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BERT WILSON ON THE GRIDIRON
BY J. W. DUFFIELD
AUTHOR OF "BERT WILSON AT THE WHEEL," "WIRELESS OPERATOR," "FADEAWAY BALL," "MARATHON WINNER," "AT PANAMA."
NEW YORK GEORGE SULLY & COMPANY PUBLISHERS
Copyright, 1914, By SULLY AND KLEINTEICH
_All rights reserved._
Published and Printed, 1924, by Western Printing & Lithographing Company Racine, Wisconsin Printed in U.S.A.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE I. NEVER SAY DIE 1 II. RAKED, FORE AND AFT 20 III. A THRILLING EXPLOIT 32 IV. BREAKING THE RULES 52 V. TACKLING THE ARMY 62 VI. REDDY'S RECOLLECTIONS 82 VII. THE LION'S ESCAPE 90 VIII. ON THE TOBOGGAN 108 IX. HAMMERED INTO SHAPE 127 X. IN THE ENEMY'S COUNTRY 140 XI. A DESPERATE FIGHT 153 XII. THE COACH ROBBERY 171 XIII. AN UNEXPECTED MEETING 186 XIV. A PLOT THAT FAILED 195 XV. THE DASH FOR THE GOAL 209
BERT WILSON ON THE GRIDIRON
CHAPTER I
NEVER SAY DIE
"HOLD 'em! Hold 'em! Buck up, fellows. Don't give an inch!"
A storm of cheers swept over the field, as it was seen that the scrubswere holding the 'Varsity on their ten-yard line.
Three times in succession the 'Varsity players plunged like enragedbulls against the defenders of the goal, only to be thrown back withouta gain. One more fierce attempt, and the ball went to the scrubs ondowns.
It was unprecedented. It was revolutionary. It shrieked unto heaven. Thepoor, despised scrubs were actually holding the haughty 'Varsity men oneven terms. More than that; they even threatened to win. They seemed toforget that they were doormats for the "regulars," mere "sparringpartners," to be straightened up with one punch and knocked down by thenext. The "forlorn hope" had suddenly become a triumphant hope. Theworm had turned, and turned with a vengeance. Pale and panting,plastered with mud and drenched with sweat, with "blood in their eyes"and here and there a little on their features, they faced the "bigfellows" and gave as good as they took.
Reddy, the college trainer, danced up and down on the side lines andsputtered incoherently. "Bull" Hendricks, the head coach, stamped andstormed and yelled to his charges to "put it over." The things he saidmay not be set down here, but he gave the recording angel a busyafternoon. His words stung like whips, and under the lash of them the'Varsity men braced themselves desperately. They burned with shame andrage. Were they to have a defeat "slapped" upon them by the scrubs? Thecollege would ring with it, and it would be the sensation of the season.
But the scrubs were not to be denied. They had caught the 'Varsity "offits stride," and they fought like tigers to clinch their advantage.Every ounce of strength and determination that they possessed was calledto the front by the prospect of impending victory. A daring run aroundthe left end netted them twenty yards, and they gained fifteen more ondowns. An easy forward pass was fumbled by the regulars, who werebecoming so demoralized that the men fell all over themselves. Thepanic was growing into a rout that promised to end in a Waterloo.
The referee was poising his whistle and looking at his watch, ready toblow the signal that marked the end of play. There was but one chanceleft--a goal from the field. On the 'Varsity team only two men hadseemed to keep their heads. The quarterback and fullback had sought tostem the tide, but in the general melting away of the defence had beenable to do but little. The ball was now on the scrubs' forty-yard line.The player who had it fumbled in his eagerness to advance it, and the'Varsity quarterback pounced on it like a hawk. With almost the samemotion he passed it to the fullback. The opposing line bore down uponhim frantically, but too late. One mighty kick and the pigskin rose inthe air like a bird, soared over the bar between the goal posts, and the'Varsity was three points to the good. An instant later and the whistleblew. The game was over.
The hearts of the scrubs went down into their boots. Another minute andthe game would have ended with the ball in the middle of the field, andthe score a tie; and a tie on the part of the scrubs was equivalent to avictory. But that last kick had dashed their hopes into ruin.
