CHAPTER XXV

ZO PLAYS

Mr. Banks kept Zo at his violin lesson later than the latter had feared

he would, and it was nearly three o’clock when the boy reached the

field and, not without difficulty, found a seat in the very last tier.

Grudging occupants, resentful of disturbance, drew together to allow

him something less than the sixteen inches to which he was supposed to

be entitled. As he was wearing a thick mackinaw and must find space for

his violin-case, he felt somewhat crowded. Still, being wedged in had

one advantage: it made for warmth; and the top row of the stand was a

chilly place that afternoon. He wished that he had had sense enough to

leave his violin at Mr. Banks’s. Being accustomed to taking it with him

after his lessons, he had given it no thought. Putting it between his

legs was a comfortable solution, but if, in the excitement of the game,

he should jump up, the case and contents would doubtless slip between

the planking and fall to the ground. He finally laid it obliquely

across his knees, to the evident annoyance of his right-hand neighbor,

and fixed eager eyes on the contest.

He witnessed Barry’s rather dramatic entrance on the scene and took

whole-souled part in the two short cheers: “Rah, rah! Cartright!

Rah, rah! Locke!” After that, until the half ended, he forgot

everything but the game, and thrilled as only an ardent lover of

football and a zealous patriot can. He almost lost his violin when the

Purple-and-Gray’s left end went over for the touchdown, springing to

his feet in unison with those below and beside him and shouting shrilly

until his throat ached. Between halves he tried putting his hands in

his pockets, but as surely as he did so some restless youth decided to

pass him and so they must be taken out again to clutch the violin-case.

He was glad when, having listened with impatient politeness while

Hoskins sang rousingly about how “Hoskins heroes never yield,” Billy

Bassett, cheer captain, lifted his purple megaphone to his mouth again

and demanded: “‘Hey Diddle Diddle,’ fellows! Every one into it! Make a

noise. _Come on!_”

Clasping his burden to his chest, Zo stood and sang at the top of his

lungs, stamping chilled feet in time to the merry strains. “Hey Diddle

Diddle” was a warming song, for you clapped your hands together at the

end of every second line of the rollicking chorus. A long “Broadmoor”

followed, and then, quite unexpectedly, the teams were back and the

real cheering started!

Broadmoor began the second half with the same line-up she had started

with. Tip Cartright was back at right half, and Barry was once more on

the bench. As though persuaded by recent events that she had only to

take what she wanted, the home team wrested the ball from the opponent

soon after the kick-off and started a sturdy march up the field. Nearly

every play in the repertoire of the Purple-and-Gray was used during

that advance; and Broadmoor reached the foe’s thirty-two yards before

Demille, skirting the Hoskins end, was brought down by a husky enemy

back with such a crash that the ball got away from him and was captured

by the defender.

One plunge that netted two yards or so, and Hoskins sent off a long

forward-pass that went beautifully and brought the warriors to

mid-field. Very promptly Broadmoor became not the attacker but the

defender. Hoskins launched an offensive operation that brought alarm

to the audience in the east stand and caused Zo to squirm and writhe

in impotent dismay. The Blue-and-Orange seemed at last to get her

attack working right and, with a much-touted left half-back bearing the

brunt of the burden, crashed and plowed her way by short but sufficient

gains to the Broadmoor twenty-two yards before the Purple-and-Gray

recovered from her surprise sufficiently to stem the invasion. At the

last Broadmoor stiffened and two surges at her line were repulsed for

virtually no gain.

By this time there had been three changes in the Broadmoor line-up.

Zinn, rather groggy, had given place to Ike Boardman, Follen was at

right end instead of Harris, and Kirkland occupied the post beside

him. Hoskins faked a kick and shot a short pass over the left side of

the line which grounded. Followed a conference, and then, postponing a

touchdown for the time, the quarter patted the turf some eight yards

back of his center and knelt beside the spot. Broadmoor made a heroic

effort to crash through and smear that kick, but she failed and the

ball sailed from the thirty-yard line straight across the bar, and the

figure 3 appeared on the score-board beneath Broadmoor’s 6.

For the rest of that quarter Hoskins, having tasted blood, raged like a

devouring lion. But once a forward-pass fell into Demille’s hands and

averted a possible disaster, and once, well inside Broadmoor territory

again, a penalty for holding set the visitors back and necessitated a

punt. The third quarter ended with the ball in Hoskins’s possession on

her own forty-one yards.

Just before the end of the period Major Loring arose from his place

near the end of the bench and seated himself beside Barry. For several

minutes he talked in low tones, while Barry, staring thoughtfully

ahead, nodded at intervals. When time was called Barry shed his blanket

and walked to where the referee was guarding the newly placed ball.

“Locke, right half-back, sir,” he announced.

“Broadmoor right half out,” called the official as the men gathered.

Cartright yielded his head-guard silently and limped off to a welcoming

cheer. Ike Boardman the irrepressible winked genially at Barry as he

passed on his way back. Barry grinned, rather nervously. Hoskins took

up her task once more, shooting her demon half-back at every angle and

getting four, five, sometimes six yards at a time until she neared the

thirty. There the advance slowed and finally paused, and when a tricky

double-pass had failed to gain, the Blue-and-Orange tried a desperate

venture. The ball was on Broadmoor’s thirty-three yards, and the wind,

now blowing strongly, was against the attacker. Nevertheless, Hoskins

elected to try a placement kick. The stands grew silent as the Hoskins

kicker went slowly back and the quarter settled himself to take the

pass from center, so silent that Ike Boardman’s hoarse challenge was

heard plainly.

