Chapter IX: Tom’s Touchdown

“Come on now, boys, line up!”

It was the call of Coach Jackson for the final practice of the Freshmen eleven before their first big game. The regulars were to play against the scrub, and, as some of the positions were yet in doubt, there were some anxious hearts. For not a substitute but wanted to fill in on the regular eleven.

Tom and Jack, because of the good showing they had made, were assured of places, but Sam Heller, who, to do him credit, was a fairly good player, was not so certain. It lay between him and Bert Wilson, as to who would be quarter-back.

“But if I had my rights, and if that Fairfield chap hadn’t come butting in,” declared Sam to his crony, Nick, “I would be sure of my place.”

“That’s right,” agreed Nick. “We’ll have to get up something on Fairfield, and make him quit Elmwood.”

“I wish I could. Say, the Sophs haven’t done any hazing this term yet; have they?”

“No, but they will.”

“I suppose so. Well, just have ’em let me down easy; will you? I’m a Soph myself, by rights, if old Hammond hadn’t marked me low in maths. But have the Sophs give it to Fairfield and his chum good and proper; will you?”

“Sure I will. We’re going to do some hazing after the football game. We thought we’d put it off until then.”

“All right, only do Tom Fairfield up if you can.”

“I will. I don’t like him any more than you do. He’s got too many airs to suit me--he and that Jack Fitch.”

“Line up! Line up!” called the coach, and the practice began. Sam Heller was called on to take his place in the scrub, which he did with no good grace, casting envious eyes at Bert Wilson, and with a feeling of bitterness in his heart toward Tom. And with no good cause, for Tom had done nothing to Sam.

“Now, boys, play your heads off!” ordered the coach. “I want to see what sort of stuff you’re made of. The best players will go against Holwell to-morrow.”

Then the scrub game began, with the Freshmen players doing their best to shove back their opponents, and the latter equally determined to make as good a showing as possible. Back and forth the battle of the gridiron waged, with Tom jumping into every play, looking for openings where he might wriggle through with the ball, or help the man who had it to gain a yard or two.

“Touchdown! Touchdown!” yelled the members of the first eleven, as they got the ball well down toward the scrub goal. “Make it a touchdown!”

It would have been, but for the fact that Bert Wilson fumbled the ball in passing it back from centre. A scrub player broke through, grabbed the pigskin, and was off down the field like a shot.

“Get him, boys!” cried Morse Denton, the Freshman captain, and Jack Fitch, who was as fleet as some ends, was after the fleeing youth. He caught him in time to prevent a score being made, but the coach shook his head at the next line up.

“Heller, you go in at quarter to replace Wilson,” he said. “I am sorry,” the arbiter added, at the look of gloom on the face of Tom’s chum, “but fumbles are costly. I can’t afford to take any chances.”

Bert said nothing, but he knew that he was not altogether at fault, for the centre had not passed the ball accurately. Sam Heller, with a triumphant smile at Tom, went to quarter, and the game proceeded. But it was noticed that Sam, who was giving signals, and deciding on most of the plays, did not give Tom as many chances as when Bert had been in place behind the centre.

“You want to look out for Sam in the game to-morrow,” said Jack to Tom that night, when, after gruelling practice, the regular Freshmen had shoved the scrub all over the field.

“Why so?”

“Because I think he has it in for you. He’ll spoil your plays if he can, and he won’t give you a chance. Look out for him.”

“I will. But at the same time I don’t believe he’d do anything to spoil the chance of the team winning.”

“I wouldn’t trust him. At the same time he may do nothing worse than not give you a chance. It’s going to be a big game, I hear, and the fellow who makes good will be in line for the ’varsity next season.”

“I’ll watch out. Now let’s do something. Come on in Bert’s room. He feels bad about not playing to-morrow.”

“I know. But it’s forbidden to visit in other fellows’ rooms after hours.”

“Oh, what of it?” asked Tom, who liked to take chances. “We’ve got to do something. It isn’t so late, and there are no lectures to-morrow.”

“All right, go ahead. I’m with you. But I hope we don’t get caught. It might mean being ruled out of the game to-morrow.”

Bert was grateful for the sympathy of his chums, and soon felt in better humor. Jack offered to repeat his water pitcher juggling act, and was only prevented by force on the part of Tom. There was a merry scuffle, and George Abbot came in to see what was going on, at the same time bringing warning that a sub-monitor had been patroling the corridors.

“Then we’ve got to be quiet,” declared Tom. “Cut out your juggling, Jack.”

The four chums talked for an hour or more, and then the three, who were out of their rooms, taking a cautious survey of the hall, prepared to go to bed, ready for the big game on the morrow. Jack and Tom just escaped being caught as they slipped into their apartment, but, as Tom remarked, “A miss was as good as a mile.”

Then came the day of the great game.

“Line up! Line up!”

“Over here, Elmwood!”

“This way, Holwell!”

“Rah! Rah! Rah!”

“Toot! Toot! Toot!”

