Center Rush Rowland

by Ralph Henry Barbour

  CHAPTER XXI

  PARKINSON SCORES

  The sun broke forth at the very instant that the Kenwood kicker's toesent the pigskin hurtling from the tee, and a flood of wintry sunshineillumined the scene. But a chilling wind still blew from the northeast,snapping the big brown banner above the grandstand and eddying amidstthe serried ranks of the onlookers. Brown pennants flapped and bluepennants, fewer in number, waved back defiantly. On the Parkinsonside of the field the substitutes sat huddled in their sweaters andblankets on the bench or lay sprawled on the windrow of marsh hay thathad covered the gridiron overnight and was now piled in the lee of thebarrier. Ira, cross-legged, his back to the boards, meditatively chewedat a grass blade as Wells doubled himself over the ball, dug his cleatsand went swinging off to the left behind his converging teammates. Fiveyards, seven, and then he was down, the arms of a Kenwood end wrappedabout his thighs. Dannis' voice piped shrilly across the wind-sweptfield: "Line up, Parkinson! Signals!"

  A moment of suspense and then the brown-shirted backs lunged at theKenwood centre, faltered, stopped and came tumbling back.

  "Nothing doing there," muttered Brad, at Ira's left.

  Then came a try at left tackle and a short gain, with Cole carrying theball. A third attempt was hurled back by the right of the Blue's line,and Wirt dropped back. The ball went corkscrewing down the field, borneon a blast of the whistling wind, and the players sped under it. Hereand there a man went down, rolled over, found his feet again and spedon. The Kenwood quarter signalled for a fair-catch and heeled the ballon his ten-yard line.

  "Good work," commented Brad. "They're taking no chances with the ballfloating like that. Ever try to catch in a high wind, Rowland?"

  Ira shook his head.

  "It's hard. You can't tell where the silly thing will come down untiljust before it gets to you. Now we'll see what they've got in the wayof an attack. Hello!"

  Kenwood was shifting her whole left side except the end. Parkinsonshuffled over to meet the attack, the ball was snapped and thequarter was running back with it, while, far off at the left, ablue-stockinged end was racing down the field with upraised arm.

  "Not a soul with him!" groaned Brad. The ball went streaking across,well above the heads of the players. Cole, discerning the danger toolate, was running hard and Dannis was making toward the side line. Butthe pass was safe and the Kenwood end plucked the ball from air, tuckedit in the crook of his arm and started for the distant goal. Cole'seffort was late and only Dannis stood in the path of the runner. ButDannis got him and they went rolling together over and over into thehay, while the Kenwood substitutes scattered right and left.

  "Twenty yards easy," said Brad drily. "If Price gets fooled like thatagain it's good night to us! It was a peach of a throw, wasn't it?"

  "I guess we weren't looking for it," said Ira. "I thought they'd rush."

  "So did I. They'll bear watching. No one saw that. They'll try our linenow, though. There they go! You would, would you? Well, you can staywhere you are, Kenwood! How much did they get? Not more than a yard,eh?"

  "About two feet, I think," answered Ira. "Brackett was right there,that time."

  Kenwood tried the centre and pushed through for two and a wide endrun around the Parkinson left gave her three more. Then the Blue wasforced to punt and the pigskin settled into Dannis' arms and he dodgedone end and scampered over two white lines before he was pulled down.

  Parkinson plugged at the centre, hurling Wirt and Cole into the bluewall, but Kenwood stood fast and Wirt again booted the ball far downthe field. With that wind behind him it was no feat to kick fiftyyards once he got the ball high enough and this time the opposing lefthalf-back caught well over in a corner. It was a fair-catch again,which was fortunate, since both Parkinson ends were by him when theball came down. Kenwood tried another long forward and again eludedthe enemy, but the throw was short this time and the ball went back.A plunge at Conlon got through for six and a skin-tackle play on theright added two more. But, with two to go on the fourth down, Kenwoodagain punted, trying to keep the ball low and out of the wind with theresult that it rolled out of bounds near the Parkinson forty-yard line.Parkinson was not yet satisfied that she couldn't dent the opposingline, and Cole and Wells were hurled against it, with the result thatafter three attempts the ball was not far from where it had started.

  "Gee, they've got some line there," marvelled Brad. "I suppose 'The'wanted to know what he's up again, but it looks to me as if he wassilly not to kick while he's got this wind behind him. All right,Lester! Make it a good one! Get down there, Ray!"