“Get through ’em, Broadmoor! Smear ’em up! Block this kick! Fight, you

guys! fight, I tell you! Block it! Block it!”

The ball touched the ground just short of the forty-yard line and

although Broadmoor did plow through desperately and nearly spoiled the

attempt, the pigskin sailed safely above the upstretched hands of the

leaping enemy and straight for the goal. It went well above the bar

and past the posts, and the Broadmoor adherents in the stand endured

a miserable moment of anxiety until an official waved negatively.

Then relief expressed itself in a mighty shout. The wind that at

first seemed to favor the brave enterprise had turned traitor at the

last instant and whisked the ball just outside the left-hand upright!

Hoskins deserved that field-goal, for the attempt had been a gallant

one and well executed. But such jests of Fortune are common enough in

football, and the loser learns not to complain. Hoskins felt the blow

but scorned discouragement.

Two drives at the Blue-and-Orange center yielded six yards, and then

Barry was sent back and punted. With the wind behind him he became

in reality the fabled “Punting ace,” for the ball went well over the

heads of the Hoskins backs and rolled to their twelve yards before it

was recovered. Had Larry Smythe been in fresher condition or Follen

a faster end, the game might have been decided then and there, for

the Hoskins quarter had difficulty in capturing the bobbing oval. But

as it was, the ball was safely downed when Larry settled against the

quarter’s head. Hoskins, on the first play, got a back around Follen’s

end for nine yards. Blue-and-Orange pennants flapped in the wind and

Hoskins cheers boomed forth. The enemy was again on her way!

Straight to mid-field she went, Broadmoor fighting hard but

unsuccessfully to stay the rush. Hoskins swept across the half-way

line with a twelve-yard forward-pass, sent an end around the enemy’s

left for six more, and finally made it first down on the Broadmoor’s

thirty-seven. The minutes were ticking away fast, but not fast enough

for the watching friends of the home team.

Up on the top row of the wind-swept east stand, Zo Fessenden shook

with cold and excitement. Many of his erstwhile companions had deserted

him for the more sheltered ground below, and now he was able to lay his

instrument beside him and, his hands in his pockets, stamp and shiver

and shake unencumbered. His teeth chattered whenever he parted them

to cheer or groan. Just now groans were more frequent than cheers,

for the east stand had grown ominously silent. There was something so

inexorable in the way in which the enemy tore off her gains that even

the optimistic grew faint-hearted. Broadmoor was fighting gallantly,

savagely, yielding ground grudgingly enough, but Broadmoor appeared to

have lost some of her coherence; some of her spirit, too; and while

the west stand kept up an unceasing riot of sound, the efforts of the

Broadmoor cheerleaders met with but a sorry response.

Once it was necessary to measure with the chain to determine whether or

not Hoskins had gained her distance, but Fate was good to her and the

referee waved her on. Every one realized that Hoskins would not try for

a field-goal short of a fourth down, for a field-goal would only tie

the score and Hoskins ached for a victory. And so when she presently

went through the motions of staging a try from placement, none of the

enemy team was fooled and the wide run around the end that eventuated

was stopped for a yard loss. This time Broadmoor had something to cheer

for, and she made the most of the opportunity. Yet, before she had

ceased, Hoskins had punched through Ellingham for three more.

Goof, weary and battered, was called out and Hal Stearns went in.

Sinclair, too, was taken out, but despite the fresher warriors Hoskins

crept on to the sixteen. It was as though the defenders sensed defeat

then. In spite of Captain Buck’s entreaties, in spite of Ike Boardman’s

threats, in spite of themselves, discouragement weakened the efforts of

every player. They didn’t mean to weaken, didn’t want to, didn’t know

that they did, but the fact that they had lost faith in themselves was

evident. It was evident even to Zo, shivering up there in the chill

gloom of early twilight. Zo saw and realized and hated the knowledge.

He shouted encouragement at the height of his shrill young voice, not

caring that he shouted almost alone. He saw the invader draw closer and

closer to that distant last white line, and so, finally, driven to it

by some inner impulse, with trembling fingers he opened the case beside

him, lifted out his violin, and, standing, drew the bow across the

strings.

At first heads turned and faces scowled or grinned at the slim figure

standing back up there outlined against the gray sky. Then a low voice

started the words and others joined. One by one, then by dozens, the

fellows arose to numbed feet, and the volume grew. Zo had chosen the

school song. Perhaps it was no great composition, but the slow, tuneful

music welled sweetly from his instrument, clear above the sounds of the

field, and stilled at last the noisy triumph of the farther stand. The

players heard it, too, and thrilled to it. By the time Zo had played

it through once and started again every voice on the east side of the

gridiron was singing the words. Solemnly, sweetly, the last verse fell

over the field:

“Sunny fields, in memory you stretch before my eyes.

You are smiling at me under azure skies.

I can see the river winding once again

And the shadows moving slowly o’er the plain.

Sunny fields of Broadmoor, back with you I’d be,

Back among old comrades ever dear to me.

Always I’ll remember, always I will praise

Sunny fields of Broadmoor; happy, happy days.”

The song ended, Zo’s bow held long on the last clear note; and as it

died to silence, silence held the stands. Then a great burst of sound

came: applause, hearty, sincere, and sympathetic, from across the

wind-swept field; acclaim, ecstatic and passionate, from the home

stand; a burst of sound that went on and on and grew higher and higher

and presently became a thunderous repetition of one word:

“_Broadmoor! Broadmoor! Broadmoor! Broadmoor! Broadmoor!_”

And down in front of the north goal, wearied and battered but believing

again, eleven heroes dug their cleats on the four yards and wrested the

ball from the enemy!