Kitabı oku: «Bert Wilson on the Gridiron», sayfa 10

CHAPTER XIV
A Plot that Failed

ALTHOUGH Reddy, in common with everyone else in the college, felt jubilant over the gallant victory of the Blues, he relaxed not one jot of his vigilance. Two days' rest was all that he allowed. By that time Boyd had recovered from the injury to his knee, the strain of the contest had largely abated, and the team was once more in a condition to face the final test – the battle with the redoubtable "Greys" in New York on Thanksgiving Day.

But other and more baleful eyes were fixed on the condition of the team.

Football is one of the cleanest games in existence, and few sports are more free of gambling of every kind. Nevertheless, it is impossible to control the actions of a few professional gamblers who grasp eagerly at every chance to ply their trade. Naturally, the conditions of the different teams are of vital importance to them, and they make it their business, through spies and in every possible way, to be well informed on the subject. And the big football games of this season were no exception to the rule. The condition of every player was carefully noted and kept track of, and it is safe to say that the gambling clique had almost as accurate a line on these points as the different trainers themselves.

During the practice games in the earlier part of the season the "Greys" had seemed to have the "edge" on the other members of the "Big Three." Consequently, they were picked by the poolmakers as the eventual winners, and large bets, amounting in some cases to practically the entire "bank roll" of the plungers, were placed on them to win.

But the "Blues" had of late been going at such a terrific pace that they had a most excellent chance of winning the pennant. And when this was accentuated by the splendid victory of the "Blues" over the "Maroons" it threw the "sports" into a condition closely bordering on panic.

A week before the final game on Thanksgiving Day one of the most unscrupulous of the gamblers decided that if he could not win as matters then stood, he would have to resort to underhand methods to change them. Accordingly, one evening he called a number of his henchmen about him, and when they and other plungers of his own stamp had assembled at a designated rendezvous, he broached his plan.

"Boys," he said, glancing from one to the other of the hard faces turned toward him, "there's no use telling you of the hole we're in. You know just as well as I do, I guess, that we stand in a fair way to lose about all we've got on account of the 'Blue' team coming up the way it has lately. And according to Donovan here, it's not just a flash in the pan, either. It looks as though they had hit their stride and meant to keep it up until the end of the season."

"You can lay a stack of blues on dat," here spoke up the individual referred to as "Donovan." "Dose guys has got more pepper in dem dan a Mexican stew. De way dey practice an' de way dey play sure has got me scared stiff. I knows a snappy football team when I sees one, an' you can take it from me dem guys has de goods, and plenty of dem."

"Well, you see how things stand," said their leader, when Donovan had finished. "If we don't do something, and do it pretty quick, we'll be cooked – hashed – done brown on both sides."

There were significant looks exchanged among his auditors, and at last one of them said:

"Well, what's your plan? Do you think we could buy one of the 'Blue' players? It would be worth our while to ante up something handsome, if you think it could be done."

"No chanct in de world," spoke up Donovan disgustedly, "dey're all straighter'n a string, an' I tink any guy what made a proposition like dat to one o' them would need a ambulance mighty quick."

"That leaves us only one thing to do, then," spoke the leader; "if we can't buy one of them, we'll have to steal one, that's all. We'll have to pinch one of the players some way, and keep him until the big game is over. Then we can let him go, and if we play our cards right nobody will ever get on to who turned the trick."

If, as is altogether unlikely, there existed any lingering scruple among those present at taking part in any such project, the thought of the ruin impending over their heads quickly banished such thoughts. All that remained to be discussed was which player should be kidnapped, and there were various opinions on this point. But the voice of Donovan decided the question.

"De best man we can crimp," he said, "is Henderson, de quarterback. He's de guy what gives de signals, an' it will stand de whole bunch on deir heads. Besides," with a crafty grin, "he ain't quite as big as some of de other huskies, an' dere's no use makin' ourselves any more trouble dan we got to."

"I'll provide a good safe place to keep him in," said Bloom, the leader. "There's a place over Mike's saloon, on the outskirts of the town, that will be just the thing, and there won't be any questions asked, either."

So the plans for kidnapping the unconscious Tom were finally settled and disposed of.