  Once more the pigskin sped toward the further goal and once more theBrown and the Blue scampered after it. This time the ball went askewand landed outside near Kenwood's thirty. The Blue made the firstdown of the game then. Parkinson failed to diagnose a cross-buck playthat slashed her line at left guard, and a big blue-legged back camefighting through and wasn't stopped until he had put eight yardsbehind him. Two plunges gave Kenwood the rest of her distance and theblue pennants waved and triumphant cheers crashed out. Kenwood foundencouragement and smashed savagely at the Parkinson line. Twice shemade three yards. Then Fred Lyons dived through and brought down therunner behind the line, and Kenwood punted to the enemy's eighteen. Andso it went for the rest of that quarter, Kenwood plunging and puntingonly when she was forced to, Parkinson plunging and punting regularlyon third down. The wind tipped the scales in the home team's favour,and when but a scant three minutes remained it was Parkinson's ball onher own forty-eight yards. The stand was cheering hopefully now. CoachDriscoll, hands in pockets, uncoated, walked slowly back and forth, hisgaze always on the play, his expression always undisturbed.

  "If we can get to their thirty-five, Walt can put it over the bar,"said Brad tensely. "Wouldn't you think 'The' would try that split-lineplay, Rowland? Look where Kenwood's playing her ends! Man alive, wecould get around that left easy! I believe he's going to. No, it'sanother line play. Oh, tush!"

  "Looks like a forward," observed Ira. "Unless we're really going tokick on first down!"

  "It's an end-around, that's what it is. I hope it's Price. It is! Herehe comes! Oh, rotten pass! Got it, though! In, you idiot! In! Got him!No, he's past! Go it, Chester! Go it, you--Wow! Five--ten--twelveyards, old man! What do you know about that, fellows?"

  Expressions of delight from the substitutes, however, were drowned inthe roar that swept over their heads from the stand behind them. Thecheer leaders were on their feet again, brown megaphones waving. Bradleaned closer and shouted amidst the din: "It's square on their forty,Rowland! And it's first down! We've got them going!"

  "There isn't much time," said Ira doubtfully.

  "Time enough! Two more rushes and then a try-at-goal and first bloodfor old Parkinson!"

  Wirt back again and the ball to Cole for a plunge at left guard. Onlya scant yard and a half gained. Wirt still back and the ball to Wells,and the backfield trailing to the right like a wall, with the runnerscurrying along behind it. A break in the opposing line, a quick turnby Wells. Through! But only through, for a Kenwood man is on him andhalf a dozen bodies pile together and the whistle blows.

  "Four more!" cried Brad. "Now then, Walter! Put it over, old man. Youcan do it with this wind back of you!!"

  But it was still Wirt back, and Brad groaned and shook his head sadlyas Cole tucked the ball to his stomach and went head-on into a resolutedefence for a scant half-yard gain.

  "Oh, shucks! Fourth down!" wailed Brad. "Why the dickens didn't theytry for a goal? What's this? Another end-around? No, it's Wells outsidetackle. Watch it! By Jove, he's done it! How much did we need? Four?Then we've got it! Got to measure it, eh? Who's that down? One of ourfellows? No, he's a Blue-leg."

  "Kenwood left tackle," said Ritter from further along. "How much timeis there, Brad?"

  "I don't know. About a minute, I think. We've got it! First down! We'lldo it yet!"

  The linemen were trotting off, trailing the chain, and the referee hadwaved his arm tow
ard the Kenwood goal. The Parkinson cheer leaderswere dancing along the side line and a mighty volume of triumph rolledacross the field.

  Parkinson went back at the centre and was stopped short, Wells squirmedoutside tackle for two yards, Cole smashed at the right guard and wentspinning through for another two. Now the pigskin lay almost on thetwenty-five-yard line. The timekeeper was edging nearer and nearer. Iraviewed him anxiously and chewed harder on that straw. A sudden lull inthe wind allowed Dannis' voice to reach them:

  "Come on now, Parkinson! Let's have it! Signals! Lyons back!"

  "It's a place kick!" exclaimed Brad. "Go to it, Fred! Hold that line,Parkinson!"

  Dannis was on one knee and patting the turf. Fred was walking backslowly. Then he stopped, studied the distance and shortened it astride. Dannis crept further back and leaned an elbow on the ground.From the blue team came hoarse commands, implorations:

  "Get through, Kenwood! Block this kick! Block this kick!"

