TWO YARDS TO GO

"Hold 'em, Lakeville!"

The crowd surged against the rope that had been stretched along the sides of the football field where the Lakeville and the Grant City high-school teams were playing the first game of the season. It was a vacant lot at the north of town; not an ideal ground, by any means, but put in order for the sport by being cleared of rocks and stubble and marked with broad stripes of whitewash.

"All ready, Chick!" "Are you ready, Bert?" "Signal!" "What's the signal?" "Steady there." "Signal?"

The Grant City team, which seemed to have occasional spells of confused conversation, appeared all at sea as the ball was about to be put in play.

"Signal?" "Hey, signal!"

The left guard and tackle of the visitors rose from their crouch, apparently uncertain as to the play. At that instant, however, the ball was passed. Logically, with two men out of the play, Lakeville should have had no trouble in stopping the runner with the ball. But he crashed through the Lakeville line between right tackle and end, past Peter Barrett, on secondary defense, in spite of that youth's frantic dive, and so free till, some twenty-five yards distant, Bunny, who was playing back, wriggled through the interference and plumped the runner to earth.

On the side lines, Substitute Rodman Cree dug his finger nails into his palms. "It's a trick play," he muttered. "They don't seem to understand it themselves, but they gain every time they try it. What's the secret?"

"Three minutes of the half left!" Horace Hibbs, acting as official timer, squinted inquiringly at the two teams. "If our boys don't stop that maneuver, Grant is going to score, sure as shooting."

"It's the third time, too," Rodman put in, "but they always gain their distance—and more. I wish I could figure it out."

Following his resolution of the morning, he had come to the game without hope of playing, but with the fixed intent to do everything in his power for the team. So far, he felt he had failed.

True, before the game started, his quick eye had noted that the cord used by the linesmen for measuring downs was almost a yard short. This fact he had pointed out to Mr. Sefton, acting linesman for Lakeville, and the mistake had been corrected. It was Rodman, too, who before the game had discovered and levered away a small boulder, hidden near one of the goal posts. In the case of Bennett, the substitute halfback, who squatted on the side lines and followed each play with the movements of his body, thus wearing himself out before he was put in the game, Rodman had induced the boy, by a joking remark or two, to stretch out and relax until he was wanted. But he felt that these aids were really nothing at all. Wasn't it impossible, after all, to do anything worth while for the team when you weren't the coach, and couldn't play, and when everybody had lost faith in you?

But, at least for the moment, he forgot his difficult task in the smash of the play that was bringing the first half to an end. The ball had touched Lakeville's thirty-yard line, when Jump intercepted a forward pass and ran it back a third of that distance. A sturdy drive by Barrett brought fifteen more; a forward pass netted another substantial gain; three line plunges left Lakeville but twenty-five yards to go.

"Six—eight—five—seven—three!" cried Bunny at quarter. Like well-oiled bits of machinery, the Lakeville eleven clanked into the kick formation, with Bunny back to receive the pass. Professor Leland shook his head.

Rodman saw the gesture and understood. Because the Lakeville team was lighter, the coach had ordered a kicking game, with a try for goal from the field whenever the eleven was well within the enemy's territory. Twice before, however, Bunny's attempts had failed; there was no reason to expect him to put the ball over the goal this time.

The long pass was made and caught. Bunny dropped the pigskin point-down, caught it with his toe as it touched the ground, and kicked it toward the looming goal posts. It went short and wide.

"He can't do it." The coach was talking for his own benefit. "I was afraid he couldn't."

Rodman plucked up courage. "No, he can't, of course. I knew he couldn't."

The coach turned to the substitute. "What do you mean, Cree? I thought Payton was a friend of yours."

"He is, sir; my best friend. But don't you see why he can't get off a good drop-kick?"

The whistle had blown to signal the end of the half. Both teams were trooping off the field. But Professor Leland, after turning as if to join the eleven, stopped by Rodman's side.

"Look here, Cree, if you know any reason why Payton can't kick as well in a game as he can in practice, suppose you tell me now, before I instruct the boys not to follow this plan of play in the second half."

