A glorious, sunshiny day in late November, with scarcely a breath of wind, the air crisp and bracing; the radiant sunlight fell athwart the white-barred field, and glinted from the gay pennants and banners in the stands! Here was a riot of color, the gold and green of old Bannister; in the next section, the orange and black of Ballard. The bright hues and tints of varicolored dresses, and the l.u.s.ter of the official flowers all contributed to a bewilderingly beautiful spectacle! Flower-venders, peddlers of pennants, sellers of miniature footb.a.l.l.s with the college colors of one team and the other, hawked their wares, loudly calling above the tumult, "Get yer Ballard colors yere!" "This way fer the Bannister flags!" Ten thousand spectators, packed into the cheering sections of the two colleges, or in the general stands, or standing on the side-lines, impatiently awaited the kick-off. At the appearance of each football star, a tremendous cheer went up from the ma.s.s. Across the field from each other, the two bands played stirring strains. The confident Ballard cohorts cheered, sang, and yelled and those of Bannister, not quite so sure of victory, with Thor out, nevertheless, cheered, sang, and yelled as loudly, for the Gold and Green.

The sight of that vast Yale banner, so conspicuous, with its big white letters on a field of blue, amidst the fluttering pennants of gold and green, excited comment among the Ballard followers. The Bannister students, however, knew what it meant; Mr. Thomas Haviland Hicks, Sr., and thirty members of Yale, '96, were in the stand, ready to cheer Captain Butch's eleven, and hoping for a chance to whoop it up for T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., if he got his big chance.

Two days before, when little Theophilus Opperd.y.k.e, after a terrible struggle with himself, divided between loyalty to Hicks and a love for his Alma Mater, had betrayed his toothpick cla.s.s-mate to Captain. Butch Brewster, that behemoth Senior had rounded up Coach Corridan, and together they had dragged the shivering Hicks out to the football field. Here, while the rest of the student body, unsuspecting the important event in progress, made good use of the study-hour, or attended cla.s.ses in Recitation Hall, the Gold and Green Coach, with the team-Captain, and the excited Human Encyclopedia, watched T. Haviland Hicks, Jr. show his samples of drop-kicks. And the success of that happy-go-lucky youth, after his nervous tension wore off, may be attested by the Slave-Driver's somewhat slangy remark, when the exhibition closed.

"Butch," said Head Coach Patrick Henry Corridan, impressively, "what it takes to drop-kick field-goals, from anywhere inside the thirty-yard line, T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., is broke out with!"

The proficiency attained by the heedless Hicks in the difficult art of drop-kicking, gained by faithful practice for a year, aided by his Dad's valuable coaching, was wonderful. Of course, Hicks possessed naturally the needed knack, but he deserved praise for his sticking at it so loyally. He had no surety that he would ever be of use to his college, and, indeed, with the advent of Thor, his hopes grew dim, yet he plugged on, in case old Bannister might sometime need him--and yet, but for Theophilus, he would not have summoned the courage to tell! To the surprise and delight of the Coach and Captain, Hicks, after missing a few at first, methodically booted goals over the crossbar from the ten, twenty, and thirty-yard lines, and from the most difficult angles. There was nothing showy or spectacular in his work, it was the result of dogged training, but he was almost sure, when he kicked!

[Ill.u.s.tration D: He was almost sure, when he kicked!]

"Good!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Coach Corridan, his arm across Hicks' shoulders, as they walked to the Gym. "Hicks, the chances are big that I'll send you in to try for a goal tomorrow, if Bannister gets blocked inside the thirty-yard line!

Just keep your nerve, boy, and boot it over! Now--I'll post a notice for a brief ma.s.s-meeting at the end of the last cla.s.s period, and Butch and I will tell the fellows about you, and how you may serve Bannister."

"That's the idea!" exulted Butch, joyous at his comrade's chance to get in the biggest game. "The fellows will understand, Hicks, old man, and they won't jeer when you come out this afternoon. They'll root for you! Oh, just wait until you hear them cheer you, and mean it--you'll astonish the natives, Hicks!"

Butch's prophecy was well fulfilled. In the scrimmage that same day, T.

Haviland Hicks, Jr., shivering with apprehensive dread, his heart in his shoes, sat on the side-line. In the stands, the entire student-body, informed in the ma.s.s-meeting of his ability, shrieked for "Hicks! Hicks!

Hicks!" Near the end of the practice game, the hard-fighting scrubs fought their way to the 'Varsity's thirty-yard line, and another rush took it five yards more. Coach Corridan, halting the scrimmage, sent the right-half-back to the side-line, and a moment later, T. Haviland Hicks, Jr. hurried out on the field with the Bannister Band playing, the collegians yelling frenziedly, and excitement at fever height, the sunny youth took his position in the kick formation. Then a silence, a few seconds of suspense, as the pigskin whirled back to him, and then--a quick stepping forward, a rip of toe against the leather, and--above the heads of the 'Varsity players smashing through, the football shot over the cross-bar!

