Bert Wilson on the Gridiron

by Madeline Leslie

  CHAPTER III

  A THRILLING EXPLOIT

  A PLEASANT surprise awaited the boys that evening as they went from thetraining table to their rooms. Under the elms in front of theirdormitory, two men were pacing up and down. The close resemblancebetween them indicated that they were father and son. As they turnedtoward the boys there was an instant recognition, and they hurriedforward in eager greeting.

  "Mr. Quinby--Ralph," they cried in chorus.

  "We can't tell you how glad we are to see you," said Bert. "What luckywind blew you so far from California?"

  "Business, as usual," responded Mr. Quinby, evidently pleased by thewarmth of his welcome. "I had to attend a meeting of directors in NewYork, and while I was so near, I thought I'd take a day off and run downhere for a look around."

  "That's what he says," laughed Ralph, "but, as a matter of fact, Dadgets hungry to see the old college every once in so often, and I thinkhe fakes up the 'business' talk just as an excuse."

  "Impudent young cub, isn't he?" said Mr. Quinby with mock severity. "ButI refuse to say anything in defense, on the ground that I mightincriminate myself. Anyway, I'm here, and that's the main point. How arethings going with you fellows?"

  "Fine," was the response. "But come right on up to our rooms. We're notgoing to let you get away from us in a hurry, now that we've laid handson you."

  "We'll surrender," smiled Mr. Quinby. "Lead on MacDuff." And theymounted to the rooms that Bert and Dick occupied together, a floorhigher up than Tom.

  A flood of memories had swept over Bert at the unexpected meeting. Twoyears had passed since they had been closely associated and many thingshad happened since that time. Yet all the experiences of that memorablesummer stood out in his mind as clearly as the events of yesterday.

  Mr. Quinby had been the owner of a fleet of vessels plying between SanFrancisco and China. Needing a wireless operator on one of his ships, hehad applied to the Dean of the college and he had recommended Bert, whowas pursuing a course in electricity and making a specialty of wirelesstelegraphy. Tom and Dick had made that trip with him, and it had beenreplete with adventure from start to finish. At the very outset, theyhad been attacked by a Malay running amuck, and only their quicknessand presence of mind had saved them from sudden death. Soon afterclearing the harbor, they had received the S.O.S. signal, and had beenable thereby to save the passengers of a burning ship. A typhoon hadcaught them in its grip and threatened to send them all to Davy Jones.His flesh crept yet as he recalled the tiger creeping along the deck ofthe animal ship after breaking loose from his cage. And, traced on hismemory more deeply perhaps than anything else, was that summer eveningoff the Chinese coast when they had been attacked by pirates. Sometimeseven yet in his dreams he saw the yellow faces of that fiendish band andheard the blows of the iron bars on their shaven skulls, when old Macand his husky stokers had jumped into the fray.

  How large a part he had played in that repulse he seldom allowed himselfto dwell upon in thought and never referred to it in speech. But thecountry had rung with it, and his friends never tired of talking aboutit. And none knew better than Mr. Quinby himself that he owed the safetyof his vessel and the lives of all on board to the quick wit of Bert insending the electric current from the dynamo into the wires and hurlingthe screaming rascals back into their junks. His first words, afterthey were settled comfortably in their chairs, showed of what he hadbeen thinking.

  "Have you run up against any more pirates lately, Bert?" he asked.

  "Not of the yellow kind," was the laughing response, "but it looks asthough we might meet some white ones before long. They say that the'Greys' and 'Maroons' are flying the skull and crossbones andthreatening to give no quarter, when they stack up against us on thegridiron."

  "Threatened men live long," said Mr. Quinby drily. "I've heard that talkbefore, but I notice that the Blues usually give a good account ofthemselves when it comes to an actual fight. It was so in my own collegedays. There'd be all sorts of discouraging rumors afloat and the generalpublic would get the idea that the team was going around on crutches.But when the day of the game came, they'd go out and wipe up the fieldwith their opponents. So I'm not worrying much for fear you'll have towalk the plank."