"Yes, sir, I'll tell you." Rodman's voice was joyous. At last, he was able to do something worth while. "Look at the sun. The game started late, and now it shines toward the west goal, directly in Bunny's eyes every time he kicks. See that sun? Then there's the wind. It isn't much of a wind, sir, but it's kicking up a lot of dust, which always blows toward Bunny—into his eyes. But that isn't all." His words came fast; he was afraid the coach would leave before he was done. "Those Grant City fellows, sir, have three corking fine players at center and guards, and our line doesn't take care of them. They get Roundy excited and nervous, and he passes the ball high and wild. That means the kick is sent off in a good deal more of a hurry than it should be. And Buck isn't playing close enough to the line to stop that right tackle."

Professor Leland nodded. "I believe you are right, Cree. I've noticed a few of those points myself, but you've seen more than I have. All right; we'll give Bunny another chance at a goal from the field."

The talk between halves to the team was full of encouragement. "We're doing well," the coach told them; "mighty well. But we are going to do just a little better. We must score on that team, and we must hold it. Now in this business of field goals—"

To the unmixed delight of Rodman, Professor Leland made use of the very arguments which the substitute had brought up a minute before. "When they kick off to us this half, as they will, I want the ball rushed down the field to a point where we can try another drop for goal. Then, Payton, because we shall have changed goals, your eyes will be free of dust; Claxton will handle that tackle; Jones and Turner will take care of the combination at center, which will allow you, Magoon, to make the best pass of your life. We can do it all, I know."

As the boys stretched out to rest for the remainder of the period, Rodman's satisfaction was marred by only one thought. Although he had done his part to aid the team, neither Bunny nor the others knew anything about it. And it was their friendship and respect he wanted.

"Old Leland is the boy!" Roundy commented lazily to Bunny. "He saw what was wrong, and he fixed it up, too. He's the kind of coach to have."

"We all know that," Bunny responded fervently.

"Why, you can't kick into the sun and dust any more than you can fly; but I couldn't tell him so."

It was on the tip of Rodman's tongue to explain the origin of the suggestion. In spite of the impulse, however, he kept silent.

"All ready to save the day, Cree?" jeered Buck. "You'd be all right, at that, except that you'd probably stumble over the whitewash on the goal line and drop the ball."

It was hard to keep his temper under these flings with which Buck Claxton favored him from time to time. So far as his naturally friendly nature was capable of hating anybody, Rodman had begun to hate Buck. Above everything else, he was glad that Professor Leland was the coach, instead of Buck, and that he himself was working for the whole school and not for Buck Claxton.

At the same time, he admitted to himself that Buck was not a bad captain, despite his tendency to fumble in a crisis. With Roundy Magoon at center, Turner and Bi Jones at guards, Kiproy and Collins at tackles, Sheffield and Jump Henderson at ends, and a back field composed of Barrett and Collins at halves, Buck Claxton at full, and Bunny at quarter, the Lakeville High football team was developing into a snappy, hard-fighting eleven. They were sure of themselves.

When the whistle called them out on the field again, Rodman noted that they trotted forth with a jauntiness which matched very favorably the do-or-die expression of the Grant City players.

"Everybody in it!" shouted Buck, as the team made ready to receive the kick-off.

Jump caught the punt, running back the ball at an angle and passing it to Sheffield, who drilled to the middle of the field before he was stopped. Capping this gain came a series of short, sharp plunges, till the distance to Grant's goal was halved.

"Six—eight—seven—five—thirteen!"

At the warning of the key number, seven, Bi and Turner crowded closer to Roundy at center, while Buck played close to the line to block a threatening tackler. Guarded on both sides, with wind and sun at his back, and with a sure, swift pass to handle, Bunny drop-kicked a perfect goal.

The first points had been scored. The count stood: Lakeville, 3; Grant City, 0.

The crowd, made up largely of Lakeville people, shouted joyously, threw hats into the air, and celebrated with much squawking of auto horns. After she had yelled herself hoarse, Molly climbed from the Sefton car to exchange a word with Rodman.

"Isn't it glorious?" she cried. "We're winning our first game. S. S. told me what Professor Leland said about Bunny's kicking. Wasn't that just too smart for anything?"

