Books: THE PROSPECTOR
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RALPH CONNOR >> THE PROSPECTOR
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The McGill people go wild again. "Bunch! Bunch!" they yell
frantically, crowding down the line after him. "He's in! He's in!"
But not yet. Red Pepper is swiftly bearing down upon him, and as he
comes within reach springs at him. But the wily Bunch has learned to
measure that long reach, and dodging back sharply, he slips round
Pepper and makes for the line ten yards away.
A long groan goes up from the 'Varsity support, while from a hundred
McGill throats rises the cry again--"He's in! He's in! A touch! A
touch!"
But close upon him, and gaining at every foot, is The Don, the
fleetest man in the 'Varsity team. For half a second it looks as if
Bunch must make the line, but within three yards of the goal, and
just as he is about to throw himself toward it, Balfour shoots out
his arm, grasps his enemy by the back of the neck, and turning
round, hurls him back with terrific force to the ground and clambers
on top of him. It is a fierce tackle, giving great satisfaction to
all the 'Varsity supporters, but to none more than to Mrs.
Macgregor, who, as she sees the unfortunate Bunch hurled to earth,
exclaims with quiet satisfaction, "That will be doing for ye, I'm
thinking."
"Isn't she a great old warrior?" says Lloyd aside, to the young
ladies.
"The Don! The Don!" cry the 'Varsity contingent. "We-like-Don! We-
like-Don!" they chant, surging across the corner of the field in the
wildest enthusiasm.
"Keep back! Keep back! Give him air." The referee, and the captains
with their teams, push the crowd back, for Bunch is lying motionless
upon the ground. "It's simply a case of wind," says little Carroll,
the McGill quarter, lightly.
"The want of it, you mean," says big Mooney, hauling Carroll back by
the neck.
In a few minutes, however, the plucky McGill half back is up again,
and once more the scrimmage is formed.
Gradually it grows more evident that McGill is heavier in the
scrimmage, but this advantage is offset by the remarkable boring
quality of the 'Varsity captain, who, upon the break up of a
scrimmage, generally succeeds in making a few feet, frequently over
Shock's huge body. As for Shock, be apparently enjoys being walked
upon by his captain, and emerges from each successive scrimmage with
his yellow hair fiercely erect, his face covered with blood, and
always wreathed in smiles. No amount of hacking and scragging in a
scrimmage can damp his ardour or ruffle the serenity of his temper.
"Isn't he ghastly?" exclaims Lloyd to the young ladies at his side.
"Perfectly lovely!" cries Betty in return.
"Ah, the old story of the bloodthirsty sex," replies Lloyd. "Hello,
there goes half time," he adds, "and no score yet. This is truly a
great game." Eagerly the men are taken charge of by their respective
attendants, stripped, rubbed, slapped, and sponged.
Up come Shock and Brown. The blood on Shock's face gives him a
terrifying appearance.
"Oh!" cries Helen anxiously, "you are hurt."
"Not a bit," he replies cheerily, glancing in surprise at her.
"How do you like it, Mrs Macgregor?" inquires Brown.
"Man, laddie, they are a grand team, and it will be no easy matter
to wheep them."
"Don't you think now that Shock is a little too gentle with them?"
asks Brown wickedly.
"Well, it will not do to allow them to have their own way
altogether," she replies cautiously. "But run away, Hamish, and get
yourself put right. There is much before you yet."
"Say, old man," says Brown as they trot off, "it's no credit to you
to be a great centre. You'd disgrace your blood if you were anything
else."
Into the 'Varsity dressing room strolls old Black, the greatest
captain of the greatest team 'Varsity has ever seen.
"Well, old chap," he calls out cheerfully to Campbell, "how goes
it?"
"All right," says Campbell. "They are a great team, but I think we
are holding them."
"They are the greatest team McGill ever sent here," replies Black.
"Oh, thanks, awfully," says Campbell, "but they are hardly up to the
team of four years ago."
"Quite, I assure you, and you are holding them down."
"Do you think so?" There was no anxiety in the captain's tone, but
there was a serious earnestness that somehow caught the ear of all
the men in the room.
Black noticed it.
"Yes, you are holding them so far, without a doubt. Their weight
tells in the scrimmage, and of course we do not know their back play
yet, and that fellow Bunch Cameron is a wonder."
"That's what!" sings out little Brown. "But what's the matter with
The Don?"
Immediately the roar comes back, "He's--all--right!"
"Yes," replies Black quietly, "Balfour is swifter, and harder in
tackle."
