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Secret Play

<h2>CHAPTER XXV THE SECRET PLAY</h2> Tupper caught near the side of the field and allowed himself to be forced over at the twenty-yard line. The ball was taken in and Chester Cottrell slapped his hands and barked out his signal: “White back! 47—68—62!” Lanny fell back to kicking position, Nelson Beaton taking his place behind left guard, and Chester jumped aside to the right. “47—68—62!” Back shot the ball to Chester, off darted Tupper for the guard-tackle hole on the right. Beaton and Lanny swung wide to the left. For a moment the lines heaved and fought. Then, the ball clutched to his stomach, Chester plunged straight ahead and went through where Haley and Arthur Beaton had opened a wide hole. The Springdale line had been pulled apart and the secondary defense had been drawn out. Chester slipped away from a tackle and staggered on, dodged past a back and was pulled down finally after ten yards had passed under his feet. The linesmen pulled up their rods and scampered past two white marks and the Clearfield section shouted wildly. Chester, breathless, was pulled to his feet and trotted back to position. “Regular formation!” he called. “Line up! Get down there, Scott! Signals! 309—25—62!” Lanny jumped to the right in front of Chester. “309—25—62!” It was Lanny’s ball, direct from center, and he sprang at the same hole as before, Tupper clearing it out for him. But only two yards resulted this time. “Second down! Eight to go!” announced the referee. “Line up quickly!” called Chester. “Here we go now! Regular formation! Signals! 98—99—84! 98—99—!” The ball went to Chester, was passed to Nelson Beaton, and that youth struck like a cannon ball at the opposing left guard and tackle hole and piled through for four yards. Clearfield was “getting the jump” on her opponent at last! “Get up! Get up!” shrieked Chester impatiently. “Signals!” The ball was on Springdale’s thirty-six yards now, it was third down and four to go. Lanny pulled Chester’s head down and whispered. “Signals!” repeated the latter. “22—53—306! 22—53—!” Tupper had slipped into the line between right guard and tackle and now Gordon Merrick was running back toward where Nelson Beaton crouched behind Chester. Then came the ball to the latter. Off raced Lanny behind his line toward the right. Chester passed to Gordon and that player, one hand outstretched to ward off attack and the ball in the crook of his right elbow, followed Lanny. The Springdale tackle was boxed and Felker sent a halfback flying out of the path. Then the cry of “In! In!” was heard and Gordon, passing behind his interference, sped through an opening in the enemy’s front and was laid low for a seven-yard gain. The middle of the field was in sight now and thus far every play had told. A plunge at the Clearfield right, Beaton carrying the ball, gained three, Lanny shot outside of left end for four more, Beaton made two at center and Chester knifed himself through for first down on Springdale’s forty-six yards. The Clearfield supporters were cheering incessantly and the bass drum was thump—thumping loudly. Springdale was fighting desperately, but the pace was beginning to tell on her. Time was called for an injury to a Springdale tackle, and when, finally, he was on his feet again, an eager-faced youth was reporting to the referee. “Holman, sir! Left tackle!” The injured player yielded his head-guard and limped off and the new arrival gathered the team about him and for a moment or two there was a whispered conference, interrupted by the referee. Then the panting players faced each other again, the backs crouched behind Cottrell and he piped his signals. Beaton slammed into the line at left guard and got through for nearly three yards, but Scott had been detected off-side and Clearfield was set back five yards. With fifteen to gain, Lanny tried his own left end, but failed to get past. Beaton hit the center for two on a delayed pass. Lanny got three through left guard. Beaton went back to kicking position and Partridge crossed to the right of the line. Cottrell and Tupper moved to protect the punter. Then the ball was snapped to Beaton, who swung his foot, ran half a dozen paces to the right and poised the ball. Cottrell and Tupper guarded his front for a moment and then the latter swung wide to the right toward the side line and Lanny cut through outside tackle and went down the field. Merrick and Felker had also sought positions for the pass, but Felker was guarded. Beaton waited until the last moment and then, just as the Springdale players leaped upon him stepped back a pace and hurled to Lanny who was for the moment unguarded. The throw went over the