Behind the Line: A Story of College Life and Football

"Signal!" he cried. "Steady, fellows; we want this; every one hold hard!"

He trotted back to the thirty-five-yard line and dropped to his knees, directly behind and almost facing center. Neil took up his position three yards from him and facing the goal. Pearse and Smith stood guard between him and the line. The Robinson right half turned and sped back to join the quarter, whose commands to "Get through and stop this kick!" were being shouted lustily from his position near the goal-line.

"Signal!" Reardon repeated. Graham stooped over the ball. Neil, pale but with a little smile about his mouth, measured his distance. Victory depended upon him. From where Reardon knelt to the goal was nearly forty yards on a straight line and the angle was severe. If he made it, well and good; if he missed–He recalled what Mills had told him ere he sent him in:

"I think you can win this for us, Fletcher. Once inside their twenty-five Reardon will give you the ball for a kick from drop or placement, as you think best. Whatever happens, don't let your nerves get the best of you. If you miss, why, you've missed, that's all. Don't think the world's coming to an end because we've been beaten. A hundred years from now, when you and I aren't even memories, Erskine will still be turning out football teams. But if we can, we want to win. Just keep cool and do your level best, that's all we ask. Now get in there."

Neil took a deep breath. He'd do his best. If the line held, the ball ought to go over. He was cool enough now, and although his shoulder seemed on fire, the smile about his mouth deepened and grew confident. Reardon stretched forth his hands.

"Signal!" he cried for the third time; but no signal was forthcoming. Instead Graham sped the ball back to him, steady and true, and the Robinson line, almost caught napping, failed to charge until the oval had settled into Reardon's hands and had been placed upon the ground well cocked at the goal. Then the Brown's warriors broke through and bore down, big and ugly, upon Pearse and Smith; but Neil was stepping toward the ball; a long stride, a short one, a long one, and toe and pigskin came together. Pearse was down and Smith was shouldering valiantly at a big guard. Two blue-clad arms swept upward almost into the path of the rising ball; there was a confused sound of crashing bodies and rasping canvas, and then a Robinson man bounded against Neil and sent him reeling to earth.

For an instant the desire to lie still and close his eyes was strong. But there was the ball! He rolled half over, and raising himself on his left hand looked eagerly toward the posts. The pigskin, turning lazily over and over, was still in flight. Straight for the goal it was speeding, but now it had begun to drop. Neil's heart stood still. Would it clear the cross-bar? It seemed scarcely possible, but even as despair seized him, for an instant the bar came between his straining eyes and the dropping ball!

A figure with tattered purple sleeves near at hand leaped into the air, waving his arms wildly. On the stand across the field pandemonium broke loose.

Neil closed his eyes.

A moment later Simson found him there, sitting on the thirty-five-yard line, one arm hanging limply over his knee, his eyes closed, and his white face wreathed in smiles.

Erskine 10, Opponents 6, said the score-board.

CHAPTER XXIV

AFTER THE BATTLE

"You'll not get off so easily this time," said the doctor.

"No, sir," replied Neil, striving to look concerned.

He was back on the couch again, just where he had been four weeks previous, with his shoulder swathed about in bandages just as it had been then.

"I can't see what you were thinking about," went on the other irritably, "to go on playing after you'd bust things up again."

"No, sir–that is, I'm sure I don't know." Neil's tone was very meek, but the doctor nevertheless looked at him suspiciously.

"Humph! Much you care, I guess. But, just the same, my fine fellow, it'll be Christmas before you have the use of that arm again. That'll give you time to see what an idiot you were."

"Thank you, sir."

The doctor smiled in spite of himself and looked away.

Erskine vs. Robinson–The Second Half.

"Doesn't seem to have interfered with your appetite, anyhow," he said, glancing at the well-nigh empty tray on the chair.

"No, sir; I–I tried not to eat much, but I was terribly hungry, Doc."

"Oh, I guess you'll do." He picked up his hat; then he faced the couch again and its occupant. "The trouble with you chaps," he said severely, "is that as long as you've managed to get a silly old leather wind-bag over a fool streak of lime you think it doesn't matter how much you've broke yourselves to pieces."

"Yes, it's very thoughtless of us," murmured Neil with deep contriteness.

"Humph!" growled the doctor. "See you in the morning."

When the door had closed Neil reached toward the tray and with much difficulty buttered a piece of Graham bread, almost the only edible thing left. Then he settled back against the pillows, not without several grimaces as the injured shoulder was moved, and contentedly ate it. He was very well satisfied. To be sure, a month of invalidism was not a pleasing prospect, but things might have been worse. And the end paid for all. Robinson had departed with trailing banners; the coaches and the whole college were happy; Paul was happy; Sydney was happy; he was happy himself. Certainly the bally shoulder–ouch!–hurt at times; but, then one can't have everything one wants. His meditations were interrupted by voices and footsteps outside the front door. He bolted the last morsel of bread and awaited the callers.

These proved to be Paul and Sydney and–Neil stared–Tom Cowan.

"Rah-rah-rah!" shouted Paul, slamming the door. "How are they coming, chum? Here's Burr and Cowan to make polite injuries after your inquiries–I mean inquiries–well, you know what I mean. Tom's been saying all sorts of nice things about your playing, and I think he'd like to shake hands with the foot that kicked that goal."

Neil laughed and put out his hand. Cowan, grinning, took it.

"It was fine, Fletcher," he said with genuine enthusiasm. "And, some way, I knew when I saw you drop back that you were going to put it over. I'd have bet a hundred dollars on it!"

"Thunder, you were more confident than I was!" Neil laughed. "I wouldn't have bet more than thirty cents. Well, Board of Strategy, how did you like the game?"

Sydney shook his head gravely.

"I wouldn't care to go through it again," he answered. "I had all kinds of heart disease before the first half was over, and after that I was in a sort of daze; didn't know really whether it was football or Friday-night lectures."

"You ought to have been at table to-night, chum," said Paul. "We made Rome howl. Mills made a speech, and so did Jones and 'Baldy,' and–oh, every one. It was fine!"

"And they cheered a fellow named Fletcher for nearly five minutes," added Sydney. "And–"

"Hear 'em!" Cowan interrupted. From the direction of the yard came a long volley of cheers for Erskine. Dinner was over and the fellows were ready for the celebration; they were warming up.

"Great times to-night," said Paul happily. "I wish you were going out to the field with us, Neil."

"Maybe I will."

"If you try it I'll strap you down," replied Paul indignantly. "By the way, Mills told me to announce his coming. He's terribly tickled, is Mills, although he doesn't say very much."

"He's still wondering how you went stale before the game and then played the way you did," said Sydney. "However, I didn't say anything." He caught himself up and glanced doubtfully toward Cowan. "I don't know whether it's a secret?" He appealed to Neil, who was frowning across at him.

"What's a secret?" demanded Paul.

"Don't mind me," said Cowan. "It may be a secret, but I guessed it long ago, didn't I, Paul?"

"What in thunder are you all talking about?" asked that youth, staring inquiringly from one to another. Sydney saw that he had touched on forbidden ground and now looked elaborately ignorant.

"Oh, nothing, Paul," answered Neil. "When are you all going out to the field?"

"But there is something," his chum protested warmly. "Now out with it. What is it, Cowan? What did you guess?"

"Why, about Fletcher going stale so that you could get into the game," answered Cowan, apparently ignorant of Neil's wrathful grimaces. "I guessed right away. Why–"

"Oh, shut up, won't you?" Neil entreated. "Don't mind them, Paul; they're crazy. Sydney, you're an ass, if you only knew it."

"But I thought he knew–" began Sydney.