THE TOUCHDOWN

Buck Claxton was genuinely worried. It was Thursday of the week that was to end with the post-season football game against Belden High, and the practice was going all wrong. The little Boy Scout, Bunny Payton, who as quarterback was the most important cog in the machine, wasn't "delivering."

Because he was big and heavy, and because the regular team needed defensive drill, Buck had been shifted temporarily to the scrubs. And that was the reason, also, why two very poor players, whose names do not matter, had been substituted in the line. Coach Leland wanted to test his backs on defense.

The scrubs were given the ball in the middle of the field. The two elevens crouched, facing each other, and awaited Specs' signal, which came presently, like the crack of a whip. On the last number, the backs broke into action. It was a line plunge, with Buck carrying the ball.

The weak link in the first team's line snapped at once. Bunny Payton, backing it up, gave ground and swerved into the path of the runner. Buck, big, solid, a veritable battering-ram when he was under way, looked as if he might crush this ambitious tackier as easily as an elephant might an ant in its path.

But the ant, who was Bunny, did not falter. As Buck reached him, the boy leaped toward the runner, tackling low and fiercely, and brought his opponent to the ground with a tremendous thump.

Buck sat up presently. He was unhurt, except as to pride. "Trying to lay me out?" he blazed. "You needn't half kill a fellow to bring him down."

The look he gave Bunny made some of the other substitutes shake their heads wisely. The little quarter had offended his captain. It wasn't exactly diplomatic, and—Well, they guessed he wouldn't try it again.

But a few minutes later, when exactly the same situation arose, they wondered what he would do. Again Buck took the ball on a straight line plunge; again his interference swept aside the other tacklers of the secondary defense, leaving only the shunted Bunny as a possible danger.

Runner and tackler met. The two came together with a crash. Buck staggered forward blindly, tottered, caught himself once, and then fell heavily. Bunny rebounded from the shock, but he did not plunge to the ground. Instead, a very remarkable thing happened.

In the very twinkling of an eye, so sudden was the transformation, Bunny ceased to be a tackler and became a runner. In some mysterious manner, the ball that Buck had been carrying, snuggled in the crook of his arm, was now the other's.

There appeared to be no tardy recognition of the shift on Bunny's part. Even as Buck was falling, the quarterback started racing down the field toward his goal. The point of the ball was tucked into his armpit. His hand clasped the other end. The biceps of his arm pressed hard against the rough surface.

Bunny could run like a deer. Before the astonished scrubs could recover their wits, he was flashing past, dodging now and then, circling some more alert tackler, pushing off another with a moist palm, but always sprinting over the white lines that marked the field.

But the surprising play was not yet done. Without any apparent reason, the runner slowed to a trot and finally stopped altogether. Specs rushed up and tackled him apologetically.

A certain touchdown had been sacrificed by Bunny on some mad impulse.

The little crowd of rooters that fringed the field babbled its consternation and disgust. The scrubs smiled knowingly at each other. Coach Leland plucked off the players who had piled on the boy with the ball, and then yanked the youngster to his feet with a practiced hand.

"What made you stop?" he demanded hotly. If there was one thing more than another that angered the coach, it was an exhibition of mental stupidity.

Bunny looked down the field; down to where Buck was striding forward belligerently. Scrubs and regulars alike bent forward to listen. When he spoke, he faced the coach squarely.

"I committed a foul," he said slowly. "When I started to tackle Buck, I saw that he was holding the ball loosely. It had slipped out of his armpit. So, under cover of the tackle, because of some crazy notion, I jerked it away from him. I violated a rule. I'm sorry."

Coach Leland opened wide his blue eyes, but he said nothing then. A little later, when he was by Buck's side, he asked his question.

"Did you fumble when Bunny tackled you?"

"Maybe I did," said the captain shortly; "it seems to be a habit of mine." He kicked at a little clod of dirt. "Hang it all, coach," he volunteered, "the—the Scout was grandstanding for my benefit. He's afraid of me."

The practice that day ended with drop-kicking. Lining up the scrubs some thirty yards from the goal, Leland gave Bunny the ball, with instructions to boot it over the bar.

Bunny failed on five successive attempts. Twice he fumbled good passes. Twice he caught the ball with his toe too much on one side. Once he juggled it wildly, allowing himself to be tackled before he made the kick. And each time, as Buck noted with wrinkled brow, opposing players were close enough to threaten any kicker who might have fear in his heart.

When he made his fifth failure, Buck groaned. With the post-season game for the State high-school championship only two days away, his quarterback, the very pivot of the team, was in a stage of cowardly panic. He wished now that the game with Belden had never been arranged; that they had been content with a clean slate for the season; that they had agreed to claim the title jointly with unbeaten Belden.

Saturday afternoon came at last, with no change in the situation. The two opposing teams lined up.

"Are you ready, Belden?" asked the official.

