Judd hung his head. He had to confess that what Blackwell said was true. Now that he had waged the fight against himself, there was a certain growing spirit which refused to let him stop. He had thought that he would quit on the last night of scrimmage but the next night found him out taking a light signal practice with the team. It was as if he had started an automobile and then wished to stop it only to find that it had gotten beyond his control. The situation was terrifying.

When Judd dressed for the game he took a white slip of paper from his wallet and folded it inside his head gear. Some of the players saw him do it and one asked, "What's that for, a shock absorber?" The question was a harmless thrust but Judd flushed guiltily. They certainly would kid him if they knew what it really was!

In the distance could be heard the yells of the rival schools and the blare of the school bands. Overhead, in the lulls, could be heard the monotonous drip of the rain. What a day for a football game! The gridiron was water-soaked and soggy. A person would get covered with dirt and wet to the skin. Nothing inviting about that to Judd.

"Fellows, I've been your coach for seven years. There has never been a game in all my experience that I have wanted to win more than this one.

We will be outweighed; we will be faced by a team of veterans; but we will not be outspirited. Trumbull has always possessed the spirit that never says die. I know that every man on the first team will be out there ... when his chance comes ... giving everything he has for old Trumbull...." The coach's eyes pa.s.sed over every boy in the squad, pausing just a moment to rest upon Billings, then moving on quickly.

The last pointed words of the coach failed to impress Judd. He seemed in a daze. Could it be possible that he was actually a sub on the first team and that he might be called upon to play? The thoughts of honor had not come to him ... of fighting for his school ... of fighting for anything in particular. But he did want to fight to live up to the contract ... to the belief that a few people had in him.

Judd followed the other subs to a bench along the edge of the field.

He sat down with Burton, second team quarterback, beside him. They watched the Trumbull eleven as it took the field amid a riotous welcoming from the umbrella packed stands. Judd studied the blue jerseyed youths of Canton in comparison with the dark red clad boys of Trumbull. It seemed to him that the Canton team was better drilled, the players moved with more snap and machine-like precision. Judd felt nervous and fidgety.

Trumbull won the toss and chose to kick off. There was a tense hum of sound as Barley, Trumbull quarterback, knelt and pointed the ball on a wet clod of dirt. Rudolph measured off the distance to kick. The opposing captains raised their arms, the referee's whistle shrilled, and the wall of red clad Trumbull warriors moved forward as the ball spun into the air.

Rudolph's kick carried to the ten yard line where Drake, Canton fullback, gathered it in and fell behind his quickly formed interference. He slipped and slid through the mud as he ran. A Trumbull player, meeting the solid phalanx at the twenty yard line, plunged low into the interference, being trampled under foot. But he succeeded in breaking the formation. Fellow team-mates tore into the advancing runners and the big fullback was downed on the thirty-five yard line after a brilliant opening run. The stands were in an uproar.

Judd had watched the play, being conscious of a peculiar pulsation in his throat. The very atmosphere seemed suddenly charged with fighting spirit ... he saw the Trumbull team ... now transformed into mighty gladiators ... and he experienced a shocking sensation at the thought that he was one of them ... in reserve.

b.u.t.ton pounded him on the back. "Wow! They failed to gain!" as the first onslaught of the Canton line was repulsed for a two yard loss.

Before the game was five minutes old it was sadly evident that today--of all days--weight was very likely to tell. The wet field was bound to greatly handicap the work of both teams. There would be little opportunity for fast, open field work or much pa.s.sing. The plays would have to be through the line or around the end--straight football largely.

As the first quarter drew to a close, Canton had the ball on Trumbull's thirty yard line, benefiting by a series of punt exchanges. Holding desperately to prevent Canton gaining another first down, Trumbull was slowly but surely pushed backward through the mud. With one yard to go, Drake came crashing through center for three yards, battering his way with scarcely any interference to help him.

Judd seemed to feel each impact as the opposing lines strained against each other. He cringed inwardly as he heard the smack of Drake's collision with Barley, who brought the big fellow to earth. Canton's first down on Trumbull's eighteen yard line!