  A moment of silence, a brown streak from between Conlon's legs, theball settles in Dannis' hands. Very carefully he turns it, points it.Fred Lyons steps forward one step and his right foot swings in a longarc. The lines are battling fiercely. Kenwood comes plunging, leapingthrough, arms upstretched. But the ball is sailing well above the eagerfingers. Now the wind has it and it veers to the right, still rising,turning lazily over in its flight, sailing nearer and nearer thefurther upright----

  An instant of silence and suspense and then a wild burst of acclaimfrom the Brown stand, for the Parkinson players are running back,thumping each other on the shoulders, capering, tossing theirhead-harnesses aloft!

  "Goal!" shouted Brad exultantly. "Three for us! Cheer, Rowland, youwooden Indian!"

  Ira smiled. "It's bully, isn't it? I thought at first he'd missed it,though."

  "So did I. I guess it was pretty close. Well, that'll do for a start.Three points may look pretty big when this game's over!"

  CHAPTER XXII

  COACH DRISCOLL APOLOGISES

  Half a minute later the horn blew and the quarter ended.

  Parkinson went back to line attacks, now that she was facing the wind,and soon yielded the ball. Kenwood, profiting by her adversary'sexample, started a kicking game. History repeated herself and everyexchange of punts gave the Blue a good five yards of territory andbefore the period was many minutes old Parkinson was digging her cleatsinto her thirty-yard line. Dannis let the centre alone now and sent hisbacks outside of tackles and made gains of a sort. Only once did shetry a forward-pass, and then it was a short one over the middle of theline that gained her eight yards. Slowly but irrevocably she was beingforced back. When, from her twenty-five, Wirt's punt was caught in aflurry of wind and blown almost back to him and captured by the enemy,it was evident that Fortune meant to even her favours.

  The Kenwood supporters cheered incessantly while the Blue team tore atthe Brown line and, failing to gain the distance, again punted. Thistime it was Parkinson's time to taste of luck, for Dannis, cuddlingthe ball to him squarely on his goal line, leaped away, eluding bothKenwood ends, and tore it past friend and enemy to his own forty-twoyards amidst a perfect thunder of cheers. But three tries only nettedsix yards and Wirt had to punt and the ball was Kenwood's again on herfifteen yards. A penalty set her back five and then came another longforward-pass and the pigskin was back in midfield. Price, right end,was hurt and Ritter took his place.

  Kenwood smashed the line once, skirted the left end once and tried aquarter-back run, all for a gain of five yards. Back went her punterand the Parkinson backfield scattered. But the ball didn't sail intothe air this time. Instead, it was borne straight through centre by thehusky fullback for a good seven yards, and when the dust of battle hadsettled Conlon and Brackett were on their faces.

  "They got Terry," said Brad. "I saw it. It was their right guard. GuessBrackett's only winded, though."

  And to prove it, Brackett was already climbing to his feet. ButConlon was taking full time and Billy Goode was kneeling over himsolicitously. Coach Driscoll was looking intently across the field, andBilly had scarcely raised a beckoning hand before he had swung smartlyon his heel and his eyes were searching the line of substitutes.

  "Rowland! On the run!" he called sharply.

  Ira, startledly disentangling himself from his blanket, stumbled tohis feet, dimly aware of Brad's cheerful and envious "Good luck!", andhurried across. He expected the coach to give him instructions, but Mr.Driscoll only nodded sidewise toward the line-up.

  "Go in at centre," he said. "Here, leave your sweater behind!"

  Ira stopped and struggled out of that garment, tossed it behind himand trotted on. They were carrying Conlon off, his head sagging, andas Ira paused to catch the head-harness tossed by Billy Goode he had aglimpse of the boy's pale face, dirt-streaked and drawn with pain, andsomething that was as near like fear as Ira had ever felt came to him!

  Then Dannis was thumping his arm and the others were grinning tiredlyat him and he was pulling his harness on. In front of him, inches widerof shoulder and inches taller, loomed the formidable Beadle. He wasa fine-looking youth, in spite of a swollen mouth and a greenish lumpunder one eye, and there was nothing savage in the steady look he gaveIra. It was an appraising look, and as Ira met it something very muchlike a smile flickered for an instant in the big centre's eyes. Thenthe signals came and Ira stepped back out of the line and the game wenton.

