Jimpson sat down again in deep disappointment; and a moment later, Billings, supported on either side, limped from the gridiron, amid the cheers of the Harvard supporters. Sills was on his feet again, and the trainer was talking to him. Jimpson could see the plucky fellow shaking his head. Then, after a moment of indecision, the trainer left him, the whistle sounded, the Crimson team lined up back of the line, and Kurtz was poising the ball for a try at goal. The result was scarcely in doubt, and the ball sailed cleanly between the posts, a good two feet above the cross-bar; and the score-board said, Harvard, 4; Yale, 6; and there were three minutes more of the half.
Back went the ball to the 55-yard line, and loud arose the cheers of the triumphant friends of Yale. Gates kicked off, and Warner sent the ball back again, with a gain of ten yards. Sills caught it and ran, but was downed well inside Harvard territory, and the half ended with the ball in Yales hands. Jimpson seized his blanket, and trotted after the eleven to the quarters. He found Gates stripping for a rub-down.
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 Ill get in this half, Gates?
Cant 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 Times 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:
Were going to kick, this half, fellows. I want every man to get down the field on the instant, without stopping to hold. I dont 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 Crimsons 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 Jimpsons 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 Sillss condition to remain in the game. Jimpsons 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 Jimpsons protest.
Dont you think, Jimpson had pleaded, that I might ask Brattle to give me a show in the second half?
No, I dont, Gates had answered bluntly. Youre an unknown quantity, my boy; as the Frenchies say, you havent arrived. For a player who hasnt arrived to try to give the captain points would be shocking bad taste. Thats how it is. Sills is a good player. As long as he can hold his head up, hell be allowed to play. When hes laid out, Brattle will give you a show. He cant help himself; youre 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. Thats all youll have to do. Dont 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 (Jimpsons) place hed not be any too patient himself. The score-board said fifteen minutes to play. Sills still held up his stubborn head, and Jimpsons chances grew dimmer and dimmer as moments sped.
Harvards kicking tactics had netted her long gains time and again, and twice had she reached Yales 10-yard line, only to be grimly held and hurled back. Yale, on the other hand, had only once reached scoring distance of their opponents 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 doesnt score again.
Harvards 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 Harvards 40-yard line, and when it was snapped back, Sills took it for a round-the-end run. But Yales big left half-back was waiting for him, and the two went to earth together near the side-line and almost at Jimpsons feet. And then it was that that youths 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. Jimpsons 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.
Weve only eight minutes to play. The ball has got to go over, Jimpson. Ive 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; dont be afraid of swinging out into the field. Whatever you do, dont let go of the ball. If Turner puts you through the line, keep your head down, but jump high. Now, go in, and lets 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.
Thats what comes of being so small and light, he growled to himself, as he trotted back. But the thirst of battle was in Jimpsons soul, and he marked the Yale end who had treated him so contemptuously.
Thats what comes of being so small and light, he growled to himself, as he trotted back. But the thirst of battle was in Jimpsons 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 others short, labored gasps. Before him but a scant ten yards was the full-back. Jimpsons 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 of making up the lost ground. As he had thought, the pursuer was little expecting such a deliberate divergence from the course, and, as a result, he overran, and then turned clumsily, striking for a point between Jimpson and the left goal-post. The full-back had noted the change, of course, on the instant, and was now running for about the same intersecting point as the other. The three runners formed a triangle. For the moment the pursuer was out of reckoning, and Jimpson could give all his skill to eluding the full-back, who faced him, ready for a tackle.
And here Jimpsons lighter weight stood him in good stead. Clutching the ball tightly, he made a feint to the left, and then flung himself quickly to the right. As he did so he spun around. The full-backs hand reached his canvas jacket, slipped, and found a slight hold upon his trousers; and Jimpson, scarcely recovered from his turn, fell on one knee, the full-back also falling in his effort to hold. At that moment the pursuer reached the spot, and sprang toward Jimpson.