Bloom immediately set about perfecting his plans. He realized that he was confronted with a difficult problem. He knew that it would be necessary for him to capture Tom at some time when he was not in the company of his two comrades, and from what his spy, Donovan, had told him, he knew that the three were seldom separated for any length of time. But he finally evolved a plan, and without loss of time set about putting it in action.

He secured the use of a powerful automobile, and put it in charge of one of his trusted lieutenants. The man was carefully instructed in the part he was to play, and was intrusted with a note that he was to deliver to Tom at a certain time. Thus the trap was laid, and Bloom settled back to wait for the proper time to spring it.

And fate seemed to play into his hands. Toward dusk of the Tuesday immediately preceding Thanksgiving Day Bert and Dick had occasion to go to town, and as Tom had some studying to do, they left him in his room and set out on their errand.

This was the time for which the gambler had been waiting. His spies immediately sent him word of the favorable condition of affairs. Excitedly he slammed the receiver of the telephone on its hook and sent word to the man in charge of the automobile. The latter immediately cranked up his car, and a few minutes later the big limousine rolled quietly up to Tom's dormitory. The driver, who was dressed in ordinary chauffeur's garb, mounted the stairs to the entrance, and when his ring was answered by the appearance of an attendant, requested him to deliver a letter that he handed him to "Mr. Tom Henderson."

A few moments later Tom was interrupted in his studies by a knock on the door of his room, and on opening it was handed an unstamped envelope. Somewhat surprised, he drew forth a yellow slip of paper that proved to be a telegraph blank. Tom read the words scrawled across it, in careless, hasty writing.

"Dear Tom," the message read, "am in town just for one evening, and want you to drop in and see me. I would visit you if possible, but have some friends with me, and so cannot. Just to make sure of your coming I'm sending my car for you. Please don't disappoint me." The letter was signed "Dave."

"Why," thought Tom, "that must be Dave Rutgers. I should say I would go to see him. I haven't laid eyes on the old sinner since I came to college."

Crumpling the yellow slip into a ball, he flung it into a corner of the room and hastily donned his coat and hat. As he was about to leave the room he hesitated a moment, and started back. But after a second he started out again, and slammed the door after him. "I'll be back in a couple of hours," he thought. "Bert and Dick probably won't return much before that, so there's no use writing a note telling them where I've gone." With this thought he dismissed the matter from his mind, and hurried down to the waiting auto. He stepped in, the chauffeur slammed the door, and the big machine glided noiselessly away, at a rapid gait.

About ten o'clock that evening Bert and Dick returned, and on their way to their room pounded on Tom's door. They received no reply, so concluded that he must be asleep, and passed on.

But when they stopped at his room the next morning, as was their invariable custom, and received no answer to repeated summons, they began to feel uneasy.

"Perhaps he's stolen a march on us and gone down early," suggested Dick.

"Possible," answered Bert, "but more likely he's just 'playing possum.'" As he spoke he seized the knob to rattle the door, and the door swung open!

"Why, he's not in here," exclaimed Bert, as he gazed about the room; "and what's more," he continued excitedly, "he hasn't been here all night, either. It's easy to see that the bed hasn't been slept in."

"That mighty queer," said Dick uneasily. "Where do you suppose he can have gone?"

"I haven't the slightest idea, I'm sure," said Bert. "He didn't say anything to you about going anywhere, did he?"

"Not a word," said Dick, "and I think if he had expected to be away any length of time he would have told one of us about it."

"Something might have come up unexpectedly," said Bert; "but then he'd have left a note for us. I – but what's that over in the corner!" he suddenly exclaimed, "looks as though it might be a telegram."

As he spoke he pounced on the crumpled ball that Tom had tossed there the evening before, and hastily smoothed it out. Then he and Dick read the words written on it.

"That explains why he went," said Bert when they had mastered its contents. "But it doesn't explain where he went or why he didn't get back before this." They gazed at each other a few seconds, and each saw his own fears mirrored in the eyes of his friend.

"There's something wrong somewhere," declared Dick at length, "and it's up to us to find out what."

"It looks that way," said Bert. Then he continued, "this isn't a regular telegram, you see. It looks as though the person writing it had just scribbled the message on the handiest scrap of paper he could find, which happened to be this."

