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Copyright © 2019 by Toni Natalie
Foreword copyright © 2019 by Rick Alan Ross
Cover design by Jarrod Taylor.
Cover copyright © 2019 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.
Hachette Book Group supports the right to free expression and the value of
copyright. The purpose of copyright is to encourage writers and artists to
produce the creative works that enrich our culture.
The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book without permission is a
theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like permission to use
material from the book (other than for review purposes), please contact
permissions@hbgusa.com. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.
Grand Central Publishing
Hachette Book Group
1290 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10104
grandcentralpublishing.com
twitter.com/grandcentralpub
First Edition: September 2019
Grand Central Publishing is a division of Hachette Book Group, Inc. The Grand
Central Publishing name and logo is a trademark of Hachette Book Group, Inc.
The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not
owned by the publisher.
Library of Congress Control Number: 2019945475
ISBNs: 978-1-5387-0106-5 (hardcover), 978-1-5387-0103-4 (ebook)
E3-20190819-DA-NF-ORI
Contents

Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
Foreword
Prologue: The Hearing
I: Young Genius
Chapter 1: The Smartest Man in the World
Chapter 2: “Is She Family?”
Chapter 3: John Galt Comes to Rochester
Chapter 4: Awaken
Chapter 5: Sleeping Arrangements
Chapter 6: “A Well Taught Crook”
Chapter 7: Ashram Blues
II: Vanguard
Chapter 8: The Turning of Prefect
Chapter 9: The Ultimate Luciferian
Chapter 10: “Eat Your Pride”
Chapter 11: Helter Skelter
Chapter 12: The Boogeyman
Chapter 13: “I Was Brainwashed”
Chapter 14: “Mr. Raniere’s Legal Torquemada”
Chapter 15: Trials
Chapter 16: The Revenge Playbook
Chapter 17: Terms of Engagement
Chapter 18: “The Cult Side”
Chapter 19: The Erin Brockovich of NXIVM
Chapter 20: The Human Piñata
III: Prisoner No. 57005-177
Chapter 21: Collateral Damage
Chapter 22: Brand Awareness
Chapter 23: The Fall of NXIVM
Epilogue: The Verdict
Acknowledgments
Photos
Discover More
Resources
To my mother, Joan Schneier, and my
brother, John Natalie, the angels that watch
over me, sending me dimes and pennies
from heaven so I know I am never really
alone.
I miss you both every day…

To those who have had no voice, I dedicate


this book to you.
You are not alone anymore.

We will never forget—Gina Hutchinson and


Kristin Marie Snyder.
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…and perhaps
I also erred, in overmuch admiring
What seemed in thee so perfect, that I
thought
No evil durst attempt thee; but I rue
The error now…
—John Milton,
Paradise Lost
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Foreword

