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CHAPTER X
THE SECOND TEAM COMES OVER
That incident seemed to bring about a subtle difference in Leonard’s relations with the other players. He received no particular praise for what, indeed, was only a part of the day’s work; probably none besides Appel and Slim referred to it; but the next day he noticed that many more of the fellows spoke to him or nodded to him in the gymnasium, on the way to the field or during practice. Jim Newton even hailed him as “General,” having probably heard Slim use that nickname. But Wednesday’s performance appeared to have made no difference in Leonard’s standing on the squad. To-day he relieved Lawrence for the last five minutes of the last scrimmage period, and that was all the attention he received from Johnny. Billy Wells nodded to him, but had nothing to say. That was Leonard’s last appearance in the line-up that week, for on Friday only the first- and second-string players got into the brief practice. On Saturday the eleven went to Hillsport and played Hillsport School, winning an easy contest by a score of 14 to 0. Leonard didn’t go along, although some half-hundred of the fellows did. Instead, he and a half-dozen others whose presence at Hillsport had not been considered necessary by the coach spent an hour or more on the field with a ball and they went across to the second team gridiron and saw the last half of a ragged game between the scrubs and a team of substitutes from the Alton High School. Slim showed up just before supper time with two broad strips of plaster over his right cheekbone.
It was on Sunday that Leonard first heard reference to the Sophomore Dinner. “By the way,” said Slim, looking up from the book he was reading – it was raining, and the usual Sunday afternoon walk was out of the question – “have you come across for the dinner yet, General?”
“Eh?” asked Leonard. “What dinner?”
“The class dinner. You’re going, of course.”
“Do you mean our class? I hadn’t heard about it!”
“Oh, that’s so; the notices aren’t out yet, are they? Well, it’s to be the seventh of next month. I forgot this was your first year with us, old son. It’s always the first Saturday in November.”
“First I’ve heard of it. How much does it cost?”
“A dollar and a half this year. It used to be a dollar, but they put up the price on us. You’ll get your money’s worth, though.”
“Why, I suppose I’ll go. Does every one? All the fellows in the class, I mean.”
“Pretty much. A few pikers stay away. Same with all the class feeds, I guess.”
“Do you mean that all the classes have these dinners?”
“Sure. We have ours in November, the freshies have theirs in February, the juniors in April and the seniors in June, just before Class Day.”
“Where do we have it?” asked Leonard.
“Kingman’s this year. There are only about two places, Kingman’s restaurant and the Alton House. Last year we had the freshman feed at the Alton House, and it wasn’t very good.”
“Is it fun?”
“Sure it is. Especially when the freshies try to break it up! Last year the sophs had their shindig at Kingman’s and we smuggled Billy Wells into the basement in the afternoon and he hid behind a pile of boxes until about seven o’clock and then unscrewed the electric light switch. We came rather near getting into trouble over that. The sophs were upstairs, on the second floor, and of course we didn’t want to put the lights out all over the building, but we had to do it. Mr. Kingman was tearing mad and made a holler to faculty. It ended with an apology from the freshman class, though, for Kingman thought it over, I suppose, and realized that if he made too much of a fuss we’d stop going to his place. Billy almost got caught getting out that night. He was sneaking out the back way when he ran into one of the cooks. Billy swears the man had a cleaver in his hand. Anyway, Billy got behind a door or into a corner and they didn’t see him.” Slim chuckled. “The sophs didn’t get on with their banquet for nearly an hour.”
“But what’s the idea?” asked Leonard. “Why did you want to bust up their party?”
Slim pondered a moment. Then he shook his head. “I don’t know. It’s just a custom. It’s always been done, I guess.”
“And do the sophs do the same thing when the freshmen have their blow-out?”
“Oh, no, that would be beneath our dignity. But we try to make things a little difficult for the juniors.”
“I see.” Leonard smiled. “Then, after I’ve paid my dollar and a half, I can’t be quite certain that I’ll get my dinner, eh?”
“Oh, you’ll get it,” answered Slim confidently. “No silly bunch of freshies is going to bust up this party, son! We’ll see to that. And that reminds me. Keep your ears open from now on and if you hear anything let me know.”
“Hear anything?”
“Yes. You might, you know. Freshies like to talk big, and one of them might let drop some information that would be of interest to us. Of course, they’ll try something, you know, and it would make it easier for us if we got an inkling beforehand so we’d know what to look for.”
“I see,” said Leonard. “I suppose you, as Class President, are sort of responsible for the success of the affair, Slim.”
