“BALL! BALL!”

Monday morning Jerry hurried over to the gymnasium at half-past ten and donned his togs and at twenty minutes to eleven he was sending off his first “corkscrew” from the nearer thirty-yard line of the second team gridiron. The uncertainty of volunteer assistance had made it necessary for Mr. Thorne to delegate a member of the squad to catch and return Jerry’s punts, and the lucky――or unlucky――person was Pascoe, a third-string end. Pascoe made up in determination what he lacked in speed. No matter how long it took him to do it, Pascoe always insisted that the pigskin return to Jerry by a kick, and, since kicking was not a branch of the art that he excelled at, there were frequently long interims between Jerry’s efforts. Perhaps, however, it was just as well, for Jerry was inclined to overdo his forenoon work these days. The big game was less than a fortnight distant, and the fact had struck Jerry with force. It seemed to him that he had accomplished very little so far and that in the brief time left to him he could accomplish very little more. This particular morning he was rather panicky about it and would have punted himself into a state of coma, perhaps, had his helper been more prompt with his returns. As it was there was usually time enough between kicks to think things over and discover what had been wrong with the previous effort, and so Pascoe’s grim determination to boot the ball rather than throw it worked for good.

Mr. Tibbs arrived about halfway through the session, which was a habit of his of late, and, throwing aside his coat, took a hand in affairs. Jump’s style of punting was slightly different from that learned――or in process of being learned――by Jerry, and so, in a way, he was a confusing factor. But Jerry had sense enough not to attempt to alter his way of kicking at this late date. Instead, he agreed with all Mr. Tibbs said, to the extent of never questioning it, and then continued in his own sweet way. Mr. Tibbs secretly thought Jerry rather dense, but had to admit that the boy’s style of punting got results. This morning, standing on the thirty-yard line, Jerry landed the battle-scarred football between the twenty and twenty-five yards without apparent effort, and did it several times. There was no wind, favoring or otherwise; the handful of dry grass that Mr. Tibbs tossed questioningly aloft floated straight down again.

“That’s bully work,” said the second team coach warmly. “Man, with a decent wind behind you you could do sixty yards! If you could get that twist a bit better you’d be a wonder. Just let me show you that again, Benson. I’d sure like you to get that!”

Whereupon, when the ball came dribbling back, Mr. Tibbs took it and dropped it and swung a sturdy right leg, swinging almost two-thirds around. The result was a nice forty-yard punt, which in Jerry’s estimation was not worthy the gyrations that had produced it. But he only nodded gravely and in silence when Mr. Tibbs turned to him.

“Of course,” said the coach, “that wasn’t a long kick. I’m out of practice, you see. But it shows what I mean by putting the body into the kick. You play baseball, Benson, and they tell me you were their star batter last spring. Well, now, you know that you can’t get a long hit by just using your arms. You’ve got to put your body into that swing, haven’t you?”

Jerry reflected and said he reckoned so.

“Of course! Same thing with punting. Mind, I don’t say you don’t get a fine, healthy biff your way, but I’ll bet that if you got more of your body into your kicks you’d lengthen them another five yards. Want to try again?”

Jerry did try again, but with no better results. It just seemed that he couldn’t get that wide, circling swing of his leg. Mr. Tibbs looked disappointed and a trifle pained. And, maybe, a trifle suspicious. But Jerry’s crystal-clear look of apology disarmed him, and he only sighed as a preliminary to saying: “You didn’t quite get it, Benson, but I’ll say you made a punt!”

In the afternoon practice began from a running start, so to speak. Preliminaries were omitted, save for ten or twelve minutes of signal drill, and the coaches hustled the two teams out on the field and demanded action. “Your kick-off, Second! Varsity, I want a touchdown inside of six minutes. You backs, show some speed or you’ll be holding the bench down a week from Saturday! That means you especially, Ashley. You’ve been getting slower and slower. Make them jump, Keller! Let’s see some football!”

Jerry, blanket-draped, followed ten yards or so behind the first team, one of a dozen or more substitutes whose first duty just now was to watch every play and learn by the mistakes of others. Ahead of him, darting into the mêlée after every whistle, went Coach Thorne, his voice raised almost incessantly in reproof or praise, command or warning.

“Get down, Left Tackle! You’re letting that man under you every time!... Omstead! You’re giving the play away! Don’t look at the hole! Keep your eyes on the ball!... Into it, Varsity! Smash through! That’s it! Good work, Duveen! Whose place was it to look after that left tackle? That was up to you, Ashley, wasn’t it? Where were you? He was almost on the back of the play! Watch that next time!... Come on, now! You aren’t half fighting! Center, you’ve got to keep your eyes open on that play. Speed it up, Quarter! Get the jump on those fellows! You’re all slow, _slow_, SLOW!”