"It may give us a clue to the writer," said Dick, as a sudden thought flashed across his mind; "there are several telegraph offices in the town, and probably if we showed that slip in any of them we could learn what office it came from. There must be some identifying mark on it. Then the people in that office might be able to give us some clue as to who wrote it."

"It's worth trying, anyway," said Bert after a brief consideration. "And the sooner we start the better. I'm getting more worried every minute."

With all thoughts of breakfast forgotten, they hurried from the college, and were not long in reaching the railroad depot where the main telegraph office was located. They showed the slip to the operator, asking him if he could tell them from what station it had been taken.

"Sure," he said, looking at a figure in the upper left-hand corner, "that came from station 'D,' on the corner of Spruce and Elm Streets."

The boys thanked him and hurried out. The address the operator had given them was nearly a mile away, and they broke into a run. As they went along they noticed that the houses lining the streets began to wear a very tumble-down aspect, and to thin out more and more.

"This is a rotten neighborhood," panted Bert; "we must be getting pretty near the edge of the town."

They had almost reached their destination when, as they passed a particularly ramshackle building with a saloon on the ground floor, they became conscious of a terrific hubbub going on within. There was a sound of shouting and blows, and every once in a while the whole crazy building would fairly rock as some heavy body crashed against the walls from within.

Even as Bert and Dick stood watching in amazement, a muffled shout arose above the general uproar that they both recognized. "That was Tom's voice for a million!" yelled Bert, and without another word the two friends made a dash for the door that evidently led to the floor above. Without hesitating to find out whether or not it was locked they crashed against it. Their combined weight acted like a battering ram and the door, torn from its hinges, fell inward. They rushed up the rickety stairs in great bounds and, crashing through another door that barred their way, found themselves into the midst of a fierce struggle.

On the floor four men were locked in a deadly grapple. The meager furniture of the room was splintered and broken, and the whole place looked as though a cyclone had struck it. With a yell Bert and Dick plunged into the struggle.

And now the odds were more even. Instead of three to one they were now three to three, and the tide of battle began to turn. Bert and Dick tore Tom's assailants away from him and he staggered to his feet. He was battered and bruised, but still full of fight. "Come on, fellows, wade into them," he shouted hoarsely. His tried and true comrades needed no second bidding, and now began a battle compared to which the other seemed mild. The three thugs who had been trying to overpower Tom were brutal fighters, and withal were men of muscle. But it did not take long to decide which side would win. The three friends, every fighting instinct in them aroused, and the lust of battle hot within them, fought with a fury and concentrated power that nothing could withstand.

Slowly they forced the thugs across the room, planting blow after blow with deadly effect. Their opponents gave ground steadily, unable to withstand the terrific punishment meted out to them. Suddenly the one nearest the door made a dash for it, and the others followed suit. The three comrades started in hot pursuit, but reached the street only to see the last of their erstwhile antagonists disappearing around the nearest corner, and Bert called a halt.

"No use chasing them," he said, when they had gotten their breath a little. "They know the neighborhood and we don't, and the chances are we'd never catch them. We licked 'em good and proper though, didn't we?"

"That was some scrap, all right," said Dick with a long whistle, "and we didn't get off scot free, either. My left eye feels as though a coal wagon had fallen on it."

"It looks it, too," said Bert with a wry grin; "we're all marked up a little, but I'll bet that bunch of roughnecks will remember us for a little while to come. But how did they come to get you, Tom? Tell us all about it."

Tom then told them about receiving the note, and getting into the automobile. "After that," he said, "there's not much to tell. It was dark, and I didn't notice what kind of a neighborhood that rascally chauffeur was taking me into. After a while he stopped and opened the door, telling me we had arrived at Dave's house. As I stepped out those three 'bad men' jumped on me. One of them pressed a rag soaked in chloroform over my face, and I went to sleep almost before I had a chance to fight. When I came to I found myself in that room, with one lowbrow on guard. I waited until my head cleared a little, and then I sailed into him. The noise of the shindy brought up the other two, and then the argument got pretty hot. There's no doubt but what they'd have won the decision soon, too, if you fellows hadn't happened to butt in just as you did. I couldn't have held out much longer against odds like that."

