The High School Left End Part 19

From some of the members of the football squad went up a promptly stifled gasp that sounded like a very distant rumble.

d.i.c.k and Dave, looking wholly rough and ready in their sweaters, padded trousers and heavy field shoes, stepped out of the marching formation as though obeying an order.

The chums looked almost uncouth, compared with the immaculate, dandyish pair, Dodge and Bayliss. The latter, with so many amused glances turned their way, could only flush deeply, stammer, raise their hats and---fade away!

The lesson was a needed and a remembered one. Laura and Belle took their afternoon walks in peace thereafter.

CHAPTER XI

DIES FOOTBALL TEACH REAL NERVE?

"Get in there, Ripley! Don't be afraid. It's only a leather dummy. It can't hurt you! Now, tackle the dummy around the hips---_hoist_!"

A laugh went up among the crowd as Fred, crouching low, head down, sailed in at that tackling dummy.

Young Ripley's face was red, but he took the coach's stern tone in good part, for the young man was determined to make good on the eleven this year.

"Now, Prescott! Show us that you can beat your last performance!

Imagine the dummy to be a two hundred and twenty pound center!"

d.i.c.k rushed in valiantly, catching the dummy just right.

"Let go!" called the coach, laughingly. "It isn't a sack of gold!"

Another laugh went up. This was one of the semi-public afternoons, when any known well-wisher of Gridley was allowed on the athletic field to watch the squad at work.

For half an hour the young men had been working hard, mostly at the swinging dummy, for Coach Morton wanted much improvement yet in tackling.

"Now," continued the coach, in a voice that didn't sound very loud, yet which had the quality of carrying to every part of the big field, "it'll be just as well if you fellows don't get the idea that only swinging leather dummies are to be tackled. The provisional first and second teams will now line up. Second has the ball on its own twenty-yard line, and is trying to save its goal. You fellows on second hustle with all your might to get the ball through the ranks of the first, or School eleven. Fight for all you're worth to get that ball on the go and keep it going!

You fellows of the first, or School eleven, I want to see what you can do with real tackling."

There was a hasty adjusting of nose-guards by those who wore that protection. The ball was placed, the quarter-back of the second eleven bending low to catch it, at the same time comprehending the signal that sounded briskly.

The whistle blew; the ball was snapped, and quarter-back darted to the right, pa.s.sing the ball. Second's right tackle had been chosen to receive and break through the School's line. On School's left, d.i.c.k and Ripley raced in together, while second's interference crashed into the pair of former enemies as right tackle tried to go through. But Fred Ripley was as much out for team work this day as any fellow on the field. He made a fast sprint, as though to tackle, yet meaning to do nothing of the sort. d.i.c.k, too, understood. He let Ripley get two or three feet in the lead. At Ripley, therefore, the second's interference hurled itself savagely. It was all done so quickly that the beguiled second had no time to rectify its blunder; for Fred Ripley was in the center of the squirming, interfering bunch and d.i.c.k Prescott had made a fair, firm, abrupt tackle. In an instant the ball was "down." Second had gained less than a yard.

"Good work!" the coach shouted, after sounding the whistle."

Ripley and Prescott, that was the right sort of team work."

Again second essayed to get away with the ball. This time the forward pa.s.s was employed---that is to say, attempted. Hudson and Purcell, by another clever feint, got the ball stopped and down; third time, and second lost the ball on downs.

Now School had the ball. As the quarter-back's signals rang out there was perceptible activity and alertness at School's right end. As the ball was snapped, School's right wing went through the needful movements, but d.i.c.k Prescott, over at left end, had the ball. Ripley and Purcell were supporting him.

Straight into the opposing ranks went Ripley and Purcell, the rest of the school team supporting. It was team work again.

d.i.c.k was halted, for an instant. Then, backed by his supporters, he dashed through the opposition---on and on! Twice d.i.c.k was on the point of being tackled, but each time his interference carried him through. He was over second's line---touch-down, and the whistle sounded shrilly, just a second ahead of cheers from some hundred on-lookers.

As d.i.c.k came back he limped just a bit.

"I tell you, it takes nerve, and a lot of it, to play that game,"

remarked one citizen admiringly.

"Nerve? pooh!" retorted his companion. "Just a hoodlum footrace, with some b.u.mping, and then the whistle blows while a lot of boys are rolling over one another. The whistle always blows just at the point when there might be some use for nerve."

The first speaker looked at his doubtful companion quizzically.

"Would it take any nerve for you," he demanded, "to jump in where you knew there was a good chance of your being killed,"

"Yes; I suppose so," admitted the kicker.

"Well, every season a score or two of football ball players are killed, or crippled for life."

"But they're not looking for it," objected the kicker, "or they wouldn't go in so swift and hard. Real nerve? I'd believe in that more if I ever heard of one of these nimble-jack racers taking a big chance with his life off the field, and where there was no crowd of wild galoots to look on and cheer!"

"Of course killing and maiming are not the real objects of the game," pursued the first speaker. "Coaches and other good friends of the game are always hoping to discover some forms of rules that will make football safer. Yet I can't help feeling that the present game, despite the occasional loss of life or injury to limb, puts enough of strong, fighting manhood into the players to make the game worth all it costs."

"I want to see the nerve, and I want to see the game prove its worth," insisted the kicker.

Second eleven, though made up of bright, husky boys, was having a hard time of it. Thrice coach arbitrarily advanced the ball for second, in order to give that team a better chance with High School eleven.

And now the practice was over for the afternoon. The whistle between coach's lips sounded three prolonged blasts, and the young players, flushed, perspiring---aching a bit, too---came off the field. Togs were laid aside and some time was spent under the shower baths and in toweling. Only a small part of the late crowd of watchers remained at the athletic field. But the kicker and his companion were among those who stayed.

Coach Morton stood for a time talking with some citizens who had lingered. As most of these men were contributors to the athletic funds they were anxious for information.

"Do you consider the prospects good for the team this year?" asked one man.

"Yes," replied Mr. Morton promptly.

"Is the School eleven decided upon in detail?" questioned another.

"No; of course not, as yet. Each day some of the young men develop new points---of excellence, or otherwise. The division into School and second teams, that you saw this afternoon, may not be the final division. In fact, not more than five or six of the young men have been definitely picked as sure to make the School team.

We shall have it all decided within a few days."

"But you're rather certain," insisted another, "that Gridley is going to have as fine a School team as it has ever had?"

"It would be going too far to say that," replied Coach Morton slowly. "The truth is, we never know anything for certain until we have seen our boys play through the first game. Our judgment is even more reliable after they've been through the second game."

By this time, some of the football squad were coming out of locker rooms, heading across the field to the gate. Coach Morton and the little group of citizens turned and went along slowly after them. The kicker was still on hand.

Just as the boys neared the gate there were heard sounds of great commotion on the other side of the high board fence. There were several excited yells, the sound of running feet, and then more distinct cries.

"He's bent on killing the officer! Run!"

"Look out! Here he comes! Scoot!"

"He's crazy!"