Chapter 7 A CROSS-COUNTRY RUN

"Line up! Line up!"

It was the call of the coach and captain to the improvised regular eleven and the scrub. Twenty-two rather nervous lads faced each other-no, not all of the twenty-two were nervous, for there were some veterans-warriors of past battles-who were as cool as the proverbial cucumber. But the new lads-those who hoped to make the first eleven-were undoubtedly nervous. And so, too, were some of those who had played before, for they had not yet found themselves this season, and they did not know but what their playing might be so poor and ragged that they would be ordered to the side lines.

"Line up! Line up!"

Again came the stirring cry. The scrub team, under the leadership of their captain, withdrew for a short consultation regarding signals, and to plan how best to stop the rushes of the regular lads. The latter, under the guidance of Morse, were ready to put the ball into play, for the captain and coach had decided to see what value their side was in rushing tactics, before going on the defense.

"All ready now, boys!" exclaimed the coach briskly. "Get into the plays on the jump. You can do twice as well if you have speed than if you have not. Hit the defense hard, get some momentum back of you. A moving body, and all that sort of thing you know, that you learn in your physics class.

"Jump into the plays. Meet the ball; don't wait for it to get to you.

That applies to you backs," and he nodded at Tom and his two mates.

"Quarter, don't fumble when you pass the ball back. Be accurate.

Don't make a mistake in the signals.

"You guards and tackles, hold hard. Tear holes big enough for the man with the ball to get through. Don't be afraid. Ends, you want to get down like lightning on kicks. Nail in his tracks the man who catches the ball, but don't, for the love of the pigskin, touch him until he has it, or you'll be offside. Watch out for fake kicks, forward passes, double passes-watch out for all tricks. If there's a fumble, fall on the ball and stay there, unless you see a chance to run with it. You fellows who expect to do any toe work, don't get nervous. The boys will hold the others back until you get a chance to boot the ball away. And you fellows in the line, see that you do hold.

"There!" concluded the coach with a sigh. "I've given you enough football instructions to last all season. Now get busy and let's see how much of it you remember."

"Line up!" cried Captain Morse Denton, and, the preliminaries having been arranged, the ball was kicked off by the scrub, as the other players wanted to see how well they could rush it back.

It was Tom's luck to capture the yellow spheroid as it descended, and, well protected by interference, he raced down the field.

"Get him, fellows! Get him!" appealed the scrub captain, and several made an effort to break through to tackle Tom. Our hero noticed that Sam Heller was running interference for him on the left, and for a moment Tom felt that perhaps he had misjudged Sam in one particular.

"He certainly is making good interference for me," mused our hero. "Maybe he won't play me false after all. But I'm going to be on the watch."

There was now but the scrub fullback between Tom and the opposite goal line, though it was some distance away. Most of the leading team lads, streaming and straggling along, were shouting to encourage Tom.

"Go on! Go on!"

"Touchdown! Touchdown!"

"Good run, Tom old man!"

Tom was getting into his stride. Sam was just ahead of him seemingly getting ready to bowl over the scrub fullback, who was racing down the field, eager-eyed, to tackle Tom.

"If Sam disposes of him I will make a touchdown," mused Tom, and then Sam and the fullback came together. Sam went down in a heap at the first impact, and the fullback-who was Henry Everett-came on, scarcely hindered.

The next moment he tackled Tom and threw him heavily, though Tom kept possession of the ball.

"Down!" gasped Tom, as he felt the weight of his opponent. The latter arose.

"Got you; didn't I?" he asked, grinning.

"Yes," replied Tom, looking to where Sam Heller was leisurely getting to his feet. Our hero watched his enemy narrowly. Was it only a fancy, or was it true that Sam had not made half a try to throw off the interference of the fullback?

"You were easy," laughed the scrub lad. "I thought I was going to have trouble with you, Sam, but you were easy."

"Aw, my foot slipped, and I fell, or you wouldn't have gotten me," asserted Sam, but to Tom's ears, somehow, the words did not ring true.

"I believe he deliberately let Everett get me so I wouldn't have the honor of making a touchdown," thought our hero.

The players ran up to Tom.

"Good work, old man!" complimented Coach Jackson.

"Some run, Tom," added the captain. "Come on now, line up boys, and we'll walk through 'em!"

"Yes you will-nit!" jeered the scrub captain.

As Tom was panting from his long run, the other halfback was sent at the line with the ball. He did not gain much, and then the fullback was allowed to try. He gained a few feet.

"We'd better kick," whispered the captain to Sam, who was giving the signals.

"No, keep the ball," advised the coach. "I want the boys to have practice in bucking the line. Let Fairfield try again. He has his wind back now."

