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  THE ARRIVAL OF JIMPSON

  BY RALPH HENRY BARBOUR.

  Each, 12mo, Cloth, Illustrated.

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  D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, NEW YORK.

  The captain was holding his head.]

  THE ARRIVAL OF JIMPSON

  And Other Stories for Boys about Boys

  BY

  RALPH HENRY BARBOUR

  AUTHOR OF BEHIND THE LINE, WEATHERBY'S INNING, ON YOUR MARK! ETC.

  _ILLUSTRATED_

 

  New York D. Appleton and Company 1904

  Copyright, 1904, by D. APPLETON AND COMPANY

  _Published, September, 1904_

  TO H. D. R.

  IN MEMORY OF THE WINTER OF '98-'99

  The following stories first appeared in St. Nicholas, The Youth'sCompanion, Pearson's Magazine, and The Brown Book. To the editorsof these periodicals the author's thanks are due for permission torepublish the tales.

  CONTENTS

  PAGE THE ARRIVAL OF JIMPSON 1 BARCLAY'S BONFIRE 30 MARTY BROWN--MASCOT 42 PARMELEE'S "SPREAD" 75 "NO HOLDING" 96 CLASS SPIRIT 117 THE FATHER OF A HERO 136 THE HAZING OF SATTERLEE 2D 161 A PAIR OF POACHERS 185 BREWSTER'S DEBUT 209 "MITTENS" 234

  LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

  FACING PAGE The captain was holding his head. _Frontispiece_ Jimpson felt like an outcast, and looked like an Indian. 9 There was one kind of ball that Marty knew all about. 71 "Duty!" frothed Morris. 130 Tom moved the net toward the prey. 198 Ned trotted over the plate into the arms of "Big Jim" Milford. 232

  THE ARRIVAL OF JIMPSON

  Copyright, 1898, by THE CENTURY CO. All rights reserved.

  I

  THE DEPARTURE

  The rain fell in a steady, remorseless drizzle upon the rain-coatsand umbrellas of the throng that blocked the sidewalks and overflowedon to the car-tracks; but the fires of patriotism were unquenchable,and a thousand voices arose to the leaden sky in a fierce clamor ofintense enthusiasm. It had rained all night. The streets ran water,and the spouts emptied their tides between the feet of the cheerers.The lumbering cars, their crimson sides glistening, clanged their waycarefully through the crowds, and lent a dash of color to the scene.The back of Grays loomed cheerless and bleak through the drizzle, andbeyond, the college yard lay deserted. In store windows the placardswere hidden behind the blurred and misty panes, and farther up theavenue, the tattered red flag above Foster's hung limp and dripping.

  Under the leafless elm, the barge, filled to overflowing with departingheroes, stood ready for its start to Boston. On the steps, bareheadedand umbrellaless, stood Benham, '95, who, with outstretched and wavingarms, was tempting the throng into ever greater vocal excesses.

  "Now, then, fellows! Three times three for Meredith."

  "'Rah, 'rah, 'rah! 'rah, 'rah, 'rah! 'rah, 'rah, 'rah! Meredith!" Athousand throats raised the cry; umbrellas clashed wildly in mid-air;the crowd surged to and fro; horses curveted nervously; and the rainpoured down impartially upon the reverend senior and the clamorousfreshman.

  "Fellows, you're not _half_ cheering!" cried the relentless Benham."Now, three long Harvards, three times three and three long Harvardsfor the team."

  "Har-vard, Har-vard, Har-vard! 'Rah, 'rah, 'rah! 'rah, 'rah, 'rah!'rah, 'rah, 'rah! Har-vard, Har-vard, Har-vard! Team!"

  Inside the coach there was a babel of voices. Members of the elevenleaned out and conversed jerkily with friends on the sidewalk. Valisesand suit-cases were piled high in the aisle and held in the owners'laps. The manager was checking off his list.

  "Cowper?"

  "Here."

  "Turner?"

  "All right."

  "Truesdale?"

  "Hey? Oh, yes; I'm here." The manager folded the list. Then a penciledline on the margin caught his eye.

  "Who's Jameson? Jameson here?"