  For the first few minutes Ira had only a dim conception of what hewas doing and of what was going on about him. He worked in a sort ofhaze, doing what he had been taught to do, blocking, breaking through,tripping, falling, racing here and there after the ball, passing nowand then, always with his breath coming hard and every energy alert.Kenwood came through time after time, but the gains were short. Beadlewas a terror at his job and Ira's efforts to stop him were seldom morethan half successful. Beadle was quicker than anyone Ira had everplayed against, and he knew more tricks, and he was terribly hard toreach. Ira worked like a Trojan during that remaining six minutes, andsometimes he got the better of his man, but those times were few innumber. Toward the end of the half Parkinson palpably played for time,and it was only that that saved her, for when the welcome whistlefinally blew the enemy was raging about her fifteen yards. Had Kenwoodbeen satisfied with a goal from the field she might easily have madeit, for two chances were hers, but Kenwood wanted a touchdown and keptafter it, and only the timer's watch defeated her. As it was, Parkinsontrotted back to the gymnasium still leading by three points, but verydoubtful of the outcome.

  Ira was wondering how it would be possible for him to last anotherhalf-hour, for it seemed to him that he had already done a day's work.He had a bleeding nose--he couldn't remember where or how he had gotit--and one of his wrists had been badly wrenched, but compared withsome of the others he was in fine condition! The locker-room was ascene of wild confusion, with rubbers hard at word, a vile odour ofliniment in the air, dozens of tired voices scolding, the sound ofrushing water over all. Mended and massaged, Ira sank into a corner andtiredly looked on. Fred Lyons, pale-faced, agitated, was pushing BillyGoode aside in his effort to reach Coach Driscoll.

  "Oh, let me alone, Billy! I'm all right, I tell you! Coach! Coach! Whatare we going to do if they try that forward-passing again! We haven't aman who can stop it! It's rotten!"

  "It's up to the ends," answered Mr. Driscoll. "What's wrong with them?Where were you, White? And you, Price? Haven't you been taught----"

  "It wasn't my end, sir!" denied Ray warmly.

  "It's always your end! Any end's your end in a forward-pass! You don'tkeep your eyes open! Bradford! You go in at left end next half andsee if you can cover your man. Where's Wells? Look here, what sort offootball have you been taught? Can't you do anything but throw yourhead back and paw the air? You weren't much better, Cole. Someone's gotto get through that line if we expect to win this game. Slow startingand slow running! It's been awful! Dannis, you've got to speed them upnext half. They'll fall asleep in their tra
cks! Lyons, for the loveof Mike, let Billy get that bandage on you! What is it, Lowell? Oh, Idon't know. Yes, let them have it. Well, Rowland!" The coach paused infront of Ira and looked down at him with a sneer. "You're a fine pieceof work, aren't you? Is that the best you can do?"

  Ira, startled and surprised, looked back dumbly. Surely this wasn'tthe Mr. Driscoll he knew, this snarling, contemptuous person with theflashing eyes!

  "Can't you fight a little bit?" went on the coach. "Clean yellow, areyou? All you did was stand up there and take your punishment. Let metell you something, Rowland. They're coming after you this next half.They're going to flay you if you don't show signs of life. They want atouchdown and they mean to have it and they'll be hitting the centrefrom now on. What do you intend to do about it, eh? Speak up!"

  "Why--why--" faltered Ira, "I--I'm going to do the best I can!"

  "Best you can be blowed! Don't you know you're up against the bestcentre there is today on a school team? 'Do the best you can!' GreatScott, man, you've got to do _better_ than you can! Better thanyou ever dreamed of doing! You've got to _fight_! This isn't anySunday-school picnic. This is football. We're out to win. I was afraidall along you had a yellow streak, and now I know it. But you'll stayin there until you have to be carried off, like Conlon. Want to knowwhat your trouble is?"

  Ira was still too amazed to answer.

  "You're a coward! That's your trouble! You're afraid! You don't darefight back! You're a plain squealer! I've got your measure, son!"

  Ira felt the blood pouring into his cheeks as he jumped to his feet andfaced the coach with clenched hands.

  "You take that back!" he said in a low voice that trembled in spite ofhim.

  "Take it back!" sneered the coach. "Yes, I'll take it back when youshow I'm wrong. You can't bluff me, Rowland. I see right through you."

  "You take it back now, or--" Ira stopped and his arms fell at hissides. "You're coach now," he said hardly above a whisper, "butafterwards--if you aren't what you say I am--you'll--you'll answer forwhat--what----"

  But the tears, hot, angry tears, were no longer to be denied, and heended in a sob and turned away blindly and stumbled his way to thedoor. Outside, in the cold sunlight, he blinked the tears back andtried to get control of himself. Coward, was he? Then what was thecoach? He had taken advantage of his authority! He knew well enough hewouldn't be called to account now. But afterwards! Just wait until thegame was over, until they had quit training! Ira's hands clenched untilthey hurt. They'd see who was the coward. Driscoll wouldn't be coachthen, he'd be just--just a thing to strike! He--

  And then the door banged open and the players came trooping out, FredLyons in the lead, and Ira fell in with them as they passed and wentback to the field, his thoughts in a strange confusion and a red-hotanger at his heart.