"Have you anything to suggest?" asks Campbell, with a reverence
which a man in the struggle feels for one who has achieved. The men
are all quiet, listening. But Black knows his place.
"Not in the least. You have a great team, and you are handling them
perfectly."
"Hear that now, will you?" cries little Brown "We're It!"
"Do you think we had better open up a little?" But Black is a
gentleman and knows better than to offer advice.
"I really cannot offer an opinion. You know your men better than I.
Besides, it is better to find out your enemy's tactics than to be
too stuck on your own. Remember, those fellows are doing some
thinking at this blessed minute. Of course," he went on
hesitatingly, "if they keep playing the same close game--well--you
might try--that is--you have got a great defence, you know, and The
Don can run away from any of them."
"All right," said the captain. "We'll feel 'em first, boys. Keep at
the old game. Close and steady till we get inside their heads. Watch
their quarters. They're lightning in a pass."
It turns out that old Black is right. The McGills have been doing
some thinking. From the kick-off they abandon the close scrimmage
for a time, playing an open, dribbling, punting game, and they are
playing it superbly. While they are sure in their catching and
fierce in their tackle, their specialty is punting and following up.
In this they are exceedingly dangerous. For the first ten minutes
the 'Varsity men are forced within their own twenty-five yard line
and are put upon their defence. The quarters and forwards begin to
"back," a sure sign of coming doom.
"What in thunder are you doing back here!" roars Martin to little
Brown. "Do you see anything wrong with this line?"
Nothing so maddens a half back as to see the forward line fall back
into defence. Little Brown, accepting his rebuke with extraordinary
meekness, abandons the defence and with the other quarters and
forwards, who had been falling back, goes up where Campbell and
Shock are doing their best to break the punting game and are waiting
their chance for a run.
Every moment is dangerous; for the McGills have the spirit of
victory strong upon them, and from their supporters on the side
lines the triumphant and exasperating refrain is rising:
"Got'em going, going, going,
Got'em going home."
And indeed for a few minutes it looks like it. Again and again the
McGill forward line, fed carefully and judiciously by their defence,
rush to the attack, and it is all Campbell can do to hold his men in
place. Seizing the opportunity of a throw-in for 'Varsity, he passes
the word to his halves and quarters, "Don't give away the ball. Hold
and run. Don't pass," and soon he has the team steady again and
ready for aggressive work. Before long, by resolutely refusing to
kick or pass and by close, hard tackling, 'Varsity forces McGill to
abandon open play, and once more the game settles down into the old,
terrible, grinding scrimmage.
"Oh, why don't they let The Don have it?" exclaims Betty. "I am sure
he could get through."
The crowd seem to hold the same opinion, for they begin to call out,
"Let it out, Alec. Let The Don have it."
But Campbell still plays cautiously a close game. His men are
staying well, and he is conscious of a reserve in his back line that
he can call upon at the fitting moment. For that moment, however, he
waits anxiously, for while his scrim is playing with bulldog grit it
is losing snap. True, Shock comes out of every tussle bloody,
serene, and smiling as usual, but the other men are showing the
punishment of the last hour's terrible scrimmage. The extra weight
of the McGill line is beginning surely to tell. It is an anxious
moment for the 'Varsity captain, for any serious weakening of the
scrimmage line is disastrous to the morals of a team.
"You are holding them all right, old chap," says old Black, taking
advantage of a pause in the play while little Brown's leg is being
rubbed into suppleness.
"I'd like to open out, but I'm afraid to do it," replies Campbell.
"Well, I think your back line is safe enough. Their scrimmage is
gaining on you. I almost think you might venture to try a pass
game."
It is upon the passing of his back line that Campbell has in
previous matches depended for winning, and with ordinary opponents
he would have adopted long ago this style of play, but these McGill
men are so hard upon the ball, so deadly in tackling, and so sure in
their catch that he hesitates to give them the opportunities that
open play affords. But he has every confidence in The Don, his great
half back; he has never played him in any match where he has not
proved himself superior to everything in the field, and he resolves
to give him a chance.
At this moment something happens, no one knows how. A high punt from
behind sends the ball far up into the 'Varsity territory, and far
before all others Bunch, who seems to have a kind of uncanny
instinct for what is going to happen, catches the ball on the bound
and makes for the 'Varsity line with a comparatively open field
before him. Fifteen yards from the line he is tackled by Martin, but
ere he falls passes to Huntingdon, his captain, who, catching neatly
and dodging between Campbell and another 'Varsity man, hurls his
huge weight upon Pepper, who is waiting for him, crouched low after
his usual style.
