifty-three yards. Once more the advance began. But this time each attack brought a longer gain. Beechcroft was weakening all along her line. On her forty yards the Fairview quarter, fearful perhaps that not enough time remained in which to cover the remaining distance by line plunging, tried a run and got away without difficulty between Love and King, the latter allowing himself to be put entirely out of the play. But Conly tackled him at the end of ten- or twelve-yard sprint, and the fierce plunges at the center began again. This time, surely, thought the watchers, nothing could stay Fairview’s progress. Twice Beechcroft had valiantly staved off defeat, but that she could do so again was too much to expect. Yet as her opponent neared the goal, the light blue’s defense strengthened. Past the twenty-five-yard line crept the foe, yet succeeding attacks netted shorter and shorter gains, and over on the stands the Beechcroft supporters took courage and never paused in their cheering. Twelve yards from the goal line the advance stopped. The Fairview left tackle, at the head of a tandem, was hurled back for a loss, and the ball went to Beechcroft.

There remained but four minutes of playing time. On the Beechcroft stand and along the right of the upper side of the field pale-blue flags waved and flourished, and voices hoarsely shouted their delight. Beechcroft’s only hope now was to keep her rival from scoring; all idea of winning the game herself had long since passed away; a no-score game would be enough. On the side line Mr. Ames, watching grimly, mentally petitioned the Fates for an 0 to 0 result. But perhaps the Fates didn’t hear him.

Cotton, realizing that their only hope lay in keeping the ball out of Fairview’s hands for the next four minutes decided not to kick until forced to. On the first play the ball went to Bert, and Bert, aching, wearied, limping, smashed his way like a cyclone through Fairview’s line for five yards. Again he was given the ball, but this time no gain resulted. Then it was Lockhard’s turn, and he managed to get a bare yard outside of right tackle. With four yards to gain on third down, a kick or a fake was the only hope. Cotton decided upon the latter. He dropped back to the five-yard line, the defense formed about him, and Royle passed back the ball. But it never reached Cotton, in spite of the fact that he went through the motions of catching and kicking it, and in spite of the fact that half the opposing team rushed down upon him. Lockhard had the pigskin nestled into the crook of his elbow, and was streaking around the right end of his line with a small but well-working interference. Hansel had put the opposing tackle out of the way, and Bert had sent the Fairview end sprawling on his back, and through the resulting hole Lockhard had sped. Ten yards beyond, Bert, handicapped by a wrenched knee, dropped back and only Lockhard and Hansel kept up the running.

But now the field, friend and foe alike, had taken up the chase, while ahead, coming warily down upon them, was the Fairview quarter back. Both Lockhard and Hansel were fast runners, though the latter could at any time have outstripped the other. For the moment danger from behind was not pressing, and Hansel gave all his attention to the foe ahead. Running abreast of Lockhard, he called to that youth to keep out. Then he made straight for the quarter back. But the latter was an old hand, and was not to be drawn from his quarry. As they came together, Hansel found with dismay, that the enemy had fooled him, and had got between him and Lockhard. Desperately Hansel crashed into him, but the quarter, giving before the attack, kept his feet, and the next instant sprang at Lockhard.

Down went the latter just as Hansel, swinging about, swerved to the rescue, and as he fell the ball bounded from his grasp and went bobbing erratically toward the side line. Hansel was on it like a cat on a mouse, and before the quarter or the nearest of the pursuit could reach him had dropped upon it, found his feet again after rolling over twice, and was off once more toward Fairview’s goal.

From the sides of the field came a confused inarticulate roar as the spectators, on their feet, watched with anxious hearts the outcome of the race. Five yards ahead of the nearest pursuer sped Hansel, running like a flash. Behind him, with outstretched, clutching hands, ran the Fairview right end. Back of him friend and foe were strung along the field. Hansel’s feet twinkled above the thirty-yard line. Beside him, dangerously near, was the white boundary line, but he dared not edge farther toward the middle of the gridiron lest it prove his undoing. Another white line streak passed beneath him, and then a second. The goal line was clearly in view. But he had played through almost seventy minutes of a hard game, and his limbs ached and his breath threatened at every stride to fail him. Once he faltered—that was near the fifteen-yard line—and a note of triumph burst into the pandemonium of sound from the watchers. But he struggled on again. The ten-yard line was almost under foot when he felt the shock of the tackle. Grimly he hugged the ball, struggled to advance, did manage to cross the white streak, and then stretched his length on the turf, hunched his head out of danger, and had the last breath driven from his body as the foremost of the pursuit hurled themselves upon him. Somewhere, very, very far away it seemed, a whistle blew. And then he knew nothing more until the big sponge splashed over his face, and he regained consciousness to find them pumping his arms up and down and kneading his chest. He smiled up into Bert’s anxious face.

“All right,” he murmured faintly.

And in another minute he was back at his end of the line and Bert was telling them that there was only a minute to play, and that they’d got to get through. The ball was eight yards from the last white line and Fairview, desperate and ugly, was between.

“All right, fellows!” shouted Cotton. “Everybody into it! Signal!”

