The eighth hole is a short one, 150 yards, and the bogey is 3. A long drive, a short approach and you’re on the green. The hole has been done in 3 a good many times, and to-day both Ned and his adversary equaled bogey. At the ninth tee the excitement amongst the audience had grown intense. The ninth was five yards shorter than the last hole and was an easy one. There was a bunker near enough the tee to punish a weak drive, but after that it was fair sailing. Ned made a hard, straight drive that was a fraction too high. Had there been even a mild breeze he would have suffered in direction. Frost’s ball went lower, skimming above the bunker with only a half-dozen feet to spare, and doing a remarkable amount of rolling after it had struck the smooth turf. It was a fine long shot and bettered Ned’s by fifteen yards. The gallery unanimously agreed as they took up their way across the links and skirted the bunker that the match depended now on the next strokes. Frost had the advantage in[176] distance, but it was felt that Ned was quite capable of overcoming that handicap, since on midiron plays he had shown himself superior to Frost all the afternoon. Ned was away and played first, using his mashie. The ball went away high and the gallery watched its arch with breathless interest. It struck on the green, about two yards out of line with the flag, and apparently quite near the hole. One of the players who had finished his game and, with the others, was standing near the home green, waved his hand and cut a caper. Frost selected a midiron for his approach. For the first time that day he seemed nervous, and was an unusually long time in making his shot. It had good direction, struck well this side of the green and rolled smoothly on until it lay within four yards of the hole. The gallery hurried to the green, the two players following more leisurely. Ned’s lie was almost but not quite as good as Frost’s, being just over four paces distant from the hole, while Frost’s was just under. Kirk stepped forward and lifted the flag from the hole, treading across the short turf as though presiding at a funeral. The gallery ranged itself around the green, determined not to miss a thrill.
Ned looked critically along the line to the hole, swung his putter once or twice from the wrists and[177] addressed his ball. Had a grasshopper sneezed at that moment every member of the gallery would have jumped a foot! Ned swung his club back gently, brought it smoothly forward, there was a little tap and the ball ran swiftly toward the hole. Ned had put too much force into the stroke, for the ball reached the edge of the cup, leaped across and trickled on for a yard! A murmur of dismay went up. Kendall’s heart sank. Frost gripped his putter, brushed aside a tiny pebble, settled himself and tapped his ball very gently. His direction was good, but, having determined not to fall into Ned’s error, he erred on the other side and the ball traveled a scant two yards. A sigh of relief arose about Kendall; he caught a boy grinning at him and grinned back; Teller Sanford’s black eyes were gleaming with excitement. There was only a tied match to hope for now, but that was better than the defeat that would have come had Frost holed out in his first try. But even a yard is a long way sometimes when much depends on the result, and there was a good deal of suspense while Ned measured the distance and swung his putter. But this time the ball behaved itself and dropped into the hole with a comforting thud. A sigh of relief went up from all around. Then every eye fixed itself on the Broadwood player. Two yards was not a long[178] putt for Frost, but there was always the chance that he wouldn’t make it, and as he sped the little ball forward more than one onlooker gripped his hands. It began to slow down soon after it left the club; a foot from the hole it was barely rolling; at the very brink of the hole it paused, seemed to look into the abyss before it, shudder and stop. For an instant no one moved or breathed. It seemed that the ball would drop over the edge at any instant. But it didn’t. Frost, watching it, shrugged his shoulders and walked toward it.
“Oh, call it in!” cried Ned, and jumped in the hope of jarring the ground sufficiently to set the ball in motion. But the thing was obdurate. It never stirred. Frost tapped it with his putter and it rolled out of sight. Then he turned to Ned with outstretched hand.
“You win, Tooker,” he said, with a smile. He was a little bit pale. Ned shook hands, but—
“Nonsense!” he said. “I’m not going to take the game on a fluke like that. We’ll call it a draw, Frost, and play another nine.”
“Oh, no!” replied Frost. “It was a fair win.”
He reached down and rescued his ball from the hole. Then he walked very deliberately to the edge of the green, dropped the ball on the turf, swung his putter and sent the offending guttie[179] flying into the river. Then he came back, a smile on his face.
“I feel better,” he said to Ned, with a laugh. “Well, we had a close game of it, Tooker, and you deserved to win. Wonder how the other games came out.”
“It’s two to two,” said Linton. “The match depends on those chaps.” He nodded across to where Simpson and Sawyer were preparing to drive off from the ninth tee.
“Who won?” asked Ned of Kirk.
“I lost,” answered Kirk unhappily. “It was 86 to 90. I’m awfully sorry, Ned.”
“It doesn’t matter. How did the others come out?”
“Pete lost to Linton and Jim Morgan beat Carter. What was your score, Ned?”
“I was 79 and Frost 80. Anyone heard how Simpson is getting on?”
“He was four to the bad at the end of the first round,” replied Kirk. “I guess he’s out of it.”
And he was. Sawyer, of Broadwood, finished triumphantly with a lead of 6 strokes under Jack Simpson and Broadwood had won the match, three games out of five.