"Hicks! Hicks! Hicks!" was the shout, "Hicks will beat Ballard!"

That night, T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., having crossed the Rubicon, and committed himself to Coach Corridan and Captain Brewster, had dispatched a telegraphic night-letter to his beloved Dad. He informed his distinguished parent that his drop-kicking powers were now known to old Bannister, and that the chances were fifty-fifty that he would be sent in to try for a field-goal in the biggest game. On the day before the game, Mr. Thomas Haviland Hicks, Sr., in a night-letter, had wired back:

Son Thomas:

Am on my way to New Haven for Yale-Harvard game. Will stop off at old Bannister--bringing thirty members of Yale '96. We hope our Cla.s.s Kid will get his chance against Ballard.

Dad.

On the morning of the Bannister-Ballard game, Mr. Hicks' private car the Vulcan, with the Pittsburgh "Steel King," and thirty other members of Yale, '96, had reached town. They had ridden in state to College Hill in good old Dan Flannagan's jitney, where T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., proudly introduced his beloved Dad to the admiring collegians. All morning, Mr.

Hicks had made friends of the hero-worshiping youths, who listened to his tales of athletic triumphs at Bannister and at old Yale breathlessly. The ex-Yale star had made a stirring speech to the eleven, sending them out on Bannister Field resolved to do or die!

"My Dad!" breathed T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., crouched on the side line; as he gazed at the Yale banner, he could see his father, with his athletic figure, his strong face that could be appallingly stern or wonderfully tender and kind. Like the sunny Senior, Mr. Hicks, despite his wealth, was thoroughly democratic and already the Bannister collegians were his comrades.

"Here we go, Hicks!" spoke Butch Brewster, as the referee raised his whistle to his lips. "Hold yourself ready, old man; a field-goal may win for us, and I'll send you in just as soon as I find all hope of a touchdown is gone. If they hold us back of the thirty-yard line, I'll try Deke Radford, but inside it, you are far more sure."

The vast crowd, a moment before creating an almost inconceivable din, stilled with startling suddenness; a shrill blast from the referee's whistle cut the air. The gridiron cleared of subst.i.tutes, coaches, trainers, and rubbers-out, and in their places, the teams of Bannister and Ballard jogged out. Captain Brewster won the toss, and elected to receive the kick-off. The Gold and Green players, Butch, Beef, Roddy, Monty, Biff, Pudge, Bunch, Tug, Hefty, Buster, and Ichabod, spread out, fan-like, while across the center of the field the Ballard eleven, a straight line, prepared to advance as the full-back kicked off. There was a breathless stillness, as the big athlete poised the pigskin, tilted on end, then strode back to his position.

"All ready, Ballard?" The Referee's call brought an affirmative from the Orange and Black leader.

"Ready, Bannister?"

"Ready!" boomed big Butch Brewster, with a final shout of encouragement to his players.

The biggest game was starting! Before ten thousand wildly excited and partisan spectators, the Gold and Green and the Orange and Black would battle for Championship honors; with Thor out of the struggle, Ballard, three-time Champion, was the favorite. The visitors had brought the strongest team in their history, and were supremely confident of victory.

Bannister, however, could not help remembering, twice fate had s.n.a.t.c.hed the greatest glory from their grasp, in Butch's Soph.o.m.ore year, when Jack Merritt's drop-kick struck the cross-bar, and a year later, when Butch himself, charging for the winning touchdown, crashed blindly into the upright. Old Bannister had not won the Championship for five years, and now--when the chances had seemed roseate, with Thor, the Prodigious Prodigy--smashing Hamilton out of the way, Fate had dealt the annual blow in advance, by crippling him.

"Oh, we've got to win!" shivered T. Haviland Hicks, Jr. "Oh, I hope I don't get sent in--I mean--I hope Bannister wins without me! But if I do have to kick--Oh, I hope I send it over that cross-bar--"

A second later the Ballard line advanced, the fullback's toe ripped into the pigskin, sending it whirling, high in air, far into Bannister's territory; the yellow oval fell into the outstretched arms of Captain Butch Brewster, on the Gold and Green's five-yard line, and--"We're off!"

shrieked Hicks, excitedly. "Come on, Butch--run it back! Oh, we're off."

The biggest game had started!

CHAPTER XIV

THE GREATER GOAL

"Time out!"