  "Should be Jimpson," corrected the man next to him; and a low voicecalled from the far end of the barge:

  "Here, sir." It sounded so much like the response of a schoolboyto the teacher that the hearers laughed with the mirth begot oftight-stretched nerves. A youth wearing a faded brown ulster, whowas between Gates, the big center, and the corner of the coach, grewpainfully red in the face, and went into retirement behind the bigman's shoulder.

  "Who is this fellow Jimpson?" queried a man in a yellow mackintosh.

  "Jimpson? He's a freshie. Trying for right half-back all fall. Isuppose Brattle took him along, now that Ward's given up, to substituteSills. They say he's an A 1 runner, and plucky. He's played some on thesecond eleven. Taunton told me, the other day, that he played greatball at Exeter, last year."

  The strident strains of the Washington Post burst out on the air,urging the cheerers to even greater efforts. They were cheeringindiscriminately now. Trainer, rubbers, and coaches had received theirshares of the ovation. But Benham, '95, with his coat soaked through,was still unsatisfied, and sought for further tests. Two professors,half hidden under umbrellas, had emerged from the yard, and werestanding at a little distance, watching the scene.

  "Three times three for Professor Dablee!" The cheers that followed weremixed with laughter, and the two professors moved off, but not untilthe identity of the second had been revealed, and the air had filledwith the refrain of "'Rah, 'rah, 'rah! Pollock!"

  "They look as though they ought to win; don't you think so?" asked oneof them.

  The other professor frowned.

  "Yes, they look like that; every eleven does. You'd think, to see thembefore a game, that nothing short of a pile-driver or dynamite coulddrive them an inch. And a few days later they return, heartbroken anddefeated."

  Across the square floated a husky bellow:

  "Now, then, fellows! Once more! All together! Three times three forHarvard!"

  The band played wildly, frenziedly, out of time and tune; the crowdstrained its tired throats for one last farewell slogan; the men in thebarge waved their hands; the horses jumped forward; a belated riser inHolyoke threw open a front window, and drowsily yelled, "_Shut up_";and the Harvard eleven sped on its way up the avenue, and soon became ab
lur in the gray vista.

  "Say, Bob, you forgot to cheer Jimpson."

  The wearied youth faced his accuser, struck an attitude indicative ofintense despair, and then joyfully seized the opportunity.

  "Fellows! Fellows! Hold on! Three times three for Jim--Jim--who'd yousay?"

  "Jimpson," prompted the friend.

  "Three times three for Jimpson! Now, then, all together!"

  "Say--who _is_ Jimpson?" shouted a dozen voices at once.

  "Don't know. Don't care. Three times three for Jimpson!"

  And so that youth, had he but known it, received a cheer, after all.But he didn't know it--at least, not until long afterward, when cheersmeant so much less to him.

  II

  A LETTER

  NEW HAVEN, CONN., November 19.

  DEAR MOTHER: I can imagine your surprise upon receiving a letter from this place, when your dutiful son is supposed to be "grinding" in No. 30 College House, Cambridge. And the truth is that the dutiful son is surprised himself. Here am I, with some thirty-five other chaps, making ready for the big football game with Yale to-morrow. Here is how it happened:

  Yesterday morning, Brattle--he's our captain--came to my room, routed me out of bed, and told me to report to the coaches for morning practise. You know, I've been trying for substitute right half-back. Ward, the regular, sprained his knee in the Dartmouth game, and a few days ago it went lame again. So now Sills has Ward's place, and I'm to substitute Sills. And if he gets laid out--and maybe I ought to hope he won't--I go in and play. What do you think of that? Of course Sills may last the entire game; but they say he has a weak back, only he won't own up to it, and may have to give up after the first half. Gates told me this on the train. Gates is the big center, and weighs 196. He is very kind, and we chummed all the way from Boston. I didn't know any of the fellows, except a few by sight--just enough to nod to, you know.

  We left Cambridge in a driving rain, and a big crowd stood out in it all, and cheered the eleven, and the captain, and the college, and everything they could think of. Every fellow on the first and second elevens, and every "sub" was cheered--all except Mr. Jimpson. They didn't know of his existence! But I didn't feel bad--not very, anyhow. I hope the rest of the fellows didn't notice the omission, however. But I made up my mind that if I get half a show, I'll make 'em cheer Jimpson, too. Just let me get on the field. I feel to-night as though I could go through the whole Yale team. Perhaps if I get out there, facing a big Yale man, I'll not feel so strong.

