“That’s all well enough to say,” replied Stick desperately, “but how do you know he can’t? Suppose he lowers his prices below ours? Then what happens? Why, folks go to him, of course, and we sit and whistle. And then the rent comes due and a lot of bills come piling in and – bingo! good-by, Football!”
“Crocker will have to cut a lot below our prices, Stick, to get any trade away from us. In the first place, we sell better stuff. You know that yourself. Then we treat customers a heap better, and we know our stock. But, if we do begin to slip, we’ll cut prices, too. We can play that game just as well as he can.”
“No, we can’t! He’s got all sorts of other goods to sell, and we haven’t. He could run his sporting goods department at a loss for months and not have to worry!”
“He would worry, just the same,” said Russell, smiling. “I know Crocker’s sort. He’d worry if a clerk sold a five cent screwdriver at less than ten! But never mind that. Those P. and F. folks are after business, Stick. They’re making a hard drive to introduce their goods here in the east, and, I think, they’re having difficulty. The other folks are fighting them for every inch. Now if I run over to New York and tell them that Crocker is cutting prices on rival goods they’ll stand back of us, I’ll bet. They’ll sell to us at prices that’ll let us meet Crocker and go him one better.”
“That’s what you think,” sneered Stick. “You always think what you want to think, Rus. That’s your trouble. You’re too blamed optimistic. I’d rather hear the P. and F. folks say so before I banked on it!”
“They’ll say so when the time comes,” replied Russell cheerfully. “But I don’t believe it will come.”
“I know you don’t,” said Stick disgustedly. “But I do! All right, go ahead in your own stubborn, silly-ass way and ruin us! I’ve said all I have to say. Except this. I wish to goodness I’d never gone into this fool thing, and if I could get out of it – ”
“We’re making pretty fair profits now, Stick,” returned Russell quietly, “and maybe, later, we can arrange it.”
“Huh!” snorted Stick. “Later! By that time there won’t be anything left to arrange!”
CHAPTER XVI
ALTON SQUEEZES THROUGH
It was after the Hillsport game that the slump began. The first team seemed to fairly droop under the shock of that unexpected reverse; for to be played to a tie by that opponent was virtually no less than a defeat. Last year, even on Hillsport’s own field, Alton had easily beaten the other by 14 to 0, and for years past Hillsport had gone down in defeat, often ingloriously. On this regrettable occasion, however, the enemy had honestly earned her touchdown by outrushing Alton all through the first two periods and, finally, by old-fashioned smashing tactics, pushing across for a score. Had Hillsport possessed a more adept goal-kicker she might have departed with a victory. Ned Richards’ scurry down the field for Alton’s touchdown in the last moments of the third period had been a splendid piece of individual brilliancy, and it had, in a measure, saved the day for the Gray-and-Gold, but there was no blinking the fact that all of Alton’s efforts to gain through the Hillsport line had failed and that against a heavy, fast-working, clever team the Gray-and-Gold had showed up rather miserably. All this, realized by the onlookers, had not been lost on the players themselves, and the effect of the knowledge seemed to be paralyzing. The team promptly passed into what Captain Mart feelingly termed a “forty below” slump. Coach Cade sweated and scolded and planned and pleaded, and all through the following week the second pushed and tossed the big team about the gridiron with an amazing lack of respect. The second, awaking to the evident fact that the opponent was not, after all, invulnerable, took revenge for past abuse and aspersion and bullied and maltreated the first eleven brutally. In this reprehensible course they were aided and abetted, nay, even encouraged, by one Steve Gaston. Steve had no mercy, or, at least, showed none. The second jestingly referred to the daily scrimmage as the “massacre.” “Come on,” Captain Falls would blithely call. “Let’s go over and finish ’em up, second!” Now all this was fine for the morale of the second, as was speedily proved. Success, instead of spoiling them, improved them. It welded them more firmly together just as, doubtless, a successful sortie by the Robber Barons of the Rhine in the old days produced an increased esprit de corps. Probably a career of crime, such as the second was now following, is like that. Anyhow, Steve Gaston secretly rejoiced as he incited his desperadoes to greater atrocities.
