CHAPTER VI.
THE GREAT FRESHMAN BATTLE.
The week of the Princeton game was a hard one for the Freshman team.Coach Howard, assisted by several members of the 'Varsity coachingstaff, drove the team with all his might, but the results werenot encouraging. Frank had been established as quarterback on thesecond team on the Monday following the Pawling game, and was makinggood there. He was now a substitute to Madden, and twice had beencalled over to the first eleven when Madden went out of the gametemporarily. Away back in his head was the hope that he might stillwin out in the race for the quarterback position. But Madden had cometo Yale with a big reputation justly earned at Hill School, and was ahard man to displace. When Frank's hopes were highest the crash came.
Bostwick, the captain and end, threw out his knee in a fiercescrimmage, and was carried groaning to the side-lines.
"The fifth end hurt this fall, confound the luck," said Howard as hestood looking down at the captain. "And no one to take your placethat's worth a cent."
"I'll be all right in a day or two," moaned Bostwick. "Stick some onein till I get a brace on this thing. I can play in the game Saturday."
"Maybe you can and maybe you can't," said the coach. "Did you eversee such beastly luck, and we were just beginning to round intoshape. Who am I going to put in there? There's half a dozen ends andnone of them worth a tinker."
He ran his eye over the squad which crowded around the injuredcaptain. "Here, Armstrong," he called, "did you ever play end?"
"A few times in prep. school, sir."
"Well you can learn it, can't you?" said Howard petulantly. "Bostwickmay pull through in time, and maybe he can't, and you are better thananything I have."
"I'll do my best," said Frank, feeling his hopes for a place onthe team slipping away, for he knew well that in the short timestill left in the season his chances were small to learn that mostdifficult of line positions--end.
"You are fast and about the only clean tackler I have on the squad,"said Howard. "Get in and try it."
Bostwick, having been temporarily fixed up and led limping away inthe arms of two of the substitutes in the direction of the car, playwas resumed with Armstrong in his new position.
"Don't you let anyone get past you on the outside," commanded Howard."And don't be drawn in, no matter what happens. If you can't breakthe interference, spill it so the defensive half can get the man withthe ball. Come on, try it."
Frank did try and tried hard. His ankle had improved, and under thepunts he went down the field like a streak of lightning, missing butfew tackles. But when the team was on the defensive, he showed theweakness of inexperience.
"Outside of you that time," bawled the coach, and when the new endmoved out further, the play went inside. Sometimes he stopped theinterference and sometimes, digging desperately through the tangle oflegs, he got the runner on a driving tackle, which earned for him a"Good boy, Armstrong," from Howard.
But it was bitter hard work, and never in his life had the welcome"That's enough for to-day" found him so ready to quit. His body feltbruised and sore all over from the driving work of the afternoon andhis legs were as heavy as lead, as in the gathering dusk he draggedhimself to the waiting trolley car which was there to carry the teamto the city.
"You did well to-day, Armstrong, for a starter," said the coachkindly as he came through the car. "It's a hard dose I've given you."
Frank smiled a wan smile as he loosened his shoe laces.
"How heavy are you?"
"Guess about a hundred and forty-one or two," said Frank,straightening up while the muscles of his back protested.
"Too light, too light," said the coach, shaking his head. "If you hadanother ten or fifteen pounds on you, you'd do. But Bostwick may beable to get into the game by Friday," he added, and passed along tohis seat.
Walking over from the training table that night, Turner railedbitterly at Frank's luck. "You had a chance, a bare chance to get inat quarterback for a part of the game anyway, in spite of your badstart, and now you are dished, sure as shooting. The Captain will beO. K. It didn't look like a bad injury to his knee."
"Can't be helped," said Frank. "We've got to take our medicine inthis old game. That's part of the training at Yale, isn't it?"
"It is, but it's not easy stuff to swallow."
"Well, there's nothing to do but swallow it, and I'm going to begame, but it hurts. Bostwick may not make it, and I may get inagainst Princeton, after all."
Turner shook his head. "I don't think there's a chance; you are onlyfilling in. I can see the handwriting on the wall. He'll come back,and you will be his substitute. The only chance is that he may gethurt again, but I hope he won't for he is the best we've got on thatside of the line."
"I hope he comes back," said Frank fervently, "because with me inthere I wouldn't give three cents for our chances."
"Which are not any too good with the best we have."
It proved to be as Jimmy said. Bostwick was put under heroictreatment in the baking oven for sprained and injured limbs, andto the great joy of all, Frank included, appeared on the field onThursday. He was a little stiff because of the hampering action ofthe brace that Howard had devised for him, but went to his old placein the line while Frank was sent to the side-lines.