  "You'd have thought so if you had heard the way the coach waded into usto-day," broke in Tom. "Since I heard him, I've had a new respect forthe English language. I never knew it had such resources."

  "There was a certain honeyed sweetness about it that was almostcloying," grinned Bert.

  "'Twas all very well to dissemble his love, But why did he kick us downstairs?"

  added Dick.

  Mr. Quinby laughed reminiscently.

  "I've heard coaches talk," he said, "and I know that some of them areartists when it comes to skinning a man alive. They'd cut through thehide of a rhinoceros. But that is part of the game, and if a man isover-sensitive, he doesn't want to try to make a football team. I'llwager just the same that it did you fellows good."

  "We licked the scrubs by 54 to 0," answered Tom. "We felt so sore thatwe had to take it out on somebody."

  "Sure thing," commented Mr. Quinby. "Just what the coach wanted. He getsyou fighting mad, until when you go out you are 'seeing red' and lookingfor a victim. I've been there myself and I know."

  "Did you ever play on the football team while you were an undergrad?"asked Tom.

  "No, I wasn't heavy enough. They needed beef in those days more thanthey do now. You wouldn't think it, perhaps," with a glance at hispresent generous girth, "but I was a slender young sprout at that time,and I had to content my athletic ambitions with track work and baseball.But I was crazy over football, and I was always there to root and yellfor the team when the big games were pulled off. And many a time sinceI've traveled from San Francisco all the way to New York to see aThanksgiving Day game. Sometimes, the result has made me want to go awaysomewhere and hide, but more often the good old Blue has come out ontop, and then I've been so hoarse from yelling that I haven't been ableto talk above a whisper for a week. Of course it wouldn't be a goodthing for the game if one team won all the time, and as long as we copabout two out of three, I'm not doing any kicking. It isn't often thatwe lose two years in succession, and I'm looking for you fellows now tocome across with a victory."

  "We'll do our best not to disappoint you," said Bert. "It's a sure thingthat we haven't as heavy a line as we've had in other years, and forthat reason we'll have to play more of an open game. But we've got adandy new shift that will give the other fellows something to thinkabout when we spring it on them, and probably Hendricks has one or twoaces up his sleeve. I heard him tell Reddy the other day that he wasplanning a variation of the forward pass that he thought would be acorker."

  "Well," said Mr. Quinby, "we'll hope so. It's almost as hard to forecastresults in football as it is in baseball. The game's never over untilthe referee blows his whistle. I've seen teams touted as certain winnersgo all to pieces on the day of the game. Then, again, there have beentimes when the team didn't seem to have as much of a chance as a blindman in a dark room hunting for a black cat that wasn't there. But they'dgo out just the same and stand the other fellows on their heads."

  "You must have seen a lot of sparkling plays in your time," remarked Tomenviously.

  "I surely have," assented Mr. Quinby. "Perhaps the best of all was onethat thrills me now when I think of it, although I didn't enjoy it somuch at the time, because it did the Blues out of a victory just whenthey thought they had it tucked away safely."

  "Tell us about it," came in a chorus from the boys.

  "Well, it was this way," and he lighted a fresh cigar as he settled backfor a "fanning bee." "The 'Greys' came up to meet us that year with oneof the best teams they ever turned out. They seemed to have everything,weight and strength and speed, and, on the 'dope,' we didn't have achance in the world. They had gone through their schedule with thesmaller colleges like a prairie fire, and the scores they piled up hadbeen amazing. Their go
al line hadn't been crossed all season, and allthe newspaper writers tipped them to slaughter us.

  "We had a dandy captain that year, though, and he, together with thecoaches, had done wonders with the material on hand. The old Blue spiritthat never knows when it is licked was there too. The game was on ourgrounds and although the 'Greys' had an immense delegation in theirstands, we outnumbered and outyelled them. Say, maybe we didn't give theboys a send-off when they trotted through the gates and began passingand falling on the ball in practice. If we felt any doubts, that yelldidn't show it.

  "From the time the ball was kicked off it was a fight for blood. And youcan imagine whether we fellows went crazy when we saw that our team waswinning. We got off to a flying start, and, instead of having to defendour own goal, we took the offensive and kept the ball in the enemy'sterritory most of the time. We scored a goal from the field, andalthough the 'Greys' fought desperately, we seemed to have their number.