The full back catches him fairly and throws him over his shoulder.
As both come heavily to the ground there is a sickening crack heard
over the field. The McGill captain, with Pepper hanging desperately
to his hips, drags himself over the line and secures a touchdown for
McGill.
At once there rises a wild tumult of triumph from the McGill
contingent, but after a minute or two the noise is followed by an
anxious hush, and when the crowd about the prostrate players is
dispersed Pepper is seen lying on his face tearing up the grass. Two
or three doctors rush in from the crowd, and before long Pepper is
carried off the field. His leg is broken.
A number of people begin to leave the field.
"Oh, isn't it horrible," groans Betty, turning very pale. "Shall we
go home, Mrs. Macgregor? "
Helen looks at the old lady anxiously.
"Here is Hamish," she replies quickly. "We will wait."
Shock runs up, much disturbed.
"Awful, is it not?" he says to Helen, who is the first to meet him.
"I am sorry, mother, you are here."
"Will they be stopping, think you, Hamish?" asks his mother. There
is a shade of anxiety in her voice.
"No, mother, we must play it out."
"Then I will just be waiting for the end," says the old lady calmly.
"Poor laddie--but he was bravely defending his post. And you must
just be going, Hamish man."
As Shock moved off the young ladies and Lloyd looked at her in
amazement. It was in some such spirit that she had sent her husband
to his last fight twenty years ago.
A cloud of grief and foreboding settles down upon the 'Varsity team,
for Pepper is not only a great favourite with them, but as a full
back they have learned to depend upon him. Huntingdon is full of
regrets, and at once offers Campbell and the referee to forego the
touchdown, and to scrimmage at the point of tackle.
"He would have held me, I know, bar the accident," he says.
The referee is willing, but Campbell will not hear of it.
"Put off a man," he says shortly, "and go on with the game."
Bate is moved from half to full, a man is taken from the scrimmage
to supply his place, McGill makes a similar shift, and the game
proceeds.
Huntingdon fails to convert the touchdown into a goal. Bate kicks
back into touch, and with desperate determination 'Varsity goes in
to even the score.
Campbell resolves now to abandon the close game. He has everything
to win, and to lose by four points is as much a loss as by a dozen.
"Play to your halves every time," he orders the quarters, and no
sooner is play begun than the wisdom of the plan is seen. With a
brilliant series of passes the 'Varsity quarters and halves work the
ball through the McGill twenty-five line, and by following hard a
high punt, force the enemy to a safety touch. No sooner has the
McGill captain kicked off than the ball is returned and again McGill
is forced to rouge.
The score now stands four to two in favour of McGill, but the
'Varsity men have come to their strongest and are playing with an
aggressiveness that cannot be denied. Again and again they press
their opponents behind their twenty-five line.
"Oh," exclaims Betty, "if there is only time they can win yet. Do
find out," she says to Lloyd, "what time there is left." And Lloyd
comes back to announce that there are only six minutes to play.
"Hamish will be telling me that a game is often won in the last
minute," remarks the old lady encouragingly.
As Campbell perceives his desperate case, he begins to swear low,
fierce oaths at his quarters. In all their experience of their
captain the 'Varsity men have never heard him swear, and they awake
to the fact that they are face to face with a situation entirely
unparalleled in their history as a team. They are being defeated,
and about to lose their one chance of the proud distinction of
holding the championship of Canada.
From man to man Campbell goes as he finds opportunity his face
white, his eyes ablaze, adjuring, urging, entreating, commanding, in
a way quite unusual with him.
A new spirit seizes the men. Savagely they press the enemy. They are
never off the ball, but follow it as hounds a hare, and they fling
themselves so fiercely at their foe that in every tackle a McGill
man goes down to earth.
But try as they may it seems impossible to get the ball to The Don.
The McGill men have realised their danger and have men specially
detailed to block the great 'Varsity half. Again and again The Don
receives the ball; but before he can get away these men are upon
him.
At length, however, the opportunity comes. By a low, swift pass from
Brown, Martin receives the ball and immediately transfers it to The
Don. Straight into the midst of a crowd of McGill men he plunges,
knocking off the hands reaching for him, slipping through impossible
apertures, till he emerges at the McGill line with little Carroll
hanging on to his shoulders, and staggering across falls fairly into
the arms of big Mooney.
Down they go all three together, with hands on the ball.
"What is it? Oh, what is it?" shrieks Betty, springing upon the box.