The first didn’t take their drubbings meekly, you may be sure, but they took them. They took them three times that week. They almost cried at some of the indignities put upon them by an awakened and merciless scrub, and they fought back desperately and staged many “come backs” that never developed, and the School, attracted by the novel, well-nigh incredible spectacle of a first team being baited and beaten by a second, flocked to the field of an afternoon as for a Roman holiday. They didn’t always see the helpless victim devoured by the ravening lion, for twice the victim forgot his rôle and held the lion at bay, and once – that was Friday – even sent him cringing back to his lair, defeated! But in any case the spectators got their money’s worth in thrills.
It would be nice to be able to say that Russell was the bright particular star of the second, but he wasn’t anything of the sort. Russell didn’t aspire to be a star, and maybe he couldn’t have been, anyway. Besides, Steve Gaston didn’t hold with stars. He discouraged them as soon as they lifted their heads into sight. His idea of a good football team was one in which eleven men acted as one man and in which none stood out above his fellows. Steve’s slogan was “Fight!”
“I don’t care,” he would say, “how much football a fellow knows if he won’t fight. He’s no use on this team. Football’s fighting, from first to last. Keep that in mind. The fellow who fights hardest wins. Fight fair, but fight. Some of you chaps act as if you thought you were in this to let the first slap your face and get away with it. You’re not, by gumbo! You want to forget that the first team fellows are members of the same frat! They’re your enemies from the moment the whistle blows, and your business is to everlastingly whale ’em. Beat the tar out of ’em! Knock the spots off ’em! That’s football. That’s the game. The harder you use those fellows, the harder they’ll use Kenly. Paste that in your helmet!”
Russell took Steve’s earnest commands with a grain of salt; wherein he was wrong, for Steve meant all he said. Russell liked football and liked to play it hard, just as he liked to do anything else he attempted, but he retained all through that unprecedented week a sneaking sympathy for the first. Probably others of his mates did also, even if they dissembled the fact most successfully. Russell made his mistake in not thoroughly dissembling, which is why there was a knock on his door that Friday evening and Coach Gaston entered.
As was his way, Steve got to business at once. “I’ve been watching you playing pretty closely this last week, Emerson,” he began, settling into a chair, “and I’m curious. Thought I’d come around and have a little talk with you. Now, suppose you tell me, first off, just what you think the matter is.”
“Matter?” echoed Russell. “What is the matter?”
“You tell me,” answered the coach. “I’ve seen fellows who could play and fellows who couldn’t play – a lot more of the last kind than the first, you bet! – but it’s sort of out of the ordinary to find a fellow who can play and doesn’t. Must be a reason, of course, so I thought I’d ask you.”
Russell looked every bit as puzzled as he felt. “But I don’t get you, Gaston. Are you – do you mean me?”
Gaston nodded. “Of course. You’re the man. If it’s a private matter, Emerson, and you’d rather not let me in on it – ”
“But I am playing, Gaston! I don’t understand what you mean!”
“Yes, you’re playing, and I guess that’s the trouble. Maybe some one’s clipped your claws, eh?”
Russell couldn’t have said whether Gaston’s tone had been sneering or not, but he flushed as he answered warmly: “If you mean that I’m not trying my hardest and doing my best – ”
“Uh-huh, that’s it,” replied the coach easily. “Why don’t you?”
“But I tell you I am!”
Gaston smiled gently and shook his head. “No, you’re not, Emerson. Maybe you think you are, but you’re not. You go through the motions very nicely. You follow the ball as closely as any of the fellows, you sense plays well and you handle yourself finely. But you always hold something back, son. I’ve seen it time and again. To-day, for instance, you let Crocker get around you twice, and you tackled Austen on one play there as though you thought he was made of glass and might break in the middle.”
“I stopped him,” protested Russell.
“Sure, you stopped him! But, man alive, don’t you know that he was carrying the ball? Don’t you know that a smashing hard tackle will sometimes make the runner drop the ball? I’ve seen a college game won by the team that tackled the hardest. Sooner or later a runner will get a jar that’ll send the ball out of his arms. It doesn’t happen often, but it does happen, and it’s worth counting on, Emerson, for games have been won before now because of a fumbled ball.”
“But I don’t want to kill any one!”