  You know, you've always thought I was big. Well, to-day I overheard a fellow asking one of the men, "Who is that little chap with the red cheeks?" I'm a midget beside most of the other fellows. If I play to-morrow, I'll be the lightest man on the team, with the exception of Turner, our quarter-back, who weighs 158. I beat him by three pounds.

  Such a hubbub as there is in this town to-night! Everybody seems crazy with excitement. Of course I haven't the slightest idea who is going to win, but to look at our fellows, you'd think they would have things their own way. I haven't seen any of the Yale players. We practised on their field for an hour or so this afternoon, but they didn't show up. There was a big crowd of Yale students looking on. Of course every fellow of us did his very worst; but the spectators didn't say anything--just looked wise.

  Most of the fellows are terribly nervous to-night. They go around as though they were looking for something, and would cry if they didn't find it soon. And the trainer is the worst of all. Brattle, the captain, is fine, though. He isn't any more nervous than an alligator, and has been sitting _still all the evening_, talking with a lot of the old graduates about the game. Once he came in the writing-room, where I'm sitting, and asked what I was doing. When I told him, he smiled, and said to tell you that if anything happened he'd look after my _remains_ himself! Maybe he thought I was nervous. But if I am, I'm not the only one. Gates is writing to his mother, too, at the other table.

  Give my love to Will and Bess. Tell Will to send my old skates to me. I shall want them. There is fine skating on Fresh Pond, which, by the way, is a lake.

  We're ordered off to bed. I guess some of us won't sleep very well. I'm rather excited myself, but I guess I'm tired enough to sleep. I'll write again when I get back to college. With bushels of love to all,

  Yours affectionately,

  TOM.

  III

  THE "ARRIVAL"

  Jimpson sat on the ground, and watched with breathless interest twocharging, tattered, writhing lines of men. Jimpson felt a good deallike an outcast, and looked like a North American Indian. Only legsand face were visible; the rest of Jimpson was enveloped in a big grayblanket with barbaric red borders. Some two dozen counterparts ofJimpson sat or lay near by, stretching along the side-line in frontof the Harvard section of the grand stand. Behind them a thousandenthusiastic mortals were shouting paeans to the goddess of victory,and, unless that lady was deaf, she must have heard the paeans, howeverlittle she approved of them. The most popular one was sung to awell-known tune:

  Jimpson felt like an outcast, and looked like an Indian.]

  "As we're strolling through Fifth Avenue With an independent air, The ladies turn and stare, The chappies shout, 'Ah, there!' And the population cries aloud, 'Now, aren't they just the swellest crowd, The men that broke Old Eli at New Haven!'"

  And a mighty response swept across the field from where a bank of bluerose from the green of the field to the lighter blue of the sky. It wasa martial air, with a prophecy of victory:

  "Shout aloud the battle-cry Of Yale, Yale, Yale! Wave her standard far and high For Yale, Yale, Yale! See the foe retreat before us, Sons of Eli, shout the chorus, Yale, Yale, Yale, Yale, Yale!"

  Harvard and Yale were doing battle once more, and twenty thousandpeople were looking on. The score-board announced: Harvard, 4; Yale, 0.Yale's ball. 15 minutes to play.

  The story of twenty minutes of the first half is soon told. It had beenYale's kick-off. Haag had sent the ball down the field to Harvard's20-yard line, and Van Brandt had gathered it in his long arms, and,with Meredith ahead, had landed it back in the middle of the field. Butthe fourth down gave it to their opponents after a loss of two yards,and the pigskin went down again to Harvard's territory, coming to astop at the white line that marked thirty-five yards. Here Harvard'snew half-back kick had been tried, and the ball went high in air, andthe field went after it; and when the Yale full-back got his hands onit, he was content with a bare five yards, and it was Yale's ball onher 40-yard line. Then happened a piece of ill luck for the wearers ofthe blue. On the second down, Kurtz fumbled the pass, the ball rolledtoward Yale's goal, and Brattle broke through the opposing left tackleand fell on it.