The shouts had ceased, and thirty thousand persons were holding their breath. The next moment a shout of triumph went up, and Jimpson was speeding on toward the Yale goal. For as the last man had thrown himself forward, Jimpson had struggled to his feet, the full-back following, and the two Yale men had crashed together with a shock that left the full-back prostrate upon the turf. The other had regained himself quickly, and taken up the pursuit; but Jimpson was already almost ten yards to the good, and, although his breath was coming in short, painful gasps, and the white lines seemed rods apart, the goal became nearer and nearer. But the blue-stockinged runner was not done, and the cries of the Crimson well-wishers were stilled as the little space between the two runners grew perceptibly less.
Jimpson, with his eyes fixed in agony upon the last white line under the goal-posts, struggled on. One ankle had been wrenched in his rapid turn, and it pained frightfully as it took the ground. He could hear the steps of the pursuing foe almost at his heels, and, try as he might, he could not cover the ground any faster. His brain reeled, and he thought each moment that he must fall.
But the thought of what that touch-down meant, and the recollection of the captains words, nerved him afresh. The goal-line was plain before him now; ten yards only remained. The air was filled with cheers; but to Jimpson everything save that little white line and the sound of the pounding steps behind him was obliterated.
Success seemed assured, when a touch on his shoulder made the landscape reel before his eyes. It was not a clutch just fingers grasping at his smooth jacket, unable as yet to find a hold.
The last white line but one passed haltingly, slowly, under his feet. The fingers traveled upward, and suddenly a firm grasp settled upon his shoulder. He tried to swing free, faltered, stumbled, recovered himself with a last supreme effort, and, holding the ball at arms length, threw himself forward, face down. And as the enemy crashed upon him, Jimpson tried hard to gasp Down! but found he couldnt, and then didnt care at all.
When he came to he found a crowd of players about him. Faces almost strange to him were smiling, and the captain was holdinghis head. His right foot pained frantically, and the doctor and rubbers were busy over him.
Was it was it over? he asked weakly.
Easy, old chap with an inch to spare, replied the lips above. Listen!
Jimpson tried to raise his head, but it felt so funny that he gave up the effort. But, despite the woolen sweater bunched up for a pillow, he heard a deep roar that sounded like the breakers on the beach at home. Then he smiled, and fainted once more.
But the score-board had changed its figures again: Harvard, 8; Yale, 6. Touch-down. Harvards ball. 3 minutes to play.
And the deep, exultant roar went on, resolving itself into H-a-r-vard! H-a-r-vard!
The band was playing Washington Post. Harvard Square was bright under a lurid glow of red fire. Cheering humanity was packed tight from the street to the balustrade of Matthews, and from there up and across the yard. Cannon crackers punctuated the blare of noise with sharp detonations. The college was out in full force to welcome home the football heroes, and staid and prim old Cambridge lent her quota to the throng. From the back of Grays the cheering grew louder, and the crowd surged toward the avenue. The band broke ranks and skeltered after. A four-horse barge drew up slowly at the curb, and, one after another, the men dropped out, tightly clutching their bags, and strove to slip away through the throng. But each was eventually captured, his luggage confiscated, and himself raised to the shoulders of riotous admirers. When all were out and up, the band started the strains of Fair Harvard, and thousands of voices joined in. The procession moved. Jimpson, proud and happy and somewhat embarrassed, was well up in the line. When the corner was turned and the yard reached the roar increased in volume. Cheers for the eleven, for Harvard, for Brattle, were filling the air. And then suddenly Jimpsons heart leaped at the sound of his own name from thousands of throats.
Now, fellows, three long Harvards, and three times three for Jimpson! In the roar that followed Jimpson addressed his bearers.
Wont you please let me go now? I Im not feeling very well, and and Im only a sub, you know.
The plea of illness moved his captors, and Jimpson was dropped to earth, and his valise restored. There was no notice taken of him as he slipped stealthfully through the outskirts of the throng, and as he reached the corner of Holden Chapel he paused and listened.