Chapter XX: In the Grip of a Giant

That evening, just before nine, the team was gathered in the back room of the Blue Moon for a last look at unusual plays and a cheering word from the coach.

“Football is a game of war.” The coach spoke earnestly. “Back there in those hard days of 1918 when some of us paid a long visit to France, we practiced long weeks before we were sent into the trenches. That practice was real, the realest thing any of us had ever known. It had to be. When, in bayonet practice, we went after a dummy—a gunny-sack stuffed with straw—that was, to us, not a sack but a man. It must be a man, for tomorrow, next day, the day after, we would go over the top. Then it WOULD be a man. Everything must be real.

“Football is like that, you must go after things hard. You must buck the line in scrimmage as you do in a real game.

“Football is like war in other ways. If a battalion cannot go through the enemy’s line, it attempts to go around him. If an army is too light for ground fighting, it takes to the air. You do the same thing in football.

“In war, practice is not enough. When the zero hour arrives, a soldier must have a clear head, his body must be fit, he must have his nerves under control. Only so can he win and live.

“You boys have practiced hard. You have given the best there is in you. You are prepared. Tomorrow you must be at your best. Keep your heads. Get a good grip on your nerves. Don’t let the other fellows get your goat. Go in to win!”

“Yea! Yea! Hear! Hear! Hear!” came in a roar from the team.

“Thanks,” the coach smiled. “And now—” he broke off to stand at attention for a period of seconds. Had his keen ears caught some unusual sound? Johnny, who sat in a corner close to a half open window, would have sworn he caught a faint rustle from the outside. “But who’d be around this time of night?” he asked himself. “And after all, what does it matter? All Hillcrest is loyal to our team.”

“Now,” the coach went on at last, “we’ll go through two or three plays rather rapidly.” Picking up a bit of chalk, he stepped to the blackboard. “This play,” he drew circles rapidly, “is one of balanced formation. You’ll likely try it after a couple of long, and probably unsuccessful passes. In the play—”

Again he paused to listen. This time Johnny did hear some sound from without, he was sure of it. “Might be Panther Eye’s black giant!” he told himself with a shudder. “But then,” he asked himself, “is there a black giant?” He rather doubted it. He had come to think of that giant as a black ghost. Panther Eye too might be a ghost for all he knew.

“In this play,” the coach began once more, “Artie passes the ball from quarter to Punch at full. Punch poses as for a long pass. But Dynamite swings round close behind the line of scrimmage and the ball is thrown to him. In the meantime, Rabbit and Tony dash round left end in position to receive a pass. Dynamite, you go through the line for whatever gain you can, then, if there is a chance, shoot a pass to Rabbit or Tony. After that,” he grinned, “it’s your game. Let your conscience be your guide.”

“Have you got that?” he demanded.

“Yea! Yea! Yea! You bet!” came from every corner.

“All right. Now this next one is a trick play. It—”

He did not finish, for at that moment, from somewhere outside, there came a most unearthly scream.

“Who—what’s that?” Every man was on his feet.

They dashed to the window just in time to witness a short, sharp struggle between two shadowy figures. One was of ordinary size, the other a person of huge proportions, a giant. Apparently it was the smaller person who had screamed, for now, as he half broke away, he let out one more blood-curdling cry.

The next instant he was free and dashing toward the front of the Blue Moon. Ten seconds later some heavy object launched itself against the locked door of the place and an agonizing voice cried:

“Let me in! For God’s sake let me in. He’ll kill me!”

There was no opportunity for letting him in. Before anyone could reach the front of the large room, he broke the door open, and fell panting on the floor.

Walking calmly past the prostrate figure, Johnny stepped out into the moonlight and took a sweeping survey of the surrounding territory. Nothing unusual was to be seen. The giant had vanished.

“Never-the-less there was a giant!” he said slowly. “Pant’s big, hooked-nose giant, I’ll be bound. But why, I wonder, was he man-handling that other fellow?”

The reason was not far to seek, at least Johnny felt that way about it, for the moment he laid eyes on the frightened stranger, who by this time had risen from the floor, he recognized in him, the sneering Naperville sophomore, the very one who had come near to causing Kentucky’s downfall.

Every boy in the room had recognized this fellow, the coach as well, but—Johnny thought this a trifle strange—not one of them all gave any indication that they knew him. For that matter, however, the boys seemed willing enough to let Coach Dizney do the talking.

As for the stranger, Johnny thought he had never seen anyone so thoroughly frightened. Eyes wild, nostrils widely distended, lips far apart, he stood there panting.

“Well, son?” the coach’s tone was disarming.

