A GREAT STRUGGLE
"Don't worry, he'll be all right presently. No, his leg isn't broken—only a slightly sprained ankle. He lost his senses because of the collision shock, as much as from the pain. He's coming around all right."
Dick heard these words as if in a dream. He felt a soft hand on his head—he knew it was that of some girl, but for the life of him he could not tell who it was. He was aware of the smell of pungent drugs, and then he felt some one take hold of his ankle. He uttered a little moan of pain. Then he heard another voice saying, as he opened his eyes:
"Oh, Mildred, he's conscious now."
"Yes, Mabel," answered another girl, and then Dick knew who she was without looking up into the face of the young lady who hastily withdrew her hand from his head.
"Miss Hanford," murmured the young millionaire, as he recognized the girl over whom he and Dutton had so nearly fought a duel in our hero's early cadet days.
"Oh, I'm so glad you know me!" she exclaimed. "Mildred Adams and I were passing along the street just when that dreadful automobile crash came. It's a mercy you weren't all killed."
"Indeed it is!" chimed in Miss Adams. "But Mabel kept her nerves splendidly. She lifted your head, and then she sent me for a doctor."
Dick looked around to observe that he was in the rear room of a drug store, and that a man, evidently a physician, was standing by, regarding him with a professional air.
"Well, young man, how do you find yourself?" asked the doctor.
"Pretty well, as long as nothing is broken."
"No, you're all right that way. You had a lucky escape."
"How is my uncle?" asked the lad anxiously.
"Only a slight cut. The drug clerk is putting some plaster on it. Shall I call him in?"
"Will I be able to play football Saturday?" There was a querulous note in Dick's voice.
"Humph! That's all you lads care about. As soon as you crawl through a knot hole without getting killed you want to rush off to battle. Play Saturday? Well——" The doctor paused.
"I've just got to!" cried Dick. "We meet Haskell—it means a lot to my team. I've got to play!"
"Well, I guess we can fix you up if you wear a leather bandage on that ankle. It might be a good deal worse. I'll take another look at it."
"We'll tell that elderly gentleman—your uncle—that you are all right, and ask him to come in here," said Miss Hanford. "Come, Mildred."
They withdrew, and as the physician was tightening the bandages on Dick's ankle Mr. Larabee entered. His appearance was not improved by a large piece of sticking plaster over his right eye, and he looked more aggressive than ever.
"I told you how it would be if we rode in one of them automobiles!" he exclaimed. "It's all your fault, Nephew Richard, and you'll have to pay the doctor bills. I shan't, and what's more I shan't pay that driver either. He ought to be more careful."
"Please don't get excited," begged the doctor, with a regard for Dick's nerves.
"I'm not excited!" cried Uncle Ezra, "but I know my rights and I want 'em, too! I'm not excited, but I'll have the law on that murdering villain of an automobile man! I'll sue 'em both. I'll collect damages. We'll see if there's any justice in this land!" and he smote his clenched right fist into the open palm of his left hand. "I'll have my rights. I'm not excited, but I'll have justice."
"All right, Uncle Ezra," spoke Dick calmly. "Is the chauffeur hurt?"
"I don't care whether he is or not. I'll have the law——"
"I'm all right—only some bruises. It was that other fellow's fault, he was on the wrong side of the street. Are you all right, Mr. Hamilton?" asked the chauffeur, at that moment entering the room. He knew Dick, having driven him about many times.
"Glad you're not injured," spoke the lad. "Is your machine in shape to run? I want to get back to the academy. The fellows may hear about this and think I'm worse hurt than I am. Can you take me back?"
"Sure. Only my front lights, and some of the glass windows were smashed. I'll run you back."
"Nephew Richard, do you mean to say you're going to ride back in that miserable man's machine?" demanded Mr. Larabee.
"Why certainly," replied the young millionaire calmly, as he arose from the couch on which he had been lying. The doctor assisted him. "Why shouldn't I go back that way. I don't want to use my ankle more than I have to before the game."