"Yes, it is rather lucky," agreed Bert; "we weren't a minute too soon."

"How did you learn where I was?" inquired Tom.

Bert then told him how they had discovered the slip of paper containing the note to him, and gave a brief outline of his and Dick's actions after discovering it.

"Pretty good detective work," said Tom admiringly. "Sherlock Holmes would better look out for his laurels."

Meanwhile they had been walking back toward the college, and with the aid of a street car were not long in reaching it.

As they were crossing the campus, they met Reddy.

"For the love of Hivin," exclaimed the trainer, as he caught sight of their swollen faces, "what in the world have you been doin' anyway? You haven't been lambastin' each other, have ye?"

"Not exactly," said Bert, and then proceeded to give the trainer a detailed account of the recent happenings. Reddy listened attentively, and when Bert finished made no reply at once. After a thoughtful silence, he said: "Well, it's something of a mystery, Wilson, but one thing is certain – without Henderson the team would have been so crippled that we wouldn't have had a chance in the world of winning, and I have an idea that the bunch connected with Mike's place, where he was held prisoner, have a pretty big interest in our winning or losing, in a money way. And the two facts put together may come pretty near giving the correct answer."

"I imagined it might be something of the kind," said Bert; "I wonder what chance there is of bringing the scoundrels to justice."

"You'll bet we'll do everything possible," said Reddy grimly, "but now, you'd better pack Henderson off to bed, and Trent had better put a bit o' beefsteak on that damaged 'lamp' of his! This afternoon we start for New York, and we want everybody fit."

CHAPTER XV
The Dash for the Goal

"The day, the important day,

Big with the fate of Cato and of Rome,"

quoted Dick.

"It is the sun of Austerlitz," chimed in Tom, not to be outdone in quotation, as he drew aside the curtains of the hotel window and saw the bright rays streaming over the city roofs.

"As long as it isn't Waterloo, we'll have no kick coming," added Bert. "I'm tickled to death to see that it's this kind of weather. I'd hate to play on as muddy a field as we had with the 'Maroons.'"

"The paper predicted rain yesterday," said Tom, throwing up the window, "but from the bite in the air, it seems cold enough for snow. How would you like to play on a snowy field, fellows?"

"Not for mine," replied Dick emphatically, "although the Western teams do it often. Only a few years ago Chicago and Michigan played in what was almost a blizzard."

"I'll bet the teams kept warm enough," commented Bert; "but it must have been tough on the spectators."

"O, those dyed-in-the-wool football fiends don't care for a little thing like that," said Dick. "We'll never play to empty benches, no matter what the weather. But hurry up now and come down to breakfast. We won't dare to eat very much at lunch and we'd better fill up now."

It was Thanksgiving Day, and the Blues had come up to New York the night before, so that they might have a good night's rest before the most important game of the season. The game was to be played at the Polo Grounds and public interest was so great that all the seats had been sold out long in advance. It was a foregone conclusion that the vast amphitheater would be crowded to capacity when the teams should come trotting out on the gridiron.

The excitement was the greater because of the superb form shown by both teams all through the season. Seldom had competitors been more equally matched. Both had come through their schedules unbeaten, and the shrewdest followers of the game were hard put to it to pick a winner. Even the games played by each with the "Maroons" did not give much of a line. The "Greys," to be sure, had made two touchdowns, while the Blues had only tallied one. But, on the other hand, the "Maroons" had scored on the "Greys," while the Blues had been able to keep their goal intact. The "dope" was perplexing and the wisest tipsters were all at sea. Man for man, the "Greys" had a slight advantage in weight. But the Blues were admitted to have the finest backfield in the country, and Wilson was "touted" as the greatest player seen at full for the last twenty years. All in all, it was a "toss up," and many predicted that neither side would score.

But no such neutral tint shadowed the rosy dreams of the Blues. They were full of fight, and brimming over with confidence. All their cripples had come back except Ellis, who was just able to limp around without a crutch. But Morley in his place had rounded to in great shape and there was scarcely a shade to choose between the two. Boyd's knee, hurt in the game with the "Maroons," was all right again and, best of all, good old Hodge was back again at right tackle, having at last made up his conditions. He plugged up the only really weak place on the team, and made the line twenty per cent. stronger than it had been without him. For all these reasons the team felt itself unbeatable, and were eager for the hour to come when they might prove it. Even Dan, the old bulldog that served the team as a mascot, moved about with unusual alacrity and seemed to have caught the contagion.