Rodman's face lengthened. He wanted very much to tell Molly that the advice was the result of his observations. But something, he could not tell what, checked the words.

"We're getting them, all right," he said, instead. "All we have to do now is to hold when they begin to batter against our line."

"Oh, we can do that." Molly nodded confidently. "You wait and see."

Following the kick-off, the battle raged uncertainly in the middle of the field. Near the end of the third quarter, however, Grant City took the ball on downs, and began a steady onslaught that was formidable. Then, when the Lakeville line seemed to have braced, Rodman came to his feet like a puppet on a string. There it was again! Grant was calling for its trick play.

"Signal! What's the signal?" called a confused voice. "All ready, Bert?" "Dig into 'em!" "Signal?" "Wait a minute!" "Hold it!" "Signal!"

Grant's right guard and tackle stood up straight in their places, looking helplessly toward the quarterback.

"Signal?"

Like the flare of a flashlight, the mystery cleared in Rodman's mind. Why, of course, that was the answer! Why couldn't Buck solve it, or Bunny, or some one of those players in the Lakeville line, already glancing up at the confused babel of voices. Surely, they must see through such an obvious device.

They must—No! Back whirled the ball; forward shot the compact interference and runner. Before the wiry half was tackled, he had covered a cool fifteen yards. It was first down again for Grant.

An unworthy thought burned in Rodman's brain. Why should he tell Coach Leland about the play? Why not put the problem squarely up to the squad at the end of the quarter, when, by previous agreement, it would be permissible to talk with them? In that way, all of the fellows would see they had been mistaken in him; would be forced to realize that he was some good, even if he couldn't make the team. Why should he allow the coach another chance to walk off with borrowed laurels?

His forehead creased with trouble wrinkles while his conscience wrestled with the question. No-o!... It wouldn't be the thing to do, after all. He was still a member of the football squad. As such, it was his business to acquaint the coach, or whoever was in charge of the team, with any helpful information. Simple loyalty demanded that.

"First down; ten yards to gain!"

As he foresaw, Grant did not attempt the trick again. It was a clever play, but its abuse would certainly lead to discovery. Probably, indeed, if they were shrewd—and somebody with brains was undoubtedly in command of the visiting eleven!—they would not try it until they were within striking distance of the goal. Then, unless checked, it would mean a sure touchdown and the game.

Twice more Grant City made small gains. As they lined up for the next play, time was called, with the ball in possession of the visiting team on Lakeville's thirty-yard line.

Rodman started. He must warn the coach at once.

"Professor Leland!"

At that very moment, Mr. Gorse, who was refereeing, called to the coach.

"Just a second, Cree." Throwing a hasty word of advice to the team, the coach started across the field toward the referee.

Fifteen seconds passed. Professor Leland was still arguing some point with Mr. Gorse. Thirty seconds! The conversation went on.

Well, if he couldn't talk to the coach, he must put the matter squarely before the next man under him. But the person now in charge of the team was Buck Claxton; and Buck—well, Buck was Buck! He couldn't bring himself to tell Buck anything. He even started to squat again on his blanket, when, quite to his own surprise, he found himself walking over to the side of the captain. After all, as long as he practiced with the squad, he must be loyal.

"Oh, Buck!"

"Well?" snapped Claxton. "What d'ye want?"

Rodman hesitated, tempted at the last second to turn back with the message undelivered. But once more a better impulse prevailed. In a voice purposely low, that the others might not overhear, he offered his explanation.

"That play where the whole Grant team gets to talking before the ball is passed—watch it! I thought first it was some trick, but it's really only a straight plunge by their half. The reason they gain is because they throw you fellows off by yelling for the signal and all that. Part of the line stands up and looks at the quarterback. You all think they are mixed on the signal, but they aren't. The reason it works is because they catch our team when it doesn't expect the ball to be passed, when our own guard and tackle have straightened up a little, too, to see what's going on. Yes, they do! I've been watching 'em. But they don't realize it."

Buck tried vainly to interrupt, but there was no checking the torrent of Rodman's words.