The first down seemed to give the heavier Canton team new life. They went to the attack with a savageness which was not to be denied. Using the sledge-hammer power of Drake ... the Canton team pounded again and again at the Trumbull line. The players could scarcely be recognized for the mud with which they were bespattered.

Judd noticed Blackwell, hobbling up and down in his nervous eagerness, looking appealingly at the coach. But Coach Little shook his head. He was taking no chances by putting Blackwell in so long as there was no opportunity of his doing much good. Blackwell's value, in his present condition, would lie in his offensive ability--if he could be used at all. Judd wondered why Blackwell wanted to get into such a combat. He recoiled at the very thought that he might be called upon.

An excited cry directed Judd's attention back to the play of the moment. The Trumbull line had faltered and the Canton backfield was through with Drake again carrying the ball. Judd saw Barley brushed aside as he dove for the runner. Rudolph, the last line of defense, came dashing in and threw himself at the Canton fullback as he crossed the goal line. Drake spun around and fell heavily over the goal, landing solidly upon his tackler. A mighty cheer went up from the Canton rooters--a cheer which died out in a sudden hush when it was seen that the tackler did not rise. Trumbull players gathered about Rudolph. "Water! Water!" A boy near Judd picked up a pail and went racing out on the field, dabbing a sponge in it as he ran. Judd stared dumbly at Burton, who said: "That's tough! ... Looks like Rudie's out!"

They carried Rudolph from the field and Blackwell went limping out to take his place. The Canton team lined up for the try at goal. Rudolph was regaining his senses and struggling to be in action again. Judd leaned over toward him. "You're out of it, old man," he said, soothingly. Judd thought this remark would be a great relief to one who had received such a jolt as Rudolph. But Rudolph only glared at him as another cheer told plainly that Canton had kicked goal. Score seven to nothing ... favor of Canton. Referee's whistle! First quarter up.

The teams exchanged goals and Canton kicked off to Trumbull. Barley caught the ball on his fifteen yard line and ran it back seven yards before a Canton linesman struck him down on a pretty tackle.

Blackwell, taking the ball on the first play, made a limping plunge around right end for a three yard gain. He was given a resounding cheer for his gameness. Two more downs and Trumbull was forced to punt. Blackwell went back and tested his footing in the mud. He shifted his weight carefully to his left foot and booted the ball, but his kick lacked the power it ordinarily contained. The punt carried a scant thirty yards and the Canton halfback who caught it came charging toward the Trumbull goal to Trumbull's twenty-eight yard line. Several attempts to tackle this elusive runner were thwarted by the slippery condition underfoot.

With the ball in Canton's possession again the relentless pound, pound, pound against Trumbull's line began anew. Despite heroic attempts of Trumbull linesmen to stop the advance, the heavier Canton line pushed and shoved and forced its way through, making a path for the seemingly tireless Drake who had been nicknamed "Mud Scow" by an ingenious Canton yell leader.

Eleven minutes of the second quarter were gone when "Mud Scow" Drake went over for the second touchdown. Judd had watched Trumbull for every foot of the water-soaked territory. He had seen Blackwell, on three different occasions, stop the slashing, slipping drive of Drake ... had seen these two go down in a sea of mud ... had seen Blackwell get up each time a little slower ... had seen the undaunted determination upon his dirt-smeared face. And when the Canton team lined up joyously for their second try at goal after touchdown, Judd saw that Blackwell was crying ... crying in unashamed fashion ...

perhaps he wasn't even conscious that he was crying. This was all so puzzling to Judd. He had thought of himself first in everything. He could not comprehend exactly why Blackwell should be so concerned ...

unless he were hurt ... and suffering! It did not dawn upon him what Blackwell was actually thinking ... that Blackwell, in his last year at school, felt himself unable to do his best ... sensed his inability to put the punch in the team ... to restore its shattered confidence ...

shattered because of Canton's powerful, battering attack.

The first half ended with the ball on Trumbull's ten yard line and Canton just that far away from a third touchdown! Score, Canton 14; Trumbull 0. Drake's well trained toe had added the extra point after the second touchdown also.

"So far the game looks like a one man offensive and the advantage of weight," Coach Little told his players between halves. "Stop this fellow Drake and you'll stop their drive. They're using him because they have to depend upon straight football and he's the strongest man in their backfield. The chances are that Canton will play a defensive game from now on and you must take the offensive in order to win.