"He's actually smiling," declared Tom, as he patted him affectionately. "It's up to you to bring us luck to-day, old fellow."

Hendricks and Reddy, although delighted to see the way the boys were feeling, felt it incumbent to add a word of caution.

"You're going to win, boys," said the former; "but you'll have your work cut out for you. Those fellows are never easy, and there'll be something doing every minute. Get the jump at the very start, and keep forcing the fight. Go in for straight football until you feel them out, and don't resort to the 'fireworks' until you have to. And keep your eyes on that quarterback of theirs. He's one of the trickiest in the game and always liable to start something."

"Not forgetting the full," added Reddy, "they say he's as big and strong as a bull elephant, and it's aching he'll be to stack up against you, Wilson."

"Let him come," grinned Bert. "I'll try to make it interesting."

Even New York, big and indifferent as it is to most things taking place within it, was agog with interest over the contest. The front pages of the papers were devoted to a review and comparison of the teams, and bulletin boards were prepared for the great crowds expected to gather about the offices during the progress of the game. Broadway and Fifth Avenue were alive with flags and the college colors, and the lobbies of the hotels were packed with a swarming mob of undergraduates. Tally-hos with merry parties and tooting horns rolled up the Avenue, and hundreds of automobiles joined in the procession. The subways and elevated roads were crowded to the doors, and at one o'clock, although the game did not begin till two, there was not a vacant seat in the vast stadium, while thousands of deadheads seized every point of vantage on the bluffs that surrounded the grounds. The stands were a perfect riot of beauty and color, and the stentorian voices of the rival rooters, to which was joined the treble of the girls made the air echo with songs and shouts of defiance.

After a light lunch the teams had been bundled into swift autos and hurried to the field, where they made their final preparations and underwent the last scrutiny of coach and trainers. Both were in superb fettle and ready to present their strongest line-up, and when they tumbled out on the field, amid frantic roars of greeting, there seemed nothing to choose between them.

The preliminary practice was sharp and snappy. The crisp tang of the air was a tonic to which all responded, and the inspiration of the huge crowds spurred them on to do their prettiest. Bert attracted especial attention as he kicked goals in practice. His fame had preceded him, and the college men in the stands were kept busy at the behest of a sister – or somebody else's sister – in "pointing out Wilson." Other heroes of the gridiron also came in for their meed of admiration, and by the time the game was started expectation was wound up to the highest pitch. Everyone felt, as the young gladiators faced each other, that the game would be "for blood."

Nor were they disappointed. From the moment the referee's whistle blew, the playing was of the most desperate kind. The "Greys" had won the choice of goal and the Blues had the kick-off. Bert poised himself carefully and shot the ball down the field far and high. Hamilton made a fair catch at the thirty yard line, but Caldwell had gone down like a flash, and nailed him before he could run back.

The ball belonged to the "Greys." Dudley went through left and tackle for a gain of five. Hamilton gained two more on the other side of the line. Again Dudley tried between center and guard, but caught a Tartar in Dick, and was thrown back for a loss of three. The bucking game was not panning out and the ball was passed back to the giant fullback, Livingston, for a kick. The snapping was good and the kick speedy, but Bert burst through the line like a whirlwind and by a superb leap blocked it in mid-air. It was a rattling play and the Blue stand shook with cheers.

The teams lined up for the scrimmage on the "Grey's" thirty-five yard line. Hodge plunged through for seven with the whole "Grey" team sprawling over him. A forward pass, beautifully engineered by Tom, garnered eight more. Martin skirted left end for a pretty run of fifteen yards, but was tackled so heavily by Livingston that he dropped the ball, and Felton pounced upon it. It was a close call for the "Greys" and a sigh of relief went up from their partisans when on the next play a great punt by Minden sent it whirling down the field and out of danger. A furious battle ensued, but Fortune seemed angry at the Blues for their disregard of her gifts, and the quarter ended with the ball in the middle of the field.