Keith Raniere, a narcissistic con man, was the self-styled philosopher


king called “Vanguard” who ruled over a cult known as NXIVM. After
more than thirty years of cult-watching, I have rarely seen a group
more tightly wound around its leader. Raniere’s disciples hung on his
every word and there appeared to be no limit to their devotion.
Whatever Raniere said was right, was right, and whatever he said
was wrong, was wrong. This was the distilled essence of the training
that was drilled into the heads of every NXIVM student. Raniere called
it “Rational Inquiry”; others insist that it was “brainwashing.” That is,
a synthesis of coercive persuasion and influence techniques used to
gain undue influence.
I first began to look into him when, in 2002, a family hired me to
deprogram their children. They also commissioned two doctors to
analyze Keith Raniere’s methods of training. In 2003 those expert
reports were published online at the Cult Education Institute
website. Their reports concluded that Keith Raniere’s training
seminars employed coercive persuasion and thought-reform
techniques to gain undue influence over participants. These findings
reflected the same dynamics that I have seen in many authoritarian
groups called “cults” over my thirty-seven years working as an
observer and researcher of organizations like these. The CEI reports
were the first to publicly expose the inner workings of NXIVM,
prompting a lawsuit filed by Raniere and the corporate entity which
became NXIVM.
When Toni Natalie called me so many years ago, I was just
beginning my journey concerning Keith Raniere. Toni Natalie was the
first person to recognize the evil in Keith Raniere. She was ground
zero, the epicenter of the havoc wreaked by Raniere. The first to
fully recognize his twisted mind and predict the path of his
destructiveness. For me, Toni was the lone voice explaining what I
could expect because she knew.
When Toni Natalie left him, Keith Raniere, who could never accept
either rejection or criticism, responded with endless harassment until
he was locked up. Toni painfully came to realize that there was no
limit to Keith Raniere’s vindictiveness and that he was relentless. He
wanted to crush his perceived enemies, no matter what it cost, until
it cost him his freedom. With this same persistence, he sued me for
fourteen years, in an effort to remove the doctor’s reports described
above from the Internet.
I believed I was an extreme example of Keith Raniere’s
punishment, but when I spoke with Toni, her story of abuse and
harassment was beyond belief. As each of us shared our individual
stories of years of being stalked, sued and violated by Keith Reniere,
I learned that Toni had suffered much more than me, and that
whatever Toni said was always true.
My journey with Keith Raniere largely ended when his lawsuit
against me was dismissed.
My last encounter with Raniere was in the courtroom when I
testified against him as a “fact witness” in his initial federal
prosecution. Subsequently, he was found guilty on all counts.
Toni Natalie would lose both her parents and her brother before
her torment was over.
Toni inspired and offered solace to Keith Raniere’s victims. She
never thought twice about telling the truth even if it meant personal
sacrifice. She shared herself and her story to help others.
It is an honor to know Toni Natalie.
Keith Raniere will now join a list of notorious cult leaders such as
Charles Manson, Jim Jones, and David Koresh. Raniere horribly
abused women, but it was brave women who exposed and finally
stopped him. And the first woman to stand against Keith Raniere
was Toni Natalie.
By Rick Alan Ross
Prologue:

