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Title: The Winning Touchdown
A Story of College Football
Author: Lester Chadwick
Release Date: December 19, 2012 [eBook #41665]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
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HE RAISED THE BALL IN HIS ARMS, AND PLACED IT OVER THE CHALK MARK.
THE WINNING
TOUCHDOWN
A Story of College Football
BY
LESTER CHADWICK
AUTHOR OF “THE RIVAL PITCHERS,” “A QUARTER-BACK’S
PLUCK,” “BATTING TO WIN,” ETC.
ILLUSTRATED
NEW YORK
CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY
BOOKS BY LESTER CHADWICK
THE COLLEGE SPORTS SERIES
12mo. Illustrated
Price per volume, $1.00 postpaid
THE RIVAL PITCHERS
A Story of College Baseball
A QUARTER-BACK’S PLUCK
A Story of College Football
BATTING TO WIN
A Story of College Baseball
THE WINNING TOUCHDOWN
A Story of College Football
(Other volumes in preparation)
Cupples & Leon Company, Publishers, New York
Copyright 1911, by
CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY
THE WINNING TOUCHDOWN
Printed in U. S. A.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE I A Mystery 1 II More Bad News 8 III On the Trail 19 IV Another Disappearance 26 V Football Talk 36 VI In Practice 43 VII A New Timepiece 53 VIII Another Idea 61 IX A Clash with Langridge 67 X The Big Californian 73 XI A New Complication 80 XII The Missing Deed 89 XIII The First Game 98 XIV The Hazing of Simpson 109 XV The Midnight Blaze 120 XVI Another Clew 129 XVII A Crash in the Gale 136 XVIII With Hammer and SawLIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
THE WINNING TOUCHDOWN
CHAPTER I
A MYSTERY
“Great Cicero’s ghost!”
That was Tom Parson’s exclamation.
“It’s gone!”
A horrified gasp from Sid Henderson.
“Who took it?”
That was what Phil Clinton wanted to know.
Then the three college chums, who had paused on the threshold of their room, almost spellbound at the astounding discovery they had made, advanced into the apartment, as if unable to believe what was only too evident. Tom came to a halt near his bed, and gazed warily around.
“It’s sure enough gone,” he went on, with a long breath.
“Somebody pinch me to see if I’m dreaming,” begged Sid, and Phil gave him such a vigorous nip on the fleshy part of his leg that the tall youth howled.
“Turn over; you’re on your back,” advised Tom, as he got down on his hands and knees to peer under the beds.
“What are you looking for?” demanded Phil.
“Our old armchair, of course. I thought maybe some of the fellows had been in here trying to be funny, and had hidden it. But it isn’t here—it’s gone.”
“As if it could be under a bed!” exploded Sid, rubbing his leg reflectively. “You must be getting batty!”
“Maybe he thought it could be reduced to fractions or acted on by chemicals, like some of the stuff in the laboratory test tubes,” went on Phil.
“That’s all right!” fired back the varsity pitcher, rather sharply, “it’s gone, isn’t it? Our old armchair, that stood by us, and——”
“And on which we stood when we couldn’t find the stepladder,” interrupted Phil.
“Oh, quit your kidding!” expostulated Tom. “The old chair’s gone; isn’t it?”
“You never said a truer word in all your life, my boy,” declared Sid, more gravely.
“Sort of queer, too,” declared Phil. “It was here when we went out to football practice, and now——”
“Well, all I’ve got to say is that I’d like to find the fellow who took it!” broke out Tom, dramatically. “I’d make a complaint to the proctor about him.”
“Oh, you wouldn’t do that; would you,
“But this isn’t an ordinary trouble!” cried the pitcher. “Our old chair has been taken, and I’m going to find out who’s got it. When I do——”
He clenched his fists suggestively, and began to strip off his football togs, preparatory to donning ordinary clothes.
“It isn’t back there,” announced Phil, as he leaned upright again, after a prolonged inspection behind the big sofa. “But there’s a lot of truck there. I think I see my trigonometry.” Getting down on his hands and knees, and reaching under the antiquated piece of furniture, he pulled out not one but several books.