“Well, I’m chairman of the dinner committee, and about half of our duty is to see that the freshies don’t hurl a monkey-wrench into the machinery, so to speak. Know any freshmen?”
“Two or three, but only to speak to.”
“Well, it would be a good plan to get better acquainted,” said Slim. “It’s an older fellow’s duty to be friendly with the freshies and make life pleasant for them, you know.”
Leonard grinned. “And keep his ears open? Sort of like playing the spy, isn’t it?”
“Of course. There’ll be a lot of spying done on both sides during the next fortnight. They’ll be trying to find out where we’re going to feed, and when, and we’ll be trying to find out what they’re going to do about it.”
“But if we get out notices, as you said we did, what’s to keep the freshmen from knowing all about it?”
“The notices don’t give the date and place, General. They’re just reminders to the members of the class. Of course, the freshmen do find out easy enough, but it makes them work harder if we don’t tell ’em. There’s one thing they won’t do, anyway, and that’s cut off the light. Mr. Kingman will take mighty good care that no one gets into the cellar this year!”
“What will they do, do you suppose?” asked Leonard.
“Search me! Maybe they’ll try to rush the hall. They did that three or four years ago, they say, and ate most of the dinner before the sophs could get them out again!”
“Gee,” murmured Leonard, “I can’t imagine this year’s bunch of freshies trying anything like that!”
“Well, you can’t tell. They get pretty cocky after they’ve been here a month or so. Besides, they had their election last week, and that always sort of starts them going. There’s a lot of them this year; nearly a hundred and thirty, I hear; and if they want to make trouble they can do it.”
“How many of us are there, Slim?”
“Ninety – something; ninety-six, I think. Oh, we can look after ourselves. The most they can do, in any case, is hold things up for awhile.”
“Sounds exciting,” mused Leonard. “Do they ever get to scrapping?”
“Oh, no, not what you’d really call scrapping. Sometimes there’s a rush and a few fellows get mussed up a little. There’s no hard-feeling, you understand. It’s just the freshmen’s bounden duty to break up the sophomore party if they can do it. They never do, but they keep right on trying. It’s rather fun, you know.”
“Yes, but I guess I’ll have a good feed before I go,” laughed Leonard. “Then I’ll be sure of not starving!”
He paid his dollar and a half to the class treasurer the next day and received the strictly confidential information that the dinner would take place on the evening of November 7th at Kingman’s Restaurant at seven o’clock. “You understand, I guess,” added Wilfred Cash, “that you’re not to mention the place or the date to any one.”
“Oh, quite,” Leonard assured him gravely.
That Monday afternoon the second team, which for unavoidable reasons, one of which was the inability to find a coach, was nearly a fortnight late in getting under way, came over and faced the first. Many familiar faces were to be seen amongst the scrub aggregation, for fully half of the second team’s line-up had tried for the big team and been rejected. Leonard, looking on at the scrimmage from the bench, still marveled that he was not taking orders from Mr. Fadden instead of from Mr. Cade.
The second’s coach was an old Alton graduate and a resident of the town who, at the earnest solicitation of the Athletic Committee, had consented to give up several hours a day to the task of providing something for the school team to whet their claws on. He was in the real estate business and was a busy man, and that he had listened to the call of the committee was greatly to his credit; the more so that, although he had played football well at Alton and, afterwards, at Yale, he had grown out of touch with the game and was forced to make a study of its modern developments before he dared face his charges. That year’s second team never quite reached the average of Alton second teams, but it was for no lack of hard work on the part of Mr. Fadden. He was quite a stout man, and the scrub was soon calling him “Tub,” though never to his face; but when the second team was dissolved a month later the nickname was no longer deserved, since, however the players had fared, Mr. Fadden had lost some thirty pounds from a portion of his anatomy where it had been extremely noticeable.
Leonard had a few minutes of play at tackle and found himself opposed to a very tall and rather awkward youth named Lansing. Lansing wasn’t difficult and Leonard had little trouble with him. In fact, the whole second team showed up pretty poorly that afternoon and the first scored three times in twenty minutes of scrimmage. The first might have done even better had she used her best line-up. As it was, most of those who had played against Hillsport on Saturday were not used.
With the advent of the scrub team Leonard’s chance of getting into action was much diminished, as he speedily realized. There were, naturally, but two tackle positions on the first, and for those positions there were exactly six applicants, including Leonard Grant. Billy Wells was mortally certain of the right tackle position, and Butler or Wilde would get the other. That left Lawrence, Cash and Leonard himself. Probably Lawrence would be chosen for second substitute. It looked to Leonard as if he and Cash would be out of jobs in a very short time!
