We still had ’em 3 to 0 goin’ into the last quarter. The wind was with us now and I wasn’t lookin’ for any trouble. But it came. They had the ball on their own forty-yard line, with three to go on the fourth down. Eaton dropped back to kick. It was a fake and Winslow came scootin’ round our right end. I saw he was goin’ to make his distance, but I wasn’t really scared till Bix missed him.
I don’t know yet how he could have, ’cause Winslow was straight up and didn’t even dodge. Well, he got by Bix somehow and it looked for a minute as though Joe’d miss him too; but Joe finally chased him out of bounds. They were on our twelve-yard line.
I knew they’d plunge with Eaton now. Bixby knew it too. He called the right defense for it, but the boys were all in. They couldn’t stop him. He went over in five punches and somebody kicked the goal.
“Good night!” I said to myself; and I was as happy as a Belgian farmer.
There was about seven minutes to play and my kids were dyin’ on their feet. The crowd was hollerin’ so I could hardly think. There didn’t seem to be much use of thinkin’ anyway. Two minutes before we’d looked like a cinch. Now we were a million-to-one shot.
The ball was kicked off and punted back and forth before I realized they were playin’ again. I suddenly woke up to the fact that Joe was still puntin’ on first downs. I grabbed one of my cheesy substitutes off the bench. I hustled him out there to tell Joe to cut loose with all he had.
“Try the bluff passes; and if they don’t work give ’em your onside kick.” That’s what I told him.
It was our ball on our own twenty-five when my messenger went in. We had three minutes to play. Joe called a fake pass play and I thought Bix was goin’ to get away, sure; but he stumbled and tackled himself after he’d gone ten yards.
Then the onside kick, and it worked better than I ever saw it. Joe sent the ball just far enough for Bix to get it on the dead run, and he was off down the field like a shot. If he’d been fresh Smith couldn’t have stopped him with a lasso. He was actually past Smith once and there was nothin’ between him and the goal; but he’d played himself out, poor boy, and he couldn’t make a finish. Smith nailed him from behind on their eight-yard line and they went down together like a ton of brick. And Bixby didn’t get up.
They carried him off the field and he was ravin’ like a wild man. He was tellin’ ’em he’d scored and the officials had robbed him. He started cussin’ me out, but I didn’t have time to listen—I was too busy givin’ my order to the kid that was to take his place.
“Tell Joe Number 91,” I said. “Don’t forget it! Number 91! Number 91!”
There we were, on their eight-yard line, with a minute to play. Old 91 would score just as sure as taxes!
Pelham was scared stiff. They were ready to be licked and that’s the play that would do it. Their defense was drawn in, ’cause we were so close up and ’cause they didn’t think we had anybody to run their ends, with Bixby out of it.
The kid dashed in and gave Joe the dope. We lined up, and all of a sudden Joe dropped back to his kickin’ position. That wasn’t 91 and I saw there was somethin’ wrong. But what could I do? I started on the field myself, and then I started to send in another sub. But it was too late! Joe, standin’ back there on the eighteen-yard line, called for the ball and shot another drop kick square between the posts!
Don’t say a word! You can’t say anything I didn’t say. I was out there among ’em myself when the next kickoff was caught, but it didn’t make any difference. Time was up before a play could be started, and then I got Joe. Right in front of my team and part of Pelham’s, I gave it to him:
“You bonehead!” I yelled. “You boob! You blockhead! You’re smart, are you? You’re the bright boy in your class, are you? You ignorant bum! Why don’t you study arithmetic, you poor numskull! Where did you learn that six was more than seven? Who told you that three and three was eight or nine? Four points behind and you dropkick! Why didn’t you take the ball and run back to your own goal? Why were you in there if you didn’t know the game? Go into the gym and drown yourself in the shower! Get out of my sight before I murder you!”
The Pelham team were hollerin’ at him too. And you ought to have heard the crowd!
“Oh, you bonehead!” they were yellin’—Pelham, Leighton and everybody.
There’s no use describin’ what came off in the gym. Poor Bixby was still off his nut, but the rest of ’em hopped into Draper as though they’d cut his throat. And they were as much to blame as he was. When they heard the signal they should have stopped him; but they didn’t think of that, and I couldn’t think of anything. All I could do was rave.
The kid I’d sent in with the orders established his alibi right off. He’d done his duty. Joe admitted it. Joe said he was rattled and thought 91 was one of our dropkick signals; that he got it balled up with 19.
“How could you do that?” I barked at him. “How could you think I’d tell you to drop kick, with the ball on their eight-yard line, a minute to play, and the score 7 to 3 against us?”
“I lost my head,” said Joe.
“Impossible!” said I.
