Behind the Line: A Story of College Life and Football

Foster, red-faced and hoarse, leaned forward, patted Stowell on the thigh, caught the ball, passed it quickly to Mason as that youth plunged for the line, and then threw himself into the breach, pushing, heaving, fighting for every inch that gave under his torn and scuffled shoes.

"Second down; four to gain!"

Robinson was awake now to her danger. Foster saw the futility of further attempts at the line for the present and called for a run around left end. The ball went to Pearse, but Bloch for once was ready for him, and, getting by Kendall, nailed the runner prettily four yards back of the line to the triumphant pæans of the south stand.

When the teams had again lined up Foster dropped back as though to try a kick for goal, a somewhat difficult feat considering the angle. The Robinson captain was alarmed; he was ready to believe that a team who had already sprung one surprise on him was capable of securing goals from any angle whatever; his voice arose in hoarse entreaty:

"Get through and block this kick, fellows! Get through! Get through!"

"Signal!" cried Foster. "44–18–23!"

The ball flew back from Stowell and Foster caught it breast-high. The Erskine line held for a moment, then the blue-clad warriors came plunging through desperately, and had Foster attempted a kick the ball would never have gone ten feet; but Foster, who knew his limitations in the kicking line as well as any one else, had entertained no such idea. The pigskin, fast clutched to Paul's breast, was already circling the Brown's left end. Devoe had put his opponent out of the play, thereby revenging himself for like treatment in the first half, and Pearse, a veritable whirlwind, had bowled over the Robinson left half. There is, perhaps, no prettier play than a fake kick, when it succeeds, and the friends of Erskine recognized the fact and showed their appreciation in a way that threatened to shake the stand from its foundations.

Paul and Pearse were circling well out in the middle of the field toward the Robinson goal, now some thirty yards distant measured by white lines, but far more than that by the course they were taking. Behind them streamed a handful of desperate runners; before them, rapidly getting between them and the goal, sped White, the Robinson captain and quarter. To the spectators a touch-down looked certain, for it was one man against two; the pursuit was not dangerous. But to Paul it seemed at each plunge a more forlorn attempt. So far he had borne more than his share of the punishment sustained by the tackle-tandem defense; he had worked hard on offense since the present half began, and now, wearied and aching in every bone and muscle, he found himself scarce able to keep pace with his interference.

He would have yielded the ball to Pearse had he been able to tell the other to take it; but his breath was too far gone for speech. So he plunged onward, each step slower than that before, his eyes fixed on the farthest white streak. From three sides of the great field poured forth the resonance of twelve thousand voices, triumphant, despairing, appealing, inciting, the very acme of sound.

Yet Paul vows that he heard nothing save the beat of Pearse's footsteps and the awful pounding of his own heart.

On the fifteen-yard line, just to the left of the goal, the critical moment came. White, with clutching, outstretched hands, strove to evade Pearse's shoulder, and did so. But the effort cost him what he gained, for, dodging Pearse and striving to make a sudden turn toward Paul, his foot slipped and he measured his length on the turf; and ere he had regained his feet the pursuit passed over him. Pearse met the first runner squarely and both went down. At the same instant Paul threw up one hand blindly and fell across the last line.

On the north stand hats and flags sailed through the air. The south stand was silent.

Paul lay unmoving where he had fallen. Simson was at his side in a moment. Neil, his heart thumping with joy, watched anxiously from the bench. Presently the group dissolved and Paul emerged between Simson and Browning, white of face and stumbling weakly on his legs, but grinning like a jovial satyr. Mills turned to the bench and Neil's heart jumped into his throat; but it was Smith and not he who struggled feverishly out of his sweater, donned a head-harness, and sped on to the field. Neil sighed and sank back.

"Next time," said Stone sympathetically. But Neil shook his head.

"I guess there isn't going to be any 'next time,'" he said dolefully. "Time's nearly up."

"Not a bit of it; the last ten minutes is longer than all the rest of the game," answered Stone. "I wonder who'll try the goal."

"We've got to have it," said Neil. "Surely Devoe can kick an easy one like that! Why, it's dead in the center!" Stone shook his head.

"I know, but Bob's got a bad way of getting nervous times like this. He knows that if he misses we've lost the game, unless we can manage to score again, which isn't likely; and it's dollars to doughnuts he doesn't come anywhere near it!"

Paul staggered up to the bench, Simson carefully wrapping a blanket about him, and the fellows made room for him a little way from where Neil sat. He stretched his long legs out gingerly because of the aches, sighed contentedly, and looked about him. His eyes fell on Neil.

"Hello, chum!" he said weakly. "Haven't you gone in yet?"

"Not yet," answered Neil cheerfully. "How are you feeling?"

"Oh, I'm–ouch!–I'm all right; a bit sore here and there."

"Devoe's going to kick," said Stone uneasily.

The ball had been brought out, and now Foster was holding it directly in front of the center of the cross-bar. The south stand was cheering and singing wildly in a desperate attempt to rattle the Erskine captain. The latter looked around once, and the Robinson supporters, taking that as a sign of nervousness, redoubled their noise.

"Muckers!" groaned Neil. Stone grinned.

"Everything goes with them," he said.

The referee's hand went down, Devoe stepped forward, the blue-clad line leaped into the field, and the ball sped upward. As it fell Neil turned to Stone and the two stared at each other in doubt. From both stands arose a confused roar. Then their eyes sought the score-board at the west end of the field and they groaned in unison.

