THE STOLEN FOOTBALL

With one exception North Bank started the game according to predictions. Lee had taken Hickson’s place at left tackle, but all the other positions were filled as they had been filled for a fortnight: Mansfield was at left end, Jackson at left guard, Norris at center, Conger at right guard, Kirkham at right tackle, Butterfield at right end, Keller at quarter, Omstead at left half, Ashley at right half and Duveen at full. It was whispered along the bench that Hickson was in trouble at the Office, but that youth himself, squatted beside the trainer, looked quite untroubled.

It was Omstead who pulled down the kick-off and who was neatly tumbled on his head near the twenty-yard line, tumbled so forcibly in fact that time had to be called almost before the game had started. North Bank claimed every second of the two minutes allowed and the time was evidently none too long for Omstead. Even when he was on his feet again, he appeared still confused and dizzy. Keller spared him through two attacks that tried out the enemy’s left side, attacks that netted less than two yards. Then he was called on and went sliding off tackle on the other side for three, and proved his recovery. But Duveen had to punt then and it was Cumbridge’s ball a moment later between her forty and forty-five yard lines.

It was then that she threw a brief scare into the Light Blue. A split buck in which left half carried the ball outside of tackle worked twice for good gains and the Dark Blue was in her enemy’s territory. Then came, on second down, a fake forward pass and a wide run by the full back that again gave Cumbridge her distance. A real forward pass grounded and quarter back made three through Conger. Another plunge at the same position was stopped and, with seven to go, the Dark Blue punted to Keller on his twelve yards. Tub juggled the ball but held it and, with Mansfield aiding, dodged back to the twenty-two before he was stopped.

For a while each team tried out the opposing line without much benefit, punting when forced to, and the ball changed hands regularly. The field, although wet, was not as slippery as North Bank had expected it to be and the backs kept their feet. There were several fumbles as the ball accumulated moisture, but none was costly. The quarter dragged uninterestingly to its end, the teams sharing what honors there were very evenly. Neither had shown its hand yet, although each had played straight football hard and fast.

The first “break” came when the second quarter was some three minutes old. North Bank, stopped on the enemy’s thirty-seven yards, punted over the goal line and the Cumbridge quarter made the mistake of running the ball back. Apparently he had a clear field along one side line and probably he made sure of getting back as far as his fifteen. But Kirkham proved his Nemesis. Somehow the right tackle had eluded the enemy defense and as the quarter shot across the five-yard line he appeared suddenly out of the ruck. The runner tried to dodge him, but Kirkham outguessed him and the two went rolling out of bounds at the ten yards. Cumbridge sent a back hurtling at the short side of the line, but he was stopped with no gain and without getting the ball over the side line. A wide run that sent four men ahead of the ball brought the pigskin to the sixteen, but Cumbridge chose to play safe then and punted. It was Omstead who caught, standing just behind the fifty-yard line.

Keller sprang ahead of him as he started away and the two raced straight forward. Keller sent a Cumbridge man sprawling at the forty and, a few paces later, went down himself, taking with him, however, another of the enemy. North Bank strove to build a hasty interference about the runner, but Omstead was going fast now and his team mates were outdistanced. Avoiding the enemy as it streamed toward him, he edged nearer and nearer the side line. At the thirty yards he tried to recover ground on his left, but was headed back and a moment later, dodging a tackler, he stepped out at the twenty-four.

“Touchdown! Touchdown!” implored the North Bank rooters as the ball was paced in and set down close to the twenty-four yards, while, from across the field, came an answering slogan. “Hold ’em! Hold ’em! Hold ’em!” chanted Cumbridge. Keller piped his signals, snatched the ball and swung toward his backs. The latter crossed to the left and smashed past tackle. The lines heaved and swayed and broke, and Keller, the ball snuggled to the pit of his stomach, turned and knifed himself through between guard and tackle on the right, plumped into a back, squirmed around him, was tackled and went down, still fighting for inches. North Bank’s supporters, on their feet, cheered wildly, and the dull sloping bank broke into light blue.