“Well, we will have to try you again in the spring,” said Ned to Frost.
“We’ll be glad to,” the other answered. “And[180] I hope you and I, Tooker, can get together again. You’re the best I ever ran up against, but I’m not convinced I can’t beat you.”
“I daresay you will the next time,” laughed Ned. “Good-by. We’ve had a dandy time.”
Ned, Kendall and Teller Sanford walked back together, Ned a little disappointed.
“I don’t care if we did get beaten,” said Kendall, “as long as you won your game, Ned.”
“I do,” Ned replied. “I thought sure we’d get a fall out of them this time. Hang ’em, we’ve never managed to win since I’ve been here! But you wait until next spring! Gee, but I’m tired! I’m going to have a hot and cold shower, fellows. I’ll see you later.”
The Football Team came back to school in time for a late supper, wearied and happy. Carrel’s School had been vanquished to the tune of 22 to 3, and it seemed that at last Yardley had found her pace. Carrel’s three points had been made by a field goal in the first three minutes of play. After that the home team had never had a chance and Yardley had scored a touchdown in each period and had kicked two goals out of four, Hammel succeeding once out of three tries and Dan Vinton securing the other. Only one incident had marred the game. Arthur Thompson, playing right half in the third period, had sprained his knee and[181] would be out of the game for the rest of the season.
The school in general was too happy over the size of the score to pay much attention to this misfortune at first. But by the next day it was realized that the team had sustained a serious loss in Thompson. He had proved himself head and shoulders above any of the other half-back substitutes, and it was scarcely to be supposed that both Roeder and Stearns would be so fortunate as to play through the rest of the season uninterruptedly. Now, in case either was forced to retire, his duties would fall to Green or Fayette, neither of whom could be called a first-class back.
Gerald hurried over to Arthur’s room in Whitson as soon as he heard the bad news and found a very despondent-looking invalid. Arthur had had his supper in bed, and the doctor had just gone, after wrapping the injured knee in yards of gauze.
“How’s this for luck?” asked Arthur miserably. “I can stand not playing football any more this fall, but what about pole-vaulting? I’ll make a fine Track Team captain if I have to hobble around with a cane!”
“It isn’t as bad as that, is it?” asked Gerald anxiously. “What did the doctor say?”
“Oh, he didn’t say much of anything. Said it[182] would be all right in a week or two, but that I’d have to be careful of it for a month or so after I got out. I asked him if it would interfere with pole work and he just hemmed and hawed and looked wise in that silly way doctors have. I’d like to kick him!”
“Why, of course it will be all right by spring, Arthur,” Gerald said with conviction. “Look at the people who sprain their ankles and wrists and—and things every day!”
“Well, why didn’t he say so, then?” asked Arthur crossly. “Besides, pole-vaulting puts a lot of work on a fellow’s knees, and if mine is stiff and creaky I won’t be able to do ten-feet-six!”
“Oh, sure you will! Buck up, Arthur. Tell me about the game.”
“The game? Oh, it was all right, I guess. Tom was a wonder to-day; went through ’em as though they were paper. And Hammel was a dandy, too, even if he did miss two goals.”
“How did Dan play?”
“Rotten, if you want the unvarnished truth, Gerald. I don’t know what’s the matter with Dan. I suppose, though, it’s just being captain that’s queering his game. He dropped two passes to-day and was as slow as molasses down the field. I guess Dan’s gone fine.”
[183]
Gerald nodded. “I thought he seemed to have the dumps this evening,” he murmured thoughtfully. “Do you know, Arthur, I’m a bit worried about Dan.” Arthur looked a question and Gerald continued: “He isn’t the same chap he was last year. He’s cross about half the time, and nervous as a—a—”
“As a hen. Hens are awfully nervous, Gerald.”
“Yes, he is. He worries all the time because he’s afraid Broadwood may lick us, and every time a player stubs his toe or skins his knuckles Dan has a fit.”
“I know.” Arthur nodded. “What he needs is the rest cure. He ought to take my place for a week.”
“I wish he could,” said Gerald.
“So do I!”
“He said he was coming over here later to see how you were.”
“Well, I’ll have to be smiling and happy or he will jump into the river, I suppose,” Arthur growled. “Oh, hang the luck, anyway!”
“I’m awfully sorry,” said Gerald sympathetically. “If you want anything while you’re laid up, or if there’s anything I can do—”
“Thanks. There isn’t, though. Hello! Come in!”
[184]
It was Dan who had knocked and who, at Arthur’s invitation, entered. At his heels came Tom Roeder. Dan had a frown on his forehead and looked tired and worried.
“Hello!” greeted Arthur cheerfully. “Hello, Tom! What price me?”
“It’s a shame, Arthur,” said Dan. “I don’t know what the team is going to do without you, either.”
“Going to win,” laughed Arthur. “Don’t let that bother you.”
“How are you feeling?” asked Dan anxiously.
“Oh, fine! I could get up and walk around, only that brute of a doctor won’t let me.”
“You’d better not try it,” said Tom sternly. “What does he say about the knee?”
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