Tom Fairfield's Pluck and Luck Part 29

"Oh, what a fine looking lot of fellows the Elmwood Hall boys are,"

confided one girl to her chum.

"Do you think so? I think they look small compared to the Holwell players."

"Why Mabel, how can you say such a thing? There's Billy over there.

Isn't he stunning? Did you see him kick?"

"Oh, there goes Fred with the ball!" and the other girl with her eyes on the Holwell contingent, never looked at her friend who had looks only for "Billy" who was lucky enough to play on Tom's team.

There was a consultation of the officials and a toss for choice.

Holwell got the kick-off, and Captain Denton was rather glad of it, for he had instructed his lads, in case they got the ball, to make the most of the early periods of the game, and rush the pigskin for all they were worth.

"If we can get a touchdown in the first period it will almost mean winning the game," he said to the coach.

"That's right. Well, play as fast as you can, for I think we're in for a storm, and there are too many chances on a wet field to make anything certain. Strike while the iron is hot. Slam-bang through for a touchdown, if you can, before the rain comes."

It was a raw, chilly day, with every promise of rain or snow, and though the crowds in the stands kept themselves warm by stamping their feet and singing, there was much discomfort.

Tom had been given his old position back of the line, and as he trotted out for practice he felt a sense of elation in the coming struggle.

"I'm not going to think about that miserable old business," he told himself, but his resolution received a rude shock when, as he pa.s.sed where Sam was talking to one of the Holwell players, the bully was heard to say:

"Yes, lots of us think he dropped the poison in the mangers to get even with Appleby. But of course there's nothing proven."

"I see. A sort of Scotch verdict."

"Something like that. I should think he'd get out of the eleven at least, if not out of the school, but he sticks."

"Indeed I do!" murmured Tom, clenching his fists, and almost deciding to challenge Sam. But he knew a row would do no good, and would only hurt his case; so he kept silent.

"Line up!" came the call, and with the last of the preliminaries the practice b.a.l.l.s were called in, and the new, yellow one placed on a little mound of earth in the center of the field.

There was that ever-inspiring thrill as the spheroid was booted high into the air. Tom had the luck to grab it and then, with fairly good interference, he dashed down the field.

"Stick to him, boys! Stick to him!" yelled the captain as he raced onward. But some of the Holwell school players broke through, and Tom was thrown heavily.

"Now, boys, tear 'em up!" entreated Morse, as the first scrimmage was to come. Sam began on a signal that would have sent Tom through guard and tackle, but Morse, hearing it, quickly stepped to the quarterback, whispering:

"Not yet! Tom's too winded. Give him a chance to get his breath. Try a forward pa.s.s."

Sam scowled, but he had to obey. It had been his intention to play Tom fiercely until, out of weariness, our hero would have been [missing words] or would have played so raggedly that he would be sent to the side lines. But Sam's plan was frustrated.

The forward pa.s.s was not much of a success, and a fake kick was called for. This netted a slight gain and then Morse again whispered to Sam.

"Let Tom take the ball through now."

The signal was given, and, with head well down, Tom hit the opposing line on the run. It held better than he had expected it would, and he was dizzy with the shock, but he had made a good gain, and there came a yell of delight from the supporters of Elmwood Hall.

Then the game sea-sawed back and forth, with matters a little in favor of Tom's team.

"Get a touchdown! Get a touchdown!" pleaded the captain.

"By Jove I will!" thought Tom, grimly. "If I only get half a chance."

He got it a moment later. A fake kick was called for, but there was a fumble, and Tom grabbed up the ball on the bounce. Tucking it under his arm, he ran for a hole he spied in the other line. Hands reached out for him, but he eluded them, and the fullback of Holwell, having been drawn in fatally close, was not able to stop our hero, who was running well.

"Touchdown! Touchdown!" screamed the crowd, as Tom sprinted over mark after mark.

"I'll do it!" he cried fiercely.

Now the other players had disentangled themselves from the ma.s.s into which they had been hurled, and were after him. One of the fleetest was approaching our hero.

"I've got to out-distance him," murmured Tom, looking back over his shoulder, and he let out a little more of the speed he had been reserving. Then, panting and weary, he crossed the goal line------and only just in time, for, as he leaped over it, the hand of the Holwell fullback was on his jacket.

"Touchdown!" gasped Tom, as he fell on the ball.

Then broke out a riot of cheers, cries and songs of victory! The goal was missed, owing to a strong wind, but the Elmwood Hall lads cared little for that. They were in winning luck, they felt sure.

The first period was practically over, and soon came the second, during which Holwell tried desperately to score. But she could not, though several of her players were injured in the fierce rushes, and two of Elmwood's lads had to be replaced by subst.i.tutes.

It began to rain shortly after the third period started, and it came down in such torrents that the field was soon a sea of mud and mud-soaked gra.s.s. Still the game went on, though many of the spectators deserted the field.

"Keep playing! Keep playing!" begged Captain Denton. "We can win if we only hold them from scoring."

At first it looked as if this was not to be, for the Holwell team was heavier, and this told on a slippery gridiron. But Tom and his mates had pluck, and they held well in the rushes. Once there was a chance for Elmwood to make another touchdown, but Jack Fitch slipped and fell in a mud-puddle, the ball rolling out of his hands. Then a Holwell played grabbed it, and kicked it out of danger on the next line-up.

"Only a few minutes more," called the coach encouragingly, as the fourth quarter neared a close. "Hold 'em, boys!"

And hold Tom and his chums did. They had lost the ball on downs, and it was dangerously near their goal mark. But they were like bulldogs now--fighting in the last ditch. A touchdown and a goal would beat them. It must not be!

There was a short, sharp, quick signal, and one of the Holwell players seemed to take the ball around left end. But Tom's sharp eye saw that it was a trick play, and he cried to his mates to beware. They did not hear him, and nearly all of them rushed to intercept the ball. Tom, however, swung the other way, and headed for the player who really had the pigskin.

On the latter came with a rush. He was a big tackle, and Tom was much smaller. Yet he did not hesitate.

"Look out!" yelled the Holwell player, hoping to intimidate Tom, as he rushed at him. But Tom was not made of the material that frightens easily. Gritting his teeth, he braced himself for the tackle. He fairly hurled himself at the man, through a mist of rain, and he caught him. Down they went together in a heap, Tom groaning as he felt his left ankle giving way under the strain.

In vain the big tackle tried to get up and struggle on. Tom held fast; and then it was all over, for the other Elmwood players, seeing their mistake, hurried to Tom's aid, and a small human mountain piled up on him and the Holwell lad.

"Down!" howled the latter, ceasing his wriggling. The whistle blew, ending the game, with the ball but a scant foot from Elmwood's goal line.

"Good boy!" called Captain Denton into Tom's ear. "You saved our bacon for us."

"I'm glad I did," replied Tom, limping around.

"Are you hurt much?" asked Morse.

"No, only a bit of sprained ankle. I'll be all right in a little while, I guess."

"It was great! Simply great!" exclaimed Jack a few hours later, when he and Tom and Bert sat in their room, the smell of arnica filling the apartment, coming from Tom's bandaged ankle. "You sure played your head off, old man!"