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Secret Play

<h2>CHAPTER XXII CHEERS, SONGS AND SPEECHES</h2> That Tuesday afternoon practice was the hardest of the season. For four twelve-minute periods, the Scrubs, driven to desperation by Dick’s reiterated assertion that this was their last chance to show what they could really do, eternally prodded by Captain Nostrand and taunted until they were fighting mad by Quarterback Farrar, drove at the Varsity as if their future salvation depended on the utter demolition of the adversary! Nostrand thumped them on the backs, even kicked them none too gently when they crouched too high on defense, shouted threats and pleas until his voice cracked. Pete Farrar shrilly called them names: “bone-heads,” “quitters,” “babies,” “pups,” and dared them to show one tiny scrap of intelligence, of fight! And Dick, hobbling from one side to the other, scolding, instructing, praising sometimes, egged the opponents on. Even George Cotner, umpiring, took a hand in—or, rather, lent a voice to—the vocal confusion. But the Varsity stood firm on defense and was irresistible on attack, and the Scrubs, yielding grudgingly, were forced back and back toward their goal time and again. But how they did fight that day! One would have thought that the two teams were the bitterest enemies to have watched them “mix it up!” Fudge played himself out by the end of the third period and had to yield to a substitute, as did others before time was finally called. The Varsity scored twice in the second quarter, once in the third and again in the fourth when a fumble gave them the ball on the opponent’s twelve yards and Lanny in three tries shot across for another six points. Twice the Scrub got to the Varsity’s five-yard line and twice she failed to score. Field-goals were barred to both teams and it was rush, pass or nothing, and the Scrubs piled themselves up against a defense that was like a concrete foundation. Later, just before the game ended, the Varsity, by two well-managed forward passes, took the pigskin to the Scrub’s twelve yards. Less than a minute of time remained and, after an ineffectual attack at right guard by Nelson Beaton, Hull, who had taken Chester Cottrell’s place, called “39—69—408!” He jumped a step to the right. Beaton went back to kicking distance. Again the signal “39—69—408——” Back sped the ball to the fullback. The lines heaved and swayed. Off dodged the ends, right and left. Beaton trotted to the right, poised the ball. Right half hurled himself against an obtrusive tackle, recovered and sped toward the side line. Then the line broke, the Scrubs came piling through, leaping, panting, arms upstretched. Hull went down under the onset. But Beaton, his gaze on an upthrust hand near the goal line, dodged a Scrub forward and hurled the ball straight and true above the mêlée. Too late the Scrub backs saw the trick. The pigskin flew into right end’s arms and that youth romped across the last white mark and sank to his knees between the posts! Number 8 had worked once more! Dick led Fudge aside later in the dressing-room. “I got that play, Fudge,” he said. “Sorry I wasn’t in when you came.” “What do you think of it?” demanded Fudge exultantly. “Isn’t it a peach, Dick?” Dick smiled. “I think so,” he replied. “I’ll try it out to-morrow. It isn’t a play that we could use more than once in a game, Fudge, for its merit lies in its power to surprise the other chap, and he wouldn’t fall for it more than once, I guess.” “I don’t see why,” Fudge objected. “Think a minute,” answered Dick gently. “The quarter kneels to hold the ball and then runs with it. The opponent might think once that it was a bona-fide placement-kick, Fudge, but the next time he would be on the lookout. And instead of getting sucked in he’d watch the quarter and his backs would go through outside of tackle and smear the pass. But never mind that. It looks promising for a one-time play and, I believe, it’s going to be just what we will want on Saturday. I only wish you’d thought of it before, Fudge.” “So do I. But, say, I’ve got another one——” “Save it for next season,” laughed Dick. “There’s no time to teach more plays now. What’s the matter with your ear?” “Some idiot kicked it, I guess.” Fudge felt of it cautiously and winced. “Better bathe it. It’s pretty well swollen. Well, thanks for the play, Fudge.” There was a mass-meeting in assembly hall that evening and the fellows sang and cheered enthusiastically until, at nine, Lanny and Dick appeared and mounted the platform. Lanny spoke first. He had a simple, direct way of talking that pleased his hearers, and to-night, although he said nothing very new, he managed to work the meeting into a fine frenzy. Cheers followed, repeated over and over, and then Dick arose and faced a new tumult. He couldn’t help but contrast this greeting with that which had met him at that former meeting, and the thought brought a smile to his face. When the cheers had subsided he spoke: “Fellows, there isn’t much anyone can say on the eve of a big game; and, anyhow, Captain White has got ahead of me. I do want to thank you personally, though, just as White thanked you on behalf of the team, for the splendid support you have given us all season.” A few chuckles were heard. “I want to thank you too for your—for the good feeling you’ve shown me. I appreciate it. And I want to tell you that it has made a difference; helped more than you can possibly realize. I don’t want to seem to be asking for credit for whatever share I’ve had in the development