“Oh, come out and let the stuff back of the sofa alone,” suggested Tom. “We can clean that out some other time,” for the big piece of furniture formed a convenient “catch-all” for whatever happened to be in the way of the lads. If there was anything they did not have any immediate use for, and for which room could not be found in, or on, the “Chauffeurs,” as Holly Cross used to call the chiffonniers, back of the sofa it went, until such time as the chums had an occasional room-cleaning. Then many long-lost articles were discovered.
“Yes, there’s no use digging any more,” added Sid. “Besides, the chair couldn’t be there.”
“Some of the fellows might have jammed it in back of the sofa, I thought,” spoke Phil. “But say, this is serious. We can’t get along without our chair!”
“I should say not,” agreed Tom, who was almost dressed. “I’m going out scouting for it. Bascome, Delafield or some of those fresh sports may have taken it to get even with us.”
“They knew we cared a lot for it,” declared Sid. “Ever since we had that row about it with Langridge, the time we moved into these dormitories, some of the fellows have rigged us about it.”
“If Langridge were here we could blame him, and come pretty near being right,” was Phil’s opinion. “But he’s at Boxer Hall yet—at least, I suppose he is.”
“Yes, he’s on their eleven, too, I hear,” added Tom. “But this sure is a mystery, fellows. That chair never walked away by itself. And it’s too heavy and awkward for one fellow to carry alone. We’ve got to get busy and find it.”
“We sure have,” agreed Phil. “Why, the room looks bare without it; doesn’t it?”
“Almost like a funeral,” came mournfully from Sid, as he sank into the depths of the sofa. And then a silence fell upon the inseparable chums, a silence that seemed to fill the room, and which was broken only by the ticking of a fussy little alarm clock.
“Oh, hang it!” burst out Tom, as he loosened his tie and made the knot over. “I can’t understand it! I’m going to see Wallops, the messenger. Maybe he saw some one sneaking around our rooms.”
“If we once get on the trail——” said Phil, significantly.
“It sure is rotten luck,” spoke Sid, from the depths of the sofa. “I don’t have to do any boning to-night, and I was counting on sitting in that easy chair, and reading a swell detective yarn Holly Cross loaned me. Now—well, it’s rotten luck—that’s all.”
“It certainly is!” agreed a voice at the door, as the portal opened to give admittance to Dan Woodhouse—otherwise Kindlings. “Rotten luck isn’t the name for it. It’s beastly! But how did you fellows hear the news?”
“How did we hear it?” demanded Tom. “Couldn’t we see that it wasn’t here as soon as we got in our room, a few minutes ago? But how did you come to know of it? Say, Kindlings, you didn’t have a hand in it, did you?” and Tom strode over toward the newcomer.
“Me have a hand in it? Why, great Cæsar’s grandmother! Don’t you suppose I’d have stopped it if I could? I can’t for the life of me, though, understand where you heard it. Ed Kerr only told me ten minutes ago, and he said I was the first to know it.”
“Ed Kerr!” gasped Phil. “Did he have a hand in taking our old chair?”
“Your chair?” gasped Dan. “Who in the world is talking about your fuzzy old chair?”
“Hold on!” cried Tom. “Don’t you call our chair names, Kindlings, or——”
“Tell us how you heard about it,” suggested Sid.
“Say, are you fellows crazy, or am I?” demanded Dan, looking about in curious bewilderment. “I come here with a piece of news, and I find you firing conundrums at me about a chair that I wouldn’t sit in if you gave it to me.”
“None of us is likely to sit in it now,” spoke Phil, gloomily.
“Why not?” asked Dan.
“Because it’s gone!” burst out Tom.
“Stolen,” added Sid.
“Vanished into thin air,” continued Phil.
“And if that isn’t rotten luck, I don’t know what you’d call it,” put in the pitcher, after a pause, long enough to allow the fact to sink into Dan’s mind. “Isn’t it?”