“Second down!” called the referee. “Six to go!”

It was Ashley close off tackle on the left this time, the back-field starting as before and throwing all its weight into the play. Perhaps the play looked so much like the preceding one that the Dark Blue was fooled. In any case, once past tackle, Ashley found a clear field for three yards and after that fought on for two more with enemy backs hanging to him. Cumbridge insisted on having the distance measured, more as a means of gaining breath than anything else, and the line showed the ball a full two feet past the pole.

“First down!” The referee skipped aside.

“Come on, North Bank!” shouted Keller. “Make it good! Get into this hard! Let’s have a score! Come on! Come on! Come on!”

Straight plunging now, Duveen first outside left guard for a short yard. Then Ashley for a bare two on his own side. “Third down and about seven to go!” Ashley next on a straight buck at right tackle, Kirkham pinning the guard in, Butterfield charging the tackle out, Mansfield swinging through to get full back, Duveen stepping back and faking a forward pass, Omstead going to the left. Four yards more, but still three short of the distance!

“Get up!” shouted Keller. “Signals!”

“Tear them up!” yelled Mansfield, hoarsely. “Let’s have it, fellows! Once more!”

“Fourth and about three,” cried the referee.

“On side, Cumbridge left end!” warned the linesman.

“Omstead back!” commanded Keller. “Hold that line, North Bank! 32――13――42――84! 32――13――9――――”

“Block it!” shrieked the Cumbridge captain. “Smash ’em! Get through! _Block that kick!_”

But there was no kick to block, for Omstead, the ball tucked under his left arm, his right ready for tacklers, had started toward the end. Before him, a quickly moving wall of interference, went Jackson, Keller, Duveen and Ashley, the left guard swinging from position and preceding Keller through the hole. It was Duveen who put the opposing end out. The play went like a charm and Omstead plunged through for six yards and placed the ball four feet from the enemy’s goal and just short of the right-hand post.

Up the field the stands were shouting continuously, North Bank’s triumphant cheers met by the grim entreaty: “Hold ’em! Hold ’em!” from Cumbridge. But there was little hope of holding them now. It was first down, with the besieged lined squarely on their last white streak, and the besiegers already tasting victory.

Yet desperation will compass marvels. Duveen smashed straight ahead between Conger and Kirkham and made less than a foot. A second attempt inside of Conger yielded no gain. Keller scolded and pleaded. From across the line came the frantic, imploring voice of the Dark Blue’s leader and the shrill yelping of the quarter back.

“Throw ’em back, Cumbridge! Get down, Mason! Let’s stop ’em again! Into it, fellows! Smash ’em back! Hold ’em! Hold ’em!”

A whistle blew and a big, rangy Cumbridge lineman dug his way through to the referee.

“Right guard, sir!”

Keller viewed him swiftly as he pushed into the line. Then the whistle piped again and Keller bent once more. “Let’s make it, North Bank! Hard, _hard_! Signals!”

Then Ashley was plunging across, had the ball and was into the line. Straight at the new guard he went, but the guard wasn’t there, for Jackson had done his work, and Ashley went through, stopped, went forward again and down, with half the enemy upon him.

Up the field, blue flags swirled, blue megaphones waved and a mighty bedlam of sound proclaimed the touchdown!

Omstead had no trouble making a goal when the ball was brought out, and on the score board the white 6 changed to 7.

There was still six minutes left, and Cumbridge, thirsting for vengeance, came back mightily. Capturing the ball on her twenty-eight yards, she was presently forging toward the farther goal, mingling desperate forward passes with attacks outside tackles and somehow constantly gaining. Twice sheer luck aided her progress; once when a forward pass, thrown too short, was tipped by Butterfield and so diverted straight into the hands of the receiver, and once when the Dark Blue’s right half fumbled the ball and it was recovered by an end five yards nearer the North Bank goal. Yet once past the thirty-yard line, Cumbridge’s gains lessened and, at last, near the twenty-five, two downs left her with three to go and after a forward pass had grounded she sent her right half to kicking position and prepared for a placement kick.