Theoretically, of course, those tackle positions were still open, but Leonard knew very well that, although he might conceivably give Lawrence and Cash – possibly even Wilde – a run for his money, he had no more chance of equalling Billy Wells or Sam Butler as a tackle than he had of displacing Johnny Cade as coach! It didn’t seem to him that Slim’s advice to become an applicant for a tackle position had been very good. Tackles were a drug on the market. Still, to be fair to Slim, so were guards! Well, he would just do the best he could and be satisfied with what he got. Perhaps he might manage to hang on by the skin of his teeth; and it would help him considerably next fall, he concluded, to finish this season out on the first team, even if he never got off the bench again.
With the Hillsport game out of the way, the season was half over and Alton metaphorically took a deep breath, cinched its belt up another hole and set its gaze on the Mt. Millard contest. Last year the neighboring institution, situated at Warren, some eighteen miles distant, had beaten Alton by the score of 10 to 0. Of course that was at the height – or perhaps bottom would be better – of Alton’s historic slump, but the defeat had rankled. It rankled yet. Until two years ago Mt. Millard had been an adversary of no consequence. Then she had taken unto herself a new coach and won two games running, the first 19 to 0, the second 10 to 0. The fact that Alton hadn’t been able to score against Mt. Millard in two years made it even worse. There was a very general sentiment at Alton this fall in favor of defeating Mt. Millard, and defeating her conclusively. In fact, Alton wanted Revenge, Revenge with a capital R! To that end, therefore, on Tuesday Johnny Cade set to work to strengthen his defense against the kicking and passing game, which was Mt. Millard’s long suit. The offense was not neglected, but it was given second place in the week’s program. By Thursday two changes, each of which looked to be permanent, had been made. Reilly had succeeded Kendall at right half and Appel had taken Carpenter’s position at quarter. Several changes in the line were also tried, but none appeared more than tentative. Jim Newton was running Garrick very close for center and, strange to tell, Coach Cade on two occasions relegated Gordon Renneker to the subs and placed Raleigh at right guard. To an unbiased observer there seemed little choice between them, although they were notably different in build and style of playing. When practice ended Thursday afternoon, which it didn’t do until it had become almost too dark to see the ball, it would have required a prophet of more than usual ability to predict the line-up that would face Mt. Millard.
That evening Slim took Leonard over to Lykes to see Rus Emerson. Leonard went none too eagerly, in spite of Emerson’s invitation of some time ago, but he went. Afterwards he was very glad he had.
CHAPTER XI
ALTON SEEKS REVENGE
Number 16 was already pretty well crowded when Slim and the diffident Leonard entered. Captain Emerson was there, and so was his roommate, George Patterson. Then there was Billy Wells, Tod Tenney, Jim Newton, Gordon Renneker and a chap named Edwards who later turned out to be the baseball captain. As it seemed to be taken for granted that every one knew every one else Leonard was not introduced. He and Slim squeezed onto a bed beside Jim Newton – the thing squeaked threateningly but held – and Rus passed them a bottle of ginger-ale, with two straws, and a carton of biscuits. Having helped themselves to the biscuits, they passed it on to Newton. Jim, at the moment engaged in conversation with Tod Tenney, absent-mindedly set the box on the bed. After that it couldn’t be found until Jim got up to go. And then it wasn’t worth finding, for it had slipped down under the big chap and was no longer recognizable.
A good deal of “shop” was talked, in spite of Captain Emerson’s repeated protests. The Mt. Millard game was discussed exhaustively. The only feature concerned with it that was not mentioned was the Alton line-up. That seemed to be taboo. Tod Tenney declared that if Alton didn’t wipe the ground up with those fellows this time he’d resign and let the team go to the bow-wows. Whereupon Jim Newton gave a grunt and remarked that maybe if Tod resigned beforehand it would change their luck.
“Luck!” countered Tod. “It isn’t your luck that’s wrong, you big piece of cheese. You’re scared of those fellows over at Warren. They’ve put the kibosh on you. Why, last year you didn’t know whether you were on your head or your heels. They didn’t have half the team that you had, and you went and let them lick the daylight out of you.”
“Sic ’em, Prince!” murmured Stick Patterson.
“Oh, well,” said Billy Wells confidently, “never mind last year, Tod. Keep your glimmers on Saturday’s fracas. We’re going to smear those lucky guys all over the field. We’ve got it on them in weight this year and – ”
“We had last year, too, hadn’t we?” asked Edwards.