Still, they were not wholly cast down. They had deserved success, ifthey had not actually won it. They had really played the better game andbeaten their foes to a standstill. The nominal victory of the 'Varsitywas a virtual defeat.
And the 'Varsity knew it. For an instant they felt an immense relief, asthey crowded around Wilson, the fullback, and clapped him on theshoulder. But their momentary exultation was replaced by chagrin, asthey filed past the coach on the way to the shower baths, and their eyesfell before the steely gleam in his.
"I won't say anything to you dubs, just now," he announced with ominouscalmness, as they shambled along wearily and shamefacedly. "I don't dareto. What I'd have to say wouldn't be fit for the ears of young ladieslike you. Besides, I don't want to commit murder. But I may have a fewquiet remarks to make before practice to-morrow."
"A few quiet remarks," muttered Ellis, when they got beyond earshot."Gee. I'll bet life in a boiler factory would be peaceful compared withthe training quarters when he once gets going."
"I've always thought deafness an affliction," said Drake, "but I thinkI'd welcome it for the next twenty-four hours."
"Ten to one that's why they call a football field a gridiron," grumbledAxtell. "The fellows that play on it get such a fearful roasting."
Just then, Morley, the captain of the scrubs, came along with a broadgrin on his face.
"Buck up, you fellows," he joshed, "the worst is yet to come. I can seejust where you 'false alarms' get off. Your epitaph will be that of theoffice boy."
"What was that?" queried Martin, biting at the bait.
"Monday, hired-Tuesday, tired-Wednesday, fired," retorted Morley.
"Don't you worry about epitaphs," snapped Tom Henderson. "We're not deadones yet, as you'll find out the next time we take your measure."
"What was that Satan said," asked Dick Trent, "about rather reigning inhell than serving in heaven? I'd rather be a boob on the 'Varsity thanking of the scrubs."
"O, well," laughed Morley, "if you want to put yourself on a level withSatan, there's no one to prevent you. As for me, I'm a little particularabout _my_ company;" and with this Parthian shot he rejoined hisexulting mates.
It was a disgruntled group of athletes that plunged into the tank andstood beneath the shower. And when it came to the rubdown, Reddy andhis helpers seemed to take a fiendish delight in picking out the sorespots and getting even for the day's poor showing. But such vigoroushealth and splendid condition as theirs could not be long a prey togloom, and when, refreshed and glowing, they wended their way to thetraining table, they were inclined to take a more cheerful view of life.They ate like famished wolves, and when they had made away witheverything in sight, even the promised raking from "Bull" Hendricks hadlost some of its terrors.
"O, well," remarked Tom, "while there's life there's hope. We won't beshot at sunrise, anyway, even if we deserve to be."
"No," assented Dick, yielding to his irrepressible habit of quotation:
"Somewhere 'tis always morning, and above The wakening continents from shore to shore, Somewhere the birds are singing evermore."
"The only bird you'll hear to-morrow," said practical Bert Wilson, "willbe a crow. Poe's raven won't have a thing on Hendricks when he startscroaking."
One would have had to go far to find a finer group of young fellows thanthis trio, as they sauntered over the campus to the college buildings.They were tall, well-knit and muscular, and no one, looking at them,would "despair of the Republic," as long as she produced such sons.Outdoor life, clean living and vigorous exercise had left their stamp onface and frame. They were immensely popular in the college, leaders infun and frolic, and in the very front rank as athletes. Each had won theright to wear the college jersey with the coveted "initial," provingthat on hard fought fields they had brought glory to their Alma Mater.
This was preeminently the case in college baseball. Tom at third andDick at first had starred in their positions, while Bert in thepitcher's box with his masterly "fadeaway" had cinched the pennant,after a heartbreaking struggle with the "Greys" and "Maroons," theirleading rivals. The story of how he had plucked victory from defeat inthat memorable fight was already a classic and had made his name famousin the college world. And now, in the early fall, the three comradeswere seeking to win further laurels on the gridiron as they hadpreviously won them on the diamond.
Provisionally, they had been placed by the keen-eyed coach on the'Varsity team. Tom's quickness and adroitness had singled him out asespecially fitted for quarterback. Dick, who had been the leadingslugger on the nine, was peculiarly qualified by his "beef" andstrength for the position of center. Bert's lightning speed--he had madethe hundred yards in ten seconds, flat, and won a Marathon at theOlympic Games--together with his phenomenal kicking ability, made himthe leading candidate for fullback.