“Say, that’s nothing to what I’ve got to tell you,” spoke Dan. “Absolutely nothing. Talk about a fuzzy, musty, old second-hand chair missing! Why, do you fellows know that Ed Kerr is going to leave the football team?”
“Leave the eleven?” gasped Phil.
“What for?” cried Tom.
“Is that a joke?” inquired Sid.
“I only wish it were,” declared Dan, gloomily. “It’s only too true. Ed just got a telegram stating that his father is very ill, and has been ordered abroad to the German baths. Ed has to go with him. I was with him when he got the message, and he told me about it. Then he went to see Dr. Churchill, to arrange about leaving at once. That’s the rottenest piece of luck Randall ever stacked up against. It’s going to play hob with the team, just as we were getting in shape to do Boxer Hall and Fairview Institute. Talk about a missing chair! Why, it simply isn’t in it!”
Once more a gloomy silence, at which the fussy little alarm clock seemed to rejoice exceedingly, for it had the stage to itself, and ticked on relentlessly.
CHAPTER II
MORE BAD NEWS
“And so Ed is going to leave,” mused Tom, after a momentous pause. “It sure will make a hole in the team.”
“Oh, it’s got me all broke up,” gloomily declared Kindlings, who was captain of the recently organized eleven. “I don’t know what I’m going to do to fill his place, and Mr. Lighton, while he says we’ll make out somehow, feels pretty bad over it. But it can’t be helped, of course, for Ed has to go.”
For the time being, the news of the loss of one of Randall’s best football players overshadowed the matter of the missing chair. Tom had changed his mind about going out to see if he could get on the trail of who had taken it, and sat with Kindlings and his two other chums, discussing what could be done to replace Kerr as right half-back.
“Bricktop Molloy might work in there,” suggested Phil, “only he’s too good a tackle to take out of the line.”
“Why can’t you go there yourself, Phil?” asked Tom. “You’ve done some playing back of the line.”
“No, I need Phil at quarter,” objected Dan. “We’ll have to think of something else. If I didn’t need you at end, Tom, I’d try you in Ed’s place.”
“Oh, I’m no good bucking the line,” objected the tall lad
“What’s the matter with one of the Jersey Twins?” asked Sid.
“Both Jerry and Joe Jackson are too light,” and Dan shook his head. There were many suggestions, and various expedients offered, and, while the discussion is under way perhaps a moment can be spared to make our new readers a little better acquainted with the main characters of this story.
In the initial volume of this “College Sports Series,” entitled, “The Rival Pitchers,” there was told the story of how Tom Parsons, a rather raw country lad, came to Randall College, made the ’varsity nine, and twirled the horsehide in some big games, thereby doing much to help win the pennant for Randall. He had an uphill fight, for Fred Langridge, a rich bully, contested with him for the place in the box, and nearly won out. There was fierce rivalry between them, not only in baseball, but concerning a certain Miss Madge Tyler.
In the second volume, called “A Quarter-Back’s Pluck,” there was related how Phil Clinton went into the championship game under heavy odds, and how he won out, though his mind dwelt more on a fake telegram in his pocket, telling him that his mother was dying, than on the game, and on the players whom he at last piloted to victory.
A winter of study followed the games on the gridiron, and with the advent of spring, longing eyes were cast toward the baseball diamond whereon, as soon as it was dry enough, the Randall lads gathered to prepare for the season.
In the third book of the series, called “Batting to Win,” there was told the story of how Randall triumphed over her rivals, though at first it looked as if she would lose. A loving cup had been offered, to be played for by members of the Tonoka Lake League, of which Randall College was a member, and how it was won forms the subject of the story.
Incidentally, there was quite a mystery concerning Sidney Henderson, or “Sid,” as he was universally called. From the opening of the season his conduct was peculiar, and there were many unjust suspicions regarding him. It was not until near the end, when he had been barred from the games, that the cause of his actions became known.