of the team, but I do want to say to you that when I undertook this job I didn’t appreciate what it meant. It’s been—well, it’s been hard work, fellows; harder work than I expected. And there have been lots of discouraging moments. And that’s why I say that you’ve helped me, just as you’ve helped us all, by letting me know, as you have let me know, that you had confidence in me in spite of my—my limitations.” “Now, fellows, your part—your share in this isn’t done yet. It won’t be done until the final horn squawks Saturday afternoon. You can do a lot from now on, quite as much as you’ve done already. I want you not only to believe thoroughly that we’re going to win, but I want you to make the team understand that you believe it, and I want you—I ask you particularly to make Springdale know that you believe it. There’s a lot of talk nowadays about psychology—whatever that is—and some of it’s probably poppycock. But I firmly believe that there’s such a thing as so impressing the adversary with your confidence that he will be affected by it. It isn’t just a theory, either; I’ve seen it work out more than once!” “I suppose you’d like me to tell you what I really think about our chances to win on Saturday. Well, I’m going to tell you even at the risk of making the team overconfident, which is something it can’t afford to be. I think we’re going to win, and win decisively!” Dick had to wait for the applause to subside then. “I don’t mean by that that we’ll pile up a big score, for I think the teams will be too evenly matched to score many times. But I do mean that when the battle is over there won’t be any doubt as to which is the better team. I’m not belittling the enemy. Springdale has a fine team, a team at least twenty-five per cent better than she had last year. You have only to study the results of the games she has played this season to realize that. But, on the other hand, we’ve got a fine team, too. Along——” More cheering then, wild and continued. “Along in the middle of the season I told you that our team was no more than an averagely good one, I think. It wasn’t—then. Now it is. It’s as good a team as ever represented the School, and that’s saying not a little when you recall some of the teams, which, although not very lately, have defeated Springdale by overwhelming scores. But good as it is, it’s got to play hard, play for all it’s worth, play like—like thunder! The Springdale line is a strong one. Few teams have made much impression on it this Fall. The Springdale backs are a fast and clever lot and have scoring power. The team has been finely coached and knows a lot of football. They have good punters over there, too; no better than ours, I think, but not to be despised. There’s one thing they haven’t got, fellows, and that’s a man to kick field-goals!” Cheers and shouts of “Brent! Brent! A-ay, Brent!” broke into the discourse, and Morris, sitting in the front row, studied his scarred hands attentively and hid the look in his eyes. “I want to prophesy, fellows,” continued Dick, “that if we get the ball inside the Springdale fifteen-yard line we’ll score!” “I’m not saying how we’ll score,” he added with a smile when he could go on, “but we’ll score!” Cheers and laughter mingled, and some one increased the latter by shouting: “Every little three-spot counts, old man!” “I guess that’s all I have to say,” ended Dick. “You’ve got the team. All you’ve got to do is to be back of it every minute and let the other fellow see that you’re back of it. Don’t get the glooms if they score first. Keep on cheering. The game isn’t over till it’s won!” The meeting gave itself over to riot for several minutes. Then the singing began again and finally, hoarse, jubilant, excited, the fellows made their way out of the hall and down the stairs to form in a procession outside the building and march cheering and singing through the quiet streets of Clearfield, acquainting the sleepy inhabitants with the fact that the team was “all right,” that Captain White was “all right,” that Coach Lovering was equally “all right” and that “So play as you may you can’t play better than he with a C. H. S. on his sweater!” On Thursday there was no scrimmage, but instead a hard two hours of drill. Fudge’s play was tried, but, since all proceedings were behind closed gates, we are not presumed to know how that child of his fertile brain turned out. Still, merely judging by Fudge’s pleased and important expression during the next day or two, it is allowable to suppose that the play proved satisfactory. On Friday the school marched in a body to the field with banners flying and purple megaphones beating time to the strains of “Clearfield’s Day” performed by Dahl’s Silver Cornet Band—eleven strong—and sung by some hundred and fifty voices. There was no scrimmage, but the two Varsity squads trotted up and down in signal work and kicked a few goals—or tried to—(for some reason Morris Brent wasn’t given an opportunity to prove his ability)—and the spectators stood up in the stand and cheered and sang at the behest of a boy with a yard-long megaphone and enthusiasm was rampant! And at the end of twenty minutes or so the Scrub Team, who had finally doffed their uniforms the day before, gathered together in front of the stand and cheered the Varsity, and the Varsity squads joined forces nearby and heartily cheered the Scrubs, and all preliminaries were at last over and the stage was set for the performance! <hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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