  It was Parkinson's kick-off and Fred, no longer white and tremulous,but quiet and cheerful and composed, sent the ball skimming the headsof the charging enemy. Then the battle began again, desperately.Kenwood settled down to batter her way through the opposing line.Forward-passes were not for them any longer. They wanted the sixpoints a touchdown would give them and they meant to have them, andtheir way of getting them was to wear down the enemy and make weightand endurance tell. Minutes passed and the slow, steady grind wenton. Twice Kenwood made her distance through the opposing line, yet,once past midfield, her plunges failed. Then came a punt, and it wasParkinson's turn. There was little to choose between those rival teamstoday. Offence and defence were evenly matched, and only when one sidewas favoured by the wind did that team's kicking excel. Between the twothirty-yard lines the battle raged until the third period was nearlygone. Then fortune favoured the visitors and a runner got away pastFred Lyons and reeled off twenty-odd yards before Dannis brought himdown. The enemy was on the Brown's twenty-two-yards now and it wasfirst down. Plunge, plunge, plunge! Two yards--three yards--one yard!Four to go still and only one down left! A fake attack at centre and aback stealing off to the left, Wells breaking through and bringing himcrashing to earth, cheers and frenzied shrieks of joy and relief fromthe Brown stand! Back to midfield then under the ball, and the samething to do all over again.

  No scoring in that first fifteen minutes. Subs going in now for bothteams. Basker for Dannis, Pearson for Wells, Neely for Brackett on theBrown. Parkinson works the ends for short gains and then Wirt tearsthrough the redoubtable Beadle and goes on and on, dodging, turning,twisting, throwing off tackle after tackle!

  The ball is on the enemy's thirty-four-yards. Pearson, fresh and eager,makes four through tackle on the left, Cole adds two more, Wirt isstopped. Off goes the ball on a short kick and the Kenwood quarteris thrown on his five-yard line. Now the Blue desperately tries aforward-pass again, faking a kick, but Bradford has his man coveredand the ball rolls into the hay. Two attempts at the line and Kenwoodpunts far down the field. Basker fumbles, recovers and is thrown onhis twenty-eight. Pearson slips around the end for a yard, Cole getsthree through Beadle, Cole takes the ball for two more, Wirt punts.And so it goes, and the minutes slip by. Kenwood sees defeat staringat her now. Eight minutes left and the ball again in midfield. Kenwoodtries desperate tactics. She pulls her line apart and opens her bagof tricks. Sometimes she fools the enemy and gains, but for the mostpart she is forced to fall back on a punt on third down or fourth. Fiveminutes left and Parkinson well satisfied now to play on the defensiveand hold what she has. And then, a sudden change in the fortunes of thegame!

  It was Basker's fault, for the punt was unmistakably Pearson's. Withboth backs trying for it, the pigskin escaped and trickled past, and aflying Kenwood end was on it. Fortunately, Basker got him in the act offinding his feet again and pulled him back to earth, but the pigskinwas Kenwood's on Parkinson's twenty-seven-yards and there was timeenough to turn a victory to a defeat!

  Then it was that Kenwood made her final, fiercest effort. Straight atthe centre she sent her backs. Slowly but surely the Brown gave way.Play after play crashed at Lyons and Ira and Donovan, sometimes gaininga yard, sometimes two, infrequently more. Beadle worked like a wildman, but the holes weren't always there now. Time and again he broughtup against his opponent as against a stone wall. Something--Beadlecould never guess what--had wrought a change in that smiling-facedadversary since the first inning. The smile was still there, but it wasa different smile. This man Rowland was playing him out, and he knew itwell now. He couldn't fool him any longer, couldn't turn him in or pullhim past as he had before. Every inch had to be fought for desperately.

  Back to her seventeen went Parkinson, fighting hard but giving alittle each time. Kenwood might tie the game now if she chose to try afield-goal, but Kenwood wanted a victory. Still she aimed her plays atthe centre, from guard to guard, though twice she attempted the endsand was stopped. Two yards was her best gain, once past the fifteen,and after that the distances grew shorter each time. With five to goon fourth down and the ball just short of the ten-yard line, she senther quarter sneaking out toward the left end and, somehow, he squirmedand wriggled through for the distance. Parkinson's supporters wereimploring wildly as the panting teams lined up on the seven-yards.It was now or never for the Blue, while, if she got over that line,Parkinson's lot would be defeat, for the minutes were nearly gone.