Then, at the last moment, when Randall was losing the final game of the series, which was a tie between her team and that of Boxer Hall, the ban was removed, Sid rushed upon the diamond, and batted to win.
The baseball season had closed, summer had come, and with it the long vacation. Now that was passed, and from mountains, lakes and seaside the students had come trooping back to Randall. All our old friends were on hand, and some new ones, whom we shall meet from time to time. As the weather became cool enough, the football squad had been put to work under the watchful eye of Captain Dan Woodhouse, and the coach, Mr. Lighton.
Before I go on with the story I want to add, for the benefit of new readers, a little bit of history about the college.
Randall was located in a town of the middle west, and not far from the institution ran Sunny River, a stream that afforded boating opportunities for the students. It emptied into Tonoka Lake, which body of water gave the name to the athletic league, made up of Randall, Boxer Hall, Fairview Institute,—the latter a co-educational place of learning,—and several other smaller academies. Haddonfield was the nearest town to Randall College, and thither the lads went whenever chance afforded.
Venerable Dr. Albertus Churchill was the head of the college, and even though he was privately dubbed “Moses” by the lads, it was not in any spirit of disrespect, for they all loved and admired him. It was quite the contrary with Professor Emerson Tines, the “Latin dreadful,” and when I state that he was called “Pitchfork,” his character is indicated in a word. Hardly less disliked was Mr. Andrew Zane, the proctor, who seemed to have a sworn enmity against the lads. But they managed to have fun in spite of him. There were other members of the faculty, some liked and some disliked, and occasionally there were changes in the teaching staff.
As for Randall itself, it was a fairly large institution. There was the main building, at the head of a large campus. Off to the left was the athletic field, and somewhat to the rear was Booker Memorial chapel, the stained glass windows of which were worth going miles to see.
To the right of the college proper was Biology Hall, the endowment gift of an old graduate, and not far from that was the residence for the faculty. Directly in the rear of the main building were the dormitories, the east one for the freshmen and sophomores, and that on the west for the juniors and seniors.
As for the lads who attended Randall, you will meet more or less of them as this story progresses. Sufficient to say that Tom Parsons, Phil Clinton and Sid Henderson roomed together, being called the “inseparables.” Among their friends they numbered many, Dan Woodhouse, Billy or “Dutch” Housenlager, “Bricktop” Molloy, Jerry and Joe Jackson, dubbed the “Jersey Twins,” because they came from some town in the Garden State. Then there was “Snail” Looper, so called because of his propensity to prowl about in the dark; Pete Backus, nicknamed “Grasshopper,” because he aspired to be a jumper; “Bean” Perkins, who could always be depended on to make a noise at a game, and many more.
There were some students not so friendly to our heroes, notably Fred Langridge, who, because of a serious scrape, had withdrawn from Randall and was now at Boxer Hall. Garvey Gerhart, his crony, who appeared in previous books, had also left, and Ford Fenton, whose uncle always formed a subject of boasting with him, because of the latter’s former ability as a coach at Randall, was among the missing. For Ford played a mean trick on his classmates, and there was such a row raised over it that his relatives advised him to quit.
And now, I believe, you have met all, or nearly all the lads of whom I propose to tell you more. Of course there were the girls, Miss Tyler, and Ruth Clinton—Phil’s sister,—and Miss Mabel Harrison, who attended Fairview. I will introduce them more particularly in due season.
“Say, how can you fellows stand that?” asked Dan, after a pause, during which they had all done much thinking.
“Stand what?” asked Tom, starting out of a day dream, in which thoughts over the loss of the chair and the loss of Kerr on the football team were mingled.
“That clock. It gives me the fidgets,” and Kindlings grabbing a book, made as if to throw it at the timepiece.
With a quick motion, Phil stopped him, and the volume fell harmlessly to the floor.
“It doesn’t give you a chance to catch your breath,” went on the football captain. “Always seems to want you to hurry-up.”
“I wish it would make Sid hurry-up some mornings, when the chapel bell rings,” remarked Tom. “The frowsy old misogynist—the troglodyte—lies abed until the last minute. It would take more than that clock to get him up.”
