  Mr. Vench had passed the ball more than once to Don without anything spectacular having happened, but he was willing to do it once more. One look at the flushed face of his friend showed him that Don was mad clear through and that he could be counted upon to put at least as much of a punch into the play as anyone. Accordingly, after a brief nod and a sweeping glance over the two tense teams Quarterback Vench bent over the center. “19-84-6-10-2” he called, and the ball was snapped to him. The play meant that Don was to take the ball through tackle and guard, on the right side of the line. The long, tapering fingers of Vench rested lightly but firmly on the ball and he swung it on to Don, who was passing him on a dead run, his head down, his eyes alert. Don’s eager hands swept the ball out of the quarterback’s grasp and he hurled himself into the gap which his teammates had opened between guard and tackle. For a single moment there was utmost confusion and then the Dimsdale players became aware that he had the ball. Those who were still on their feet swung in toward him. They met a fighting-mad young savage. The first man clutched at Don’s flying legs, only to be hurled violently to one side like a piece of paper. A second lunged and felt his one hand slide off the halfback’s jersey. Then, up in front of Don loomed the big, beefy bruiser who had aroused his anger. There was a determined look in this man’s face as he lunged at the running back. Straight as a ramrod Don’s hand shot out in the approved straight-arm, to catch the player squarely in the face. His head went back suddenly and he was pushed to one side, to drop limply to the ground, surprised and stunned. He had met his match and had received the worst of it. Don swept on out into the open field and began a run that brought the stands to their feet. Past the two half backs, narrowly missed by the Dimsdale fullback, and running a nip and tuck race with the enemy fullback Don beat the nearest man over the goal line by inches and touched the ball to the ground as the exhausted Dimsdale quarterback fell over him. A mighty roar went up that lasted for at least three minutes and in that period a try for a goal was made but the ball missed the uprights by inches. They were taking their places once more when the whistle blew, ending the game with the score standing at 20 to 13 in favor of Woodcrest. To the Class A champions the defeat was a crushing one and they left the field utterly humbled. To the cadets, suffering under the insults and sneers of years, the victory was more than sweet, and the score caused special rejoicing. Don was made much of and the coach assured him of a star’s position on the team in the following season. “Nothing but pure fighting spirit won that game for you, boys,” the coach told them in the locker room. “Those fellows could parade through you for a touchdown every time they wanted to, but it was your alertness, as typified by Hudson’s catch of the forward pass, and your sheer determination, as Mercer showed, that took the game, not to mention the intelligent handling of the little quarterback. Man to man you were outplayed and outweighed, but you beat a mighty good team by courage and fighting spirit.” During the game Terry was engaged in an unexpected argument. It was the custom at Woodcrest when they had a game of any kind to place cadets at the entrances of the rival grandstand to direct people to their seats or to stop any horse play in the stands. As Terry was not on the football squad he was assigned to the task of standing guard at one end of the visitors’ grandstand. Terry did not mind in the least. He was dressed in his dress parade uniform and for the time being had a little authority, even though it was limited to bossing small boys and directing people to seats. There were enough girls in the stand near him to make him anything but sorry that he had on his best uniform, and he could see the game perfectly. Terry had no fault to find with his post. Before the game started many couples and groups had passed him and entered the stands, picking their own seats, and the red-headed cadet did not move. He was only to pick seats when it became crowded, and not even then unless requested, so he contented himself with watching the people as they passed him and entered the stand. All of them were friends of the preparatory school team and they carried red banners with a black D on them. A number of young men sat very near where Terry was standing and they looked him over and made a few would-be funny remarks to which Terry paid no attention. When the Woodcrest team trotted out some of the Dimsdale supporters booed it heartily and the blood rushed to Terry’s cheeks. For the moment he regretted the fact that he was not on the football team and playing in today’s game. Grimly he pictured himself smashing wide holes through the opposite lines and the prospect was pleasing. He decided that he had had enough of running and that on the next gathering of football candidates he would surely be there. Something that was being said by the well-dressed youths near him attracted his attention at this point. One of them, in a plaid wool shirt and gray flannel slacks, was