  And while a thunderous roar of joy floated across the field from thefollowers of the Crimson, the teams lined up on Yale's thirty yards.Twice Meredith tried to go through between center and left guard, and abare yard was the reward. Then Van Brandt had run back as for a kick;the ball was snapped, passed to Sills, Harvard's right half-back, and,with it safely under his arm, he had skirted the Yale left, and fallenand wriggled and squirmed across the goal-line for the first touch-down.

  Then ensued five minutes of bedlam, and after the victorious seats hadsettled into excited complacency, Van Brandt had tried for goal. Butsuccess was too much to hope for, and the two teams trotted back tothe middle of the field, with the score 4 to 0. Then had the sons ofEli shown of what they were made, and in the next ten minutes the ballhad progressed with fatal steadiness from the center of the field tothe region of the Crimson's twenty yards. And now it was Yale's ballon the second down, and the silence was so intense that the signal washeard as plainly by the watchers at the far end of the field as by thetwenty-two stern-faced warriors who faced each other almos
t under theshadow of the goal-posts.

  "_Twelve, six, twelve, fifty-two!_"

  And the backs, led by the guards, hurled their weight against Harvard'sright tackle; and when the ball was found, Baker held it within a fewinches of the 10-yard line.

  The cheers of Yale had now grown continuous; section after sectionpassed the slogan along. The stand across the field looked to Jimpsonlike a field of waving blue gentians. On the Harvard seats the uproarwas less intense, and seemed a trifle forced; and the men near by werebreathing heavily, and restively creeping down the line.

  Again the lines were formed. Jimpson could see the tall form of thegallant Gates settle down into a hunchback, toad-like position toreceive the coming onslaught. Billings, the right tackle, was evidentlyexpecting another experience like the last. He looked nervous, andGates turned his head and spoke to him under cover of the first numbersof the signal.

  The guards were back of the line again, and their elbows almost brushedas they stood between the half-backs. Silence reigned. The refereeskipped nimbly out of the way.

  "_Seven, seventeen, eighty-one, thirty!_"

  Again the weakening tackle was thrust aside, and although the Crimsonline held better, the ball was three yards nearer home when thewhistle blew, and Billings, somewhat dazed, had to call for a shortdelay.

  "First down again," muttered a brawny sub at Jimpson's elbow. "Whydoesn't he take Billings out?"

  Again the signal came. Again a jumbled mass of arms and legs for amoment hid the result. Then the men on the stand overlooking thegoal-line arose _en masse_, and a mighty cheer traveled up the field,growing in volume until Jimpson could not hear his own groans nor theloud groans of a big sub. Back of the line, and almost equidistant ofthe posts, lay the Yale full-back; and the ball was held tightly toearth between outstretched hands. The prostrate players were slowlygaining their feet; but Billings and Sills lay where they had fallen.Then Brattle stepped toward the side line, holding up his hand. With aleap Jimpson was on his feet. But the big chap beside him had alreadypulled off his sweater, and now, tossing it into Jimpson's face, hesped gleefully toward the captain.

  Jimpson sat down again in deep disappointment; and a moment later,Billings, supported on either side, limped from the gridiron, amid thecheers of the Harvard supporters. Sills was on his feet again, and thetrainer was talking to him. Jimpson could see the plucky fellow shakinghis head. Then, after a moment of indecision, the trainer left him, thewhistle sounded, the Crimson team lined up back of the line, and Kurtzwas poising the ball for a try at goal. The result was scarcely indoubt, and the ball sailed cleanly between the posts, a good two feetabove the cross-bar; and the score-board said, "Harvard, 4; Yale, 6";and there were three minutes more of the half.

  Back went the ball to the 55-yard line, and loud arose the cheers ofthe triumphant friends of Yale. Gates kicked off, and Warner sent theball back again, with a gain of ten yards. Sills caught it and ran, butwas downed well inside Harvard territory, and the half ended with theball in Yale's hands. Jimpson seized his blanket, and trotted after theeleven to the quarters. He found Gates stripping for a rub-down.

  "Well, my lad," panted the latter, "could you discern from where youwere just what kind of a cyclone struck us?" But Jimpson was too muchinterested for such levity.

  "Do you think I'll get in this half, Gates?"

  "Can't say. Take a look at Sills, and judge for yourself."