"I am thinking it is what they will be calling a maul in goal, and
it is a peety we cannot be seeing it," replies the dauntless old
lady.
"Oh, it's The Don," exclaims Betty anxiously. "What are they doing
to him? Run, oh, run and see!" and Lloyd runs off.
"It's a maul sure enough. Two of them have The Don down," he
announces, "but he'll hold all right," he adds quickly, glancing
keenly at Betty.
"Let me go," cried Betty. "I must go."
"Betty," says Helen, in a low voice, "be quiet."
"Oh, I don't care," cries Betty passionately. "I want to go."
"He'll hold all right," says Lloyd confidently, and Betty grows
suddenly quiet.
"Ay, that he will, yon chap," agrees Mrs. Macgregor, standing up and
trying to see what is going on.
"If The Don can hold for three minutes it will count two for his
side; if Mooney and Carroll can get the ball away it will only count
one," explained Lloyd.
About the three players struggling on the ground the crowd pours
itself, yelling, urging, imploring, shrieking directions. Campbell
stoops down over The Don and shouts into his ear. "Hold on, Don. It
means the game," and The Don, lying on his back, winds his arms
round the ball and sets himself to resist the efforts of Mooney and
Carroll to get it away.
In vain the police and field censors try to keep back the crowd.
They are swept helpless into the centre. Madder and wilder grows the
tumult, while the referee stands, watch in hand, over the struggling
three.
"Stop that choking, Carroll," says Shock to the little quarter, who
is gripping The Don hard about the throat.
"Get off, Mooney," cries Campbell. "Get off his chest with your
knees. Get off, I say, or I'll knock your head off."
But Mooney persists in boring into The Don's stomach with his knees,
tugging viciously at the ball. With a curse Campbell springs at him.
But as he springs a dozen hands reach for him. There is a wild rush
of twenty men for each other's throats. Too close to strike they can
only choke and scrag and hack each other fiercely. The policemen
push in, threatening with their batons, and there is a prospect of a
general fight when the referee's whistle goes. Time is up. The MAUL
is over. 'Varsity has its two points. The score now stand even, four
to four, with two minutes to play.
They lift The Don from the ground. His breath is coming in gasps and
he is trembling with the tremendous exertions of the last three
minutes.
"Time there!" calls out Shock, who has Balfour in his arms.
The smile is all gone from Shock's face. As he watches The Don
struggling in deep gasps to recover his breath, for the first time
in his football life he loses himself. He hands his friend to a
couple of men standing near, strides over to Mooney, and catching
him by the throat begins to shove him back through the crowd.
"You brute, you!" he roars. "What kind of a game do you call that!
Jumping on a man when he is down, with your knees! For very little,"
he continues, struggling to get his arm free from the men who are
hanging on it, "I would knock your face off."
Men from both sides throw themselves upon Shock and his foe and tear
them apart.
"That's all right, Shock," cries The Don, laughing between his
gasps, and Shock, suddenly coming to himself, slinks shamefacedly
into the crowd.
"It is not often Hamish forgets himself in yon fashion," says his
mother, shaking her head. "He must be sorely tried indeed," she adds
confidently.
"I am quite sure of it," replies Helen. "He always comes out
smiling." And the old lady looks at her approvingly a moment, and
says, "Indeed, and you are right, lassie."
In a few minutes The Don is as fit as ever, and slapping Shock on
the back says pleasantly, "Come, along, old fire-eater. We've got to
win this game yet," and Shock goes off with him, still looking much
ashamed.
McGill kicks from the twenty-five line, but before the scrimmage
that follows is over time is called, with an even score.
The crowd streams on the field tumultuously enthusiastic over a game
such as has never been seen on that campus. Both sides are eager to
go on, and it is arranged that the time be extended half an hour.
Old Black gets Campbell aside and urges, "Take ten minutes off and
get your men into quarters." Campbell takes his advice and the
rubbers get vigorously to work at legs and loins, rubbing, sponging,
slapping, until the men declare themselves fresh as ever.
"Not hurt, Don?" inquires Campbell anxiously.
"Not a bit," says The Don. "It didn't bother me at all. I was
winded, you see, before I fell."
"Well," says Campbell, "we're going to give you a chance now.
There's only one thing to do, men. Rush 'em. They play best in
attack, and our defence is safe enough. What do you say, Black?"
"I entirely agree. But begin steady. I should use your whole half
back line, however, for a while. They will lay for Balfour there."
"That's right," says the captain. "Begin steady and pass to Martin
and McLaren for the first while, and then everyone give The Don a
chance."