"They get all your attention off the game, and then, bingo! the ball is put in play. It's a fact, Buck! Remember now, if they start jabbering at each other, and one side of the line begins to stand up straight, that means the play is going right through there. Remember that—"

He was still talking earnestly when the whistle blew, with Buck, his face stolid, staring steadily at the ground and scraping marble rings in the dust with his right shoe-toe.

"Ready, Lakeville!" shouted the captain; and the game was on again.

A lucky fumble brought the ball into the home team's hands, and Bunny punted out of danger. After that, steadily and surely, with all the advantages of weight and experience, the Grant eleven began to grind its way down the field. Desperately, Lakeville crouched and set itself; still more desperately, Grant City ploughed onward. The formations were slow and deliberate; the visitors risked no fumble or error. Often the gains were only a foot or two, but each fourth down found another ten yards covered. Rodman realized that some keen brain was directing the team, balancing time against gains, and playing for one touchdown that would turn the threatened defeat into a victory.

"Curtains!" groaned Specs somewhere in the background, quite loudly enough for Rodman to hear. "Curtains! Hold 'em, fellows! Hold 'em!"

"Three minutes to play!" announced Horace Hibbs.

"If we can only hold them from that goal!" muttered Coach Leland.

"Grant's ball! First down; ten yards to gain!"

A plunge through center netted three of them; a wriggling half eeled around right end for another two; the same play on the other side brought the total to eight. Lakeville was fighting gallantly, but superior weight was beginning to tell.

"Fourth down; two yards to gain."

Already the ball was in the very shadow of the goal posts. If this final attack succeeded, it meant a touchdown. Rodman Cree shivered in his blanket. Suppose they tried the trick play now. Would Buck—

"What's the matter, Billy?" "Ready there, Chick!" "Signal!" "What's the signal?" "Never mind!" "Hold her!"

The right tackle and guard of the Grant City team straightened up.

"Signal?" called a bewildered voice.

Rodman gripped his fists tight. Was it to go through, even after he had warned Buck? But suddenly, hard and high above the din from the Grant line, the Lakeville captain's voice rang clear:

"Get down, Bi! On the job, Kiproy! They're coming through you! It's the right half! Everybody together now! Stop him!"

The ball was snapped. Like a battering-ram, the right half of the Grant team, pocketed in perfect interference, catapulted against the Lakeville line,—against Bi and Kiproy, backed by Peter Barrett and Buck Claxton. For just the fraction of a second, the line wavered, threatening to snap. Then it tautened into a stone wall, against which the runner crashed and fell back. There was no gain. The trick had failed. It was Lakeville's ball almost on her goal line.

Bunny punted out of danger. Grant City had just time to line up for one weak charge before the whistle announced the end of the game. By checking that one play, Lakeville had prevented a touchdown and had won, 3 to 0.

In the minds of the victorious players, there was no doubt as to the fellow who deserved the credit. Scouts and all, they hoisted Buck to their shoulders, cheering him as they marched around the field.

From where he stood, Rodman Cree could see Molly leaning from the car and waving her pennant. On the side lines, Clarence Prissler was executing a war dance of his own. In the midst of a group of girls, Marion Genevieve Chester was leading the school cheer. And it was all for Buck!

Nobody knew what Rodman had done, of course, except the coach and Buck; and evidently they weren't going to tell. For a bitter moment, Rodman argued with himself. Should he go on with the thankless job?

Across his brain flashed the memory of a sentence he had read in the Scouts' "Handbook", "A Scout is loyal." It was one of the twelve laws; it meant him, too, whether he was a Scout or not. It was a law that applied to everybody all over the world. He didn't have to be a Scout to keep that law.

With a stiffening of his shoulders, he lifted his head, as if to stare all Lakeville in the face.

"I'm going to keep on," he said, "whether anybody knows what I am doing or not. I may not be a Scout, but I'm as loyal as any one of them. I am loyal to the school, and to the team, and to everybody who has a claim on me. Yes, and I am going to keep on being loyal."

They were giving three cheers for Buck now, with Specs, clad in his street clothes, leading them all. Before he knew it, Rodman was adding his voice to the praise.

"And I wouldn't be anything else," he said suddenly. "I wouldn't be anything else."