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Rockspur Eleven

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<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER XXIX. ON THE GRIDIRON.</h2></div> The day, the afternoon, the hour of the game had arrived. Not even at the deciding game for the baseball championship between Highland and Rockspur had a larger crowd gathered to witness the struggle on the field. The sun was shining, but there was a strong, cool wind from the west, and the air was as invigorating as a delightful tonic. The exhilaration of the atmosphere and the occasion had entered into the hearts of the assembled throng, which buzzed with expectancy, ready to laugh, to shout, to cheer, to go wild with enthusiasm over some brilliant play or plucky stand of the favorites in the game. Ropes had been stretched to hold the crowd back, but they were surged against till they threatened to give way. It was amazing to see in that small country village such a great concourse of people gathered to witness a game of football between two bands of smooth-faced, clear-eyed, clean-limbed lads. Fathers and brothers and sisters were there, to say nothing of many mothers, who had been unable to remain away and who had come to see their favorite sons struggle like youthful gladiators with the sons of other mothers, equally affectionate, but lacking the courage to witness the rush, the clash, the shock[248] and tumult of battle in which these lads would hurl themselves at one another like human catapults. Highland apparently had sent over nearly all its boys and girls between twelve and twenty to cheer its eleven. They had gathered in a compact body on the bleachers to the left of the grand-stand, and already they were singing a song of victory, which some rhymester had composed to the tune of “Marching Through Georgia.” They were prepared for the occasion with megaphones and crimson pennants and unlimited confidence in the ability of their boys to win from Rockspur on the home ground of the latter team. On the opposite side had collected the adherents and supporters of the Rockspur Eleven, but, although they were in the majority, they could not drown the noise made by the visitors. Everybody seemed good-natured, and there was bantering and bandying of words. The grand-stand and much of the standing room to the ropes was filled with older persons, who, however, seemed scarcely less excited and eager than the boys and girls, and who joked with each other and anxiously discussed the possibilities of the game. The field lay stretched before them like a white-ribbed skeleton, the goal-posts rising at either end. It was in splendid condition, and all were certain that a battle royal must take place there that day. Suddenly a new sound arose, and then, as onto the field trotted eleven shaggy-headed lads, togged in their[249] football suits, dirt-stained, mud-bespattered garments of victory, there was a great upheaval to the left of the grand-stand, and the mass of fresh-faced, youthful humanity broke into a wildly swaying surge of crimson, while the Highland cheer sounded short and sharp and clear, like the barking of hundreds of wolves on a still winter’s night. “’Rah! ’rah! ’rah! Here we are! High-land, my land! ’Rah! ’rah! ’rah!” Instantly this was drowned by another sound, deeper, intenser, more like thunder, as the Rockspur Eleven quickly followed their antagonists onto the chalk-marked gridiron. There was another upheaval, mightier than the first, and the blue-and-white was waving here in a dense mass, there in streaks, yonder in spots, but all round the field. The Rockspur cheer of greeting was like rolling thunder, the rattle of musketry, the starward hiss of red rockets and the boom of cannon. “Boo, bum, burr! Rick, rock, spur! Rockspur—s-s-s-ss! Rockspur—boom! Rockspur!” How the blood tingled! How one thrilled to the very finger tips! Carried away by the enthusiasm of the moment, staid, middle-aged men forgot themselves and their dignity, and when they realized what they were doing, found they were swinging their hats and yelling at the top of their voices, the sound being swallowed up and drowned in the general uproar. Youth, incarnate, never-dying, all-powerful, imbued by conscious vigor and[250] power, invested with confidence and courage unshattered by the buffets of Time; youth, the little-prized, the fleeting, the sadly-regretted, the vainly-sought; youth, the beautiful and glorious—it was there, and the great crowd offered homage to it. In the lull that followed after some moments of tumult, a white-haired citizen of Rockspur, who had passed the three-score mark, flourished his cane in the air and shrilly cried: “Them’s our boys, an’ they kin beat at football jest the same as they beat at baseball, an’ don’t you fergit it!” This caused a burst of laughter, and somebody shouted: “Hooray for Uncle Ike! He always stands by the boys! Give him a rouser, fellows! Ready—let ’er go!” They did “let ’er go,” and the cheer for the old man must have warmed his heart—that rare old heart that had never forgotten its youth, and thus, with advancing years, had found its owner a place in the affections of the generations that followed him. In acknowledgment of the tribute he bowed, with uncovered head, and some dust, or the sun, or something got into his eyes, causing him to brush his hand across them while he laughed. Youth once lost may never be regained; but youth firmly planted in the heart may remain there, though the body wither beneath the blighting touch of age. In their heavily-padded suits the boys looked stout and[251] stocky. A ball being tossed in among them, they began to chase it about and fall on it as a sort of warming-up. Don Scott was there, looking rather pale, his dark hair and eyes accentuating the whiteness of his face. His worriment and a restless night had told on him, and his manner seemed full of lassitude! Don had not made a confession to his father. With the passing of the weary night also passed his strength and determination to reveal everything and seek forgiveness. He told himself that he was blameless in the thing of which he was suspected, and time would prove him so; therefore, it might simply add to his father’s belief in his guilt if he told him then of his deceptions and falsehoods. He resolved to wait until it was plainly proven that he was in no way concerned with the forgery of the check, promising himself that he would then make a clean breast of everything. So, as much as possible, he avoided his father, which was not difficult, the doctor being very busy that Saturday forenoon. Don had expected that Bentley would be reported in custody that morning, but, to his surprise and dissatisfaction, nothing had been heard of either Leon or the deputy sheriff since one left the village hotly pursued by the other the night before. As Don paused on the field, adjusting his belt, his eyes roved over the great throng of people who were roaring a greeting to the young gladiators of the gridiron. While flags, hats and hands were waving it was almost impossible[252] to recognize anybody in the crowd, but when the commotion subsided somewhat, he saw two girls in the midst of the Rockspur Academy delegation on the blue-and-white bleachers, and one of them seemed looking straight at him. Their eyes met; she smiled; she waved her flag in his direction. “That can’t be for me!” thought Don, with a little color coming to his cheeks. “Zadia Renwood would not do that for me.” But then he saw the other girl glance toward him, toss her head and say something in a spiteful manner to her companion, which caused Zadia to shake her head and blush. Then he knew that Dora Deland also fancied Zadia had waved to him. The cheering broke out again after Uncle Ike’s little speech, and Don looked about for his father. In time he found the doctor, who was watching his son steadily. The doctor smiled a bit and waved his hand, but Don seemed to feel reproach in the smile and it hurt him. “But I’ll do my best,” he muttered. “Perhaps I may be able to make him proud of me some way.” The excitement was still great when the two captains drew aside with the referee, who sent a coin fluttering into the air. “Heads,” said Walker, the Highland captain, and the Goddess of Liberty looked up at him from the ground. “Your choice,” smiled Sterndale, as the referee picked up the piece of silver. [253]The wind was now blowing quite strongly from the west, and the Highland captain immediately selected the west goal to defend, giving the ball to Rockspur. The pigskin was placed on the spot in the exact centre of the field, and the two teams lined up amid another uproar of cheering and all kinds of noises. There was a sudden lull. Those two lines of youthful tigers were gathering themselves for the clash, crouching a bit, leaning forward, teeth set, muscles taut. Sterndale eyed the ball critically, settled himself carefully, went at it and smashed it down the field against the wind with a beautiful kick. With the plunk of Sterndale’s foot against the leather, which sailed into the air in a long graceful curve, the uproar broke forth again. The game was on. <hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> <div class="chapter"> [254] <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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