“Don’t worry about that. Players don’t get hurt by hard tackling, beyond a bruise or two. It’s because we count on hard tackles and stiff blows that we train for the game as we do. No fellow who learns to take a fall the right way gets anything broken. Emerson, you can’t play football and consider the other fellow’s feelings. Now, as I’ve said, I’ve watched you, and I like your style, but, by gumbo, son, you’re not doing yourself justice! And you’re not playing fair by me! You’ve heard me tell the team over and over that when the game starts those other chaps aren’t friends of ours, they’re the enemy. And the enemy is something to lick! I don’t care if the man playing opposite you shares your room here, Emerson. When you’re playing against him he’s just as much your foe as if he wore the red K on his sweater! Funny I can’t drill that into you chaps. I’ve tried hard enough!”
“Seems to me,” said Russell, “that’s carrying it pretty far.”
“No, it isn’t. You think a minute. What are we in business for? To give practice to the first team, eh? Sure! All right. Now suppose we’re a poor lot. What’s the result? First gets feeble opposition. She walks through us, holds us for downs, fools us on plays, out-punts us. She gets the notion that she’s pretty good and is right pleased and cocky. Then she runs up against a real team and gets knocked into a cocked hat. What good’s that?”
“I know all that,” acknowledged Russell, “but we aren’t that bad, Gaston.”
“Of course not, but don’t you see the point? We’re here to do our honest, level best, Emerson, to fight hard every minute, to show the first that she’s just a bunch of mutts, to knock her down and rub her face in the mud and teach her to fight, fight! That’s our part in licking Kenly next month. That’s our share of the big moment. The better we are, the better the first will be.”
Russell sighed. “Maybe that’s all true, Gaston, but it doesn’t seem to me that we have to play like muckers to do our share.”
“Muckers! Gosh, no! But there’s nothing muckerish in playing hard. Hard playing isn’t dirty playing, Emerson. I’ll chuck any fellow on the second who plays dirty, and do it before the umpire can open his mouth. But I want my men to give me everything they’ve got, Emerson. When they give it to me they’re giving it to the School. Next month you’ll sit and watch the big team wallop Kenly, and you’ll say to yourself: ‘Some team that, some team! And I helped build it! I blamed near wore myself out, and maybe I won’t get the last bandage off before Christmas, but it was worth it! That’s my team that’s winning, and I taught it how!’ Well, I must be going. There’s a conference at Johnny’s in ten minutes. Think over what I’ve said, Emerson. Good night.”
And Steve was gone, having wasted no time on ceremony.
Russell did think it over, during the ensuing few minutes before Stick came in and, later, when the light was out and he was curled up in bed. He knew that Gaston was right, and before he went to sleep he had determined that the second team coach should never again have cause to reproach him for holding back. Maybe Gaston took the whole thing too seriously, but that was up to Gaston. Russell’s duty was to obey orders.
The first journeyed to New Falmouth the next day and played High School. New Falmouth was a manufacturing town and the High School bunch was a very husky aggregation of youths who played the game of football earnestly and in a manner that doubtless won the warm commendation of Steve Gaston. It is possible, though, that they sometimes allowed their enthusiasm to lead them into devious ways, for there was much penalizing that afternoon and some cautioning, and if further proof was needed there was Nichols’ ensanguined nose and Mart Proctor’s extremely discolored eye! The game was lacking in science but not in interest, for it see-sawed back and forth as the twelve-minute periods passed and neither the goodly army of Alton supporters or the much larger assemblage of enthusiastic and strongly prejudiced New Falmouth cohorts dared predict a victory for its team. At the end of the first quarter Alton was in the lead, 6 to 0. When the half was done the teams were tied at 6 to 6. When the third period had passed into history, the Gray-and-Gold was once more trailing, for again New Falmouth had scored a touchdown, without, however, adding a goal to it. At the final tooting of the horn Alton was victorious by the narrow margin of one point, the complete score being 13 to 12. Mawson, succeeding where Mart Proctor had previously failed, had added the deciding point amidst the hostile howls and shrieks of the enemy. After that five minutes more of play had failed to alter the figures.