“Slanderer!” crooned Sid, unconcernedly, from the depths of the sofa.
“No, but seriously,” went on Dan. “I can’t see how you stand it. It gives me the fidgets. It seems to say ‘hurry-up—hurry-up—hurry-up—no-time—no-time—no-time’! Jove! I’d get one of those old Grandfather clocks, if I were you. The kind that reminds one of an open fire, in a gloomy old library, with a nice book, and ticking away like this: ‘tick——tock—tick——tock.’ That’s the kind of a clock to have. But that monstrosity——”
He simulated a shudder, and turned up his
“Oh, you’re just nervous worrying about what’s going to happen to the football team,” spoke Phil. “Cheer up, old man, the worst is yet to come. Suppose you’d been robbed of the finest armchair that ever you sat in——”
“Finest fiddlesticks!” burst out Dan. “That chair had spinal meningitis, I guess, or the dink-bots. Every time you sat in it you could tell how many springs there were in the seat and back without counting. Ugh!” and Dan rubbed his spine reflectively.
“But it’s gone,” went on Tom, “and I’d give a five-spot to know who took it. Come on, fellows, let’s go scouting around and see if we can get on the trail of it. I’m glad they didn’t take the clock or the sofa,” and he gazed at the two remaining articles which formed the most cherished possessions of the inseparables. They had acquired the clock, chair and sofa some time before, purchasing them from a former student on the occasion of their becoming roommates, and though they had since secured many new objects of virtu, their affections clung to these three originals.
Their room was a typical college lads’ apartment, hung with sporting prints, boxing gloves, foils, masks, baseball bats, fishing rods, and in certain places, like honored shrines, were the pictures of pretty girls.
“Well, are you fellows coming?” asked Tom, as he started for the door.
“Where?” inquired Phil, who still had on his football suit.
“To hunt for the chair. It must be somewhere around the college. I think it was taken for a joke, and if it was by any freshmen I’ll make ’em wish they’d never come to Randall.”
“I’m with you!” cried Sid.
“Oh, let’s stay and talk about what we’re going to do for the eleven!” begged Dan. “But, for the love of cats, first stop that blamed clock, if you don’t want me to go crazy!”
His objection was so evidently genuine, that Phil halted the ticking by the simple process of jabbing a toothpick in the slot of the timepiece regulator.
“That’s better,” observed Kindlings. “Now, about Ed Kerr, I think the best we can do is to——”
He got no further, for the door of the room was fairly burst open, and in came the Jersey Twins.
“Have you heard the news?” demanded Joe Jackson.
“The news?” echoed Jerry.
“Sure! We knew it first,” said Phil. “You mean about our chair being stolen.”
“Oh, hang your chair!” cried Dan.
“It’s nothing about chairs,” said Jerry, with a curious look.
“Not a word,” came the echo.
“It’s worse,” went on Jerry.
“Much worse;” the echo.
“Oh, you mean about Ed Kerr having to leave,” spoke Dan. “How’d you hear it so soon? It will be all over college to-night, I guess.”
“Ed Kerr going to leave?” gasped Jerry.
“Ed Kerr?” also gasped the echoing brother.
“Yes. Is that what you came to tell us?” demanded Sid, as he got up from the sofa, not without some rather strenuous gymnastics, for once you sank into the soft depths, it was difficult to arise unaided.
“No, we don’t know anything about Ed leaving,” went on Jerry, as he looked from one to the other, “but Bricktop Molloy just told us that he was going to quit next week, and go to——”
“Bricktop going to leave!” gasped Dan. “More bad news! Will it never stop raining!” and he clung heavily with his arms around Tom’s neck.
“Say, is this straight?” demanded Phil, excitedly.
“Sure! Bricktop told us himself,” answered Joe.
“Where’s he going?” inquired Sid.
“To New York. Going to take a special post-graduate course at Columbia, he said. He’s got a chance to get in with some big mining firm, and he’s got to work up on a few special studies. Oh, Bricktop is going to leave all right.”