center of the line, just escaped the upstretched hands of the leaping Blues, and was caught by Lanny nearly twenty yards away. Like a flash he wheeled and set off down the field. But the Springdale quarter was not to be denied and Lanny was pulled down on the Blue’s twenty-six yards. Cheers and shrieks of delight came from the stand. Dick nodded to Morris and that youth arose and walked up and down the side line, his gaze fixed anxiously on the teams. But time had been called for Lanny, who had had his breath pretty well knocked out of him in the tackle, and Dick turned tentatively to where McCoy sat further along the bench, blanket-wrapped, his eyes too bent intently on the field. But Lanny was soon up again, and, had you been sitting next to McCoy, you’d have heard a sigh of disappointment. Chester Cottrell thumped the lineman on the back, hoarsely encouraging and threatening. Lanny pulled his head-guard on again and the whistle shrilled. The backs sprang to their places and Cottrell gave the signal. Tupper received the ball and hurled himself at the right of the line, but the Blue held and there was no gain. Cottrell scolded and raged. A criss-cross sent Lanny three yards through left guard, and it was third down with seven to go, the pigskin on the twenty-three. On the side line Morris was trotting slowly up and down, casting eager, inquiring glances at Dick’s inscrutable face. “Signals!” shrieked Cottrell. “Get into it now, Clearfield! Make this go! Signals! 81—29—61!” “Watch for a forward!” called the Springdale quarter from under his goal. “Come back, Holman! Break this up, Springdale!” “81—29—61!” The ball went to Chester, Lanny and Tupper swept to the right and hurled themselves at tackle, Chester, his back to the enemy, hugged the ball. Confusion reigned. The left of the Springdale line broke. Then Beaton sprang ahead, took the ball at a hand-pass, and slid through the center, was tackled, plunged on, fighting and squirming, went down with two Springdale backs on him and finally grunted “Down!” The whistle blew and the referee sprang at the pile-up and heeled the spot. “Fourth down!” he called. “Two to go!” On the side line Morris tugged at his sweater and cast an impatient look at Dick. But the latter shook his head and Morris walked back to the bench and sat down again. “They’ve got two yards to go, Dick,” he said doubtfully. “Yes, and they can do it, Morris. Your time will come. Wait.” And do it they did, Lanny himself squeezing through between center and left guard for just enough to secure first down. The ball was now on the thirteen yards and Clearfield was yelling like so many Comanche Indians, while steady cheers for Springdale rolled across the field. Cottrell hurried the fellows back into place, called his signal and hurled Beaton at left tackle. Two yards resulted. Springdale was stiffening now under the shadow of her goal. Beaton was yanked to his feet, and hobbled back to position. “98—49—32!” The lines set and the backs crouched. “98—49—32!” Back came the ball, Lanny and Tupper plunged at the left of the line, Beaton sprang forward and— “Ball! Ball!” cried Chester. Beaton had fumbled! A Springdale lineman hurled himself past with a mighty rasping of canvas and plunged forward. Chester was tossed aside. A muffled voice called “Down!” and the whistle blew. “Springdale’s ball!” cried the referee. “First down! Ten to go!” A groan of disappointment arose from the Clearfield stand, but the blue pennants waved mightily and two hundred Springdale voices burst into wild acclaim. Beaton, with miserable face, hung his head as the Blue’s quarter took command. But Lanny shouted encouragement: “Never mind that, fellows! Let’s get it back! Now play, play!” Springdale hurled her fullback through for a scant three, made two more around the left end and then punted from under her goal. Her line held fast and the ball went flying up the field to Cottrell, who made a fair catch on the thirty-eight yards. Then the journey back began. Lanny got through the left for four yards and Beaton was stopped for no gain. Then the quarter came to an end. Dick sent Kent in for Arthur Beaton, Todd for Partridge and Toll for Felker. A minute later the teams lined up once more on the Blue’s thirty-four yards. On the next play Springdale was caught off-side and Clearfield gained five yards. Lanny tried a wide run around left end and made a scant three yards. With three to go on fourth down, Lanny punted. The ball went over the line and was brought back to the twenty. Springdale made first down in three plays through Cable. The latter was hurt and Robey went in for him. A forward pass, following an unsuccessful try at center, gained six and Sawtell added two