“Not above the collar,” grunted Tenney.
“For the love of Mike, fellows,” begged Rus, “shut up on football. It’s enough to play it every day without having to talk it all evening.”
“What else do you expect football men to talk about?” asked Slim, rolling the empty ginger-ale bottle under Stick’s bed. “You ought to know, Rus, that the football player’s intellect isn’t capable of dealing with any other subject.”
“Dry up, Slim,” said Billy Wells, “and move over, you poor insect. I want to talk to General Grant.”
There being no room to move over without sitting in Jim Newton’s lap, Slim crossed the room and took the arm of the Morris chair, just vacated by Billy. Billy squeezed onto the bed, securing another inch or two by digging Jim violently with an elbow. Jim grunted and said: “Little beast!” Billy turned a shrewd, smiling countenance on Leonard.
“Well, how’s it going?” he asked.
“All right, thanks,” answered Leonard vaguely. Just what “it” was he didn’t know. Probably, however, life in general. But Billy’s next words corrected the assumption.
“How long have you been playing the tackle position?” he asked.
“About three weeks,” replied Leonard. “That explains it, doesn’t it?” He added an apologetic smile.
“Explains what? Oh, I’m not ragging you, Grant. Why, say, you and I had some swell times! If you’ve been at it only three weeks, I’ll say you’re pretty good. But where’d you been playing?”
“Guard. I played guard two years at high school.”
“Guard, eh?” Billy looked slightly puzzled. “Must have had a fairly light team, I guess. You don’t look heavy enough for that, Grant.”
“I am sort of light,” sighed Leonard.
“Yes.” Billy sized him up frankly. “You’re quick, though, and I certainly like that. Had me guessing lots of times, I don’t mind telling you.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Leonard murmured. “I’m pretty green at it.”
“You’ll do,” said Billy. “But, say, mind if I give you a couple of tips? It may sound cheeky, but – ”
“Gee, not a bit!” protested the other. “I wish you would. I – it’s mighty good of you.”
“Well, I don’t pretend to know everything about playing tackle,” Billy answered, “but there are one or two things I have learned, and I’m glad to pass them on to you, Grant, because you play a pretty nice game. Maybe if you were pressing me a bit closer for the position I wouldn’t be so gabby.” Billy grinned. “One thing is this, son. Watch the other fellow’s eyes and not his hands. I noticed you kept looking at my hands or my arms. Don’t do it. Not, at least, if you want to get the jump on your opponent. Watch his eyes, son. Another thing is, don’t give yourself away by shifting too soon. You come forward every time with the foot that’s going to take your weight. There are several ways of standing, and it’s best to stand the way that suits you, but I like to keep my feet about even. That doesn’t give me away. Then when I do start it’s too late for the other fellow to do any guessing. See what I mean?”
Leonard nodded, but a little doubtfully. “I think so. But we were taught to put one foot well behind us so we’d have a brace if the opponent – ”
“Sure, that’s all right if you’ve got to let the other fellow get away first. But you don’t need to. You start before he does, Grant. Look.” Billy held his hands out, palms upward, elbows close to his body. “Come up under him like that, both legs under you until you’re moving forward. Then step out, right or left, and get your leverage. Push him straight back or pivot him. You haven’t given yourself away by moving your feet about or shifting your weight beforehand. You try it some time.”
“I will, thanks,” answered Leonard gratefully.
“And there’s one more thing.” There was a wicked glint in Billy’s eyes. “Keep your head down so the other fellow can’t get under your chin. I’ve known fellows to get hurt that way.”
Leonard smiled. “So have I,” he said.
Billy laughed and slapped him on the knee. “You’ll do, General Grant,” he declared. He turned to Jim Newton, and Leonard, considering what he had been told, didn’t note for a moment that Gordon Renneker was speaking across the room to Slim. When he did, Renneker was saying:
“Baseball? No, very little. I’ve got a brother who goes in for it, though.”
“Oh,” replied Slim, “I thought maybe you pitched. You’ve sort of got the build, you know, Renneker. Hasn’t he, Charlie?”
Charlie Edwards agreed that he had, looking the big guard up and down speculatively. Renneker shrugged his broad shoulders and smiled leniently. “Never tried it,” he said in his careful way. “The few times I have played I’ve been at first. But I’m no baseball artist.”
