Dick Hamilton's Football Team Or A Young Millionaire On The Gridiron Part 43

"Yes, we can!" cried Haskell in desperation. "Don't let 'em through, boys!"

His half-wild players managed to stop Stiver with the ball after a three yard gain. But two more yards were needed--six feet.

d.i.c.k gave the signal for big Beeby to take the ball, and the next instant the st.u.r.dy guard had hurled himself into the gap made for him.

For a second or two it seemed that he could not make it, so fiercely did Blue Hill brace. Then, slowly but surely they began giving way under the terrific pressure of the eager Kentfield cadets, and then came a wild yell from Beeby, who was half smothered under a ma.s.s of players.

"Down!" he gasped, and with his last strength cried "Touchdown!"

The heap of players slowly dissolved. For a moment the spectators were in doubt, and then, as the meaning of the joyous dancing about of Kentfield, and the glum appearance of her opponents was borne to them, the sympathizers of d.i.c.k's team burst into a frenzy of shouts and cheers while the flags and banners were riotously waved in the maze of color.

The score was tied a moment later as the goal was kicked. Who would make the next points?

Quickly the ball was put into play again, and there followed an exchange of punts--a grateful relief from the line-smashing tactics that had carried the pigskin over the goal mark. It was a rest for both sides for Blue Hill had been played almost to a standstill and d.i.c.k's men were panting and gasping from their terrific efforts. But it seemed worth all it cost.

Seldom had there been such a situation in the annals of the Military League. Two of the best teams that had ever been represented playing such fast football, and the score tied at such a critical moment meant something. Add to it that the elevens were not on the most friendly feeling, because of what had taken place early in the season, and there was a situation that would make even a blase football enthusiast "sit up and take notice," as Innis Beeby said.

The slightest turn of events might send the scale up or down now, bringing victory or defeat. For a time both sides played warily, taking no chances for the championship hung on the next few minutes.

Then, as d.i.c.k's side got the spheroid, he called for some more of the terrific playing. n.o.bly his men responded and eagerly. Almost too eagerly it seemed for there was a fumble at a critical point and one of the Blue Hill men seized the ball. Back toward the Kentfield goal he sprinted with it, and for a moment d.i.c.k nearly had "heart disease" as he said afterward. But this time Teddy Naylor, who had gone in to replace Hal Foster at full, because Hal's weak ankle went back on him, tackled the man, and the danger was over. But Blue Hill had the ball, and took advantage of it by kicking it far enough away so that Kentfield would have to work hard to regain the lost ground.

"Smash 'em! Smash 'em!" ordered d.i.c.k, as his men lined up. So fierce was the attack and the offense that Paul Drew was knocked out, and could not come back in time to play. Ford Baker went in.

This was rather a blow to d.i.c.k, and when John Stiver keeled over a little later, from a blow on the head, the chances of Kentfield were not improved. Sam Wilson went in at left half, and his playing was a distinct revelation, for he jumped into the line with such energy that he tore off ten yards on his first play.

"Good!" cried d.i.c.k. "A few more like that and we'll have the game."

The half was nearing a close. There had been more kicking, and several scrimmages. Then Blue Hill had the ball, and Haskell called on his cadets for a last desperate effort. They responded n.o.bly, and d.i.c.k's team, weakened as they were by the extraordinary hard pace, began to give way.

Up the field they were shoved until they made a stand on their twenty yard line.

"We've got to hold if we want the championship," said d.i.c.k simply, but his words meant much.

And then came one of the surprises of football. The people on the stands were holding their breaths in anxiety, each individual almost praying for his particular team. It looked bad for Kentfield, as she was being steadily shoved back, and the time was fast pa.s.sing. It seemed that she would either be beaten, or that a tie game would result, necessitating another conflict.

Haskell gave orders for a fake kick, and so often had he worked that play during the game that d.i.c.k's men at once were aware of what was going to happen. Around the end of the line came smashing the Blue Hill full-back who had taken the ball from his left half-back. Right around he came, but d.i.c.k was there to tackle him. With all the fierceness and energy of which he was capable the young millionaire sprang at his man.

They came down together.

