Argosy All-Story Weekly — page 77: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

_ THE POOR FISH. going to know that they were in a football game. “Up to your old tricks,” says Tom Thorpe, the umpire, as he came over to shake hands and eyed Halibut. “ Last year Mullings, now another wonder. Where do you find ’em?” “ It’s a secret, Tom,” I laughed, chewing on my cigar. The twe captains raced out, shook hands, and watched the referee, Charley Doyle, of Pitt, toss the coin. Harvard won, and chose to be kicked off to, defending the east goal. The teams lined up, and me and Halibut Haines, sitting side by side on the bench with Blaisdell, Maloney and _ substitute players crouched around us, watched a first quarter that was terrific for action. Har- vard battered its way clear down the field in the first five minutes, and then, crashing for a touchdown, was stopped and lost the ball on downs. It was on the ten yard line, and my boys held like a stone wall. I knew what it meant, too, with Harvard coaches tossing in fresh players to batter away at ’em, winded already from the on- slaught of the bigger men. It was a battle- stand with heart and blood pounding to the bursting point, a stand for a lone little school in the far South they loved so well. Now they had the ball, and of course, in the shadow of their own goal, there was but one thing for them to do—take no chances, and kick out of danger. Swope, our captain, taking the full back’s position, fell back to kick, then caused an electric quiver to run through forty thousand peo- ple, including myself, when he took the ball behind his line and, instead of kicking, shot a forward pass to Murray, our left end, and that rabbit kid whisked along like a streak until he had passed the center of the field and reached the forty-five yard line, where he was dumped. It was a thrill even to me. For a defensive team to pull such an un- expected and daring offensive attack on a team like Harvard was unbelievable. With Harvard’s backs pulled up close to the line, expecting a kick, and our ends spread out as if to get down the field under the ball, made it a beautiful piece of strategy. With- out giving Harvard a chance to recover from the shock, and while the crowd was 867 still yelling, I called out Henry at fullback and shot in Halibut Haines. “ Just do it like you was out there all alone, son,” I begged. “Thee watch me,” says he; and say, that bird could have taught crocheting at Verdun. <A cucumber is supposed to be cool, but a cucumber’s a hot dog compared with this Quaker talking bimbo when he stands back at the fifty-five yard line al- lowing himself ten yards from where the ball is, and signals for it. He had taken a quick squint at the wind flag, sprayed fingers out of closed fists, and, when the ball sailed to him, coolly dropped it to the ground and booted it forth—a perfect goal, it clearing the cross bar with yards to spare. I had to stick a mitt inside my vest to see if my heart had started beating again, and T’ll bet half of the forty thousand fans had to do the same. The place was bedlam as the scere went up: Centervia nis soci ecrecicni 3 EEL E es See es Sea ae ane fe) Sweet daddy, what a line that was for me, who had started the season with a team that looked like something the cat dragged In. T ain’t going to describe the game to you; maybe you was there. All T’ll say is that when we went to the clubhouse after the first half we was 6 and Harvard o. Halibut had come through twice, and did it with an ease that was almost careless like. In the locker rooms the players fell on benches, tickled pink, but all in. I cheered ’em, you bet, but I was worried. The hardest part of the game was to come, and already I had had to make half a dozen substitutions. If the battering kept up, I was afraid the boys might cave in com- pletely. That’s the hell of playing a big college. They’ve got sixty men to shoot at you, while you’re lucky if you have two full elevens. I was petting the boys when somebody hollered ‘‘ Time!” and we filed out. Sud- denly I locked over the mob. ‘“Where’s Halibut?” I says. Everybody looked, but nobody knew. I ducked back into the locker room, and where do you suppose that bimbo was? Ccomicoooks CO)