Andy at Yale Part 33

"Smear him!"

"Interference! Interference! Get after him!"

"It's Blair! Andy Blair!"

"Yale's ball!"

"Go on, you beggar! Run! Run!"

"Touchdown! Touchdown!"

There was a wild riot of yells. With his ears ringing as with the jangle of a thousand bells, with his lungs nearly bursting, and his eyes scarcely seeing, Andy ran on.

He had ten yards to go--thirty feet--and between him and the goal was the Harvard full-back--a big youth. Andy heard stamping feet behind him.

They were those of friends and foes, but no friends could help him now.

Straight at the Harvard back he ran--panting, desperate. The Crimson player crouched, waiting for him. Andy dodged. He was midway between the side lines. He circled. The Harvard back turned and raced after him, intent on driving him out of bounds. That was what Andy did not want, but he did want to wind his opponent. Again Andy circled and dodged. The other followed his every move.

Then Andy came straight at him again, with outstretched hand to ward him off. There was a clash of bodies, and Andy felt himself encircled in a fatal embrace. He hurled himself forward, for he could see the goal line beneath his feet. Over he went, bearing the Harvard player backward, and, when they fell with a crash, Andy reached out, his arms over his head, and planted the ball beyond the goal line. He had made the winning touchdown!

CHAPTER XXII

ANDY SAYS "NO!"

Men were thumping each other on the back. Some had smashed their hats over other persons' heads. Others had broken their canes from much exuberant pounding on the floors of the stands.

Everyone was yelling. On one side there was a forest of blue flags waving up and down, sideways, around in circles. Pretty girls were clinging to their escorts and laughing hysterically. The escorts themselves scarcely noticed the said pretty girls, for they were gazing down on the field--the field about which were scattered eleven players in blue, and eleven in dull red, all motionless now, amazed or joyful, according to their color, over the feat of Andy Blair.

On the Harvard stands there was glumness. The red banners slumped in nerveless hands. It had come as a shock. They had been so sure that Yale could not score--what matter if the Crimson could not herself--if she could keep the mighty Bulldog from biting a hole in her goal line?

But it was not to be. Yale had won. There was no time to play more. Yale had won--somewhat by a fluke, it is true, but she had won nevertheless.

Flukes count in football--fumbles sometimes make the game--for the other fellow.

"Oh, you Andy Blair!"

"It's a touchdown!"

"Yale wins!"

"Yale! Yale! Yale!"

Some one started the "Boola" song, and it was roared out mightily. Then came the locomotive cheer.

Slowly Andy got up from behind the Harvard goal line. The other player who had tackled him, but too late, himself arose. His face was white and drawn, not from any physical pain, though the fall of himself and Andy had not been gentle. It was from the sting of defeat.

"Well--well," he faltered, gulping hard. "You got by me, old man!"

"I--I had to," gasped Andy, for neither had his breath yet.

The other players came crowding up.

"It'll be the d.i.c.kens of a job to kick a goal from there with that wind," spoke the Yale captain. "But we'll try it."

The whistle ending the game had blown, but time was allowed for a try at kicking the ball over the crossbar. A hush fell over the a.s.semblage while the ball was taken out and the player stretched out to hold it for the kicker. The referee stood with upraised hand, to indicate when the ball started to rise--the signal that the Harvard players might rush from behind their goal in an attempt, seldom successful, to block the kick.

The hand fell. There was a dull boom. The ball rose and sailed toward the posts as the Harvard team rushed out. And then fate again favored Yale, for a little puff of wind carried the spheroid just inside the posts and over the bar. The goal had been kicked, adding to Yale's points. She had won.

Once more the cheers broke forth, and Andy's team-mates surrounded him.

They slapped him on the back; they called him all sorts of harsh-sounding but endearing names; they jostled him to and fro.

"Come on, now!" cried the Yale captain. "A cheer for Harvard! No better players in the world! Altogether, boys!"

It was a ringing tribute.

And then the vanquished, tasting the bitterness of defeat, sent forth their acclaim of the lads who had bested them.

Andy found himself in the midst of a mad throng, of which his own mates formed but a small part, for the field was now overflowing with the spectators who had rushed down from the stands.

Some one pushed a way through and grabbed Andy by the hand.

"You did it, old man! You did it!" a frantic voice exclaimed. "I give you credit for it, Andy!"

Andy found himself confronting Chet.

"I told you we'd win," answered Andy, with a laugh.

"Yes, but you never said you were going to do it yourself," spoke Chet, ruefully.

"Come on, fellows, up with him!" called the quarterback, and before Andy could stop them they had lifted him to their shoulders, while behind the students had formed themselves into a queue to do the serpentine dance.

Cheer after cheer was given, and then the team pa.s.sed into the dressing rooms, and into comparative quiet. Comparative quiet only, for the players were babbling among themselves, living the game over again.

"And to think that a subst.i.tute did it, after we've thought ourselves the whole show all season," groaned one of the regulars.

"Oh, well, it was just an accident," said Andy, modestly.

"A mighty lucky accident for Yale, my friend!" exclaimed Holwell. "May there be more of such accidents!"

Back in the gymnasium, later, after a refreshing shower, Andy managed to get away from the admiring crowd, and finding Chet took him to his room.

Dunk was there before them.

"This is a great and n.o.ble occasion!" he cried, as Andy came in. "I'm proud of you, my boy! Proud! Put her there!"

Andy sent his hand into that of his roommate with a resounding whack.