"Well, all I've got to say is that you're more foolhardy than I thought you were, and I wash my hands of the whole affair," said Uncle Ezra bitterly. "I'm going back home and report to your father. I'm sorry I couldn't do anything with Mr. Duncaster, but he is an obstinate man. And what's more, I won't pay hire for that automobile, either."
"Yes, you will!" cried the driver.
"That will be all right," spoke Dick quickly, making the driver a concealed motion, which the man understood.
"I'm going back to Dankville," went on the crabbed old man, "and I hope I never have to leave it again. My nerves are all shattered by what I've gone through, and if I'm a physical wreck as I expect to be after this accident I'll sue you for heavy damages," he threatened, to the auto driver.
"Go ahead," was the calm reply. Then, after he had bidden Dick a rather cool good-bye, Uncle Ezra departed. He did not ask for the sandwiches for his lunch, and Dick wondered at it.
"A strange character—rather strong-willed I should say," observed the physician, when Uncle Ezra had gone.
"Yes," agreed Dick simply. He rather thought his uncle might have remained to see that he got to his room safely. But since the attempted kidnapping affair there had been more coldness than ever between Dick and his aged relative.
"Are you feeling strong enough to be moved?" asked the doctor.
"Oh, yes, and I'm much obliged to you."
"You also have the young ladies to thank," spoke the medical man with a smile.
"Oh, of course," assented our hero. He managed by the help of the chauffeur to limp out to the waiting taxicab. Miss Hanford and Miss Adams were in the drug store.
"I can't thank you enough for your first-aid-to-the-injured services," said Dick with a smile, as he shook hands with the young ladies. "It was very good of you."
"Oh, you're not done with us yet," said Miss Hanford gaily. "I've telephoned for my cousin Harold, and he's going to go to the academy with you. He'll be here in a few minutes. Here he is now," she added, as a tall, good-looking lad entered the store. Mabel introduced him to Dick, and though our hero insisted that he could get along well enough with the help of the chauffeur, Harold Johnson insisted on accompanying him in the cab.
"Let us know how you are?" called Mabel after them, as they started off, the crowd that had gathered dispersing, now that the excitement was over.
"Well old man, you certainly had a time of it!" exclaimed Paul Drew, when young Johnson had safely delivered his charge and departed. "What are you trying to do, anyhow?"
"I don't know. It all came so suddenly there was no time to do anything. I'm sorry about Mr. Duncaster though. I wish Uncle Ezra had not butted in, for now it will make it all the harder for me when I try again to get that stock."
"Are you going to try again?"
"Surely. Dad needs it. But I'm not going to worry about that now. We've got to devote all our attention to the Haskell game."
"Do you think you can play?"
"I'm going to!" declared Dick fiercely.
He received visits from every member of the eleven and most of the substitutes before taps that night, and they were all relieved when they found that the young captain's injuries were not as severe as had at first been reported.
Dick was not able to practice the next day, but the following one he was on the gridiron, and he was delighted to find that, aside from a little stiffness, his ankle did not trouble him.
"Fellows, this is your last chance," declared Coach Martin, the day previous to the great Haskell game. "Make good now and——"
"To-morrow," put in Mr. Spencer with a smile. "And don't forget that you're going to win!"
In spite of a slight pain in his ankle, Dick never ran the team to better advantage than he did in practice that day.
"Oh, for to-morrow!" he exclaimed to Paul in their room that night.
What crowds there were! They overflowed the grandstands and surged upon the space around the Kentfield gridiron. They stood several deep along the ropes stretched to keep them back, and still they poured through the entrance gates to the delight of the cadets.
"We'll make some money all right off this game!" exulted Manager Hatfield. "And we need it, even if we have a millionaire on the team."
"No, we can't expect Dick to do it all," said Paul.
"He's mighty good to hire the coaches," commented George Hall. "Oh, say, if we can only win! Has the Haskell bunch arrived yet?"