So far, the results had seemed to indicate that no mistake had beenmade. But no one knew better than they how insecure their positionswere, and how desperate a fight they would have to wage in order to holdtheir places. The competition was fierce, and the least sign of waveringon their part might send them back to the scrubs. Bull Hendricks playedno favorites. He was "from Missouri" and "had to be shown." His eagleeye was always looking for the weak places in the armor of his players,and no one was quicker to detect the least touch of "yellow." He had nouse for any one but a winner. He watched unceasingly for any failure ofbody or spirit and pounced upon it as a cat upon a mouse. Nor could anypast success atone for present "flunking."
Not that he acted hastily or upon impulse. Had he done so, he would havebeen unfitted for his position. He knew that everybody had his "offdays." The speediest thoroughbred will sometimes run like a cart horse.No one can be always at the "top of his form." But after making allallowances for human weakness and occasional lapses, when he oncereached a definite conclusion he was as abrupt and remorseless as aguillotine. Many a hopeful athlete had been decapitated so swiftly andneatly, that, like the man in the fable, he did not know his head wasoff until he tried to sneeze.
It was a sharp but wholesome discipline, and kept his men "on theirtoes" all the time. It gave hope and energy also to the scrubs. Theyknew that they had a chance to "make" the 'Varsity team, if they couldprove themselves better than the men opposed to them. The scrub ofto-day might be the regular of to-morrow. They felt like the soldiers inNapoleon's army where it was said that "every private carried amarshal's baton in his knapsack." So they fought like tigers, and many abattle between them and the 'Varsity was worthy of a vaster audiencethan the yelling crowds of students that watched it rage up and down thefield.
But the rivalry, though bitter, was also generous. There was nothingmean or petty about it. After all, it was "all in the family."Everybody, scrub or 'Varsity, was crazy to win from the other colleges.If it could be shown that the team could be strengthened thereby, any'Varsity man would go back to the scrubs without grumbling and "root"just as hard as ever for the team to make good. It was a pure democracywhere only merit counted and where the individual effaced himself forthe common good of all. So that while the 'Varsity and scrubs werebitter enemies on the gridiron, they were chums as soon as they had shedtheir football "togs."
"We certainly did put up a rotten game to-day," ruminated Tom. "I don'twonder that the coach was sore. We ought to have eaten those fellows up,but they walked all over us. What was the matter with us, anyway?"
"Aw," snorted Dick, disgustedly, "why is it that an elephant runs awayfrom a mouse? They simply threw a scare into us and we lost our nerve.We can thank our stars it was only a practice game."
"It goes that way sometimes," said Bert philosophically. "It's just thesame in other games. I've seen the Giants and Athletics play like a lotof schoolboys. One fellow will muff an easy fly and then the wholeinfield will go to pieces. They'll fumble and boot anything that comesalong."
"Yes," assented Tom, "and the pitchers get theirs too. There's Matty,the king of them all. There are days, when even Ty Cobb, if he werebatting against him, couldn't do anything but fan. Then again, thereare other days when he hasn't anything on the ball but his glove. I sawhim in an opening game in New York before thirty-five thousand people,when he was batted out of the box like any bush leaguer."
"Even Homer sometimes nods and Milton droops his wing," quoted Dick. "Ifour playing is rank sometimes, it's a comfort to feel that we have lotsof company. But speaking of baseball, fellows, how do you think itcompares with chasing the pigskin?"
"Well," said Bert slowly, "it's hard to tell. They're both gloriousgames, and personally I'm like the donkey between the two bundles ofhay. I wouldn't know which to nibble at first."
"Of course," he went on, "they're so different that it's hard to comparethem. Both of them demand every bit of speed and nerve a fellow has, ifhe plays them right. And a bonehead can't make good in either. There arelots of times in each game when a man has to think like lightning. Asfor courage, it's about a stand off. With three men on bases in theninth, nobody out, and only one run needed to win, it's a sure enoughtest of pluck for either nine. But it needs just as much for a losingeleven to buck its way up the field and carry the ball over the goalline, when there's only three minutes left of playing time. Both gamestake out of a fellow all there is in him. As for brute strength, there'sno doubt that football makes the greater demand. But when it comes tosaying which I prefer, I'm up a tree. I'd rather play either one thaneat."