  Kenwood sent her full-back straight at centre. The Brown line bent, butheld. A scant yard was gained. Then an attack on Lyons made two. Thirddown now and four to go! Kenwood shifted, thought better of it, changedher signals and shifted back. Quarter and captain walked apart andwhispered. Then signals again, and once more the plunge came at Ira.There was a moment of heaving, panting confusion, the charge falteredand stopped. Another yard was gone!

  Kenwood lined up quickly, put her backs in a tandem behind her leftguard and the signals piped once more. But the tandem split and theball went again to the big full-back and again he charged, head down,straight into the centre. Cries, grunts, the rasping of canvas! A surgeforward checked in the instant. A second surge as the Kenwood linesmenturned in behin
d the attack. A yard gained! A sudden pause then and,somewhere, a faint voice grunting "_Down!_"

  The whistle shrilled and the referee dived into the mass of squirmingplayers. One by one they were thrust aside or pulled breathless totheir feet until only two figures remained there on the trampled turf.One was the fullback with the ball clutched desperately under him,but a full yard from the line, and the other was the Kenwood centre.Above the latter stood a boy in a brown uniform who looked down at hisvanquished foe with a queer, crooked smile on his lips.

  They lifted Beadle to his uncertain feet presently and carried himaway, and the game went on. But the time was practically up, for afterWirt had punted from behind his goal and Kenwood had made a fair-catchon the enemy's forty-five-yard line the final whistle blew and theParkinson hordes swept down from the stand and flooded over the fieldwith waving pennants.

  Ira, head hanging, feet dragging, climbed the gymnasium steps. He hadfought off those who would have placed him aloft and borne him aroundthe field--they had captured fully half the team--and made his escape.With him was a happy, dirty-visaged Brad and an equally disreputablePearson, for substitutes will flock together even in the hour oftriumph, and behind and in front were straggling groups of otherheroes. Brad found Ira strangely taciturn on the way to the gymnasium,and marvelled. Himself, he could have danced, as tired as he was! Theyburst riotously into the building, shouting mightily, and tore offsoaking, dirt-grimed togs.

  Ira, struggling grimly with his shirt, heard his name called above thedin and saw Coach Driscoll standing in front of him. The shirt partedwith a rip and Ira stepped forward, free.

  "Are we out of training yet, sir?" he asked.

  The coach nodded. He was smiling gravely. Ira wondered at that smileeven as he poised himself to strike.

  "Wait a minute, Rowland," said Mr. Driscoll quietly. "There's timeenough."

  Ira paused irresolutely. "What is it?" he demanded frowningly.

  "First, it's an apology," answered the coach. "Don't you understandyet, Rowland?"

  "Understand? Yes, I understand that you--you called me a coward a whileago, Mr. Driscoll. We're not in training now and you're going to answerfor it!"

  "My dear fellow," laughed the coach, "I'm quite ready to answer forit. But listen to me first, will you? I suppose I played rather amean trick on you, but I think the end justifies it. You weren'tdoing yourself justice. You weren't half playing the game you couldplay--and did play afterwards. And I knew there was only one way towake you up, and that that was to make you angry. I'm sorry, Rowland,if I hurt you, even for a half-hour, but--well, I wanted to win! Weall did! Even you did, though you didn't know it! Rowland, if I hadn'tinsulted you you'd never have played Beadle to a standstill, my boy!We won and you did a big share of the work. And you did it because youwere mad clean through. Now didn't you?"

  Ira's look of amazement brought chuckles of amusement from the circleof listeners.

  "You mean that--that you said that just to--to make me play better?"gasped Ira.

  The coach nodded. "Just for that," he said. "And now I apologise.You're no coward, Rowland, and I never believed you to be. Want toshake hands and forget it?"

  A smile came slowly to Ira's face and he shook his head hopelessly."Football," he murmured, "is a funny game!" But he stretched his handout and clasped the coach's firmly.

  * * * * * *

  Transcriber's note:

  --Except for the frontispiece, illustrations have been moved to follow the text that they illustrate, so the page number of the illustration may not match the page number in the Illustrations.

  --Punctuation and spelling inaccuracies were silently corrected.

  --Archaic and variable spelling has been preserved.

  --Variations in hyphenation and compound words have been preserved.

  --The author's em-dash style has been retained.