These were only some of the cries that burst forth from hundreds of throats at the annual game between the Elmwood and Holwell schools, as the Freshmen prepared to clash in their gridiron battle.

The game was to take place on the Elmwood grounds, and both teams were out for practice. The crowds were beginning to arrive, and the bands were playing.

“Say, there’s a mob here all right,” remarked Jack to Tom. “A raft of people.”

“Yes. I hope we win.”

“Oh, sure we will. Don’t get nervous. I only wish Bert was at quarter instead of Sam Heller.”

“So do I, but it can’t be helped. I guess it will be all right.”

“Line up!”

It was the final call. The preliminaries had been all arranged, the goals chosen, and the practice balls called in. Elmwood was to kick off, and the new yellow pigskin was handed to her burly centre, who was poising it on a little mound of earth in the middle of the field.

“Ready?” asked the official.

“Ready!” answered both captains.

The whistle shrilled out its signal, and the toe of the big centre met the ball squarely. It was well kicked into the Holwell territory.

The full-back on the latter team caught it skillfully, and started to return with it, well protected by interference, but Jack Fitch worked his way through it, and tackled his man hard.

“Good! Good!” screamed the Elmwood enthusiasts, and then the first scrimmage was prepared for.

I am not going to describe for you that game in detail, for it formed but a small part in the life of Tom Fairfield. Sufficient to say that the gridiron battle was fairly even, and that at the end of the third quarter the score was a tie.

“But we’ve got to win!” declared the Elmwood captain, during the rest period. “We’ve _got_ to.”

“And we will, if there’s a change made,” declared Jack Fitch boldly.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that Tom Fairfield isn’t getting a fair show.”

“Oh, Jack!” exclaimed Tom.

“That’s right! You’re not!” declared his chum. “Sam hasn’t called on you three times during the game. It’s been all wing shift plays, or place kicks, or forward passes, or fake kicks or something like that. Why can’t we have some straight, old-fashioned football, with a rush of the half-back through tackle and guard or centre? Tom’s a good ground-gainer.”

“I’ve played him as much as I saw proper,” snapped Sam.

“You have not!” declared Jack hotly.

“Easy, boys,” cautioned the coach. “There must be no personal feeling. Perhaps some straight football would go well, Heller.”

“All right, I’ll give it to ’em.”

The whistle blew to start the last quarter.

“Remember, boys, a touchdown will do the trick, and win the game!” pleaded the Elmwood captain.

“Look out for yourself, Tom,” cautioned Jack.

“Why?”

“Because Sam is just mad enough to make you fumble the ball and spoil a play. Then he’ll accuse you of losing the game.”

“I’ll watch out.”

The play was resumed. It was give and take, hammer and tongs, with the best players making the most gains. The ball was slowly forced down the field toward the Holwell goal.

“Touchdown! Touchdown!” screamed the supporters of our hero’s college, and there were many of them.

“Seven, eleven, thirty-three, Elmwood! Eight--nine--twenty-one!” called Sam.

It was the signal for the full-back to take the ball through centre. It was almost the last chance, for the time was nearly up, and Tom had not been given a single opportunity that quarter. His heart burned against his enemy; yet what could he do?

The quarter-back dropped his hands as a signal for the centre to snap the ball back. Sam caught it fairly, and turned to pass it to the full-back. Then, that always fatal element in football developed. There was a fumble. The ball was dropped.

“Grab it! Fall on it!” yelled half a dozen Holwell players.

The Elmwood line wavered. Could it hold?

Tom Fairfield, a mist before his eyes, saw the pigskin rolling toward him. He picked it up on the jump. In another moment Jack Fitch and Joe Rooney, his guard, had torn a hole in the opposing line.

“Come on, Tom!” yelled Jack hoarsely.

And Tom, with lowered head, with the ball held close to his breast, plunged into the line. He hit it hard. It yielded. He went through with a rush, pushed by Jack and Joe. Then, seeing but a single man between himself and the coveted goal, he rushed for it.

All but the opposing full-back had been drawn in at the sight of the fumble, and the chance to secure the ball. Tom rushed at this lone player.

There was a shock. Tom reeled, but managed to retain his footing. He shoved the full-back aside, and ran on.

“Oh, great!” he heard hundreds yell. “Go on! Go on!”

How he ran! It was the opportunity for which he had waited. In spite of Sam Heller it had come to him. Over the white chalk marks Tom scudded, until, with panting breath, with a heart that seemed bursting, and with eyes that scarcely saw, he fell over the last line, and planted the ball between the goal posts, making the winning touchdown. The other players--his own and his opponents--straggled up to the last mark. The whistle blew, ending the game.

“Oh wow!” shrilled hundreds of voices. “Elmwood! Elmwood! Elmwood forever!”

“Tom, you won the game! You won the game!” yelled Jack in his chum’s ear, as Tom got up, holding his foot on the ball. “You won in spite of Sam!”

“I--I’m glad--of--it!” panted Tom, scarcely able to breathe even yet, for he had run hard.