“He—he would have killed me,” the boy spoke with difficulty.

“Who?”

“The big, black giant.”

“Giant?” The coach looked at him strangely. “We have no giants in Hillcrest. Must have escaped from a circus.”

“Yes—yes, I—I guess that was it,” the boy seemed relieved.

“But what were you doing out there?” the coach asked quietly.

“Just—why, just passing—just walking by.” The stranger appeared slightly confused.

“There’s no sidewalk there,” the coach said.

“Johnny,” he turned about, “suppose you get the Chief on the wire. Tell him to run over here.”

“O. K.!” Johnny was on his way.

“I—I—” the stranger gave the coach an uncertain look. “Well you see I—I got lost so I—I just sort of cut across.”

The coach seemed to have lost interest in the conversation. “Perhaps,” he suggested, “a good hot drink would brace you up. Cup of hot chocolate perhaps.”

“Yes, I—”

“Kentucky,” the coach turned to smile, “one cup of hot chocolate on me.”

“One cup of hot chocolate coming up.” The look on Kentucky’s face was a study. Was he amused? Was he afraid, perhaps, that he might be tempted to throw the drink in the stranger’s face? Who could say? Enough that he did his duty as host faultlessly.

There came the stamping of feet and the Chief of Police arrived. “What’s up?” he demanded. The stranger stared at him, gulped down the last of his cocoa, then swallowed hard.

“This boy says he saw a giant that broke loose from a circus.” Was there a twinkle in the coach’s eye?

“Dangerous,” said the Chief.

“He—he shook me,” the boy stammered.

“Bad! Very bad!” said the Chief. “Then what?”

“He broke in the door to this place,” said the coach.

“The giant?” the Chief appeared to stare.

“This boy,” the coach replied.

“Oh, this boy! So!” The Chief’s face was sober. “Breakin’-an’-enterin’. That’s it. Thirty days at least, I’d say.”

“But—but—” the boy’s face paled, “he was after me.”

“Any confirmation?” the Chief looked about. “Johnny, did you see him, this ’ere escaped giant?”

“I went out and looked around,” Johnny said truthfully, “I didn’t see a soul.”

“Breakin’-an’-enterin’,” the Chief repeated slowly. “Pretty bad. Thirty days, I’d say.”

“But, Chief,” the coach appeared to protest, “that would be rather hard. Perhaps—

“Got any relatives, son?” he turned to the intruder. “Anyone a hundred miles away or so?”

“Yes—yes I got an uncle in Springer,” the boy’s tone was eager.

“Would you stay there three days if you were sent there?”

“Yes—yes I would,” his eagerness increased.

“How about it, Chief?” The coach smiled.

“Whatever you say, coach.”

“Fine! Will you see him on his way, Chief?”

“Be glad to, coach. Come on, son.”

The Chief and his prisoner passed through the door, to enter a car and go rolling away.

“Snooping, that’s what he was,” said Dynamite indignantly. “Trying to get on to our plays and signals. Oh well, we’ll not be bothered with him tomorrow, and, old son,” he turned to Kentucky, “you won’t have to choke him for calling names. He won’t be there to call ’em.”

“I shore am right smart ’bliged to hear that,” Kentucky drawled. “That there is the name-callin’est feller I might-nigh ever seed!”

At that every boy in the room burst into a hearty laugh.

“Perhaps,” said the coach thoughtfully, “that was taking an unfair advantage of the enemy.”

“Not a bit of it!” Dynamite exploded. “They beat us out of that last game because he wasn’t penalized for a foul. Besides, all spies should be shot at sunrise. You let him off easy.”

“Glad you think so,” the coach heaved a sigh of relief.

“But what about this giant?” he wrinkled his brow. “How many of you really saw him?”

“I—I—I—sure! Sure we saw him,” came in a chorus.

“I think I might shed a little light on that. All of you get set for a lemon soda and I’ll entertain you with a yarn not one of you’ll believe.” It was Johnny who spoke.

While they drank their soda, Johnny told the story of Panther Eye, the giant, and the kidnapped girl, told it through to the end, or at least, as far as the story had gone. “Now,” he ended, “can you beat that?”

“Can’t even tie it,” the coach said solemnly.

“Well, boys,” the coach rose, “big day tomorrow. Time to start pounding your ears.” The team filed silently from the room.

Later that night Johnny received a strange visitor. The last freshman to drop in for a chocolate bar had left the door ajar. Since the evening was mild and the room was warm, Johnny had not troubled to close it. Instead he sat by the stove musing on many things. In his imagination he heard again the roar of a bear, the loud boom of an explosion, the roar of a thousand voices shouting for Hillcrest and victory.