You've got everything against you today but one thing ... and that's spirit. Any team that can put up the fight you have out there every minute of the half need not be discouraged. Don't think about the score. Concentrate on every play ... put everything you have in it ...

and the score will take care of itself..."

The coach sent the same lineup back into the game.

Rudolph, swathed in blankets, sat near Judd, who watched him out of the corner of his eye. He noticed that Rudolph kept his attention centered on every move of the game. Canton kicked off, and it was Trumbull's ball on Trumbull's thirty yard line. Rudolph's lips moved at each calling of the signals. Judd unconsciously got to doing the same thing. Every time Blackwell's number was called he imagined that he was Blackwell and followed the play through in his mind. Blackwell was holding up ... he was good for short gains almost every time he took the ball. But after each run he dragged himself back into position and sc.r.a.ped the mud from his feet as though each sticking clod held him back.

Rudolph nudged Judd after a play in which Blackwell's fatigue was most evident. "You'll get your chance pretty soon ... he's about all in!"

The blood went racing to Judd's head. The entire game had been thus far like a disconnected dream to him. It had been difficult to actually a.s.sociate himself with it.

"My ... my chance!" he faltered.

Rudolph nodded ... then clutched Judd's sleeve. "See ... Blackwell's looking this way ... we've got to kick ... and ... he can't!"

The field seemed to blur out of Judd's vision. There was a sickening buzzing in his head ... he looked at Rudolph with undisguised horror on his face.

"Me ... me ... go in ... there?"

Rudolph gave him a look of scorn and threw aside his blankets. Coach Little came up, slapping Judd on the back. "You're taking Blackwell's place, Billings ..."

"Let me go in!" pleaded Rudolph, "Judd's scared stiff!"

The coach glanced sharply at the shivering subst.i.tute. The referee's whistle was screeching demandingly. Blackwell was being helped off the field.

"No, Rudie ... you're done for the day. It's up to Billings."

The coach turned to Judd.

"Billings, I'm not putting you in because I want to ... it's because I have to, understand? And if you show yellow ... everyone in Trumbull and everyone in the state for that matter ... is going to know it."

Judd ripped off his sweater. He pa.s.sed Blackwell as he went out to report to the referee. Blackwell called to him. "I'm counting on you, Judd ... do it for me, old boy!"

The great Bob's younger brother had a mixture of feelings ... the words of the coach had aroused him more than he had ever thought he could be aroused ... and Blackwell's plea had brought to him a flash of what it really meant to forget self. If Blackwell could play as he had played with a sprained ankle when every step meant a stab of pain ... if Rudolph had given his best and was even now, though injured, willing to get back into the battle ... why couldn't he carry on the good fight?

WHY COULDN'T HE? The question suddenly became an obsession with him.

And the answer began to rise up within him ... "I can ... I CAN!"

The ball was on Trumbull's thirty-five yard line and last down. Barley met Billings on his way out to the team. Judd had an odd thought that Barley reminded him of a man who had stuck his head out of a sewer hole and looked at him one day. Why should he think of such a curious thing as that ... at a time like this? But Barley was shouting something at him ... the stands were on their feet ... shouting ... shouting ...

what were they shouting? ... why! ... it was HIS name!

"Come on, Billings! Get us out of this hole," pleaded Barley.

And when he said this ... the haunting face of the sewer digger came back to Judd ... came back in such a ludicrous light that Judd looked at Barley and laughed. Get him out of the hole? Certainly he would!

The other players--grim, tired, water-soaked--saw Judd laugh. His first time under fire in the biggest game of the year ... and he could laugh!

To Barley the laugh came as a ray of sunshine. His worries vanished.

Judd had the att.i.tude of a veteran. Barley ran along the line, kicking each linesman as the referee's whistle put the ball again in play.

"Get in there and hold that line!"

There was the sloppy crunching of body against body as the slippery ball snapped back to Billings. Judd caught it, juggled it, recovered and kicked. The ball arched skyward in a twisting spiral. Trumbull ends, making a quick get away, went stumbling and sliding down the field.