Alton had certainly not done herself proud, but she derived some joy from the victory and returned home with the notion that she had got her feet back on terra firma once more and that, come Monday, she would show that second team that it couldn’t bite her and get away with it! That was the team’s notion. The School wasn’t nearly so set-up, while Coach Cade, although he kept his own counsel, was not unduly optimistic. That slump was still hanging around, as the day’s game had shown, and he didn’t look for an immediate departure. Such maladies as that which held the Alton football eleven in its grip are mysterious and difficult to conquer. They must run their course, although that course may be shortened by skillful handling of the case. Having tried heroic measures for a week, Coach Cade now decided to try opposite methods. On Monday there was no work for any of those who had taken part in the New Falmouth game, and, consequently, no scrimmage with the second. On Tuesday the work was light, and again there was no meeting with the scrubs. The latter were chagrined and insulting. The first didn’t dare face them, they declared. Johnny was afraid to have them hurt. As a result of such charges there were two mix-ups between first and second team players, one in the locker-room that was halted this side of bloodshed, and one which was said to have gone four full rounds to no decision. The latter was held back of Haylow and witnessed by an appreciative audience in nearby windows. Neither affair did anything towards fostering that spirit of forbearance so deplored by Steve Gaston!
Meanwhile, from Kenly came bright reports of the Cherry-and-Black team, and Alton Academy settled down into deep pessimism on the subject of the big game. This, it was clear, was not to be an Alton year. Youths of literary proclivities wrote indignant letters to the school weekly – a few of which were published – and wherever two or more were gathered together the invariable subject of discourse was What’s the Matter with the Team? In such unsatisfactory way the early season passed and the Mount Millard game loomed closely ahead.
CHAPTER XVII
STICK CONFIDES HIS TROUBLES
On Wednesday of that week Crocker’s Hardware Store had announced in the paper a twenty per cent reduction in the price of athletic goods. Also, as Jimmy had discovered that morning, one window of Crocker’s had been devoted to a display of football supplies and a general athletic miscellany. Rather an attractive window it had been, too, although the dresser had evidently experienced some difficulty in finding sufficient articles with which to fill it, since he had eked out with canoe paddles, baseball bats and a lunch hamper. Jimmy had reported the matter with some concern to Russell and that morning and the mornings following had spent a large part of his time at the front door prepared to accost any person looking like a prospective buyer of athletic goods before he could get as far as Crocker’s. But Russell had not seemed greatly worried, and events proved that he had had no reason for worry. If there was no great growth in trade at the Sign of the Football, neither was there any perceptible falling off; and Jimmy, who kept a sharp watch on the rival establishment, reported that so far as he could determine Crocker’s was getting no more custom than usual.
Even with that twenty per cent discount it was doubtful if Crocker’s prices were yet lower than those of the Sign of the Football, and until they were Russell saw no reason for lowering his own prices. Stick spent a miserable week, fearing financial ruin and doing surreptitious figuring on scraps of paper. Russell was never allowed to see those figures, but he could guess what they meant. Business was really good now, and as the days of that week passed without any lessening of it Stick was almost encouraged to take hope. But it took a great deal to make Stick optimistic and he was still lugubrious when Saturday came. Russell sought to cheer him up by displaying figures that represented the week’s sales and the net profits, but Stick only viewed them moodily and sniffed.
“Crocker hasn’t started on us yet,” he said.
Russell who had toiled hard and whole-heartedly for the last three days at the task of teaching football to the first team wanted very much to see to-day’s game. Nevertheless he would not have asked Stick to take his place in the store, since it had become understood that on Saturday afternoons Stick was a gentleman of leisure. But it was Stick who proposed it. He didn’t care much about football, anyway, he observed, and if Rus wanted to see the game he, Stick, didn’t mind looking after business. So Russell thanked him and hurried off at three o’clock in an effort to reach the field for the kick-off.
An hour later, the Mountain having failed to come to Mohammed, Mohammed put on his black felt hat, left his store and walked a few doors southward. Secretly he was incensed, outwardly he was unperturbed and even genial. His geniality increased when he found the junior partner instead of the senior presiding behind the counter in the Sign of the Football. He introduced himself to Stick, and Stick replied warily that he was glad to meet him, not being anything of the sort.
Mr. Crocker found the junior partner quite a different proposition from Russell. Stick was uneasy and showed it. There was none of Russell’s confident defiance about him. Mr. Crocker leaned against the counter and talked about weather, trade, the Academy and again trade. He impressed Stick vastly, which was just what he intended to do. Stick lost some of his discretion and it wasn’t long before the caller was in possession of the knowledge that Stick regretted his financial connection with the Sign of the Football, although Stick didn’t say so in so many words. Mr. Crocker gave it as his frank and disinterested opinion that there had been a great mistake made when the Sign of the Football had been opened for business. He quoted figures to Stick, figures showing that it had never paid Mr. Crocker to carry athletic goods and never could pay him. There was not, he confided, sufficient trade in the town. Only the fact that those who came to purchase athletic goods returned for hardware or related articles sold by Mr. Crocker induced him to continue in the sporting goods business. That sounded reasonable and Stick nodded.