North Bank’s supporters visioned a 3 beside the 7 on the score board, for the play was directly in front of goal and the distance was slightly under thirty-five yards. The Light Blue did her best to break through and spoil the effort, but Cumbridge’s line held like a stone wall, and away went the ball, safely above the upstretched hands of the leaping enemy. There was an anxious silent moment, and then a shout of relief burst from the Light Blue side of the field, for the ball had passed just under the crossbar!

A minute later the half ended and the two teams streamed off the field, blue blankets trailing, while North Bank, under the lead of Tom and Sanford, broke into cheers.

North Bank’s players and substitutes, coaches, managers and trainer, swarmed to the improvised quarters. Riordan was as busy as a cat on a hot griddle and the pungent odor of liniment filled the place. A babel of talk arose. The coaches, heads bent, conferred in low voices. The door of the wide hall opened and a boy in a tan raincoat hurried across the floor. Naughton sprang to meet him.

“What do you want? The North Bank team has this hall!”

“There’s a telephone call for Jerry Benson,” answered the intruder. “Is he here?”

“Yes, but he can’t go.”

“They say it’s important.”

“Mr. Thorne! Here’s a fellow who says Benson’s wanted on the ’phone, important. Can he go?”

“Of course not! Hold on! How much time is there?”

“About twelve minutes; eleven and a half.”

“All right, Benson! Hurry up, though. You’re wanted next half.”

“Yes, sir, thanks,” answered Jerry. “Where is it?”

“I’ll show you,” replied the obliging messenger. “Come on.”

Outside, Ted Ingraham chuckled as they hurried across the campus. “That was easy,” he said. “Got everything?”

“Yes. Are there many fellows about?”

“Quite a few. Reckon they won’t be up there, though. Here’s the building. I’ll stand outside the booth and whistle. Once means that some one’s coming in, twice that they’re going upstairs. Good luck, Jerry!”

There were two telephone booths at the left of the wide corridor as they entered the building and both were empty. The partly-opened doors of several class rooms gave glimpses of black-boarded walls and deserted seats, but from one end of the longer corridor came voices and the ticking of a typewriter.

“School office, I think,” whispered Ted. “Turn to your right at the top of the stairs. You’ll see the cases about halfway――――”

“I know! Watch the door!” Jerry swung to the stairway and darted up swiftly. From the landing, halfway, he saw through a wide window the field and the stands and the moving throngs below them. Then he was in a lengthwise corridor, deserted, silent. There were doors at intervals on either side, and, midway between staircase and corridor ends, were cross corridors forming deep alcoves. It was toward one of these that Jerry turned his steps, wishing that his cleated shoes made less sound in the echoing stillness. As he went he eyed the closed portals doubtfully. It would have been a vast relief to know that none would open suddenly upon him and his burglarious deed!

But the doors were forgotten an instant later, for here was the alcove that Ted had described. At its end was a low, broad window. In the center was a table, rather dusty, flanked by two chairs. Against its walls were two massive cases with double glassed doors, and from the one to his right peered forth the oval, goblin faces of many footballs. One quick look and Jerry’s misgiving was banished. There hung the football with the all-white inscription just where Ted had said it would be! Jerry dropped a hand into a pocket of his sweater, listening intently. All was still save for the faint ticking of the distant typewriter.

When his hand was withdrawn it carried a string of nearly two dozen keys. Dropping to one knee, he examined the lock. It was simple enough, just such a lock as is usually found on old-fashioned bookcases and wardrobes. He tried his first key and found it too small, tried the next with no better fortunes. His fingers moved awkwardly in spite of his efforts to work calmly and methodically, and all the time he listened intently for Ted’s warning whistle. One key after another failed to work. Some were too large to enter, some too small, while those that did slip into the hole either refused to turn or, turning, failed to move the bolt. More than half had been tried and Jerry’s heart began to sink. He had not provided himself with any means of forcing the door, although he saw now that that would be an easy task. Even a stout screwdriver inserted between door and casement would doubtless disengage the bolt sufficiently. Still, to cause damage to Cumbridge property was not within his scheme, would not, he held, be playing the game. Recovering the stolen football by unlocking the case was one thing. Obtaining it by breaking and entering was quite another. Perhaps the distinction was rather a delicate one, but Jerry was satisfied with it.