"NO GOAL."

"What beastly luck!" muttered Stone.

Neil was silent. Mills and Jones were standing near by and looking toward the bench and Neil imagined they were discussing him. He watched breathlessly, then his heart gave a suffocating leap and he was racing toward the two coaches.

"Warm up, Fletcher."

That was all, but it was all Neil asked for. In a twinkling he was trotting along the line, stretching his cramped legs and arms. As he passed the bench he tried to look unconcerned, but the row of kindly, grinning faces told him that his delight was common property. Paul silently applauded.

Meanwhile the teams had again faced each other. Twelve minutes of play remained and the score-board said: Erskine 5, Opponents 6. Both elevens had made changes. For Erskine, Graham, immense of bulk but slow, had replaced Stowell at center, and Reardon was in Foster's position. Robinson had put in new men at left tackle, right end, and full-back. The game went on again.

Devoe got the kick-off and brought the ball back to his thirty yards; but he was injured when thrown and Bell took his place. Smith and Mason each made two yards around the ends and Pearse got through left-guard for one. Then a plunge at right tackle resulted disastrously, Mason being forced back three yards, and Smith took the pigskin for a try outside of right tackle. He was stopped easily and Mason kicked. Robinson got the ball on her fifty yards and ran it back to Erskine's forty-three. Once more the tackle-tandem was brought into play. Smith failed to stop it, and the head of the defense was given to Pearse; but Robinson's new left tackle was a good man, and yard by yard Erskine was borne back toward her goal. The south stand blossomed anew with brown silk and bunting.

On her thirty yards Erskine was penalized for off-side and the ball was almost under her goal. The first fierce plunge of the tandem broke the Purple line in twain and the backs went through for three yards. Mason was hurt and the whistle shrilled. A cheer arose from the north stand and a youth running into the field from the side-line heard it with fast-beating heart.

"Erskine! Erskine! Erskine! Rah-rah-rah, rah-rah-rah, rah-rah-rah! Fletcher! Fletcher! Fletcher!"

Mason was taken off, protesting feebly, and on the next plunge of the tackle-tandem Neil, with Pearse behind him, brought hope back to Erskine hearts, for the "antidote " worked to perfection again. All the pent-up strength and enthusiasm of Neil's body and heart were turned loose, and he played, as he had known he could if given the opportunity, as he had never played before, either at Erskine or Hillton. The spirit of battle held him; he was perfectly happy, and every knock and bruise brought him joy rather than pain. His chance had come to prove to both the coaches and the fellows that their first estimate of him was the correct one.

Robinson made her distance and gained the twenty-yard line by a trick play outside of left tackle; but that was all she did on that occasion, for in the next three downs she failed to advance the ball a single inch, and it went to Erskine. Neil dropped back and the pigskin settled into his ready hands. When it next touched earth it was in Robinson's possession on her own fifty yards. That punt brought a burst of applause from the north seats. Robinson tried tackle-tandem again and Neil and Pearse stopped it short. Again, and again there was no advance; but when Neil picked himself out of the pile-up he made the discovery that something was radically wrong with his right arm and shoulder. He sat down on the trampled turf to think it over and closed his eyes. He heard the whistle and Reardon's voice above him:

"Hurt?"

Neil looked up and shook his head. His gaze fell on Simson headed toward him followed by the water-carrier. He staggered to his feet, Reardon's arm about him.

"Keep 'Baldy' away," he muttered. "I'm all right; but don't let him get to me."

Reardon looked at his white face for a second in doubt. Simson was almost up to them. He wanted to win, did Reardon, and–

"All right here," he cried.

Neil went to his place, Simson retreated, suspicion written all over his face, and the whistle sounded.

Neil met the next attack with his left shoulder fore-most. And it was Erskine's ball on Robinson's fifty-yards.

On the first try around the Brown's left end Smith took the leather twenty yards, catching Bloch napping. The north stand was on its feet in an instant. Cheer after cheer broke forth encouraging the Purple warriors to fight their way across those six remaining white lines and wrest victory from defeat. But there was no time to struggle over the thirty yards that intervened. A long run might bring a touch-down if Erskine could again get a back around an end, but two minutes was too short a time for line-bucking; and, besides, Reardon had his orders.

On the side-line the timekeeper was keeping a careful eye upon his stop-watch.

A try by Neil outside of right tackle netted but a yard and left him half fainting on the ground. Pearse set off for the left end of the line on the next play, but never reached it; the Robinson right tackle got through on to him and stopped him well back of his line.

"Third down," called the referee, "five to gain!"

The teams were lined up about half-way between the Robinson goal and the south side of the field, the ball just inside the thirty-yard line. Reardon had been directed to try for a field-goal as soon as he got inside the twenty-five yards. This was only the thirty yards, and the angle was severe. There was perhaps one chance in three of making a goal from placement; a drop-kick was out of the question. Moreover, to make matters more desperate, Neil was injured; just how badly Reardon didn't know, but the other's white, drawn face told its own story. If the attempt failed he would be held to blame by the coaches, if it succeeded he would be praised for good generalship; it was a way coaches had. His consideration of the problem lasted but a fraction of a minute. He glanced at Neil and their eyes met. The quarter-back's mind was made up on the instant.