No answer.

"Are you ready, Lakeville?"

Crouching just behind the line on which the new football lay teed, Buck Claxton nodded his head. The great crowd stilled expectantly. On the side lines, blanketed and squatting like Indians, the substitutes hunched forward their shoulders.

The official shrilled a blast on his whistle. Before the echo had died, Bunny Payton's toe lifted the ball from the ground and sent it hurtling high and far toward the opposing eleven. The game was on.

As he ran, Buck sighed with relief. He had been afraid of that first kick; afraid that Bunny's toe would thug into the ground, or hit the ball askew, or roll it feebly along the ribbed field.

But now, with the game actually begun, the splendid kick-off gave Lakeville's captain hope. As Buck ran, indeed, he let out his breath with an explosive gasp, and the decisive way in which he downed the Belden fellow who caught the ball was proof of his renewed confidence. If Bunny Payton could only keep that yellow streak under cover!

In the gruelling battle that followed, Buck was forced to admit that Bunny shirked no duty. His end runs were triumphs; his forward passes were pinnacles of accuracy; his share in the interference were niceties of skill and training. But always, as the tide of the game flooded or ebbed, Buck shivered apprehensively over possible situations that might reveal to their opponents his quarterback's cowardice.

As they might have expected, Belden proved no mean enemy. They could gain at times; once, indeed, they might have pushed through the wavering Belden line for a touchdown, except for a fumble. And that fumble, as Buck recalled with grim pain, was his own. Couldn't he ever learn to hold the ball once he had it?

But Belden gained, too. Like Lakeville, when they couldn't advance the ball, they kicked. And so, for three full quarters and part of another, neither team was able to cross the other's goal line. Now, near the end of the final period, the two teams fought in the middle of the field. A scoreless tie seemed inevitable.

It was Lakeville's ball. As the players scrambled into position for the scrimmage, Captain Claxton held up his hand.

"How much longer?" he shouted toward the side lines.

"Four minutes to play," the timekeeper told him.

Buck groaned. They could never make it; they could never carry the ball over those countless lines of white to the goal beyond. True, they might go on smashing forward a yard or two at a time, even making their distances often enough to hold the ball, for Belden was clearly tiring; but it would take longer than four minutes to reach the last rib of the field. Buck felt suddenly weak and limp. He would never make that glorious touchdown of which he had dreamed each night of the past week.

"Well, don't quit!" he snarled at his quarterback.

Bunny stepped into position. "Line up!" he yelled shrilly. "Line up! Seven—four—six—two—ten!"

Buck's tired brain wrestled with the signal. It was a new play they had learned that past week, a double pass, with the quarterback eventually taking the ball. Well, why not? Bunny was fast enough, and there was no element of courage involved. Besides, in this desperate eleventh hour, it was high time for trick plays.

The ball was passed. As the Belden line braced for the onslaught, Buck swung in behind Bunny, took the soiled pigskin from him, ran with it toward the left end, and then slipped it backward into the boy's eager hands. The other team was jamming in front of the Lakeville captain, and he plunged head-down into the mass, to carry on the deception. As he slipped and fell, his ears caught the first rumble of a mighty cheer. Perhaps—

He flung off the fellow who had piled upon him and sprang to his feet. Down the field, almost in the shadow of the goal posts, Bunny was just going down under the tackle of the Belden man who played back. The trick had succeeded. They were within striking distance now. If Bunny had the nerve to try it again, he might score.

Before Buck reached him, the quarterback was on his feet again, dinning his eternal, "Line up! Line up!" As the team rushed forward to obey, the boy spat out his signal, "Nineteen—thirty—seven—four—six!"

What play was that? A cold wave of horror enveloped Buck. His numbed mind told him nothing. It was surely not a repetition of the trick they had just tried. He might have known it would not be, he thought contemptuously; this was a ticklish situation calling for every ounce of nerve a player possessed. Bunny would take mighty good care not to use himself in the pinch. But what play was it?

"Signal?" the captain called.

Again the quarterback rattled off the numbers.

And then, abruptly, Buck's mind cleared. With only a precious yard or two to go, the play must be a line plunge, of course. Tricks were for long gains under desperate conditions. But why "seven—four—six"? the captain asked himself in amazement. That wasn't his signal; and it was only fair, only right, that he, as the team's leader, should have the honor of the touchdown.

"Signal?" he yelled angrily.

A third time it came. Buck knew the play now; it was Barrett, right halfback, between tackle and guard. So that was it! Another fellow was to carry the ball over the line. Bunny was venting his petty spite by refusing to allow his captain to make the attempt.

"Change signals!" Buck stormed.

In his position behind center, Bunny straightened a little from his crouching position. "I'm taking the responsibility for this play, Buck," he said evenly. And then, like a flash, the signal rolled out once more, the ball chugged into the quarterback's hands, and the two teams were scrimmaging.