Nor, try as they would, could they gain in the next period against the stonewall defense put up by the "Greys." Perhaps the Blue attack was somewhat more savage than their own, but they made up for that by superior weight in the line. Their signals were working perfectly and they moved with the precision of a machine.

Twelve minutes of playing time had elapsed when, with the ball on the "Greys'" forty yard line, Bert suddenly dropped back for a kick. The "Greys" burst through, but it got off perfectly. High in the air it soared like a hawk, headed straight for the goal. A groan rose from the "Grey" stands, while those in the Blue sprang to their feet, in a burst of frantic cheering. But, just as it neared the bar, a stiff gust of wind from the north caught it and deflected it from its course. It curved down and out, striking the post and bounded back into the field, where Ensley fell upon it.

The hearts of the Blues went down into their boots, while their opponents capered about and hugged each other.

"What's the use playing against such luck as that?" growled Drake disgustedly.

"It's tough, all right," agreed Bert, "but they can't get all the breaks. It'll be our turn next."

Before the ball could be put in play the period ended, and the teams went to their quarters for the fifteen minute rest before the final struggle.

"Hard luck, boys," consoled the coach, "but things are due to change. Wilson deserved that goal if he didn't get it, but that's part of the game. You've got their number. Keep on hammering the line, and if you find that won't work, uncork that variation of the forward pass. Go in now and eat them up."

As the fellows filed out, they passed Dan, the bulldog, dressed in a brand-new suit of blue in honor of the occasion. Tom stooped and patted his head.

"Get on the job, old boy," he urged. "Show those fellows that you are the real thing in mascots."

Dan barked reassuringly. But he took his time in thinking it over. And the hard luck of the Blues still persisted.

A fruitless attempt to buck the line by either team failing to yield the desired gain, there followed a kicking duel between the two fullbacks in which Bert easily carried off the honors. But slips and off-side playing neutralized the advantage.

On the "Greys" forty yard line they tried out "Bull" Hendricks' new variation. The ball was passed to Bert, apparently for a drop kick, but immediately on receiving the ball, he started on an end run as though the move had been a "plant" to draw in the end rush. Thinking the whole thing a fake, the halfback at first hesitated to come in, but Bert kept on parallel to the line of scrimmage until the half dared hesitate no longer, as it looked certain that Bert was bent on a run around the ends. In the meantime the long run had given Drake time to get down the field, and Bert, turning swiftly, sent the ball to him in a beautiful spiral swing. It would have worked to a charm had not Drake tripped as he started on his run and been savagely tackled by Livingston before he could regain his feet.

"Another good thing gone wrong," groaned Dick. And it certainly seemed as though "the stars in their courses" were fighting for the "Greys."

A moment's breathing space, and the fourth quarter opened up. With a strength born of desperation the teams went at each other hammer and tongs. The "Greys" were heartened by the good fortune that had declared so steadily for them and they played like wild men. A brilliant run around left end netted them twenty yards, and a forward pass gained ten more. Inspired by their success they "forced" their luck until they were on the Blues fifteen yard line with the ball in their possession. But here the Blues braced savagely.

The crowds were standing now and crazy with excitement. The "Grey" followers shrieked to their favorites to "put it over," while from the Blue stands their football song came booming from twenty thousand throats:

 
"Steady, boys, steady.
You're fighting for your father,
You're fighting for your mother,
You're fighting for your sister,
You're fighting for your brother,
You're fighting for the Blue.
Hit them up, rip them up, tear their line in two.
Steady, boys, steady."
 

Panting, pale, determined, the team heard, and their muscles stiffened. Livingston plunged in but was thrown back on his head. Dudley tried and failed to gain an inch. The line was impregnable, and Ensley dropped back for a kick. But like lightning, Bert was on him so suddenly that the ball shot up and back over Ensley's head. Without checking his speed, Bert scooped it up on the bound and was off down the field.

Such running! It was flying. Its like had never been seen on a football field. On he went, like a bullet. Down that living lane of forty thousand people, he tore along, his eyes blazing, his head held high, a roar like thunder in his ears, while beneath him the white lines slipped away like a swiftly flowing river. On and on he went, nearer and nearer to the goal.