"All right," assented Morse, nodding at Sam, who began to give the signal.

Tom stiffened, ready to take the pigskin, and, at the same time he moved up a little nearer Sam, for somehow, he felt that the passing of his enemy might not be just accurate. And it was well that he did, for the quarterback threw the ball short.

"Look out!" cried the captain, but his warning was not needed, for Tom made a jump and met the pigskin. With it safely tucked under his arm, he made a jump between guard and tackle in the hole made for him by his players, and completed the gaining of the necessary distance.

"Down!" he panted, as nearly half a score of lads threw themselves on top of him. "Down!"

"Good work, old man!" the captain shouted in his ear. "Great line-bucking!"

"But almost a fumble!" came the sharp voice of Coach Jackson. "What was the matter, Fairfield? You nearly dropped the ball."

"It wasn't passed accurately," asserted Tom.

"Aw, go on! It was so!" snapped Sam.

"Well, don't let it happen again," advised the coach. "Fumbles are costly-they mean the loss of a game many a time. Watch yourselves!"

The play went on, with the luckless scrubs being shoved slowly back toward their own goal. There they took a brace, and held for downs, getting the ball. They quickly kicked it out of danger, and then the regulars went to work to do it all over again.

Tom was called on several times, and, though he watched Sam narrowly, there was no further cause for complaint about the passing of the ball.

"Maybe it was a mistake," thought Tom, "but I'm going to be on the lookout just the same. I don't trust Sam Heller."

"That will do for to-day," called the coach, after two touchdowns had been rolled up against the scrub, Tom making one of them. "Take a good shower and a rub now, all of you, scrub included, for there's no telling when I may want one of you scrub lads on the first team. You're doing pretty well," he allowed himself to compliment them. "But there's lots to be done yet. We're only beginning. Morse, come here, I want to talk to you," and captain and coach walked off the gridiron, arm in arm.

"Well, what do you think of it?" asked Jack of Tom, as the two came out of the gymnasium, glowing from a rub and shower.

"Oh, it seemed to go all right."

"Heller try any mean tricks?" asked Bert.

"I thought he did, but maybe I was mistaken. Oh, but I got one beaut kick on the shin," and Tom gently massaged the leg in question.

"Some lad tried to gouge out one of my eyes," added Bert.

"And if I have any skin left on my nose I'm lucky," asserted Jack, trying to look cross-eyed at his nasal member.

"It's just a little sunburned," said Tom, with a laugh. "I guess we'll have a team after a bit."

"Sure!" chorused his chums.

Practice went on for several days after this, and there were a number of changes of position made, though Sam was still at quarterback, and Tom held his same place.

"Now, fellows, we're going to have a little different form of exercise to-morrow," announced the coach, at the conclusion of a short game one afternoon. "I want you all to take part in a cross-country run. It will improve your wind, and work some of the fat off you fellows that can stand losing it. It will be good for your legs, too.

"We'll start from the gym after last lectures, hit the turnpike for Aldenhurst, cross the river at Weldon, circle up the hill through Marsden, and come back along the river road. You can go in bunches, or singly as you choose, but you must all make those towns, and there'll be checkers at each one to see that you don't skip. It's only fifteen miles, and you ought to do it in four hours without turning a hair. There'll be a five-hour time limit, and those who don't make all the checking points, and report back by eight o'clock will be scratched off the active football list. That's all."

A silence followed the announcement of the coach, and then came several murmurs of disapproval.

"Fifteen miles!" came from Sam Heller. "That's a stiff run all right."

"I should say yes," agreed Nick Johnson.

"Can't we shorten it in some way?" asked Sam of his crony in a whisper, but not so low that Tom did not overhear him.

"Dry up!" commanded Nick. "I'll see. Maybe we can cut off a few miles. Fifteen is too much!"

"He sure is working us," said Jack to Tom.

"And a time limit," added Bert, with a note of grievance in his voice.

"Oh pshaw!" exclaimed, Tom. "Anyone would think you fellows had never tramped before. Why in camp you thought nothing of doing twenty miles in a day."

"But we could take our time," asserted Bert.

"Nonsense! We always did better than four miles an hour and never minded it. Come on, be sports! We'll go together, won't we?"

"Sure," said Bert. "Well, if it has to be, it has to-that's all.

Hang it! I wonder if I want to play football anyhow?"

"Of course you do," said Tom. "We'll have some fun on the run. And think of the supper we will eat after it. I'm going to see if we can't have a little something extra."

And he went to the kitchen of the eating hall where he and his chums dined, to wheedle the chef into serving generous portions after the cross-country run.