To his credit, be it said that Buck charged with the others. The Belden line sagged, tautened, broke for an instant. The players eddied and tossed, and were sucked into the human whirlpool. Somewhere at the bottom, Buck heard the long pipe of the official's whistle. Then, as daylight reached him, he discerned the smeared white goal line directly beneath him, and on it—no, a good inch beyond!—the soiled yellow ball. It was over. The touchdown had been made.

The balance of the game was like a vague dream. Somebody kicked the goal and added another point. Somebody kicked off. The teams lined up once more before a whistle ended the game. Lakeville was interscholastic champion of the State.

Bunny slapped his captain on the back. "We beat 'em, Buck!" he yelled. "We beat 'em, didn't we?"

"Yes," said Buck Claxton distinctly, "we beat them, you little sneak!"

The team cheered Belden then; and Belden came back with a pretty poor apology of the formula that runs, "What's the matter with Lakeville? They're all right!" And then Belden, sad, defeated, yearning for seclusion, shucked out of its football suits and into street clothes, and went away from there just as fast as it could.

Before the game, the Scouts had invited the Lakeville squad to the Black Eagle Patrol clubhouse for supper. When the invitation had been extended, Buck, Barrett, Sheffield and Co. had looked blank, neither accepting nor declining. But at six o'clock they were there, appearing awkward and embarrassed, but altogether too happy over the result of the game to bear any resentment. That is to say, all of them looked that way except Buck, who stared straight ahead during the meal, and wouldn't talk, and didn't appear to be listening to the jokes and jests that were bandied back and forth.

But when the meal was done, and Bunny, as toastmaster, with clenched hands under the table, where nobody could see them, and a forced smile on his face, which everybody could see, rose and said easily, "I guess we'd all like to hear from the captain," Buck met the issue squarely.

"I'm not much of a speech maker," he began slowly (and rapidly proved that the literary and debating society had taught him to be a very good one, indeed), "but there's something that must be said, and I'm going to ask you fellows to listen while I say it. This last week has been a hard one for all of us, I guess, but I think the one who's felt the hurts most is Quarterback Bunny Payton."

They all looked at Bunny, of course, and the boy felt his face go white. What was the captain of the football team going to say about him?

"Back a while," Buck went on doggedly, "I thought Bunny was no good. I guess a lot of you saw what happened during practice—you know, when I was sore at him, and he tackled me and got hold of the ball, and then wouldn't make a touchdown because he thought he had committed a foul. He was—was in pretty bad, because it looked as if he had a streak of yellow and was afraid of—well—me. I thought so. But I was—was way off. It was just plain nerve that made him stop when he had the ball.

"And about those goals he didn't kick. You know what I mean. It sorta cinched what I thought about him—a coward, I mean. But that wasn't right, either. He had gashed his hand on a rock; that's why he fumbled and juggled the ball and dropped it crooked on his toe and—and everything.

"Then in the game to-day, he played like a trooper; topnotch all the way through. You know what I mean—that trick play that put the ball right on top of the goal and—and everything.

"Well, I wanted to make the touchdown then. Jiggers, how I wanted to do it! But he wouldn't let me, and I was sore at him all over again. You know what I mean—how I felt, captain and everything, and he wouldn't give me the ball. But I've been thinking that over, and I hand it to him for his nerve again. He gave Barrett the ball, and Barrett went over with it. Say, that riled me. Why didn't he let me do it? But—well, I've figured that out now. Barrett's a good old sobersides hoss; you can always count on old Barrett. And me—no. I fumbled once before in the game; I guess maybe I'd 'a' fumbled again, and tossed away the chance to win. Maybe. You know what I mean. So he passes me up for Barrett. Talk about nerve! Why, that took more courage, I'll bet, than anybody else here ever thought of having; about a million times more. But he did it. He knew the sure way to win that game. Understand?

"Well, now listen to me. Maybe I won't go to Lakeville High next year. So we ought to elect a captain who will—sure. You know what I mean. And—well, say, how about Bunny Payton for the job?"

It seemed to the little quarterback that the fellows had gone suddenly insane. Before his dazed mind could fully grasp Buck's suggestion, he had been unanimously elected captain, and Buck was congratulating him, and the party was breaking up.

"But—but," he stammered to Buck, "we need you for next year. Are you sure you won't be in school?"

"Well," drawled the ex-captain, winking prodigiously, "I may die before then, or—or make a million dollars and build me a school of my own, or—or something like that. Anyhow, you'll be a better fellow for the job than I ever was. You should have been leading the team this year."

That was all, except that at the door Buck drew Bunny aside.

"Look here," he said. "I'm just beginning to realize that you Scouts are the real goods. You're fine fellows, and you're fine athletes." He looked warily over his shoulder. "It strikes me I'd like to be a Scout myself, if they ever get up another patrol in this little old town of ours."