“First, eh?” commented Slim. “By Jove, you know, you ought to make a corking first baseman! Say, Charlie, you’d better get after him in the spring.”
Edwards nodded and answered: “I certainly mean to, Slim.”
Nevertheless it seemed to Leonard that the baseball captain’s tone lacked enthusiasm. Slim, Leonard noted, was smiling complacently, and Leonard thought he knew what was in his chum’s mind. Shortly after that the crowd broke up and on the way over to Haylow Slim asked: “Did you hear what Renneker said when I asked him if he played baseball?”
“Yes,” said Leonard. Slim hadn’t once mentioned the subject of Johnny McGrath’s suspicions since that Sunday afternoon, and Leonard had concluded that the matter was forgotten. Now, however, it seemed that it had remained on Slim’s mind, just as it had on his.
“He said,” mused Slim, “that he didn’t play. At least very little. Then he said that when he did play he played at first base. What do you make of that, General?”
“Very little. Naturally, if he should play baseball he’d go on first, with that height and reach of his. I noticed that Edwards didn’t seem very keen about him for the nine.”
“Yes, I noticed that, too.” Slim relapsed into a puzzled silence. Then, at last, just as they reached the dormitory entrance, he added: “Oh, well, I guess Johnny just sort of imagined it.”
“I suppose so,” Leonard agreed. “Only, if he didn’t – ”
“If he didn’t, what?” demanded Slim.
“Why, wouldn’t it be up to us – or Johnny McGrath – to tell Mr. Cade or some one?”
“And get Renneker fired?” inquired Slim incredulously, as he closed the door of Number 12 behind him.
“Well, but, if he took money for playing baseball, Slim, he hasn’t any right on the football team, has he? Didn’t you say yourself that faculty would fire him if it was so, and they knew it?”
“If they knew it, yes,” agreed Slim. “Now, look here, General, there’s no sense hunting trouble. We don’t know anything against Renneker, and so there’s no reason for starting a rumpus. A fellow is innocent until he’s proven guilty, and it’s not up to us to pussyfoot about and try to get the goods on Renneker. Besides, ding bust it, there’s only Johnny McGrath’s say-so, and every one knows how – er – imaginative the Irish are!”
“All right,” agreed Leonard, smiling. “Just the same, Slim, you aren’t fooling me much. You believe there’s something in Johnny’s story, just as I do.”
“Piffle,” answered Slim. “Johnny’s a Sinn Feiner. The Irish are all alike. They believe in fairies. You just can’t trust the unsupported statement of a chap who believes in fairies!”
“You surely can work hard to fool yourself,” laughed Leonard. “I suppose you’re right, Slim, but it would be sort of rotten if one of the other schools got hold of it and showed Renneker up.”
“Not likely, General. You stop troubling your brain about it. Best thing to do is forget it. That’s what I’m going to do. Besides, I keep telling you there’s nothing in it.”
“I know. And I want to believe it just as much as you do, only – ”
“There isn’t any ‘only!’ Dry up, and put the light out!”
On Saturday Leonard was very glad indeed that, in Slim’s words, there wasn’t any ‘only,’ for without Gordon Renneker the Mt. Millard game might have ended differently. Renneker found himself in that contest. Slim always maintained that the explanation lay in the fact that Renneker’s opponent, one Whiting, was, like Renneker, a big, slow-moving fellow who relied more on strength than speed; and Slim supported this theory by pointing out that in the last quarter, when a quicker and scrappier, though lighter, man had taken Whiting’s place Renneker had relapsed into his customary form. Leonard reminded Slim that by that time Renneker had played a long, hard game and was probably tired out. Slim, however, remained unconvinced. But whatever the reason may have been, the big right guard on the Alton team played nice, steady football that Saturday afternoon. His work on defense was better than his performance when the Gray-and-Gold had the ball, just as it had been all season. He seemed to lack aggression in attack. But Coach Cade found encouragement and assured himself that Renneker could be taught to play a better offensive game by the time the Kenly Hall contest faced them. The big guard had been causing him not a little worry of late.
Mt. Millard brought over a clever, fast team that day. Her line was only a few pounds lighter than Alton’s, but in the backfield the Gray-and-Gold had it all over her in weight, even when Menge was playing. Mt. Millard’s backs were small and light, even her full-back running to length more than weight. Her quarter was a veritable midget, and if Alton had not witnessed his work for two years she might have feared for his safety amongst all those rough players! But Marsh was able to look after himself, as well as the rest of the team, and do it in a highly scientific manner. In spite of his diminutive size he was eighteen years of age and had played two seasons with Mt. Millard already. For that matter, the visitors presented a veteran team, new faces being few and far between.