  "It was the same in the second half. We downed them when they tried torush us, blocked when they kicked, and stopped them in their attempt toskirt the ends. It was near the end of the last half, and there was onlyfive minutes left to play. It looked as though it were 'all over butthe shouting,' and you can bet that we were doing enough of that. TheBlue stands were a good imitation of a lunatic asylum.

  "But here Fate took a hand, and two minutes later we wanted to die. Theball was in our hands, halfway down the field. As we had already madeone score, while the 'Greys' had nothing, all we had to do was to playsafe and the game was ours.

  "Peters, our captain, was a splendid fellow and a 'dead game sport.' Itseemed to him a little like 'babying' to fritter away the few minutesremaining in safety play. The more generous instinct prevailed, and he'took a chance.' He shot the ball back to the quarter. He in turn passedit to the back, who got in a perfect kick that sent it far down thefield and close to the enemy's goal. One of the 'Greys' made a grab atit, but it was one of those twisting deceptive punts and bounded out ofhis hands down toward the southern line. One of his mates was justbehind him and, quick as lightning, he caught the ball on the bound,tucked it under his arm and scooted down the field toward our goal line.

  "Our forwards of course had run down under the kick and had got past theball, expecting to pick it up when they saw that it had been muffed. Sothe 'Grey' runner was well past them before they could stop theirmomentum and turn in their tracks. The back who had kicked the ball wasnear the northern side, too far away to interfere, and Lamar, therunner, covering the ground like a deer, hugged the southern line.

  "There were only two men in his way, and they made the mistake ofkeeping too close together, so that, as Lamar neared them, he made asuperb dodge and slipped by both of them at once. Now he had a clearfield before him, but with forty yards yet to go.

  "How he ran! He had lost some time in the dodging and twisting, and nowthe whole Blue eleven were thundering at his heels. He could hear theirpanting as they sought to close in on him. The nearest one was not morethan five feet away. He let out a link and fairly flew. The white linesof the field fell away behind him. One more tremendous effort by pursuerand pursued, and just as eager hands reached out to grasp him, heflashed over the goal line for a touchdown. Suddenly, brilliantly,inconceivably, the 'Greys' had won the game.

  "Were we sore? We felt like draping the college buildings with crepe. Tohave had victory right within our reach and then to have had it snatchedaway in that fashion! Poor old Peters was fairly sick over it. I supposeto this day he has never forgiven himself for that sportsmanlikeinstinct.

  "But nobody blamed him. The crowd took their medicine. Strictlyspeaking, I suppose it was foolish. As was said of the charge of theLight Brigade that 'it was magnificent but it was not war,' so, nodoubt, many thought of Peters' move that although generous it was notfootball. Still the finest things in human life are often the 'foolish'things. At any rate, it enriched the history of the game with one of themost dashing and spectacular plays ever made.

  "Those pesky 'Greys'," he mused. "They were always doing things likethat. They had a fellow once that was always starting the fireworks. Poewas his name--a relative, by the way, of Edgar Allan Poe. I rememberonce, when with just one minute left to play and the ball thirty yardsfrom our goal line, he dropped back for a kick and sent the ball sailingover the line for the goal that won the game. You've heard no doubt thesong that the gloating 'Greys' made to immortalize a run down the fieldthat he made on another famous occasion:

  & never mortale Manne shall knowe How ye Thynge came about-- But from yt close-pressed Masse of Menne Ye Feet Balle poppeth oute.

  & Poe hath rushed within ye Breache-- Towards Erthe one Second kneeled-- He tuckes ye Balle benethe hys Arme, & Saunteres down ye Fielde.

  Ye Elis tear in fierce pursuite; But Poe eludes yem alle; He rushes 'twixt ye quyvverynge Postes & sytteth on ye Balle.

  But Arthur Poe hathe kyckt ye balle (Oh woefulle, woefulle Daye.) As straighte as myghte Dewey's Gunnes upon ye fyrste of Maye."

