# The Freshman (Holman)/Chapter 18

And then the wildly jubilant Tate hordes, unleashed at last, swarmed out upon the cleat-torn field. The band was playing "Tate Forward March" crazily, blatantly. Hats and cushions and pennants filled the air. Off started the band and behind them zigzagged the yelling undergraduates in the time-honored snake dance. Old grads of fifty and sixty fell into line shouting and trying to emulate the mad rhythm. Non-collegian visitors, entering into the spirit of the occasion, piled down upon the field and cheered and stared.
Down the gridiron danced the Tate thousands. Under the goal posts where Harold had fallen with the ball they gryated. Hats flew into the air over, under, striking the crossbar. Many of them never to be recovered. But the owners didn't care. Up went the cheer leaders' red and white striped megaphones, to be caught on the other side.
Then victorious Tate lined up in front of the Union State stands, where the enemy stood stunned and wrapped in gloom. Tate generously cheered Union State. It could afford to be generous now. Union State made a gal​lant attempt to return the compliment. Then the forces of Tate made a rush for the field house, where were sheltered their victorious warriors.
And Harold Lamb?
As the last whistle shrilled and the Tate rooters poured out, the first mad scramble was for him. Youthful arms seized him and he was lifted precariously aloft before he could protest. He was tired, grimy, smiling. He stooped down to try and shake all the hands that were pawing out to grab his. He caught a glimpse of his bearers. They were Dave Keay, "Shelley" Logan, Joe Bartlett and Leonard Trask. They grinned up and shouted things to him that could not be heard above the din. Even Dan Sheldon came rushing up and tried to shake hands.
Dan, shaken out of his selfishness and of his repugnance for the day's hero, yelled, "Atta boy, 'Speedy.' You put it over. You win, kid, I have to hand it to you." Harold reached and took the Sophomore's hand. He was at peace with the world that day.
Behind him, bobbing on shoulders that could hardly carry his sturdy frame, came Chester Trask, very nearly all in, but very happy. And then Blythe, Houghton and the rest of the team, even to the last substitute and including poor, still trembling Hollister. ​All carried aloft by worshiping Tatians and borne to the field house. Tate would have grabbed Mike Cavendish too and carried him if they thought they had dared.
Harold, surveying all those mad thousands of people from his lofty perch, finally caught sight of the one face he was looking for—Peggy's. She waved madly to him and tried to make her way to him through the milling hordes. He waved frantically and yelled "Peggy!" He had an impulse to jump down and run to her. She disappeared into the throng. An instant later, flushed and happy, buffeted about by delirious Tatians, she managed to get near enough to him to reach up her arm and hand him the piece of paper clutched in her fingers. It was a note hastily scrawled on part of a page torn from a magazine. He reached down so far to take Peggy's note that he almost plunged off his supporters' shoulders into the crowd. He tried to attain her wrist, to hold her. But now there was a fresh onslaught by the sons of Tate upon their hero. Peggy was caught in the maelstrom, borne away out of sight.
Roaring Tate carried its football gods to the porch of the field house, and deposited them.
"Speech, 'Speedy,' speech!" went up a mighty shout.
​"Speech, Captain Trask, speech!" echoed another.
But Harold escaped his admirers and ran into the field house. Chester Trask was left to face the crowd.
"Harold Lamb's not only one of the greatest football men Tate ever turned out, but one of the most modest," Trask's voice rang out. "From the start he had the proper spirit. And that's more than half the battle. He won this great victory single-handed. He carried the ball over himself. He ran the team like a veteran. Every play he used was strictly his own selection. Nobody told him what to do. And it was the first college football game he ever played in. I call that genius! We all regret that Bill Crawford was knocked out. But thank God we had Harold Lamb to take his place. And will have him for the next three years. Let's give him a long cheer!"
And Harold was cheered to the echo with the battle cry reserved for Tate captains only.
Then there were cries for Cavendish, but Mike had characteristically ducked. But Houghton spoke. Blythe spoke. And the others.
Inside the field house in the locker room Harold found it impossible either to change his clothes or to read the note Peggy had ​handed him. Everybody wanted to congratulate the hero of the day. He was kept busy pumping hands and wincing under resounding blows on the back.
The manager of the team added to his congratulations the report that everybody outside the building, including Coach Cavendish, was now engaged in trying to learn the famous "Speedy" Lamb jig step and snappy remark to "step right up and call me 'Speedy.'"