"How happy could I be with either, were 'tother dear charmer away,"laughed Dick.
"Well," remarked Tom, "it's lucky that they come at different seasons sothat we can play both. But when you speak of 'brute' strength, Bert,you're giving 'aid and comfort' to the enemies of football. That's justthe point they make. It's so 'awfully brutal'," he mimicked, in a highfalsetto voice.
"Nonsense," retorted Bert. "Of course, no fellow can be a 'perfect lady'and play the game. Even a militant suffragette might find it too rough.There are plenty of hard knocks to be taken and given. It's no game forprigs or dudes. But for healthy, strong young fellows with good redblood in their veins, there's no finer game in the world to developpluck and determination and self-control and all the other qualitiesthat make a man successful in life. He has to keep himself infirst-class physical condition, and cut out all booze and dissipation.He must learn to keep his temper, under great provocation. He mustforget his selfish interests for the good of the team. And above all hehas to fight, fight, fight,--fight to the last minute, fight to the lastditch, fight to the last ounce. It's a case of 'the Old Guard dies, butnever surrenders.' He's like old General Couch at the battle of KenesawMountain, who, when Sherman asked him if he could hold out a littlelonger, sent back word that 'he'd lost one eye and a piece of his ear,but he could lick all Hades yet.'"
"Hear, hear," cried Tom. "Listen, ladies and gentlemen, to our eloquentyoung Demosthenes, the only one in captivity."
He skilfully dodged the pass made at him and Bert went on:
"I don't deny that there was a time when the game was a little toorough, but most of that has been done away with. There has been progressin football as in everything
else. There's no wholesale slugging as inthe early days, when the football field was more like a prize ring thana gridiron. Of course, once in a while, even now, you'll be handed anifty little uppercut, if the referee isn't looking. But if they catchon to it, the fellow is yanked out of the game and his team loses halfthe distance to its goal line as a penalty. So that it doesn't pay totake chances. Then, too, a fellow used to strain himself by trying tocreep along even when the whole eleven was piled on him. They've cutthat out. Making it four downs instead of three has led to a more opengame, and the flying wedge has been done away with altogether. The gameis just as fierce, but the open play has put a premium on speed insteadof mass plays, and made it more interesting for the spectators and lessdangerous for the players. And the most timid of mothers and anxious ofaunties needn't go into hysterics for fear that their Algernon orPercival may try to 'make' the team."
"This seems to be quite an animated discussion," said a pleasant voicebehind them; and wheeling about they saw Professor Benton, who held thechair of History in the college.
They greeted him cordially. Although a scholar of internationalreputation, he was genial and approachable, and a great favorite withthe students. In connection with his other duties, he was also a memberof the Athletic Association and took a keen interest in college sports.He himself had been a famous left end in his undergraduate days, and hisenthusiasm for the game had not lessened with the passing of the yearsand the piling up of scholastic honors.
"We were talking about football, Professor," explained Bert, "andagreeing that many of the rough edges had been planed off in the lastfew years."
"I could have guessed that you weren't talking about your studies," saidthe Professor quizzically. "You fellows seldom betray undue enthusiasmabout those. But you are right about the changes brought in by the newrules. It surely was a bone-breaking, back-breaking game during my ownstudent days.
"And yet," he went on with a reminiscent smile, "even that was child'splay compared with what it was a thousand years ago."
"What!" cried Dick. "Is the game as old as that?"
"Much older," was the reply. "The Greeks and Romans played it two orthree thousand years ago. But I was referring especially to thebeginning of the game in England. In the tenth century, they commencedby using human skulls as footballs."
"What!" exclaimed the boys in chorus.
"It's a fact beyond all question," reaffirmed the Professor. "In theyear 962, when the Danes were invading England, a resident of Chestercaptured a Dane, cut off his head and kicked it around the streets. Thegentle populace of that time took a huge liking to the game and the ideaspread like wildfire. You see, it didn't cost much to run a footballteam in those days. Whenever they ran short of material, they could goout and kill a Dane, and there were always plenty swarming about."