past Scott. Norton went back, but the ball was passed to left halfback and that player got around Merrick for four, securing first down on his own forty-three yards. Springdale pulled her line apart and scattered her backs to the right of center across the field. Clearfield shifted to meet the formation. The ball went to left half on a long pass from center and he raced around the short side of his line. But he only made three on the play. A fake-kick resulted in a try at a forward, but Merrick broke it up, and, with seven to go on fourth down, Springdale punted to the Purple’s twenty-four. Lanny caught and got back eight yards before he was stopped. Cottrell again tried a delayed pass, but the enemy got through and downed Beaton for a loss of two yards. A criss-cross made five through right tackle. On the next play Cottrell took the ball for a try around right end but was pulled down behind his line, and it was fourth down with nine to go. Cottrell was plainly used-up and Dick sent in Hull. Chester received a fine ovation as he came off. Hull, after a conference with Lanny, sent Beaton back and the ball went to Tupper, who squirmed through outside left tackle and, evading tacklers, managed to make it first down near the side line. Hull displayed a lot of ginger and the plays began to go off faster. With Lanny back in kicking position, a straight plunge by Beaton took the ball to the middle of the field. Lanny secured the needed two yards past left tackle. Hull failed at a run around his own right wing and on the next play got off a fine lateral pass to Merrick, who made eight yards before he was thrown. Beaton plugged the center for four and a first down. A fumble was recovered by Beaton for a loss of six yards, but to offset that Springdale was detected holding in the line and the ball went back again. A forward pass from delayed play, Beaton to Tupper, almost got that youth free for a touchdown, but the Springdale quarter stopped him on the Blue’s twenty-seven. Three tries gained but four yards and Beaton hurled to Merrick. But the throw was short and a Springdale end got the ball and ran it back to the thirty-six. Springdale failed to gain in two attempts and punted to Lanny. After romping half-way across the field he was pulled down for no gain. Lanny tried the left end and made two, Beaton failed to get through right guard and Lanny punted to Springdale’s thirty-three yards. Springdale put in three new linesmen and a substitute fullback. McCoy went in for Tupper. There was six minutes to play now. Springdale was no longer able to gain through the line and tried wide-formation attacks, with the runner hunting a hole wherever he could find it. She gained on two such plays and made first down on a forward pass. She was showing the strain now and her forwards were weakening. Another attempt at a forward pass from her forty-five-yard line failed and she punted to the Purple’s thirty. Hull caught and squirmed and dodged back through half the opposing team, being finally halted on his forty-eight yards. Time was now nearly up. Dick sent in Bryan for Merrick and Brimmer for Haley. Haley had been pretty badly used and was distinctly groggy as he was led off. Bryan brought instructions and the Purple players gathered in a group and listened to them. The linesman announced four minutes to play as the teams faced each other once more. Hull sent McCoy at the center and gained four, sent the same player against the right of the line and made two. Then Lanny sped past left tackle and barely gained first down on the opponent’s forty-two yards. Beaton fought through center for three. Then, with Beaton back, Number 8 was tried again and Toll caught the pass for a twelve-yard gain and almost got free for a run. Clearfield’s supporters were on their feet now, imploring a touchdown, and Springdale was cheering steadily, doggedly. Springdale put in a fresh center and a new left half, and Dick substituted Arthur Beaton for Kent. With the pigskin just back of the Blue’s twenty-eight yards, near the right side line, Hull sent McCoy around the long-field end for a scant gain of two yards. Then Beaton made four between left guard and center. A delayed pass, with Lanny carrying, added three. With Lanny back in kicking position, Hull himself took the pigskin past right tackle for two and made it first down on Springdale’s seventeen. On the bench Dick nodded to Morris. Beaton tried the left of the Blue’s line and secured a scant yard. Springdale called time and administered to her right guard. Lanny attempted to get past left tackle but was pushed back. Springdale again asked for time. And as the whistle blew a sudden cheer burst from the Clearfield section. On to