Thirty pairs of eyes followed him to the door.
“The old man’s full of pep,” observed Harris. “He thinks we’ve got Davis stopped.”
“Well,” said Wallace, “I think we have, too.”
Barrows rose from the other end of the table and started out.
“You, Barrows!” shouted big Wickham. “What are you going to do Saturday?”
Barrows paused and burst into song.
Hang Doane’s Davis on a sour-apple tree!
And if it hadn’t been such a disrespectful thing to do, one might have supposed, from the tone of his voice, that he was mimicking the Coach.
“ ‘The career of the greatest football player Doane ever had will end with tomorrow’s game. Davis’ record has never been approached by another wearer of the D. In his three years of competition for the Varsity, he has scored at least one touchdown against every opponent. Will he cross the Blue and White goal-line tomorrow and keep his record? All Doane believes he will.’ ”
Harris was reading aloud from the Doane Daily. He and the Coach, having sent their charges to bed in Doane’s new fireproof hotel, lounged in the lobby, knowing that for themselves a good night’s sleep was impossible.
“It’s an even bet,” remarked the Coach, “that all Doane is wrong.”
“ ‘Coach Belden of the visitors,’ ” Harris read on, “has the reputation of being a wonderful architect of defenses designed to stop one man, but Doane will stake all its worldly goods on Davis’ ability to gain against any defense. Belden has had his scouts in the stand at all of Doane’s games this year, and undoubtedly he knows just where Davis is strong. But the coaches of other teams have been as well informed, and with what result? Davis has invariably made good against all opponents.’ ”
“And that,” said the Coach, “is because the coaches of other teams have been afraid to take a chance.”
“ ‘A defense to foil the Doane captain,’ ” Harris read, “ ‘is extremely difficult of construction. If his running game is checked, he is still certain to get away with some of those long forward passes that worked so effectively last Saturday. In one way or another, despite the best-laid plans of the wily Belden, Davis will gain ground, yards and yards of it.’ ”
“They’re nothing if not chesty,” remarked the Coach.
“ ‘Captain Davis was not present at last night’s mass-meeting in Crilly Hall. But wherever he was, he must have heard the wild cheering with which every mention of his name was greeted.
“ ‘Speeches were made by other members of the team and by Coach Smith. The latter talked with much more confidence than is his custom. He expressed the belief that Davis, playing his last game, would extend himself to the limit and that if he did, all the defenses in the world would be powerless to stop him.’ ”
“We shall see,” said the Coach.
Harris tossed the paper aside.
“I think I’ll turn in,” he said. “You’d better, too.”
“What’s the use?” said the Coach. “It’s only two o’clock.”
Harris bade his chief good night. The latter picked up the Daily and stared for some moments at its three-column picture of Doane’s brilliant captain.
“You may be a whale,” he said aloud, “but if I don’t stop you, I’ll quit coaching.”
On the walk in front of the hotel, five Doane students—with the accent on the first syllable—paused in their uncertain journey homeward long enough to give their weary throats a final workout.
Yea, Davis! Yea, Davis! Yea, Davis!
Doane! Doane! Doane!
Yea!
“They’ve got it on me,” said the Coach to himself. “When they do get to bed, they’ll sleep.”
It must be recorded that the Coach slept too. From four till six he slept, and again he dreamed of Davis. But this time the dream was pleasant. Doane’s star, his passes intercepted time after time and himself tackled by full eleven men and thrown for repeated losses, at last led his team off the field, hopeless and disgusted.
“One thing more, boys,” said the Coach. “I’m responsible for this defense, and if it isn’t the right one, I’ll take the blame. All I ask you to do is play it, play it as I’ve taught it to you. Remember, it’s his last chance to shine, and he’ll want to do all the shining. Forget everybody else and go after Davis. Now get him! Get him! Get him!”
The squad raced out of the dressing-room onto the field. From ten thousand throats came a welcoming cheer. Ten thousand voices chanted the Varsity hymn, trailing not more than a beat or two behind the accompaniment of the Blue and White band.
The team lined up and hurried through a few simple formations—formations learned for exhibition purposes only.
The band started another tune. Someone had introduced the Coach’s parody to the crowd.
“Hang Doane’s Davis on a sour-apple tree,” sang the Blue and White rooters, and the Doane section smiled its appreciation.
But now the song was drowned in a flood of riotous cheers. Davis had arrived, Davis and the ten men who were to help him stage a fitting climax for his career of glory.
Yea, Davis! Yea, Davis! Yea, Davis!
Doane! Doane! Doane!
Yea!
The Coach and Harris, on the sidelines, observed closely Doane’s practice formation. Davis stood back in the kicker’s position. Byron and the other halfback, Moxey, were three or four yards behind the tackles. The quarter crouched behind his center, hands outstretched. The ball was passed to him. He tossed it to Byron, and the team jogged forward as in a simple line play.
“They’re not fooling anybody with that,” said the Coach.
“That’s their regular formation for Davis’ stuff,” said Harris. “The ball usually goes straight back to him, and the halfbacks are there to block.”
The referee called the rival captains to the center of the field. The Blue and White leader made his guess as the coin spun in the air. The guess was wrong.
“They get the north goal and that little breeze,” said the Coach. “We can try out that defense right away.”
The ball was