"It'll be the rage of the campus," the hoarse-voiced manager declared. "You're the greatest hero Tate ever had, 'Speedy.'" This from a dignified Senior who had up to that day hardly known Harold's last name, let alone his first!
Coach Cavendish was now talking to his players. The tough face of Mike bore an unaccustomed smile. His voice was strangely mild.
"You're sure a lucky bunch of stiffs," he started. "You beat a team that was at least twice as good as you. They had you played off your feet. Till that crazy man Lamb went in." He turned as Harold slipped sheepishly back and drew a towel out of his locker. "Oh, there you are, you fighting fool. Forgive me if I ever again say I know a real football player when I see one! I thought you were the world's worst. You sure showed me up, kid. Put it there!"
​Harold and the coach shook hands resoundingly.
"What's the use of calling it luck anyway?" grinned Mike. "We won, didn't we? When I saw 'Speedy' here open up the forward passing, I held my breath. When I heard him yell the signal for that trick place-kick, I shut my eyes and I didn't open them again till Hughie Mulligan said she was over. Then—oh, boy!!"
Reminiscences of the historic struggle were being hurled right and left. With Harold the center of it all. But quiet, eager to get away.
Harold knew where there was a solitary shower away from the other occupied row of swishing cascades. He slipped away and sought this haven. Leaning against the wall near the shower bath, he opened the crumpled piece of paper that was Peggy's note and, read:
I knew you could do it. I'm so proud. I love you.
Peggy.
Harold read the note five times, his face more and more suffused with smiles. Peggy! The sweetest girl in the world. Suddenly a Niagara of water descended upon the blissful hero from the shower above. Absent-mindedly he had leaned against the ​lever controlling the mechanism and given himself and his uniform an impromptu bath!
It was seven o'clock when Harold at last reached the Sayre home and walked into the hallway.
At once a soft bundle of fluffy-haired loveliness came running out from the living room and, hurling herself frankly into his arms, kissed him happily.
"Hail the conquering hero!" cried Peggy when she had disengaged herself. She stood off surveying him proudly.
Mrs. Sayre came to the living-room door and congratulated him more conventionally. Then Peggy drew him into the room. A short, stocky, gray-haired man was standing there, smiling broadly.
"Uncle Peter!" Harold cried. And rushed forward to shake hands.
"I got there just at the beginning of—what do you call it?—the last quarter," Peter Thatcher explained. "I saw you do the trick. It was great! Worth helping a boy to college for. I never thought I would like football. But say—I felt like kissing everybody in sight. I was as bad as the rest of the lunatics. Including this young lady." He turned to Peggy. Already he appreciated what she and his nephew meant to each other.
​"But how did you find this house, Uncle Peter?" Harold asked.
"I got the address from the letters you wrote me," Mr. Thatcher explained. "And after the game I was spry enough to beat that wild mob to the last taxicab in sight."
"It's great to see you," said Harold.
"Now let's all go down to the Hotel Tate and celebrate with a big dinner," Uncle Peter proposed expansively. "You too, Mrs. Sayre."
The steel magnate went upstairs with Harold to the Freshman's room while Harold changed his clothes again.
"I want to say that to-day's happenings aren't all that have made me pleased with you lately, Harold," Uncle Peter said seriously. "For a while you had your mother and me worried. You got off on the wrong foot, I guess. Then, after that Frolic business, you seemed to pull yourself together. You had the right stuff in you all the time. You just needed something or somebody to bring it out. And I guess you found both. Football is the something and Peggy Sayre is the somebody, eh?"
Harold was blushing furiously.
At the Hotel Tate, Uncle Peter insisted upon ordering the most pretentious dinner that hostelry could serve them. They ate it ​amid a roomful of celebrating Tatians. Every minute or so Harold had to respond to congratulations. He was eager to get away, to be out of this din, to be with Peggy.
And then at last they were alone together in the Sayre living room.
"You meant what you said in your note?" Harold asked her anxiously as she sat very close to him on the divan.
"Why, yes," she teased. "I am very proud of you—just as I said."
"I don't mean that part."
"But that was all I said, wasn't it?"
"No. You said—'I love you.' Oh, Peggy, did you mean it?"
She hesitated, then nodded a vigorous affirmative. And turned her red lips to his.
"Oh-h-h, Peggy," he cried and took her in his arms.
Five minutes later he was in a condition to try speech again.
"If I've done anything worth doing—I owe it to you, Peggy," he insisted seriously.
"Oh, be yourself, Harold," she laughed.
"That's what I mean," he persisted. "You said to me, 'Be yourself.' And that's what started me on the right track."
The End