Mr. Crocker suggested that being a junior partner wasn’t very satisfactory, anyhow, since you didn’t have an equal voice in the conduct of business, and again Stick nodded. Mr. Crocker was fast proving himself a man of discernment and wisdom. It is an odd fact that your extremely suspicious person – and that Stick Patterson surely was – can be readily fooled if the right intelligence undertakes the job. Look around and see if I’m not right. Stick reversed his opinion of Mr. Crocker in something under thirty minutes. He no longer thought him base and designing. On the contrary he saw now that Russell’s picture of the hardware merchant had been quite out of drawing and that Mr. Crocker was a kind-meaning, well-intentioned gentleman whose seeming interference in their affairs was actuated by honest and sympathetic motives. In short, Mr. Crocker saw from his long experience the fate awaiting the unfortunate venture of the Sign of the Football and, having the Golden Rule ever in mind, was doing what he could to avert it. Having accepted that estimate of the caller and his errand, Stick became confidential.
Ten minutes later Mr. Crocker, patting his soft hat more firmly on his head, remarked: “Well, if your partner can’t be made to see the wise thing there’s nothing I can say or do, Mr. Patterson.” He smiled kindly and sorrowfully as he moved toward the door.
“I suppose not,” assented Stick gloomily. “Gee, if I could get out of it – ”
“Yes, you might do that,” said Mr. Crocker carelessly.
“Eh?” exclaimed Stick. “How could I?”
Mr. Crocker turned a slightly surprised countenance over his shoulder. “Why, sell out, of course,” he said.
“Oh!” replied Stick disappointedly. “I’m willing enough but Russell hasn’t got the money. He says he may have it later, but – ”
“I don’t believe,” said Mr. Crocker, pausing and looking thoughtfully through the door, “that your partner would be willing to give you more than you put in for your share of the business.”
“I wouldn’t expect him to,” said Stick. “I’d be glad to get my money back!”
“You ought to do a little better than that,” asserted the man. “In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if you could sell at quite a neat little profit, Mr. Patterson.”
“I don’t believe so, sir. By the time Rus gets ready to buy me out there won’t be any business left, I guess.”
“I agree with you, but why wait so long? Why not sell now?”
“He won’t buy now,” answered Stick, a trifle surprised at Mr. Crocker’s density.
Mr. Crocker waved a hand carelessly. “Some one else might,” he said. Stick stared.
“You mean that – that you – ”
“Dear me, no,” protested the other. “I wouldn’t touch it for half what you put in, Mr. Patterson. You see, I know the business. But there may be others who don’t.”
“I guess there wouldn’t be any one who’d care to buy,” said Stick. Mr. Crocker, he thought, was a bit visionary for a man seemingly so hard-headed.
“Possibly not, possibly not,” Mr. Crocker returned. “Still, if I should hear of any one looking for a small investment of the sort I’ll take the liberty of letting you know. If it isn’t too much of a secret, Mr. Patterson, what does your interest here amount to?”
Stick hesitated. The sum was, of course, ridiculously trifling from the point of view of a person of Mr. Crocker’s wealth. But Stick finally gave the figures, nevertheless. Mr. Crocker’s brows raised incredulously.
“But your partner must have put in very much more then!”
“Only about seventy-five more,” denied Stick.
“You mean to tell me you’ve been doing business here on a capital of something under four hundred dollars?” exclaimed Mr. Crocker. “Astounding! Ridiculous!”
“It was all we had,” replied Stick defensively.
“H’m. Well, you won’t have so much to lose, anyway,” said the other cheerfully. “That’s fortunate, eh?”
“A hundred and twenty-five’s a lot more than I want to lose,” answered Stick earnestly. “If you hear of any one who will pay that much, sir, I wish you’d let me know.”