"Those good old days of yore," quoted Dick.
"Plenty of bonehead plays in those days as well as now," murmured Tom.
"Of course," resumed the Professor, "that sort of thing couldn't go onforever. The Danes withdrew, and naturally no Englishman was sportenough to offer his own head for the good of the game. So theysubstituted a leather ball. But the game itself was about as rough asever. It was usually played in the streets, and very often, when somedispute arose about the rules, it developed into a battle royal, and theplayers chased each other all over the town with ready fists and readierclubs. Heads were broken and lives lost, and the King issued an edictforbidding the game. But under other rulers it was resumed, though in asomewhat milder form, and has continued up to the present.
"No longer ago than yesterday," he added, taking out his memorandumbook, "I ran across a criticism of the game, by an Englishman namedStubbs, way back in 1583. He goes for it right and left, so bitterly andyet so quaintly, that I thought it worth while preserving, old-fashionedspelling and all. Here's the way it goes:
"'As concerning footballe, I protest unto you it may rather be called afriendlie kind of a fight than a play or recreation, a bloody andmurthering practice than a felowy sort of pastime. For doth not everyone lie in wait for his adversary, seeking to overthrow him and kickehim on the nose, though it be on hard stones or ditch or dale, or valleyor hill, so he has him down, and he that can serve the most of thisfashion is counted the only fellow, and who but he, so that by thismeans their necks are broken, sometimes their backs, sometimes theirarms, sometimes their noses gush forth with blood, sometimes their eyesstart out; for they have the sleights to mix one between two, to dashhim against the heart with their elbows, to butt him under the shortribs with their gripped fists, and with their knees to catch him on thehip and kicke him on his neck with a hundred murthering devices.'"
"Phew," said Tom, "that's a hot one right off the bat."
"He hits straight from the shoulder," agreed Dick. "I'll bet the old boyhimself would have been a dandy football rusher, if he'd ever got intothe game."
"He certainly leaves no doubt as to where he stands on the question,"assented the Professor, "and I think we'll admit, after that, that thegame has improved. The most rabid critic of to-day wouldn't go so faras this old Briton. The game as played to-day offers very little dangerto life and not much more to limb. Of course, accidents happen now andthen, but that's true of every game. The old French proverb says that'he who risks nothing, has nothing.' The element of risk in football ismore than counterbalanced by the character it develops. The whole secretof success in life is to 'never say die.' And I don't know of any gamethat teaches this as well as football. But I must be going," heconcluded, with a glance at his watch; and, turning off to the rightwith a farewell wave of the hand, he left the boys to finish theirinterrupted stroll.
"The Prof's all right," said Tom emphatically.
"They say that he was the bright particular star on his football team,"contributed Dick.
"And he's starred just as brightly in his profession since then," chimedin Bert.
"I guess that 'never say die' motto has stuck by him all the time,"mused Tom. "It's a bully motto, too. By the way, have you fellows everheard the story of the mouse that fell in the milk pail?"
They stared at him suspiciously. Long experience with that facetiousyouth had taught them the folly of biting too quickly, when he put aquestion.
"No catch," protested Tom. "This is on the level."
"Well," said Dick, "if a crook like you _can_ be on the level, shoot."
"It was this way," continued Tom, cheerfully accepting the reflection onhis character. "Two mice fell into a bucket of milk. They swam about fora while and then one of them gave it up and sank. The other one, though,was made of different stuff and wouldn't give up. He kept on kickinguntil he had churned the milk into butter. Then he climbed on top of it,made a flying leap for the edge of the bucket and got away. You see, hewas a kicker from Kickersville and his motto was 'Never say die'."
They looked at him reproachfully, but Tom never "batted an eye."
"That mouse was a smooth proposition," murmured Dick softly.
"A slippery customer," echoed Bert. "But, Tom," he asked, in mockinnocence, "is that story true?"
"True?" snorted Tom, "you'd butter believe that it's true. Why----"
But this crowning outrage on the English language was too much, and hetook to his heels, barely escaping a flying tackle as they launchedthemselves toward him.
Bert Wilson on the Gridiron Page 1