  "They're foemen worthy of our steel, all right," laughed Dick.

  "All the more credit in licking them," chimed in Tom.

  "The percentage is on our side, after all," added Bert. "We've won abouttwo-thirds of all the games we have played together."

  "Some funny things happen in the course of a game," went on Mr. Quinby,who in this congenial company was feeling the years drop away from himand was enjoying himself immensely. "I remember once when our boysplayed Trinity in Hartford. At that time, the woolen jersey was part ofthe regulation football suit. This made tackling too easy, as one couldget a good grip on the jersey, especially after it had been stretched inthe course of the game. There had been some talk of substituting othermaterial for it, but nothing had been done. You can imagine our surprisethen when, on the day of the game, the Trinity men came out on the fieldin a full uniform of canvas. It was stiff and shiny and you couldn't geta good grip on it to save your life. That was bad enough, but, inaddition, the Trinity boys had covered their uniforms with grease. Ourfellows didn't tumble to it until after the game was under way and theenemy were wriggling away from us like so many eels. It was a time forquick thinking, but the Blues rose to the occasion. They sent out ahurry call for a bag of sand, and when it came, they grabbed handsful ofit and so were able to get more or less of a grip on their slipperyopponents. A rule was made later on forbidding the use of grease. Thecanvas uniforms, however, proved so much superior to the older stylethat it was officially adopted and has been in use ever since."

  "How did the trick work?" asked Ralph. "Did they get away with thegame?"

  "No, we beat them all right, but by a close score and it certainlyplayed hob with our tackling and interfering.

  "Speaking of tricks, I remember one played by the Carlisle Indians. Inaddition to being crack football players, those 'noble red men' areabout as smooth propositions as you'll find anywhere. The bland Ah Sinwas a piker compared with them. You have to keep your eye peeled all thetime. They were playing Harvard and the Indians got the ball on a kickoff. There was a scrimmage, and when the crowd was untangled, the ballhad disappeared. Suddenly, Dillon, of the Indians, darted out and madefor the Harvard goal. But he didn't have the ball under his arm, and,after starting in pursuit, the Harvard boys thought it was a mere feintto draw them after him and turned back to see who really had it. Dillonwent 105 yards down the field, running like the wind, and crossed theHarvard goal for a touchdown, and then they saw that he had the ball.And where do you think it had been all the time? Tucked up the back ofhis jersey. It had been enlarged especially for that purpose before thegame began, and the first chance they had they worked the trick. TheHarvard fellows raged, but there was nothing in the rules to forbid itand the touchdown counted. Since then the rules have been amended, andnow the ball has to be in sight outside the clothing."


  "He must have had a hunch that he would win," murmured Tom.

  "Yes," assented Mr. Quinby. "A hunch on his back and a hunch in hisheart. The Harvard boys had to stand for an awful joshing on the waythey had been outwitted by 'Lo! the poor Indian with untutored mind.'

  "But brain work and quick thinking aren't confined to the redskins. Irecall a game played between the Army and Navy. You know there's alwaysa fierce rivalry between those branches of Uncle Sam's service, and thisgame was being played for all it was worth. The Army had the ball andthe fullback punted it to the center of the field. The Navy quartertried to make a fair catch, but it slipped from his fingers. The Armycenter had run down under the kick and was close to the ball when itfell to the ground. The Navy men were so close behind that they wouldhave piled on top of him if he had stooped to pick up the ball. So hekicked the ball ahead of him, following it up and ready to reach downand pick it up the minute he had the chance. But the Navy was so closethat he had to keep dribbling it along and he kept this up until withone last kick he sent it over the goal and fell upon it for a touchdown.It was a new wrinkle in the game, and one of the hardest things in theworld to get away with. They've tried it repeatedly since, but thatfeat of the Army man still stands as the star play of the 'dribbling'game.