“Victory,” he whispered. “Tomorrow’s the day. Will they win? And Kentucky, will he have a part in it?” In his mind’s eyes once more he saw them marching by, the team: Rabbit Jones, Tony Blazes, Stagger Weed, Punch Dickman, Artie Stark, Dynamite, Old Kentucky, and all the rest. What a fine bunch they were! And what a season it had been! His blood warmed at thought of it. “To be a little part of a big thing like Hillcrest College. Ah! That was something! It was—”

His thoughts broken short off, he sat there staring at the apparition that stood in the opening of the door. A girl, she was tall and gracefully slender. And how fair she was! Her hair seemed mere moonbeams, her face was like shimmering silk. Was she a ghost? Johnny started but did not move. He had met up with ghosts of a sort before and had found them harmless.

“Pardon me,” the girl’s voice was low, musical. “Are you Johnny Thompson?”

“Speaking,” Johnny was on his feet.

“And are you a friend of a person they call Panther Eyes?” Her English, though perfect, was spoken with a foreign accent. Johnny was plagued by the notion that he had seen her somewhere before.

“Yes,” he replied, “Panther Eye and I have been great friends. Won’t you sit down?”

The girl accepted the chair offered to her then, turning eagerly toward him she said, “Can you tell me where he is—this Panther Eye? It is important that I should know. He saved me from death, worse than death—I wish to thank him. My father would reward him.”

“That,” Johnny smiled, “happened in Ethiopia.”

“Yes—yes,” her tone was eager. “You know about it. He has told you. Where is he?” She glanced hurriedly about the room.

“He is not here,” Johnny said. “I do not know where he is, may never know again. He’s that sort.”

“Oh!” The girl voiced her disappointment. “That’s—that’s really terrible. You see,” she went on, “Father is—you might say—rather well to do. Oil and all that. He went to Ethiopia to study oil prospects. He found a valley there and came to love it. He sent for me. We lived there happily. And then—then—” she covered her eyes for an instant. “Then that terrible black giant carried me away. And—and your friend saved me.”

“There’s been a black giant around here,” Johnny said. “I’m sure of that. Could he have been the same man?”

“Oh, no! God forbid!” the girl laughed uncertainly. “That was our servant. We brought him from Africa. He—why, come to think of it, there is a resemblance. But he—Oh my! No. He’s not the man!

“You see,” she explained as Johnny gave her a questioning look, “we set Hassie, that’s our servant, to hunt up your friend, Panther Eye. He did a good piece of work—almost. In the end though, he allowed him to slip away.”

“He would have had a hard time stopping him,” Johnny chuckled. “Even if he’d known everything, he would have vanished.

“You see,” he leaned forward, “Panther Eye just wanted to take you back so you would be in that picture again, the broad, green pasture, the cows, the banana field, and all that. When you were back he was satisfied. He isn’t romantic, not in the least. And as for money, he never appears to need it much. So—”

“So it’s not much use looking.” The girlish figure drooped. “I—I did so want to thank him!”

“You might leave your address.” Johnny suggested.

“Yes. Yes. So I might. Will you loan me pencil and paper?”

As Johnny stood close to the girl while she wrote down the address, he became conscious of two things—that she was no ghost but a real person, and that she was really quite charming.

“And you,” she favored him with a rare smile, “you will come and see us?”

“Well—yes, perhaps.”

She held out her hand. Johnny took it in his own. It was a good firm hand. Johnny liked the touch of it.

“I said I would,” he whispered, as she disappeared through the door. “But will I? I wonder?”

“Tomorrow,” he thought with a thrill one minute later, “tomorrow is the big day.” Already the mysterious girl and her giant escort were crowded from his mind. The team, the game, these filled his entire horizon.

One more recollection slipped into Johnny’s mind and out again before he fell asleep that night. A half hour after their landing at Hillcrest he had come upon Kentucky practicing football all by himself. He was dropping the ball and picking it up, bouncing it on the ground and catching it, retrieving it in every manner imaginable. One thing was strange, the ball was soaking wet and the field was dry.

“How’d your ball get wet?” he had asked.

“I soaked it,” Kentucky dropped it, then fell upon it.

“Why?” Johnny had asked in surprise.

“Well,” Kentucky had replied quite soberly, “the weather man predicts dampness for tomorrow. If it rains, somebody’s going to drop the ball. And I’ll be ready to pick it up.”

“He doesn’t miss much, that boy,” Johnny murmured to himself just before he fell asleep.