From across the lines came the higher-pitched tones of Mr. Tibbs: “Who let that man through? That was you, Langley! You let him get you on a pivot again. I’ve told you twenty times not to let that happen! Burns, come in here and show this man how to play! Keep your eyes open and learn, Langley!... Get under ’em, Second! Get under ’em, I tell you! Lift ’em up! Throw ’em back! Stop this play! Get him! Get him!... That’s the stuff, Wilson! That’s great! That’s playing it!... Let’s have it again! Every man into it hard, _hard_! Let’s stop ’em! Bust it up, Second! _Jump!_”

The six minutes passed and the ball, although still the First’s, was forty yards from a touchdown. Mr. Thorne scolded and begged. “Where’s your speed, you fellows? Omstead, you’re slow, man! You’ve got to start faster. You’ve got to get your stride sooner. You’re only half moving when you hit the line! Those forwards can’t keep a hole open all day! Come on and show your pep!”

So it went until, having reached the second team’s twenty-six yards, Duveen missed a pass and an enemy tackle dived through and stole the ball from under Keller’s nose. Two smashes at the left of center for only four yards and then the second punted to midfield, where Keller caught and was downed on the spot. The gallery, who had dispersed with flying draperies a moment before, hurried back to their posts of observation, and Duveen sliced off three yards outside right tackle. Then Omstead tried a straight buck at the other side of center and ran into a stone wall, and Coach Thorne raised an imploring hand to the blue heavens.

“You were late as usual, Omstead,” he snapped. “That’ll do. Benson! Get in there at left half and see if you can show some speed. All that beat you fellows Saturday was your slowness. I’m going to have a back-field with some snap to it if I have to find a brand-new one between now and the twenty-fifth!”

Duveen made the rest of the distance on a fake forward that sent him plunging around the left end. Then came the first of a series and Jerry, arms-length to the left of Duveen in the regular formation, shifted his weight a trifle more to the right, yet carefully kept his gaze from the bent figure of Conger, at right tackle. Back went the ball to Keller. Duveen darted to the left in front of Jerry. Keller turned and passed to Ashley and the latter followed Duveen, straight forward toward the left of the line. Jerry moved his prescribed step forward and held open hands. Ashley was up to him, past him! Then, at the last possible moment, he tossed the ball back across the angle of his elbow. Jerry caught it in a sort of panic, but he had lost his impetus by the time the ball was nestled to his stomach, and when he had dashed across to the right of the line an enemy half was blocking the hole and Jerry went full tilt into a heaving, swaying mass of bodies, pushed and heaved and squirmed all to no purpose, and heard despairingly the shrill whistle!

“What was your trouble, Benson?” snarled the coach. “Off on the wrong foot, eh? Balled everything up because you couldn’t remember the play! A sweet performance that!”

Jerry kept silent and dodged past to position. But he looked past Duveen and wondered. Gus Ashley was as sober as a judge, but there was something in his dirt-streaked face that told Jerry that he was by no means displeased. There were no signals this time, just the brief: “Come on!” from the quarter; and the play was reversed, with Jerry taking the ball from Keller and tossing it to Ashley as he trotted past. It went well, for Ashley found a clear path outside his own left tackle and sliced past for four yards before he was stopped. Again no signals, Duveen taking the pass direct from center and plunging forward like a battering-ram and hurling his weight and strength at the left guard-tackle hole. The hole was there, wide and well cleaned out, and the full back shot through and smashed into a back, caromed off, found his feet, dodged and was off, straight down the field, friend and enemy streaking in his wake!

Duveen made the eight yards before he was pulled to earth, and from there, past left tackle, he made four more, and then, with two downs to spare, romped across for the touchdown.

An interchange of punts after Keller had missed an easy goal ended the period.

Jerry saw most of the second half from the bench, but when the scrimmage was almost over he was called back to punt from his forty-yard line and stayed in after the second had run the kick back to her thirty-seven. In midfield the second fumbled and Mansfield captured the pigskin. Jerry and Duveen alternated around right for six, Ashley added three through the line and Duveen smashed straight into center for the rest of the distance. Then, faking a punt, Jerry hurled to Butterfield and there was a clear twelve-yard gain. Again came the crisscross and again Jerry waited for the pass from Ashley. This time there was a mocking grin on the right half’s face as he passed too late, a grin that deepened as the cry of “_Ball! Ball!_” arose. Jerry flung himself to the ground and wrapped his arms about the pigskin and felt the weight of falling bodies. Then he was on his feet again and Coach Thome’s remorseless voice was in his ears:

“That was rotten, Benson! That’ll do for to-day. Gray, take left half, and, if you can’t gain, at least hold on to the ball!”