The ball rolled from the full-back's arms at his impact with the earth, and like a flash d.i.c.k saw his chance. He was up in an instant, had grabbed the leather, tucked it under his arm and was racing down the field toward the goal of his enemies.

He had a ninety yard run ahead of him, and the Blue Hill full back was waiting for him with open arms. How he got past d.i.c.k never knew, but those watching saw him fiercely bowl over his opponent like a tenpin.

Then on and on he sprinted, while a wild riot of yells from the grandstands urged him forward.

On and on he ran--on and on. His breath was rasping through his clenched teeth--his legs seemed like sticks of wood, that were somehow actuated by springs which were fast losing their power.

"Can I do it?" he gasped. Then he answered himself. "I'm _going to do it_!"

He heard the pounding of feet behind him, but he dared not look back. On he kept. Chalk mark after chalk mark pa.s.sed beneath his vision. At last he ceased to see them. He looked for the goal posts. They seemed miles away, but were gradually coming nearer through a mist.

He felt someone touch him from behind. He heard the panting breath of a runner--he felt his jacket sc.r.a.ped by eager fingers, but he kept on.

Then, when he had no more breath left; when it was all black before his eyes, he crossed the last line--fairly staggered over it and fell with the ball in the final touchdown--the score that won the game--for the whistle blew as his men and their enemies were running up.

d.i.c.k had won the championship.

CHAPTER x.x.xI

THE TROLLEY STOCK--CONCLUSION

The grandstands were trembling and swaying under the foot-stamping, yelling crowd that enthusiastically cheered the victorious Kentfield cadets. d.i.c.k felt as if it was all a dream until he found himself half lifted to his feet and felt his comrades clapping him on the back, yelling congratulations in his ears, while a dozen or more were trying to shake his hand at once, for the gridiron had been overwhelmed by a riotous throng of subst.i.tutes and spectators as soon as the final whistle blew.

"Oh, d.i.c.k! d.i.c.k!" cried Paul, limping up to his chum.

"We--we did 'em!" gasped the captain.

"_We_ did 'em?" questioned Dutton, also among the cripples. "_You_ did 'em you mean, d.i.c.k Hamilton. It's your team from start to finish!"

"Oh, bosh!" cried our hero.

There was a lull in the cheering on the stands, and suddenly, in the silence, there broke out the shrill voice of an old man--evidently one unused to football games.

"By heck!" he cried, "That was a great run! I never see a better one!

Golly, but he scooted. This is the first time I ever see one of these games, but it won't be the last! Who was it made that home run."

So still was it that d.i.c.k could hear the question and answer for he was not far from the stand.

"It wasn't a home run," some one informed the old man, "it was a run for a touchdown, and d.i.c.k Hamilton, the Kentfield captain, made it."

"d.i.c.k Hamilton? Where is he now? I want to see him. I've got something to say to him."

As in a dream d.i.c.k wondered where he had heard that voice before. Then like a flash it came to him--Enos Duncaster! But Mr. Duncaster at a football game--one between teams of the "tin soldiers" whom he affected to despise. It seemed impossible. d.i.c.k looked to where the old man was now vigorously applauding though every one else was quiet. There could be no mistake. It _was_ Mr. Duncaster--the holder of the trolley stock.

Yet how came he at the game?

"I want to see him. I want to see that d.i.c.k Hamilton!" Mr. Duncaster was saying. "I came to see him--I've got important news for him, and I'm in a hurry."

"You'd better go to him, d.i.c.k," advised Paul. "Maybe it isn't too late about that stock."

d.i.c.k felt a thrill of hope. At intervals of the game he had half regretted his decision to play instead of going to keep the appointment with the eccentric rich man. He had feared it would be too late, and that his message to Mr. Duncaster would set that peculiar individual against him.

d.i.c.k turned his steps toward where Mr. Duncaster stood in the grandstand. As the youth pa.s.sed along he was congratulated on all sides.

"Great run, Hamilton! Great!" was called again and again.

"I want to shake hands with you, d.i.c.k Hamilton!" exclaimed Mr. Duncaster heartily. "And I want to say I've got a different opinion of you boys than I had. I guess I was mistaken.