the field raced two purple-stockinged warriors. One was Chester Cottrell and the other Morris Brent. Springdale in imagination saw the game slip from them then. It would be no trick for Brent to drop or place-kick from the seventeen-yards. “All right, Perry,” called Chester. “Sorry! Let’s have that head-guard.” The players clustered around Morris and thumped him ecstatically. Perry Hull trotted disconsolately off and the whistle blew again. Clearfield sprang back to position. Beaton, following Hull from the field and dragging his feet wearily as he went, offered a jumbled, inarticulate prayer for victory. “All right now, Clearfield!” shouted Chester cheerily. “Here’s where we score! Everyone into this hard!” On the bench, Fudge Shaw, taking the place beside Dick left vacant by Morris, whispered nervously: “Is he g-g-going to t-t-t-try it now, D-D-Dick?” Dick, his hands clutching his crutches tensely, his face rather white and strained, nodded without turning. Fudge gave vent to a huge sigh. “Gee!” he muttered fervently. “I hope it g-g-goes!” Then Cottrell’s voice came sharply across the field again: “Brent back! Left tackle over!” Morris slowly retreated to kicking distance. “Block this!” shouted Springdale. “Block this kick! Get through and block it!” Chester followed Morris back and knelt in front of him. “All right?” he asked, looking up. Morris nodded, shuffling on his feet. Chester patted the ground with his hand. Morris looked for an instant at the cross-bar and edged back another foot or so. “A little more this way,” he said. “Block this, Springdale!” implored the Blue’s quarter, dodging back and forth behind the line. “All right,” said Morris. Quiet fell over the field. The Clearfield linemen crouched. Lanny, behind his own left guard, poised tensely. Across from him, Tupper stood ready to guard the kicker. Todd was between Beaton and Wayland on the right of the line. Chester, facing the left, one knee on the ground, held his hands toward the center. “Signals!” he shouted briskly. “44—18—110!” Morris gave a final look at the cross-bar. The enemy, panting, gasping, swayed restively. “44—18—110!” “Block it! Block it!” shrieked the defenders. Back sped the ball to Chester’s outstretched hands. The lines heaved. Canvas rasped against canvas, bodies strained, cries and grunts from labored lungs made pandemonium for a moment. Morris stepped and swung his leg. Half a dozen blue-clad arms reached in air. The Springdale right end broke through, but met Lanny and went hurtling aside toward the line. And then, just as the Springdale forwards came charging through, Chester, the ball snuggled in the crook of his left elbow, sprang up and darted straight ahead toward the left of the field! Ahead of him ran Lanny, but Lanny had little to do. Springdale was tricked. There had been not the slightest doubt in the mind of any of them but that Brent’s appearance at that moment meant a try for goal. The line, from end to end, had been intent upon but one thing, and that was to break through at any cost and block the kick. Strengthening the right of the Clearfield line had drawn an extra Springdale back to that side and now Chester was in slight danger of being stopped. Lanny threw himself in front of the Springdale quarter and sent that frantic youth rolling head over heels, and Chester, striking in toward the goal line, crossed it without opposition! It was not until he was almost behind the nearer post that hostile arms dragged him to earth and he was smothered by angry blue-stockinged defenders! Cheers thundered from the stand, the bass drum thumped a pæan of victory, caps and megaphones sailed into the air, and, on the bench, a round-faced youth sat silent in wondering and awed delight. The Secret Play had won! Two minutes later Nelson Beaton, racing back to the field, kicked the goal that added another point to that glorious 6, and forty seconds after that the final whistle shrilled and George Cotner, snatching the ball from the umpire, raced into the throng with it, dodging the ecstatic youths who, flowing onto the field, were capturing the players and raising them shoulder-high while the band played unheard and a babel of voices proclaimed Clearfield’s victory! Ten minutes later still, when Toby Sears was standing perilously on the railing of the grandstand leading the cheers, a hoarse voice demanded “Lovering! We—want—Coach—Lovering!” The demand was multiplied by two hundred voices, and willing emissaries darted away in search of him. But they didn’t find him. Dick, a contented smile on his face, was blocks away, chugging home in Eli. THE END <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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