But four keys on his string remained untried and his hope was dwindling fast. Those that were left looked no different from several he had already tested and he saw no reason to expect better results from them. Meanwhile, too, the moments were flying and he had agreed to be back on the field in time for the resumption of play. To him it seemed that all of those eleven minutes must have gone. Another key failed to fit, and another. Only two left to try now, and failure stared him in the face. From the dim recess of the case the oval faces seemed to look mockingly out at him. Then, suddenly, his heart leaped! The last key save one turned with light resistance and there was a faint _click_ within the lock! And as his fingers tugged eagerly at the key and, with a creak, the door yielded, there came to him one shrill whistle from the lower corridor!

Jerry’s hand stayed and he listened with fast-beating heart. He could hear footsteps plainly down there. Would they become fainter or louder? Then two more whistles reached him. He sprang to his feet and looked around for a place of concealment. He had not provided for such a contingency and the bare alcove offered no refuge. He thought of opening one of the closed doors near at hand and stepping inside until the danger had passed, but suppose the intruder was bound for that room? There was still the chance that the footsteps sounding briskly on the stairs would turn to the left instead of to the right when they gained the second floor corridor, and Jerry comforted himself with that hope. Meanwhile, since concealment was out of question, he stepped away from the case, moved to the window and stared out, his back to the corridor. Of course if the person approaching observed that Jerry’s legs were clad in light-blue stockings explanations would be in order, but the alcove was dim this rainy day and perhaps, seen against the light, the color would pass unnoticed.

Jerry’s ears strained as the intruder reached the top of the staircase. Then his body grew tense. The footsteps were approaching! Resisting the impulse to look, Jerry kept his face resolutely toward the window, though he saw nothing of the blurred landscape without. With his hands clasped behind him, he strove to look meditative and, above all, casual. The steps came nearer and nearer, were passing! No, for, just when Jerry started a long breath of relief, they stopped! He knew that the person had paused at the mouth of the alcove and was staring at him. He could imagine the surprise and puzzlement on the fellow’s countenance. Indeed, to find a chap in football togs gazing idiotically from a window of School Hall at such a time was enough to puzzle him! Jerry heard the intruder clear his throat as though to speak. Yet he didn’t speak, and, after a moment that seemed all of a minute to Jerry, the footsteps went on, and presently, further along the corridor, a door opened and closed and from beyond it a whistled football tune sounded cheerfully!

Jerry sprang back to the case and, indifferent now to noise, tugged at the key. The glass door swung outward with loud creakings. In another instant the football was in his hands, the door was closed again and locked and the keys were back in his pocket. Then with quick fingers he unlaced the ball and let the air from it. It took much precious time, but he was undoubtedly already late and he might as well be hung for a sheep as for a lamb! Before the ball was quite flat he thrust it under his sweater and ran. On the stairs he went more slowly and looked cautiously over the banisters. But below only Ted was visible, Ted looking upward with a very anxious frown. Jerry fairly plunged down the rest of the steps and, dragging Ted with him, raced through the door and down the steps.

“Have you got it?” whispered Ted hoarsely.

“Yes! Hurry up! I’m later than the dickens!”

“Late? What’s the matter with you? You’ve got four minutes yet.”

“_What?_” gasped Jerry incredulously.

“Sure!” Ted fumbled at a sleeve and exposed his watch to view. “If you don’t believe it, look for yourself.”

“Golly!” Jerry slowed his pace. “I thought I was up there about twenty minutes!”