The practice went well. "We still have a chance against the Tigercubs," said the coach. "Only a signal drill for fifteen minutesto-morrow," he called out as the squad was leaving the field. "Get tobed early and don't worry yourselves to death. We're going to givethem the time of their lives Saturday."
The cheerfulness of the coach was largely assumed, for the Princetoncubs were coming up from Tigertown with a long string of victories totheir credit. Only twice during the whole season had they been scoredon, and one of these was a lucky drop-kick. The Yale Freshman team,on the contrary, had staggered through the season with a showing farfrom creditable, and the critics were all predicting a big score forthe visitors.
But in spite of the gloomy forecastings, the Yale Freshmen went intothat game with a determination to do or die, and while they did notwin, neither did the much-heralded Princeton cubs win. Frank watchedfrom the side-lines the desperate battle up and down the gridiron.He saw his roommate giving the best that was in him in the struggle,and prayed fervently that Bostwick might last it out. Every man onthe team was a hero that day, and when the final whistle blew, withCaptain Bostwick still on his feet and playing a whirlwind game inspite of his injured knee, the score stood at a tie, nothing tonothing.
Going in on the car the coach had nothing but praise for the team."We didn't lick them, but it is a good start for Harvard nextSaturday," he said. "We have a week left, and we'll give the Johnniesa run for their money, all right."
"Armstrong," the coach added, as he dropped down beside him in thetrolley car, "I'm sorry you didn't get in, but better luck next time."
"O, that's all right," returned Frank. "I was mighty glad to seeBostwick go through, he showed his sand with that bad knee."
"He certainly did, and he deserves a lot of credit. But I'm going tokeep you at end just the same because I may need you."
"All right, sir," said Frank, but he well knew it was the end of hisambitions for a place on the team excepting for an accident to theCaptain, which he did not want to think about.
Four days of practice the week after the Princeton contest broughtthe team to a condition of fitness which they had not before reachedthat year, and on Friday afternoon, escorted to the train by ahundred of their class, the team with substitutes, coaches, trainersand a goodly crowd of supporters, set out for Cambridge. As the'Varsity was away, the Freshman game had the honor of being staged onthe main gridiron.
That game in the towering Stadium was one that hung long in Frank'smemory. It was a game of desperate attack and defense. Three timesin the first period the rushing red-legged players had the Blue teamdown inside the five-yard line, and three times they were stoppedby the stone-wall defense. All through the first half the Ya
le teamfought on the defensive, crumpling up before the fierce rushes of theHarvard players, but somehow stiffening as the goal line approached.
So certain were the Harvard players of scoring a touchdown that theydisdained to try for a goal from the field, and each time they werestopped by the men from New Haven they took the ball back with doggeddetermination, only to lose it again.
"We have them now," said Howard as his men were being cared forbetween the halves. "Go after them. They've shot their bolt, and it'sour turn."
After the kick-off in the third quarter, Turner raised great hopes byrunning the ball back through the Harvard team, and, before he wastackled, laid it only twenty yards away from the Harvard goal line.
A smash at center earned only two yards.
"Armstrong, get ready, I'm going to send you in to try for a goal,"said the coach, running down to where Frank was sitting, shiveringwith the excitement of the struggle that was going on out in thefield. Frank slipped off his sweater, and made ready, but the chancehe so longed for never came.
Madden's signal was mixed somehow, and the man who was to take theball wasn't where the quarter expected him to be. He started to runwith the ball himself, but was upset by a savage tackle, and droppedthe pigskin, which went bounding backward toward his own goal. Halfa dozen players took a driving shot at the leather, but it eludedthem as if it had been greased. Finally a lanky Harvard end wound hisbody around it at midfield. Yale's chance to score at that particularmoment was lost.
Frank gritted his teeth and slipped on his sweater again. The battlewas once more taken up with renewed vigor. The advantage lay firstwith one team and then with the other, but never again did Yale haveso good a chance to score.
Again striking its stride, after a lot of futile punting, the YaleFreshmen got together and began to plough through their opponents.Turner was playing like a demon while the little Yale contingentmatched yell for yell with the Harvard supporters on the other sideof the field. Turner on two tries reeled off twenty-five yards, andput the ball just across the center of the field. A forward passnetted fifteen yards more, and again the coach began to look for achance to score, not for a touchdown, for the attack had not shownitself capable of beating down that splendid defense, but by adrop-kick if the opportunity came.
But again when hope was high in every heart came a sudden disastrousfumble, and again the red-legged end had the ball.
"Take it away from them," howled the Yale crowd.
"Throw 'em back."