  "A good deal of the rough stuff has been cut out of the game and I'mglad of it, but in my college days almost everything 'went,' providedthe referee wasn't looking. There was a lot of slugging and jiu-jitsuwork, and more fellows had to be taken out of the game because ofinjuries than at present. Often a concerted effort was made to 'get'some especially efficient man on the other side, and they weren't alwaysscrupulous about the way they did it. I remember one time we wereplaying a big game, and 'Butch' Allaire, the best player on the Blueteam, had his knee badly hurt. We were short of good substitutes, and hefelt that he had to continue playing, if it were at all possible. So,after a short wait, he came limping out again to his position, with awhite bandage tied round his knee outside his uniform. To the otherside, that bandage was like a red rag to a bull. They lunged againsthim, piled on top of him, and in every scrimmage they pressed heavily onthat wounded knee. But, despite all their efforts, he played out thegame, and we came out winners. After the excitement was over, thecaptain said to him:

  "'Great work, Butch, but why in thunder did you wear that bandage onyour knee? They knew just what to go for.'"

  Butch grinned. "I tied it round the well knee," he said.

  The boys laughed.

  "Well," remarked Dick, "some of the prize-fighting tactics may have beenrooted out of the game, but I'll bet the coaching is just as rough as itused to be."

  "I'm not at all sure about that," said Mr. Quinby dubiously. "I'll admitthat 'Bull' Hendricks is a finished workman when it comes to the use ofpet names, after he's been stirred up by some bonehead play. But, afterall, he doesn't use the paddle."

  "Paddle!" came the exclamation in chorus.

  "That's what I said. Paddle. In my day it was used by almost all thecoaches, as an aid to quick thinking. Some advocate it even yet. Thecoach would take up his position right behind some line man when theball was about to be put into play in practice.

  "'Now, my son,' he would say, 'the minute the ball is snapped back I'mgoing to give you a fearful whack with this paddle. It's up to you tojump so fast that the paddle won't find anything to hit.'

  "Did it work? I should say it did. Sometimes the paddle would catch himand sometimes it wouldn't, but after a few days of that the slowest ofthem would be off like a flash the instant the ball was snapped back.After that it wouldn't be necessary. They'd got the habit of a quickstart. And you fellows know that that is the secret of good football, asit is of almost everything else--to get the jump on the other fellows.

  "Nowadays, the methods are more often mental than physical. One coach Iknow works it something like this:

  "'I want you to imagine that I have a loaded shotgun in my hand and thatI am going to pull the trigger when the ball is snapped, and that youmust get out of range before I fill you full of shot.'

  "No doubt both methods help in the development of speed, but as betweenthe two, my money goes on the paddle.

  "But now," he said, as he made a motion to rise, "I'll have to go. I'vehad a bully good time with you fellows, but I'm keeping you from yourstudies and then, too, there are one or two of the old Profs I want tosee before I turn in. I'll see you again before I go and I'll be therewith bells on where the big games are pulled off. Good luck," andalthough they urged him to stay longer, he and Ralph took their leave.

  "Great old sport, isn't he?" said Tom, when they were left alone.

  "All to the good," replied Bert heartily.

  "Let's hope that last 'good luck' of his was prophetic," remarked Dick.

  "It's up to us to make it so," said Bert thoughtfully. "Of course thereis such a thing as luck, but I've usually noticed that luck and pluck gotogether."

  "O, I don't know," said skeptical Tom. "Sometimes a 'jinx' follows a manor a team, and everything goes against them. You've heard of the man

  Whose horse went dead and his mule went lame, And he lost his cow in a poker game, And a cyclone came on a summer day And blew the house where he lived away. Then an earthquake came when that was done, And swallowed the ground that the house stood on. Then a tax collector, he came round And charged him up with the hole in the ground."

  "Some hard luck story, sure enough," grinned Bert. "Heaven forbid thatany such hoodoo get after us. But, somehow, the result of the gameto-day and Mr. Quinby's talk have braced me up, and I feel a mightysight more hopeful than I did yesterday."

  "Same here," acquiesced Dick. "I've a hunch that we're due to give the'Greys' and 'Maroons' a great big licking. At any rate, if we lose,they'll know they've been in a fight, and we'll try to take our medicinegracefully."

  "Spoken like a sport, old man," cried Bert, clapping him on theshoulder. "God loves a cheerful giver, but the whole world loves acheerful loser."