  That gentleman was having his lame back rubbed by a trainer, but heappeared to Jimpson good for at least another quarter of an hour.

  It seemed but a moment after they had reached the rooms that the wordof "Time's up, fellows," was passed, and renewed cheering from withoutindorsed the fact. But a moment or two still remained, and that momentbelonged to Brattle. He stood on a bench and addressed the hearers veryquietly:

  "We're going to kick, this half, fellows. I want every man to get downthe field on the instant, without stopping to hold. I don't think theycan keep us from scoring at least once more; but every man has got to_work_. When the time comes to put the ball over the line, I expect itto go over with a rush. Let every man play the best game he knows, but_play together_. Remember that lack of teamwork has often defeated us.And now, fellows, three times three for Harvard!"

  And what a yell that was! Jimpson went purple in the face, and the headcoach cheered his spectacles off. And then out they all went on a trot,big Gates doing a coltish handspring in mid-field, to the great delightof the Crimson's wearers. The college band played; thirty thousandpeople said something all together; and then the great quadrangle wassilent, the whistle piped merrily, and the ball soared into air again.

  Jimpson took up his position on the side-line once more, and watchedwith envious heart the lucky players. For the great, overwhelmingdesire of Jimpson's soul was to be out there on the torn turf, doinggreat deeds, and being trampled under foot. He watched the redoubtableSills as a cat watches a mouse. Every falter of that player broughtfresh hope to Jimpson. He would have liked to rise and make animpassioned speech in the interests of humanity, protesting againstallowing a man in Sills's condition to remain in the game. Jimpson'sheart revolted at the cruelty of it.

  Some such idea as this he had expressed to Gates, that morning; and thebig center had giggled in deep amusement; in fact, he had refused torecognize the disinterested character of Jimpson's protest.

  "Don't you think," Jimpson had pleaded, "that I might ask Brattle togive me a show in the second half?"

  "No, I don't," Gates had answered bluntly. "You're an unknown quantity,my boy; as the Frenchies say, you haven't 'arrived.' For a player whohasn't 'arrived' to try to give the captain points would be shockingbad taste. That's how it is. Sills is a good player. As long as he canhold his head up, he'll be allowed to play. When he's laid out, Brattlewill give you a show. He can't help himself; you're the only chap thathe can trust in the position. And look here; when that time comes, justyou remember the signals, and _keep your eyes on the ball_. That's allyou'll have to do. Don't take your eyes off the leather, even if thesky falls!"

  Jimpson remembered the conversation, and thought ruefully that it waseasy enough for a fellow who has everything that heart can desireto spout good advice to chaps on the side-lines. Perhaps if Gateswere in his (Jimpson's) place he'd not be any too patient himself.The score-board said fifteen minutes to play. Sills still held up hisstubborn head, and Jimpson's chances grew dimmer and dimmer as momentssped.

  Harvard's kicking tactics had netted her long gains time and again, andtwice had she reached Yale's 10-yard line, only to be grimly held andhurled back. Yale, on the other hand, had only once reached scoringdistance of their opponent's goal, and had been successfully held fordowns. Veterans of the game declared enthusiastically, between bets,that it was "the snappiest game of the decade!" and supporters ofHarvard said among themselves that it was beautifully conducive toheart-disease. Perhaps never had the two colleges turned out teams soevenly balanced in both offense and defense. The bets had become "oneto two that Harvard doesn't score again."

  Harvard's quarter had given place to a substitute, and her left guardhad retired injured. Yale had fared no better, possibly worse, sinceher crack full-back had been forced to yield to a somewhat inferiorsub. And now the hands on the score-board turned again, and only tenminutes remained.

  The ball was down near Harvard's 40-yard line, and when it was snappedback, Sills took it for a "round-the-end run." But Yale's big lefthalf-back was waiting for him, and the two went to earth together nearthe side-line and almost at Jimpson's feet. And then it was that thatyouth's heart did queer feats inside him, and seemed trying to get out.For Sills lay a while where he had fallen, and when he could walk thedoctor had sent him from the field. Brattle beckoned to Jimpson. Withtrembling fingers Jimpson struggled with his sweater; but had not aneighbor come to his assistance, he would never have wriggled out of itbefore the game was called.