“I will, certainly. In fact, Mr. Patterson, I’ll make inquiries. Perhaps, though, we’d better keep this to ourselves for the present. For instance, I wouldn’t mention it to your partner just yet. Time enough when we have a buyer, eh? For that matter, maybe it’ll be just as well if Mr. Emerson doesn’t learn of my call. Between you and me, Mr. Patterson, he seems to have taken a – er – well, a dislike to me.” Mr. Crocker smiled patiently and forgivingly. “He might, you see, object to losing your interest, which, doubtless, he hopes to acquire himself when he is quite ready. Perhaps he figures that by spring, say, the business will be so run down that your interest can be purchased for less than you’d be willing to let it go for now.” Mr. Crocker shook his head sadly, in the manner of one who, during a blameless life, has watched the devious ways of less upright persons. “Well, I’ll be going,” he continued. “Very glad to have met you, Mr. Patterson, and to have had this talk. It is always a pleasure to meet a reasonable and sensible person. Good afternoon.”
After the caller had gone Stick had one or two qualms of doubt. Had he done right in letting Mr. Crocker so far into the secrets of the business? Would it be fair to sell out his interest to any one save his partner? Still, if Rus couldn’t buy, and another could —
Stick had plenty of food for thought during the rest of the day.
Russell watched the Mount Millard game from a comfortable seat in the grandstand and heroically joined his voice to the voices of some three hundred and seventy-five others during four hectic periods. For neighbors he had Stanley Hassell and Bob Coolidge, those young gentlemen having spied Russell making an eleventh-hour search for a seat, hailed him and in some mysterious manner wedged him in between them. No matter how much difficulty Bob Coolidge might experience in ordinary conversation, when it came to cheering he was all there. There was no hesitation, no stuttering, and his voice was like unto the voice of the Bull of Bashan. But had every Altonian there that afternoon possessed Bob’s vocal powers it is doubtful if the outcome of the game would have been much different.
Russell saw the enemy hold the home team scoreless throughout the first quarter, when, with the wind in her favor and all the luck of the game with her, the Gray-and-Gold struggled valiantly and desperately to cross the enemy’s goal-line and, twice reaching the fifteen yards, was halted and turned back. It was in that period that Alton played her best game, although the fact wasn’t known then. In the second quarter, with the wind behind her, Mount Millard punted and kept on punting until, near the end, her chance came. Then Crocker, who seemed to have definitely won the left end position from Rhame, shooting around the opposite end of the Alton line with the ball, was met head-on by a watchful enemy back and in the shock of that collision let go of the pigskin. When the whistle again piped the pigskin lay twelve yards nearer the Alton goal and a Mount Millard lineman sprawled protectingly above it. That was the enemy’s opportunity, for the line-up was on Alton’s thirty-two yards and the brisk wind was blowing straight toward the Alton goal-posts. Mount Millard tried two rushes that added four yards more to her possession and then, amidst a deep silence, sent her left halfback to kicking position for the third consecutive time. This time, as friend and foe alike knew, there was no pretense about it. A minute later the ball had sailed lazily across the bar and Mount Millard had scored.
But three points seemed as yet nothing to worry about. Stanley Hassell predicted that after Johnny had got through reading the riot act in there – nodding backward toward the gymnasium – the home team would come back and bite large and gory holes in Mount Millard. Bob Coolidge agreed thoroughly if stutteringly and only Russell remained pessimistic. Russell had noted the first team’s let-up in that second period, had seen the signs before and interpreted them correctly as subsequent events proved. Alton never again during the remaining twenty-four minutes of actual playing time showed herself dangerous. The third quarter was all Mount Millard, even if she didn’t score. For Alton, who had taken a leaf from her opponent’s book and was kicking on second down, Jimmy Austen performed creditably enough, but what he managed to gain on his punts the enemy stole away by running back the ball for ten, fifteen, occasionally twenty yards. The Alton ends were heavy-footed and slow, tackled the wrong man and, when they had picked the right one, generally missed him. Rhame went in for Crocker and Lake for McLeod, but little improvement resulted. In the line Alton at times seemed half asleep. The men charged high and slow, and on defense it was only the secondary army that saved the day a dozen times. Mount Millard paved the way for a touchdown in the final minutes of the third quarter and secured it soon after the last period had begun. Then a short forward-pass took the ball to the Gray-and-Gold’s twenty-seven yards, a long-legged halfback skirted Lake for six and Mount Millard formed for a try-at-goal. None expected it and it didn’t materialize, but again Mount Millard edged closer, this time by a full-back sprint. The enemy made it first down on Alton’s sixteen, and from there, although Coach Cade threw in almost a new line from end to end, took the ball over in four plays, the last of which went for three yards through an utterly demoralized defense.