"No, but they'll soon be here. Come on, our fellows are going to get in practice."
Out on the field trotted the Kentfield eleven, with the score of substitutes, wrapped, Indian-like in blankets, squatting on the side lines, until such time as they would be needed to form some opposition for the Varsity.
This soon came, for the coaches, after putting the boys through some recently evolved formations, called on the scrub. Then the practice was harder.
A roar burst from a thousand throats as the Haskell team trotted out, for they had brought many supporters with them. Then came cheer after cheer—cheers for Kentfield and for their opponents.
"They're a husky lot all right," observed Dutton grimly, as the Kentfield cadets ceased their practice to "size-up" their foes.
"And beefy," added John Stiver.
"Oh, say, don't get heart-disease so soon," advised Dick with a laugh. "Wait until you see us walk through 'em."
The preliminaries were soon arranged, and luck was with Dick for he won the toss and selected the east goal, with what wind there was in his favor. This gave the ball to Haskell to be kicked off, and a few minutes later, the twenty-two sturdy youths took the field. Dick placed his men with care, and gave an anxious look all about him, as the Haskell centre "teed" the new yellow ball on a little mound of earth on the middle line.
Shrilly blew the whistle, and a moment later there was a dull "thump!" as the toe of the big centre rush found the pigskin, and sent it well into Kentfield's territory. Ray Dutton caught it, and, tucking the spheroid under his arm he sprinted down over the chalkmarks, gathering speed at every stride.
"Cover him, fellows! Cover him!" yelled Dick, and the right half-back's supporters gathered in front of him as well as they could. But the opposition streamed through. Dutton ran on until in front of him loomed Peters, the gigantic right guard of Haskell, and then the plucky cadet ran no more, for he was heavily thrown. But the ball had been carried back to Kentfield's forty-yard mark.
"Line up, boys!" yelled Dick. "Go through 'em now."
He stooped down behind Jim Watkins, and began calling the signal for Stiver to circle Haskell's right wing. Back came the ball, and Stiver got it on the jump, but so fast did the opponents of Kentfield stream around to meet him that he did not gain more than three yards.
"They're strong!" murmured Dick with a bit of despondency in his voice, for he had seen how in vain his men hurled themselves against the stone-wall-like line of Haskell.
"So much the more credit if we beat them!" whispered Paul.
The captain was half decided on a try around the other end, but a movement in the line told him this was almost suspected so he called for a fake kick with Dutton to take the ball.
The spheroid came back true, and John tucked it against his chest as, with head well down, he hurled himself forward. But the hole was not there, and once more the enemies of Kentfield got through so that only two yards were made.
"We've got to punt," thought Dick, as he gave the signal.
Straight and true the ball sailed from the toe of Hal Foster's shoe—far into the territory of Haskell, so far indeed that their full-back had to retreat to gather it in. Back he sprinted, protected by his eager mates.
"Get to him, boys! Get to him!" pleaded Dick, and into the knot of players rushed Beeby, Drew and Hall. Hall was shoved aside and Paul Drew was put out of business, but Beeby dodged through, and, a moment later, his powerful arms circled his man—the man with the ball. Down they went in a heap.
A few seconds later the offensive tactics of Haskell were in operation, and powerful they were. First came a smashing attack between left guard and centre that netted five yards. Once more the line was bucked, and through left guard and tackle came hurtling the man with the ball. Another gain was netted around right end, and then came a line play on the other side. Kentfield was being pushed back, and thus far her opponents had found no necessity for kicking.
"Hold 'em! Hold 'em!" pleaded Dick. "Brace!"
His men tried, and with such power on the next play that only one yard was made.
"That's it!" cried the captain gleefully.
On the side lines the coaches watched the struggle.
"I'm afraid they're too much for 'em," murmured Mr. Martin regretfully.
"Yes, perhaps, but the game is young yet, and it's full of chances. Besides, did you note the brace they took?"
"Yes—it's great—we'll have a fine team before the season is over."