addressing a few of his friends. “It’s a wonder these soldier boys ever got up the nerve to play us,” he announced. “Of course, it will be a walk-away with ’em. Alongside of our fellows they look like a kindergarten.” Terry rolled his head uneasily, much as though his collar was too tight and choking him. It was not his business to argue with visitors who might occupy the grandstand and he knew it. In the end, the score would speak for itself and it would be foolish to pick and bicker about it. Nevertheless, his one foot beat the boards of the grandstand flooring impatiently. “What’s been the matter with this cadet team for so long?” asked one of the boys. The lad in the plaid shirt took it upon himself to answer that. “They’ve been afraid to meet us,” he said, with conviction. “Those fellows haven’t wanted to meet us, and I don’t know what made them do such a foolish thing this year. Silliest thing I ever heard of.” This was too much for the red-headed cadet. He swung around on the group just back of him, at the same time pointing to the furry individual in the plaid shirt. “Look here, mister!” he growled. “Let me correct you on one point. The student body of this school has been dying to get a crack at your school for years, in fact, for every year the games haven’t been played. But I’ll tell you why the games haven’t been played. We have had a trustee named Gates who holds a grudge against Dimsdale because of some rough work they pulled off years ago when they won a game. While we had this trustee we couldn’t play you, because he controlled the school, but he is gone now and that is why we’re playing you.” “Well, that was pretty poor sportsmanship,” protested the boy from the other school. “Oh, I agree with you perfectly there,” replied Terry, earnestly. “Very bad sportsmanship, but it happened. This year we purposely got him to resign in order to play you and resume athletic relations with your school. Maybe you’ll win the game, and then again, maybe you won’t, but I just didn’t want you to go around with the idea that Woodcrest has been afraid to play you in the past.” With that Terry walked away, leaving the boys somewhat impressed. Terry noted that a man well along in years was looking at him as he walked down the steps and when Terry moved near him the man spoke. “I heard what you said to those fellows,” he said, nodding to the boys. “So it’s been old man Gates who has kept the two schools from playing, eh?” “Yes, he has kept bad feelings alive between the schools for a number of years,” Terry replied. “But I guess that business is about over. I don’t know why he had to be so bitter about it, but some folks hang onto a grievance like grim death!” “Yes, and Gates is just that kind,” nodded the man. “But I wonder if he hasn’t got a good idea in doing it?” “I don’t know,” Terry said. “What do you mean?” “Did you ever know that Gates’ son was put out of Dimsdale years ago for dishonesty?” the man asked. Terry was instantly alert. “No, I never knew that. Young Gates went to school here, you know. Is that the same one?” “Yes, Arthur Gates is the same one. He was put out of Dimsdale for dishonesty in his lessons at examination time when I went there, some years ago. I had no idea that it was Gates who was forbidding your school from playing against my Alma Mater, but now I think he must have been doing it deliberately, to keep you folks from knowing about his son.” “Yes, but that seems foolish,” Terry argued. “It was hardly possible that anything would be said about his son.” “It might come out accidentally,” the man said. “Or perhaps Gates is sore at the school in general. I still believe that Gates did it intentionally.” So did Terry and for the next few moments he was so busy with his thoughts that he did not notice the people who passed him. In a few minutes the game began and he was lost in the details of the struggle. Great was his rejoicing when the cadet team put the ball over in the first quarter and at the groans which came from those beside him Terry chuckled gleefully. And when Don crashed the line for his thrilling run down the field Terry’s joy knew no bounds. He tossed his hat and cheered loudly. When the people began to pour from the stands he waited until the party of young men, now strangely silent, passed him. Then, in a voice like that of the young man in the plaid shirt he said: “Of course, it will be a walk-away with ’em. Alongside of our fellows they look like a kindergarten.” The young men looked around and Terry smiled. “Pardon me,” said the red-headed boy. “Can you tell me who won the game?” “Aw, go run around the lots!” snorted the leader, and Terry chuckled. That night there was no studying done. A huge bonfire was kindled and until late they enjoyed themselves around it. The football team, held down to training for some weeks, was now allowed to break from the rules and eat something more sweet than substantial. “And so that is why the Gates’ have kept things at dagger points between the two schools, is it?” asked Don, when Terry told the events of the afternoon. “Yes,” nodded Terry. “Young Gates in particular seems to be a bird of very black feathers!” |
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