  Brattle met him, and, laying an arm over his shoulder, walked him a fewpaces apart. J
impson's heart, which had become more normal in action,threatened another invasion of his throat, and he wondered if everybodywas looking on. Then he stopped speculating, and listened to what thecaptain was saying.

  "We've only eight minutes to play. The ball has _got_ to go over,Jimpson. I've seen you run, and I believe you can make it if you try.The ball is yours on the second down. Try the right end; don't beafraid of swinging out into the field. Whatever you do, don't let go ofthe ball. If Turner puts you through the line, keep your head down, butjump high. Now, go in, and let's see what you can do." He gave Jimpsonan encouraging slap on the back that almost precipitated that youthinto the quarter, and Jimpson saw the broad backs before him settlingdown, and heard the labored breathing of the men.

  "_Ninety-one, twenty-eight, seventy-three, sixty-four--six!_"

  Jimpson suddenly found himself pushing the left half-back against asurging wall of tattered blue. Then some one seized him about thewaist, and he picked himself up from the ground eight feet away fromthe scene of battle.

  "That's what comes of being so small and light," he growled to himself,as he trotted back. But the thirst of battle was in Jimpson's soul,and he marked the Yale end who had treated him so contemptuously.

  The try between right tackle and end had netted a bare yard, andJimpson tried to look self-possessed while his back was running withlittle chills and his throat was dry as dust. The next chance was his,and he waited the signal anxiously, to learn whether the pass wasdirect or double. The other half-back imperceptibly dropped back afoot. The quarter looked around. The lines swayed and heaved.

  "_Twenty-seven, sixty-three, forty-five, seventy-two--five!_"

  Jimpson leaped forward; the left half-back darted across him, thequarter passed neatly, and, with the Harvard left end beside him, hewas sweeping down to the right and into the field. The Yale end wentdown before the mighty Cowper; and Jimpson, sighting a clear space,sped through. He could feel the field trailing after him, and couldhear the sounds of the falling men. Before him in the distance, alittle to the left, came the Yale full-back. Almost upon him was theYale left half, looking big and ugly. But, with a final spurt, VanBrandt ran even, and gave the shoulder to the enemy; and as they wentdown together, Jimpson leaped free, and, running on, knew that at lasthe was left to shift for himself. Of the foes behind he had no fear; ofthe full-back running cautiously down on him he feared everything. Buthe clutched the ball tighter, and raced on straight as an arrow towardthe only player between him and the goal that loomed so far down thefield.

  He heard now the mighty sound of voices cheering him on, saw withoutlooking the crowded stands to the right; and then something whisperedof danger from behind, and, scarcely daring to do so, lest he trip andfall, glanced hurriedly over his shoulder into the staring eyes of arunner. And now he could hear the other's short, labored gasps. Beforehim but a scant ten yards was the full-back. Jimpson's mind was madeup on the instant. Easing his pace the least bit, he swung abruptly tothe left. He well knew the risk he ran, but he judged himself capableof making up the lost ground. As he had thought, the pursuer waslittle expecting such a deliberate divergence from the course, and,as a result, he overran, and then turned clumsily, striking for apoint between Jimpson and the left goal-post. The full-back had notedthe change, of course, on the instant, and was now running for aboutthe same intersecting point as the other. The three runners formed atriangle. For the moment the pursuer was out of reckoning, and Jimpsoncould give all his skill to eluding the full-back, who faced him, readyfor a tackle.

  And here Jimpson's lighter weight stood him in good stead. Clutchingthe ball tightly, he made a feint to the left, and then flung himselfquickly to the right. As he did so he spun around. The full-back's handreached his canvas jacket, slipped, and found a slight hold upon histrousers; and Jimpson, scarcely recovered from his turn, fell on oneknee, the full-back also falling in his effort to hold. At that momentthe pursuer reached the spot, and sprang toward Jimpson.