Smash and bang went the attack on Dick's line. He did all that mortal captain could do to infuse some of his own strength and courage into his men, but it seemed that it was not to be. Down the field the ball was rushed until it was within thirty yards of the Kentfield goal.
"Touchdown! Touchdown!" demanded the crowd in sympathy with Haskell.
"Hold boys, hold!" yelled the Kentfield adherents and they sang cheering songs and gave their school war-cries.
"Don't let 'em through!" almost tearfully pleaded Dick, though it seemed that a score was inevitable. "Brace! Brace!"
Once more a hammer-like attack, and the ball was on Kentfield's twenty-two yard line. Then it looked as if at the next play either a try for goal would be made, or that some lucky player on Haskell would smash through and dodge his way to a touchdown.
But something happened. Through some miscalculation when Haskell's quarter got ready to pass the ball on the next play he found his man missing, through inattention to the signal. Thereupon the quarter ran with it himself, without having covered the necessary five yards to one side. This carried with it a penalty which sent the ball back to Kentfield's thirty-seven yard line, and Dick breathed easier. The almost inevitable was postponed for a little while.
A forward pass was next attempted by Haskell, but the memory of the recent fizzle must have been on the minds of her players, for the ball was juggled. Perkins, the left guard fell on it, and then, after a hurried line-up, Matthews, the full-back, tried for a goal from the thirty-five yard line.
The ball rose well, for he was amply protected, and a yell of delight came from a thousand throats as Haskell's supporters thought they saw their side scoring. But Matthews did not have good aim, and the ball struck the posts and bounded back where Dick got it.
"Our ball!" cried Dick in delight, as the pigskin was brought out to the Kentfield twenty-five yard line.
"Are you going to kick?" whispered Paul.
"No, we'll buck the line again. I think they're tired."
The captain's judgment was vindicated, for on a wing shift Ray Dutton went through for ten yards, and at this unexpected breaking up of the powerful line of Haskell there were roars of delight from the home crowd.
Again Dick sent a man smashing through with the ball, and the opponents were tumbled to one side, for the Kentfield guards and tackle were fierce now with the desire for revenge, and they tore great gaps in the ranks of the men before them.
A fake kick gained another substantial distance, and then misfortune came, for there was holding by some of Dick's men, and they lost the ball on a penalty. But so far had they advanced it into the territory of their enemies that the Haskell captain ordered a kick. Dick saw their game now.
"They think to tire us, for, they think I'll begin smashing their line again. Then, at the close of the half they'll knock us all apart," he reasoned as he helped form interference for Foster, who had caught the ball.
"Instead of that we'll kick!" instantly decided Dick. "That will keep the ball in their territory, but if they send it back I'll chance some more smashes."
He called to the full-back to boot the leather forward, and back it came with unerring aim. It was somewhat of a surprise to Haskell, and they were a bit demoralized, for they had not expected such fierce playing, nor such good generalship. Then followed another punt from the Haskell full-back, and Stiver caught the ball.
"Rush it back!" ordered Dick, his voice scarcely heard above the tumult.
Stiver was shortly downed, but Kentfield had the ball, and once more began to smash at the line with all the fierceness of which she was capable. Haskell was plainly taken by surprise, but they held their opponents to advantage and in two downs only ten yards were gained. A kick was inevitable, and it came.
This time, after rushing the ball back until downed Haskell tried some new tactics. They worked a neat forward pass, and an adaptation of the wing shift so that in a few minutes Kentfield's goal was again menaced.
"Now's the time to hold again!" cried Dick, and hold they did, until Stiver was injured and had to leave the game. Ford Endton was called in, and then the smashing went on once more.
Slowly Kentfield was being pushed back, and about all Dick could hope for was the whistle that would announce the end of the half, for that would save being scored on.
Once more fate came to his aid. There was off-side play on the part of Haskell, and one of her men was detected "slugging". As a result Kentfield got the ball, and her opponent was penalized ten yards. Dick promptly ordered a kick, and the pigskin was sent whizzing down the field into Haskell territory.