“Then what’s to become of the Randall football eleven?” demanded Dan, in a tragic voice. “Two of her best players going to leave, and hardly time enough to break other fellows into their places before the big games! Oh, fellows, this is sure beastly luck!”
CHAPTER III
ON THE TRAIL
Oppressive silence once more filled the room—a silence unbroken by the ticking of the clock this time, for it was mute, because of the toothpick. But its accusing face seemed to look at the three chums, as though begging to be allowed to speak, even if it did but mark the passage of time.
“Maybe we can prevail on Bricktop to stay until after the big game with Boxer Hall,” suggested Tom, hopefully.
Jerry Jackson shook his head mournfully.
“I’ve tried it,” he said. “I knew it would be a bad loss, so I asked Bricktop to stay, but he said his whole future depended on this chance, and he wouldn’t feel that he was doing right if he let it slip.”
“Talk about futures,” murmured Dan, “what of the future of Randall?”
“It does seem sort of tough for Bricktop to leave just when we’ve all got so we play so well together,” commented Sid. “And only to go to another college, too! It isn’t like Ed, who has to go with his sick father. I tell you Bricktop isn’t doing right! He’s deserting in the face of the enemy, for both Boxer Hall and Fairview are after our scalps this fall, because of the walloping we gave them last season. Bricktop’s a deserter!”
“Oh, don’t be ugly,” begged Tom. “Maybe we don’t know all the facts. I’m sure Bricktop wouldn’t do anything mean.”
“Oh, of course not,” Sid hastened to say, “but you know what I mean. If Bricktop——”
“Who’s takin’ me name in vain?” demanded a voice at the door—a voice with just the hint of Irish brogue—and into the room was thrust a shock of auburn—not to say reddish—hair, which had gained for the owner the appellation of “Bricktop.” “I say, who’s desecratin’ me reputation, of which I have but a shred left—who’s tearin’ down me character behind me back?” and Molloy, with a quick glance at his friends, entered and threw himself beside Sid on the sofa, thereby making the old piece of furniture creak most alarmingly.
“Easy! For cats’ sake!” cried Sid, in alarm. “Do you want to deprive us of our only remaining consolation, now that the chair is gone?”
“Surely not,” answered the Irish lad. “Captain, I salute thee,” and Bricktop arose and bowed elaborately to Dan. “I gather from what I heard, as I made my entrance, that you have received the unwelcome news, my captain,” and, though Bricktop was smiling, there was a sober look in his blue eyes.
“Yes, we’ve heard it,” answered Kindlings, shortly. “Is it true?”
“It is, my captain, and it’s infernally sorry I am to have to confirm it. But I’ve got to go, and that right soon.”
“Um!” murmured the captain. “Well, the sooner the quicker, I suppose. Kerr goes this week, also.”
“What! Kerr going?” Bricktop was manifestly surprised.
“His father’s sick—Europe—Ed’s going with him,” disjointedly declaimed Tom.
“Whew!” whistled the Irish lad. “Now I sure am sorry I’m leavin’. Not that I’m any better than any other player, my captain, but I know what it means to take two men out of the team at this late day.”
“You’re not throwing any bouquets at yourself,” spoke Dan. “It’s the worst blow Randall has had in a long time. We were just at the point where we had begun to gain
“Is there no way you can stay on?” asked Phil, softly.
Bricktop shook his head.
“It means a big thing to me,” he declared. “I know it looks like desertin’, as ye call it, but, fellows, believe me, I’m not. It—it goes to me heart as much as it does to yours,” and Bricktop swallowed a big lump in his throat. When he was much affected he always “degenerated to the language of his forebears of the Emerald Isle,” as he used to say. And he was much affected now—there was no doubt of that. “I wish I could stay—but I can’t,” he concluded, brokenly.
“Well, Randall will have to do the best she can,” spoke Dan, after a pause, and with a heavy sigh.
“Isn’t there plenty of good material in the scrub, and some in the Freshman eleven?” asked Sid.