  The shouts had ceased, and thirty thousand persons were holding theirbreath. The next moment a shout of triumph went up, and Jimpson wasspeeding on toward the Yale goal. For as the last man had thrownhimself forward, Jimpson had struggled to his feet, the full-backfollowing, and the two Yale men had crashed together with a shock thatleft the full-back prostrate upon the turf. The other had regainedhimself quickly, and taken up the pursuit; but Jimpson was alreadyalmost ten yards to the good, and, although his breath was coming inshort, painful gasps, and the white lines seemed rods apart, the goalbecame nearer and nearer. But the blue-stockinged runner was not done,and the cries of the Crimson well-wishers were stilled as the littlespace between the two runners grew perceptibly less.

  Jimpson, with his eyes fixed in agony upon the last white line underthe goal-posts, struggled on. One ankle had been wrenched in his rapidturn, and it pained frightfully as it took the ground. He could hearthe steps of the pursuing foe almost at his heels, and, try as hemight, he could not cover the ground any faster. His brain reeled, andhe thought each moment that he must fall.

  But the thought of what that touch-down meant, and the recollection ofthe captain's words, nerved him afresh. The goal-line was plain beforehim now; ten yards only remained. The air was filled with cheers; butto Jimpson everything save that little white line and the sound of thepounding steps behind him was obliterated.

  Success seemed assured, when a touch on his shoulder made the landscapereel before his eyes. It was not a clutch--just fingers grasping at hissmooth jacket, unable as yet to find a hold.

  The last white line but one passed haltingly, slowly, under his feet.The fingers traveled upward, and suddenly a firm grasp settled uponhis shoulder. He tried to swing free, faltered, stumbled, recoveredhimself with a last supreme effort, and, holding the ball at arm'slength, threw himself forward, face down. And as the enemy crashed uponhim, Jimpson tried hard to gasp "Down!" but found he couldn't, andthen--didn't care at all.

  When he came to he found a crowd of players about him. Faces almoststrange to him were smiling, and the captain was holding his head. Hisright foot pained frantically, and the doctor and rubbers were busyover him.

  "Was it--was it over?" he asked weakly.

  "Easy, old chap--with an inch to spare," replied the lips above."Listen!"

  Jimpson tried to raise his head, but it felt so funny that he gave upthe effort. But, despite the woolen sweater bunched up for a pillow, heheard a deep roar that sounded like the breakers on the beach at home.Then he smiled, and fainted once more.

  But the score-board had changed its figures again: Harvard, 8; Yale, 6.Touch-down. Harvard's ball. 3 minutes to play.

  And the deep, exultant roar went on, resolving itself into "H-a-r-vard!H-a-r-vard!"

  * * * * *

  The band was playing Washington Post. Harvard Square was bright undera lurid glow of red fire. Cheering humanity was packed tight from thestreet to the balustrade of Matthews, and from there up and acrossthe yard. Cannon crackers punctuated the blare of noise with sharpdetonations. The college was out in full force to welcome home thefootball heroes, and staid and prim old Cambridge lent her quota to thethrong. From the back of Grays the cheering grew louder, and the crowdsurged toward the avenue. The band broke ranks and skeltered after. Afour-horse barge drew up slowly at the curb, and, one after another,the men dropped out, tightly clutching their bags, and strove to slipaway through the throng. But each was eventually captured, his luggageconfiscated, and himself raised to the shoulders of riotous admirers.When all were out and up, the band started the strains of Fair Harvard,and thousands of voices joined in. The procession moved. Jimpson, proudand happy and somewhat embarrassed, was well up in the line. When thecorner was turned and the yard reached the roar increased in volume.Cheers for the eleven, for Harvard, for Brattle, were filling the air.And then suddenly Jimpson's heart leaped at the sound of his own namefrom thousands of throats.

  "Now, fellows, three long Harvards, and three times three for J
impson!"In the roar that followed Jimpson addressed his bearers.

  "Won't you please let me go now? I--I'm not feeling very well, and--andI'm only a sub, you know."

  The plea of illness moved his captors, and Jimpson was dropped toearth, and his valise restored. There was no notice taken of him as heslipped stealthfully through the outskirts of the throng, and as hereached the corner of Holden Chapel he paused and listened.

  To the dark heavens arose a prolonged, impatient demand from thousandsof Harvard throats. The listener heard, and then fled toward the darkbuilding across the street, and, reaching his room, locked the doorbehind him. But still he could hear the cries, loudly and impatientlyrepeated: "We--want--Jimp-son! We--want--Jimp-son! Jimp-son!"