"Eat the Johnnies up."
But that husky Harvard team was not a whit disturbed by the ferociouscries from the Yale side of the field. They settled down to businessagain, and slowly, but surely, worked the ball down toward the Bluegoal line.
The tired boys from New Haven fought on grimly in the fourth period,making the gains against them shorter and shorter as they were pushedback. Turner intercepted a forward pass which would have surely madea touchdown for Harvard, and for a time there was a respite for theYale Freshmen for the fullback kicked the ball far down the field,only to have it caught and brought back past Bostwick, this time, forthirty yards.
At it again went the two teams, Yale defending stubbornly, butvainly, against the powerful rushes of the Harvard backs, who, nowthat the end of the game was drawing near, threw their last bit ofenergy into the attack. Through center and tackle went the bull-likerushes of the backs. Bostwick's end was circled for fifteen yards,and he was laid out for a while, but revived soon after a littledabbing of the sponge on his face.
"I want you to be ready, Armstrong," said the coach, hurrying upto Frank whose eyes were glued on the field, and whose heart waspumping with the excitement of the struggle. He was straining almostas hard as his mates out on the field, lunging his shoulder into thesubstitute who sat next to him, in the unconscious effort to helpstop the Harvard rushes.
"Touchdown, touchdown," sang out the Harvard Freshmen supporters.
"We want a touchdown!"
"Hold 'em!"
"Hold 'em, Yale!" was the defiant cry from the opposite side of thefield.
"Show the Johnnies where you come from!"
With the ball on the Yale ten-yard line it looked as if no power inthe Yale team, at least, could stop the victorious march. Bostwickwas again laid out, but was up on his feet after a minute ofattention.
"Good old Bostwick," cried Frank, stirred by the game fight hiscaptain was making.
"Long cheer for Bostwick!" and the dancing cheer leaders led aringing yell for the fighting captain, which seemed to stiffen up theboys out on the field. They stopped the next Harvard rush without ayard of gain. Standing like heroes together, the Freshmen line didthe impossible, repulsed the fierce assaults the Harvard team couldgive, and took the ball.
"Y-a-a-y----" yelled the Yale stand, rising as one man. Hats and capswent into the air. The cheer leaders tried to get order, and give acheer, but no one paid any attention to them. The crowd continued toyell like Comanches, as the lines settled themselves again.
"Time must be nearly up," said a substitute.
"It can't be," cried Frank, gritting his teeth in a frenzy. "Theymust have five minutes more to play. They've got to have it," and hedrove his heels into the unoffending ground as if at that distancehe could help in the charge that was to be delivered against the redhost.
"What's Madden going to do, rush it?" inquired a voice.
"I hope not," said Howard. "A short kick would mean a free catchand a chance for a placement goal. Good boy," he shouted as Maddenchanged the signal, and the fullback, who had gone back behind thegoal line, came running up again to the regular formation.
"Put it through them!"
"Smash it out, boys!"
The signal came sharp and clear from the lips of the quarterback,high above the background of yells from the partisans.
"Turner's ball," whispered Frank to himself.
The pass was swift and true. Turner took the ball from Madden's handsat full speed. The play was intended to be a slice off tackle, a playthat had gained a good deal of ground during the afternoon. But,alas for the best laid plans of men, mice and football players, henever reached his destination. The tired Yale line sagged and broke.Through gaping holes poured a stream of Crimson-jerseyed men. Twotacklers struck Turner, who was practically on his goal line, at thesame time, and swept him backward like chaff. So swift and sudden hadbeen the deluge that the halfback was carried off his feet and overthe goal line before he had even a chance to yell "down."
The crowd did not at once appreciate the significance of the matter,but a few, recognizing a safety for Harvard, set up a scatteredcheer. A moment later the fateful information was flashed from thescoreboard, "Safety," and the Harvard stand delivered itself of ahigh-pitched yell.
A moment later the referee's whistle blew, and the great game wasover. A host of men swept from the stands and surrounded the victors,cheering and prancing about.
With Bostwick at its head, trying hard not to limp, and with facesdrawn and mud-stained, the beaten team walked wearily to the dressingrooms where they were joined by the substitutes.
"You didn't win but I'm proud of you all," said Coach Howard,slapping the jaded players on the back as they came through the door."You were up against a better team, fifty per cent. better."
"Here, Bostwick," he added a minute later to the captain, who, sunkin gloom and with hanging head, was pulling off his wet footballclothes, "cheer up. We can't always win. The main business is thatyou and your team played a magnificent up-hill game. I'm satisfiedand Yale will be satisfied for you gave the best in you. That'salways the test. You'll have another chance next year."