CHAPTER XXXIII
"LINE UP!"
Out upon the gridiron they trotted; a mass of lads in suits which showedcontact with mother earth many times, and which, in places, were markedwith blood-stains. The eleven were as full of life as young colts, andsome in their exuberance leaped high in the air, putting their hands onthe shoulders of their mates. Others turned somersaults, and some gaveimpromptu boxing exhibitions.
From the grandstand burst a mighty cheer as the Randall supportersgreeted their team. The spontaneous shout was followed by the booming ofthe Randall college cry. Then Bean Perkins, with wild waves of his arm,signaled for the "Rip 'Em Up!" song.
"What a crowd!" murmured Tom as he walked beside Phil. "I never saw sucha bunch."
"Yes, there's a good mob," answered Phil, but somehow there was a noteof indifference in his voice. He had not failed to notice Tom's recentchange of demeanor, and it hurt him. Yet he was too proud to speak ofit, or ask the reason, though, perhaps, he may have guessed what causedit.
As for Tom, the words of the mysterious warning rang in his ears.Several times he was on the point of speaking to Phil, but he feared hewould be laughed at.
"After all," thought Tom. "I guess all that it amounts to is that someone has heard a rumor that there'll be an attempt on the part of someBoxer Hall players to knock Phil out. They may think they can cripplehim and, without him, our team will go to pieces. But I'll be on thewatch for any dirty playing, and if I catch any one at it I'll smashhim. I'll do my best to keep Phil from getting hurt."
But, if Tom had only known, it was a different sort of danger thatthreatened his friend.
Once more the cheers rang out, the shrill voices of the girls forming astrange contrast to the hoarse voices of the boys and men. For therewere many men present, "old grads," who had come to do honor to Randall,and many others who came, hoping to see Boxer Hall win. Women therewere, too; and girls, girls, girls! It seemed that all the prettystudents of Fairview Academy were there. They were waving flags andbunches of ribbon--their own college colors mingled with those ofRandall, for Fairview was on the side of Randall to-day, in retaliationfor a severe drubbing Boxer Hall had administered to the co-educationalinstitution.
"Is--is your sister here?" asked Tom of Phil. He had meant to ask ifMadge was present, but somehow the words would not come.
"Yes," replied his chum. "She and Madge are over in the A section," andhe motioned with his arm to a certain portion of the grandstand. Tomlooked, hoping he might distinguish two girls out of a crowd of severalhundred. Of course, he could not, and his attention was suddenly calledaway from this by the sharp voice of the coach.
"Catch some punts, Parsons!" called Mr. Lighton. "After that we'll lineup for practice."
The Randall eleven was lining up when the Boxer Hall team fairly burstfrom their dressing-rooms under the east grandstand. What a roar wentup as they appeared on the white-marked field! The burst of yellsseemed fully to equal the jumble of noise that had been made by theRandallites. For all of Boxer Hall was on hand to cheer mightily fortheir eleven, and the college was a slight favorite over Randall, who,in years past, had not been known to do anything remarkable on thegridiron.
Encased in their clumsy garments, the Boxer players looked like younggiants, and when they lined up and ran through several formations theydid it with the precision of clock-work.
"They've improved a heap," was the somewhat dubious remark of HollyCross.
"So have we!" exclaimed the coach heartily. "We beat them once, and wecan do it again. Get that idea into your mind and don't let go of it."
"I guess we'll be all right if Clinton doesn't have to get out of thegame," spoke the captain.
"Why? Do you think he'll be hurt?"
"Well, maybe. Boxer Hall sometimes plays a dirty game, and we'll have tobe on the watch. I wish you'd warn the umpire to look out for holding inthe line and slugging. They may do it. They'd go to almost any length towin this game. They don't want to lose the championship."
"Well, they're going to!" exclaimed the coach. "But about Clinton; youdon't think he's any more likely to be hurt than any other player--noras much, do you? He's well protected."
"Yes, I know; but Phil hasn't been himself for the last two days. Idon't know what it is that's bothering him, but it's something. Hedoesn't say anything. First I thought it might be a scrap he'd had withTom, but they're such good friends I didn't give that much concern.Then I imagined he might be worrying about his mother, but he told meyesterday that the chances for a successful operation were good. I don'tknow what it is, but he's certainly not himself."
"Oh, you imagine too much!" declared Mr. Lighton with a laugh. "Clintonis all right. He's a plucky lad. He'll play as long as he can stand.Look at that game with Wescott."
"Yes, I know; but I----"
"Now, you stop worrying. You're as bad as a girl. But I guess it'salmost time to begin."
Song after song came from the supporters of the rival colleges. Thegrandstands were packed to their capacity, and looked like some vastchessboard with many colored squares, the dark garments of the boysmingling with the gay dresses and hats of the girls, and the many-huedribbons and flags waving over all.
Captain Cross met and shook hands with Captain Stoddard, of BoxerHall, preliminary to the toss-up. They were to play similarpositions--full-back. The coin was sent spinning into the air, andCaptain Stoddard won. He elected to defend the south goal, which gavethe ball to Randall to kick off. The referee, umpire and linesmen held afinal consultation. Captain Cross gathered his men together for a wordof encouragement.
"All I've got to say," he remarked simply, "is to play until you can'tplay any more."
"That's right," added the coach. "And don't forget about the possibilityof a change in signals being made in the middle of play; nor about thesequences. I'll depend on you for that, Clinton."
"All right," responded Phil.
The field was slowly being cleared of stragglers. The newspaperreporters were getting their paper and pencils ready, and photographers,with their big box-cameras, were snapping individual players as a sortof practice for catching lightning-like plays later on.
Across the field, toward the group of Randall players, came a lad. Hewalked as if undecided as to his errand.
"Get back," warned Holly Cross.
"I've got a message for a feller named Clinton!" cried the lad.
"There he is over there," and Holly, who was in conversation with thecoach, pointed at Phil. The latter started as he took the envelope fromthe messenger.
"Who--who gave you this?" asked the quarter-back huskily.
"Feller outside. Give me a half a dollar fer bringin' it in. Anyanswer?"
"Wait," replied Phil. His bronze face was strangely white as he tore theenvelope and hastily read the few words on the paper within. He seemedto sway, but, with a catch of his breath, he recovered his composure.He read the message again. A mist seemed to come before his eyes. Hemurmured to himself: "I mustn't tell them--until after the game--I--Imust play the game out. But--but can I?" He clenched his hands, and hisjaw became more square with the force of his teeth closing tightlytogether.
"Any answer?" asked the lad.
"No!" said Phil in a low voice, and he crushed the telegram in his hand,and thrust the rustling paper inside his jacket.
The lad turned to go, anxious to get a place where he could view thegame. None of Phil's companions seemed to have noticed that he hadreceived a message. He looked around at his chums.
"I--I've got to play the game," he murmured.
The next instant the whistle blew.
"Line up!" came the cry, and Snail Looper, holding the new yellow ball,placed it on a little mound of earth ready for the kick-off.