T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., enshrouded in a gold and green blanket, and standing on the side-line, like a majestic Sioux Chief, gazed out on Bannister Field. There, on the twenty-yard line, the two lines of scrimmage had crashed together and Bannister's backfield had smashed into Ballard's stonewall defense with terrific impact, to be hurled back for a five-yard loss. The ma.s.s of humanity slowly untangled, the moleskin clad players rose from the turf, all but one. He, wearing the gold and green, lay still, white-faced, and silent.

"It's Biff Pemberton!" chattered Hicks, shivering as with a chill. "Oh, the game is lost, the Championship is gone. Biff is out, and the last quarter is nearly ended. Coach Corridan has got to send me in to kick. It's our very last chance to tie the score, and save old Bannister from defeat!"

The time keeper, to whom the referee had megaphoned for time out, stopped the game, while Captain Butch Brewster, the campus Doctor, and several players worked over the senseless Biff. In the stands, the exultant Ballard cohorts, confident that victory was booked to perch on their banners, arose en ma.s.se, and their thunderous chorus drifted across Bannister Field:

"There's a hole in the bottom of the sea, And we'll put Bannister in that hole!

In that hole--in--that--hole-- Oh, we'll put Bannister in that hole!"

From the Bannister section, the Gold and Green undergraduates, alumni, and supporters, feeling a dread of approaching defeat grip their hearts, yet determined to the last, came the famous old slogan of encouragement to elevens battling on the gridiron:

"Smash 'em, boys, run the ends--hold, boys, hold-- Don't let 'em beat the Green and the Gold!

Touchdown! Touchdown! Hold, boys, hold, Don't let 'em win from the Green and the Gold!"

T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., with a groan of despair, sat down on the deserted subs. bench. With a feeling that all was lost, the splinter-like Senior gazed at the big score-board, announcing, in huge, white letters and figures:

4TH QUARTER; TIME TO PLAY--2 MIN.; BANNISTER'S BALL ON BALLARD'S 22-YD.

LINE; 4TH DOWN--8 YDS. TO GAIN; SCORE: BALLARD--6; BANNISTER--3.

It had been a terrific contest, a biggest game never to be forgotten by the ten thousand thrilled spectators! Each eleven had been trained to the second for this decisive Championship fight, and with the coveted gonfalon of glory before them, the Bannister players battled desperately, while Ballard's fighters struggled as grimly for their Alma Mater. For six years, the Gold and Green had failed to annex the Championship, and for the past three, the invincible Ballard machine had rushed like a car of Juggernaut over all other State elevens; one team was determined to wrest the banner from its rival's grasp, and the other fully as resolved to retain possession, hence a memorable gridiron contest, to which even the alumni could find none in past history to compare, was the result.

Weakened by the loss of Thor, whose colossal bulk and Gargantuan strength would have made victory a moral certainty, presenting practically the same eleven that had faced Ballard the past season and had been defeated by a scant margin, old Bannister had started the first quarter with a furious rush that swept the enemy to midfield without the loss of a first down.

Then Ballard had rallied, stopping that triumphal march, on its own thirty-five yard line, but unable to check Quarterback Deacon Radford, who booted a forty-three-yard goal from a drop-kick, with the score 3-0 in Bannister's favor, and Deacon, a brilliant but erratic kicker, apparently in fine trim, the Gold Green rooters went wild.

In the second half, however, came the break of the game, as sporting writers term it. The strong Ballard eleven found itself, and with a series of body-smashing, bone-crushing rushes, battering at the Bannister lines like the Germans before Verdun, they steadily fought their way, trench by trench, line by line, down the field. Without a fumble, or the loss of a single yard, the terrific, catapulting charges forced back old Bannister, until the enemy's fullback, who ran like the famous Johnny Maulbetsch, of Michigan, shot headlong over the goal line! The attempt for goal from touchdown failed, leaving the score, at the end of the third quarter, Ballard--6; Bannister--3.

And Deacon Radford, whose first effort at drop-kicking had been so brilliant, failed utterly. Three times, taking a desperate chance, the Bannister quarter booted the pigskin, but the oval flew wide of the goal posts, even from the thirty-yard line. With his mighty toe not to be depended on, with the Gold and Green line worn to a frazzle by Ballard's battering rushes, unable to beat back the victorious enemy, the Bannister cohorts, dismayed, saw the start of the fourth and final quarter, their last hope. The forward pa.s.s had been futile, for the visitors were trained especially for this aerial attack, and with ease they broke up every attempt. And then, with the ball in Ballard's possession on Bannister's twenty-yard line, came a fumble--like a leaping tiger, Monty Merriweather had flung himself on the elusively bounding ball, rolled over to his feet, and was off down the field.

"Touchdown! Touchdown! Touchdown!" shrieked old Bannister's madly excited students, as Monty sprinted. "Go it, Monty--touchdown! Sprint, old man, sprint!"