"And Shock," calls out little Brown, "don't be a fool, and stop
fighting," at which everybody roars except Shock himself, who,
ashamed of his recent display of temper, hurries off to the field.
Once more the campus is cleared. Battered and bloody as to features,
torn and dishevelled as to attire, but all eager and resolved, the
teams again line up, knowing well that they have before them a half
hour such as they have never yet faced in all their football career.
It is 'Varsity's kick. Campbell takes it carefully, and places it in
touch well within the McGill twenty-five. After the throw in, the
teams settle down to scrimmage as steady as at the first, with this
difference, however, that 'Varsity shows perceptibly weaker. Back
step by step their scrimmage is forced toward the centre, the
retreat counterbalanced somewhat by the splendid individual boring
of Campbell and Shock. But both teams are alert and swift at the
quarters, fierce in tackle and playing with amazing steadiness.
Suddenly Carroll nips up the ball and passes hard and swift to the
half back immediately behind him, who in turn passes far out to
Bunch on the left wing. With a beautiful catch Bunch, never slacking
speed, runs round the crowd, dodges the quarters, knocks off Martin,
and with a crowd of men of both teams close upon his heels, makes
for the line.
Before him stands Bate alone. From his tall, lank make one might
easily think him none too secure on his legs. Bunch determines to
charge, and like a little bull rushes full at him.
But Bate's whole football life has been one long series of
deceptions, and so he is quite prepared for this kind of attack. As
Bunch comes at him he steps lightly aside, catches the half back
about the neck, swings him round and lands him prone with such
terrific impact that the ball flies out of his grasp.
Immediately little Brown has it, passes to Martin, who on being
tackled passes to The Don. The field before him is full of the
enemy, but The Don never hesitates. Doubling, twisting, knocking of,
he eludes man after man, while the crowds on the line grow more and
more frantic, and at length, clearing the main body, he sets off
across the field to more open country on the 'Varsity left. Behind
him come Campbell, Shock, Martin and others, following hard; before
him stand three of the McGill defence. Dorion, McDonnell, and
Mooney. He has already made a great run, and it looks as if he
cannot possibly make through.
First Dorion springs at him, but The Don's open hand at the end of a
rigid arm catches him full in the neck, and Dorion goes down like a
stick.
Big McDonnell bears swiftly down upon him and leaps high at him, but
The Don lowers his shoulder, catches McDonnell below the wind and
slides him over his back; but before he can get up speed again
little Carroll is clutching at his hips, and Mooney, the McGill full
back, comes rushing at him. Swinging round, The Don shakes Carroll
partly off, and with that fierce downward cut of his arm which is
his special trick, sends the little quarter flying, and just as
Mooney tackles, passes the ball over his shoulder to Shock, who is
immediately pounced upon by half a dozen McGill men, but who, ere he
is held, passes to Campbell, who in turn works forward a few yards,
and again on being tackled, passes to The Don. It is a magnificent
bit of play.
The spectators have long since passed all bounds of control, and are
pouring on the field, yelling like mad people. Even the
imperturbable old lady loses her calm for a moment, and griping
Helen's arm exclaims, "Look at that, now! Man, man, yon is a grand
laddie."
There is no chance for The Don to run, for a swarm of the McGill men
stand between him and the line only a few yards off. Then he does
the only possible thing. Putting his head down he plunges into the
crowd in front of him.
"Come on, Shock," yells Campbell. Instantly a dozen 'Varsity men
respond to the cry and fall in behind Campbell and Shock, who,
locking arms about The Don, are shoving him through for dear life.
There are two minutes of fierce struggle. Twenty men in a mass,
kicking, scragging, fighting, but slowly moving toward the McGill
line, while behind them and around them the excited spectators
wildly, madly yelling, leaping, imploring, adjuring by all kinds of
weird oaths to "shove" or to "hold." In vain the McGill men throw
themselves in the way of the advancing mass. Steadily, irresistibly
the movement goes on. They are being beaten and they know it.
"Down! down!" yells big Huntingdon, dropping on his knees on the
line in front of the tramping, kicking 'Varsity phalanx.
A moment's pause, and there is a mass of mingling arms, legs, heads
and bodies, piled on the goal line.
"Held! held!" yell the McGill men and their supporters.
But before the referee can respond Shock seizes The Don below the
waist, lifts him clear of the mob, and trampling on friend and foe
alike, projects him over the struggling mass beyond the enemy's
line, where he is immediately buried beneath a swarm of McGill men,
who savagely jump upon him and jam his head and body into the turf.
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