Then Hansel was running back to shove and grunt behind a confused mass at the center of the line. Canvas rasped against canvas, short groans and cries of exhortation filled the air, and somewhere in front Bert, with the ball clasped tightly to his stomach, was fighting inch by inch, foot by foot, toward the goal line. Then something gave somewhere and Hansel went stumbling forward into a confused maelstrom of legs and bodies, while against his ears burst a sudden tempest of shouts. He found his feet, hurled some one, friend or foe, he never knew, from his path, and emerged from the mass of fallen players to see Bert, white and unconscious, lying sprawled upon his back across the goal line with the ball well over.

A goal from that touchdown was too much to hope for. The punt-out failed, and the ball went back to the center of the field. But in a moment it was all over, and the final whistle sounded the defeat of Fairview. And Hansel, on the side line, with Bert’s head on his knees grinned foolishly and was very happy. Bert opened his eyes.

“Over?” he whispered weakly.

“All over!” answered Hansel.

Bert sighed again, and again closed his eyes.

“We win,” he said faintly.

It was three hours later. Mr. Ames, his hands clasped behind him, was strolling thoughtfully to and fro along the corridor of the first floor of Weeks. In the dining hall, behind closed doors, the football team had gone into executive session in the matter of choosing a captain for next year, and when, in the course of his trips back and forth, he passed the big doorway, the dim murmur of earnest voices met his ears. There is no training-table room at Beechcroft, and the team members dine at one end of the big hall. To-night the other students had been hustled out of the hall very early, and since before seven the football warriors, with the coach, the trainer, and several graduates of prominence, had been in full possession.

There had been broiled chicken and Maryland biscuits and French fried potatoes, and many other luscious dishes served to the players and their guests as extras, for to-night’s supper was their “banquet,” and if it wasn’t as elaborate as the after-victory feasts of some teams, it tasted mighty good to the fellows upon whom the monotonous rÉgime of steaks and chops, milk and toast, had begun to pall. After the banquet there had been speeches. The graduates had spoken, Mr. Ames had spoken, Bert had spoken, even Mr. Foote had found a word or two to say. Then they had sung the school song, standing about the long table, and had cheered for Bert, for Mr. Ames, for Mr. Foote, for the manager, for the grads and for Beechcroft. After that the outsiders had gone their ways and the big doors had been closed again.

Down on the green, dark forms moved about in the moonlight, coming from all directions and meeting in the corner of the field sacred to bonfires. Throughout the village wise householders were on the alert, keeping watchful eyes on gates, chicken coops, and like movable and inflammable matter. Now and then a boy stuck his head in the door and looked questioningly and impatiently at Mr. Ames. Outside a group awaited the news; waited, too, to carry off the heroes to the scene of the celebration. Mr. Ames passed the closed doors for perhaps the twentieth time, and looked at his watch. They were taking a long time in there. He wondered whether the election would turn out the way he wanted it to. As he turned again toward the outer door Phin entered and approached him.

“Have they elected a captain yet?” he asked eagerly.

Mr. Ames shook his head.

“Not yet, I think; everything’s been pretty quiet in there so far.”

“Do you think Hansel has a show?”

“Why not? There’s scarcely anyone besides he and Royle that can take it.”

“I hope he does get it,” said Phin.

“I think he would make a good captain,” said the other thoughtfully. “And I think he deserves it.” Mr. Ames smiled. “With Dana as captain and you as manager, next year I fancy we’ll have a wonderful administration.”

“I don’t know about that,” answered Phin. “In fact, I may not be here. A good deal depends on whether I get a scholarship this year.”

“I wouldn’t worry about that,” answered the instructor dryly. “If a student deserves the money and does his work conscientiously, as you have, the faculty generally looks after him. And there’s Cameron. He’s in about the same boat with you. But I fancy we’ll see you both here next year.”

“Cameron? I hope so. I hope he’ll be able to play for us, sir. It’s been rather hard lines on Cameron, but he took it finely, didn’t he?”

“He did, indeed.”

“I’ve been wondering,” continued Phin, “how Fairview learned about him. Don’t you think some one here gave them a tip?”

“Yes,” was the reply. “And I think I know who.”

“Who was it?” asked Phin eagerly.

“Well, if you won’t let it get any farther, I’ll tell you. It was the principal.”

“Dr. Lambert?” cried Phin. “Are you sure?”

“Quite. He told me. It was Dana’s doing. He went to see the doctor about your absence from recitations, you know, and the doctor got him talking about the football situation. I fancy Dana must have opened the doctor’s eyes somehow. At any rate, he’s been taking a new attitude ever since. Before this year he’s never seemed to care anything about it. Now he’s studying up on it. He was at the game this afternoon. He looked rather bewildered when I saw him, but he stuck it out.”

“Well—” Phin began. Then he stopped and listened. From behind the closed portals came the sound of clapping hands. He looked questioningly at Mr. Ames. The latter nodded and together they walked toward the door. Then from within came a great cheer:

“Beechcroft! Beechcroft! Beechcroft! Rah, rah, rah! Rah, rah, rah! Rah, rah, rah! Dana! Dana! Dana!”

Mr. Ames held out his hand, smiling, and Phin clasped it.

“Success to you both,” said the instructor softly.

Then the doors flew open.

THE END

BY HEZEKIAH BUTTERWORTH.

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