Alton looked for trouble from the enemy’s passing game and didn’t look in vain. On the third play Mt. Millard worked a double pass that was good for nearly thirty yards and, less than eighty seconds after the whistle, was well into Alton territory. That fright – for it was a fright – put the home team on her mettle, and a subsequent play of a similar style was foiled with a loss of two yards. Mt. Millard was forced to punt from Alton’s thirty-seven. Cricket Menge caught and made a startling run-back over three white lines. Then Alton tried her own attack and had slight difficulty in penetrating Mt. Millard’s lighter line. Greenwood ripped his way through for three and four yards at a time and Reilly twice made it first down on plays off the tackles. It was Red’s fumble near his own forty that halted that advance. Mt. Millard got the ball and started back with it.
From tackle to tackle the Alton line was invulnerable, save for two slight gains at Smedley’s position. Mt. Millard’s only chance, it seemed, was to run the ends, and that she did in good style until the opponent solved her plays and was able to stop them twice out of three times. But the visitor had brought along a whole bagful of tricks, and as the first period – they were playing twelve-minute quarters to-day – neared its end she opened the bag. Alton had plunged her way to the enemy’s thirty-seven, and there Menge, trying to cut outside of left tackle, had become involved with his interference and been thrown for a two-yard loss. It was third down and six to go, and Joe Greenwood dropped back eight yards behind center and spread his hands invitingly. But the ball went to Reilly and Red cut the six yards down to three by a plunge straight at center. Goodwin went back once more, and this time took the pigskin. But, although he swung a long leg, the ball wasn’t kicked. Instead it went sailing through the air to the side of the field where Menge was awaiting it. Unfortunately, though, Cricket was not the only one with a desire for the ball, and a fraction of a second before it was due to fall into his hands a long-legged adversary leaped upward and captured it. Cricket tackled instantly and with all the enthusiasm of an outraged soul and the long-legged one came heavily to earth, but the ball was back in the enemy’s hands and again Alton’s triumph had been checked.
One hopeless smash at the Gray-and-Gold line that netted less than a yard, and Mt. Millard opened her bag of tricks. Speaking broadly, there aren’t any new plays in football and can’t be except when an alteration of the rules opens new possibilities. What are called new plays are usually old plays revived or familiar plays in novel disguise. Mt. Millard, then, showed nothing strictly original that afternoon, but some of the things she sprang during the remainder of that game might almost as well have been fresh from the mint so far as effectiveness was concerned. During the minute or two that remained of the first period she made her way from her own thirty-two yards to Alton’s sixteen in four plays, while the home team supporters looked on aghast. First there was a silly-looking wide-open formation with every one where he shouldn’t have been, to meet which Alton rather distractedly wandered here and there and edged so far back that when, instead of the involved double or perhaps triple-pass expected, a small half-back took the ball from center and ran straight ahead with it, he found almost no opposition until he had crossed the scrimmage line. After that, that he was able to dodge and twirl and throw off tacklers until Billy Wells brought him down from behind just over the fifty-yard line, was owing to his own speed and cunning.
When Mt. Millard again spread wide Alton thought she knew what was coming, and this time her ends dropped back only some five yards and, while displaying customary interest in the opposing ends, kept a sharp watch on the wide holes in the line. What happened was never quite clear to them, for Mt. Millard pulled things off with dazzling speed. The ball shot back from center and well to the left. Some one took it and started to run with it, while the broken line of forwards came together in a moving wall of interference. Alton was not to be held at bay so easily, and she went through. By that time the runner with the ball was well over toward the side-line on his left and when his wall of interference disintegrated he stopped suddenly in his journey, wheeled about and threw the pigskin diagonally across the field to where, lamentably ostracized by Alton, the attenuated full-back was ambling along most unostentatiously. That throw was magnificent both as to distance and accuracy, and it reached the full-back at a moment when the nearest Alton player was a good twenty feet distant. What deserved to be a touchdown, however, resulted in only a seventeen-yard gain, for the full-back, catching close to the side-line, with Slim Staples hard on his heels and Appel coming down on him in front, made the mistake of not edging out into the field while there was still time. The result of this error in tactics was one false step that put a flying foot barely outside the whitewashed streak at the thirty-two yards. I think the referee hated to see that misstep, for if ever a team deserved a touchdown that team was Mt. Millard. Even the Alton stands had to applaud that play.