Haskell at once kicked back, but gained little, and then Dick called for some more line plays. It was a bad move, as the ball could not be advanced and Dick had to kick again. Then back at the wearied Kentfield players came burrowing and boring their enemies, until our friends were shoved back up the field.
Nearer and nearer to their own goal they were pushed, until the ball was within five yards of it. Dick begged and pleaded, but it is likely that not all the urging in the world could have prevented a touchdown, only that the whistle blew, ending the half, and the tired players rushed from the field.
"Well, we didn't score," remarked Dick somewhat gloomily to the coaches who hurried out to him.
"Score? Nobody expected you would against that team!" cried Mr. Martin. "But look what you did. You equaled them all around, and they couldn't score on you."
"They feel worse than you do!" exclaimed Mr. Spencer. "You boys did nobly. I fancy Blue Hill is trembling at this moment."
"I hope so," said Dick. "But I want to score next half."
The rest, and the words of praise showered on them from all sides at the plucky game they had put up, did much to put heart into our heroes. They went back into the contest with an eagerness that was a delight to the coaches and their captain.
An exchange of kicks followed the second half initial send-off, and when Dick's team got the ball they once more tried their bucking. The first try, however showed that Haskell's line had been much strengthened, and this was because several new players had gone in, whereas, with the exception of two, the Kentfield team was the same.
"They're afraid of us!" Dick whispered in delight to Paul. "They held out some of their best players—now they have them in. We're up against the strongest team they have," and this was so.
Wishing to save his men as much as possible, Dick called for some wing-shift and fake-kick plays that proved to be good ground-gainers. But there was a fumble in one, and Haskell got the ball.
Her smashing attack proved the virtue of the new players, and in less than ten minutes of play in the second half the ball had been shoved over for a touchdown, and the goal was kicked.
"Oh, but that's tough!" sighed Innis.
"It might be worse!" said Dick, as cheerfully as he could. "We're holding them well, considering the new men they have, but we're going to score now."
He and his men made a good try for it. They got the ball on a fumble after some play following the touchdown, and began to rush it back. For a moment their attack was so irresistible that Haskell crumpled to pieces. Then, maddened and ashamed at having a smaller-sized team treat them thus, they braced, and the advance of Kentfield was stopped.
Again Haskell came smashing at Dick's line. He knew what it meant. They were determined to have another touchdown and the plucky captain was just as determined not to let them get it. But it seemed as if it must come.
Smash, bang! Smash, bang! came the heart-breaking attack. Haskell was so sure of herself now that she did not kick. But she was a little too sure, for she held in the line again, and the ball came to our friends. It was promptly punted out of danger, but instead of returning the punt Haskell once more came back to the banging tactics.
"Another touchdown!" was the demand.
"Never! Never!" thought Dick in desperation.
The ball was within ten yards of his line. He knew there could be but a few minutes more of play.
"Hold 'em fellows, hold!" he implored. "If we can keep 'em down to one touchdown it's as good as a victory for us!"
Hold the Kentfield cadets did, though slowly but surely they were being shoved back. They even dug their hands into the dirt until their nails bled, but it seemed useless.
"Now boys for a touchdown!" called the Haskell captain with a laugh. "We're going to get it, too!" he added, looking Dick straight in the face.
The signal came. Into the line came smashing the man with the ball—straight through a hole that had been torn with savage energy between Drew and Watkins. Straight at Dick the man came, Haskell's big guard. Dick tackled him like a tiger, and felt himself being bowled over. A sharp pain shot through his injured ankle, and he knew the bandage had slipped. But he also knew something else, for the ball had bounced from the grasp of the guard and lay within reach of our hero.
He pulled himself from underneath the husky guard, though the pain in his foot was excruciating, and like a flash was up. Then, before any one knew what he was doing, he had booted the ball well down the field, though the kick cost him unbearable pain. But he had saved another touchdown against his team, for at that moment the final whistle blew, and the great game was over.