THE HEARING

Brooklyn, New York, February 28, 2019


________________________________________

When it was renovated in the early 2000s, the Theodore Roosevelt


United States Courthouse was fortified to withstand a 9/11-style
terrorist attack. This is apparent in every detail. The place—a
mammoth 750,000-square-foot complex in downtown Brooklyn, a
short walk from the Brooklyn Bridge—looks and feels like a fortress,
and that’s what I like most about it: this is the safest of safe spaces.
I arrive early, well before dawn, to make sure I secure my usual
seat in the back of the courtroom. My house is in Rochester, five
hours away, but I attend all the major hearings related to the NXIVM
case. I have to see this thing through to the end.
A year ago, NXIVM was an obscure multilevel marketing company
built around executive coaching programs, with little more than a
cult following. Then, on March 26, 2018, the arrest happened, and
the world learned that “cult following” was not just a clichéd
expression. The lurid details from the federal indictment—cult leader,
sex trafficking, slave branding—were front-page news, endlessly
fascinating. The media had a field day. I spoke to any journalist who
asked for an interview, calmly telling the truth, as I’d been doing for
years. But it was different this time. In years past, whenever I spoke
to the press, the NXIVM people would rebut: “She’s crazy.”
No one thinks I’m crazy anymore.
The same cannot be said for the six defendants in the case. The
five women are gaunt, ghostly, gray. An impartial observer might
conclude that these are prisoners on a hunger strike. The truth is
that the man they call Vanguard wants them to look like anorexics,
demands they consume the bare minimum of calories per day. Even
now, almost a year after his arrest, they eagerly starve themselves
to please their Master. Their hungry devotion led them here, to this
courtroom, where they see themselves as martyrs for the cause.
There is the one they call Prefect, Vanguard’s longtime business
partner and first acolyte and NXIVM’s president. More meat on her
bones than the others, but just as broken. I’ve known her for more
than two decades. In fact, I was the one who brought the two of
them together, all those years ago. The psychological experiments
they did on me back then were the foundation of NXIVM’s Executive
Success Programs, or ESP, its self-help curriculum. She was a
different person then—brilliant, ambitious, full of life: the very
embodiment of executive success. You would never know it to look
at her now.
Prefect’s daughter is also a defendant. She was still in college
when Vanguard first met her, a capable, whip-smart girl with a life of
promise ahead of her. In short order, he turned her against her
mother and then strung her along for decades with broken promises
of a child, a family, a life together. That future did not come to pass,
and now she is forty-two, and it never will.
The bookkeeper, Defendant #3, is the picture of defeat. Rail thin,
sad-faced, cried out. She is my age or thereabouts but looks much
older. Bookkeepers are usually the first to flip in cases like this, to
cooperate with prosecutors in exchange for leniency, but I don’t
think she has it in her.
Next, we come to the liquor heiress. Not so young anymore, but
as naïve as ever. Vanguard bamboozled her and her only slightly less
naïve sister, appropriating their renown, exploiting their old-money
business contacts, emptying their vast coffers. Everything NXIVM did
was underwritten by the heiress. Her family’s vast wealth financed
the legal harassment any detractor or defector was subjected to, just
as it pays for the attorneys of all six defendants in the courtroom
today. But that’s not the half of it. No: Vanguard has drained more
than $100 million from the heiresses’ personal trust funds. Lost most
of it on catastrophically awful commodities trades, spent the rest.
His transgressions are impossible to ignore, writ in red in the family
ledgers, the earnings reports, the bottom lines. But the heiress can’t,
or won’t, see it. She remains faithful. She has not repudiated her
Master. Instead, she’s stood by him, proclaiming his innocence as
she proclaims her own. Doubling down, she has retained a fancy
new attorney for today’s hearing, a celebrity lawyer from the city of
celebrity lawyers, Los Angeles. He doesn’t look particularly
impressive to me. Probably he sees her as Vanguard does—with
dollar signs in his eyes.
The last of the women, the television actress, is still too thin, but
not starving-to-death thin like the others. Some color has returned
to her cheeks. But then, she has not spent the winter shoveling
snow in Clifton Park, or languishing behind bars at MDC Brooklyn,
where the heat is forever on the fritz. She is under house arrest,
living with her parents in sunny California, thirty-five miles but light-
years away from Hollywood, her former base of operations. She gets
to leave the family home to go to church, run errands, take classes.
Maybe she’s learned something at school. She seems changed
somehow, like a magic spell has worn off. (Waking from a magic
spell and asking, “What just happened?” was a weekly occurrence
on the television show that made her C-list famous.) She appears
awake, alert—and terrified. After all, she was Vanguard’s “alpha
slave.” It was her idea to brand the other slave women, her
underlings—or so she claimed to a reporter at The New York Times
Magazine. She’s not getting out of this unscathed, and it looks like
she knows it.
The sixth defendant, the star attraction, is the last to enter the
courtroom. He may not have looked like a cult leader at the time of
his arrest, but he’s certainly dressed for the part this morning. He
has the Jesus hair down to his shoulders, messily parted down the
middle, a tangle of split ends desperately in need of a brush. He’s
clean-shaven, but his complexion is red and blotchy. He’s wearing his
prison jumpsuit—puke green, not orange, is the new black—over one
of those long-sleeve thermal shirts worn by lumberjacks. Perhaps
this is to call attention to his complaint that all through what has
been a particularly harsh winter, the heat has not been functioning in
the prison. And, strangely, he is not wearing his glasses. Another
inmate took them, probably, or else they got smashed. Glasses must
be hard to keep track of in jail.
The NXIVM Svengali does not so much as glance at his quintet of
emaciated Trilbys, his dutiful disciples. Never mind that two of them
—the two prettiest—have his initials branded onto their skin, inches
from their vaginas: the wraiths do not interest him. He doesn’t
make, or even seek, eye contact with any of them, nor they with
him. Not Prefect and her daughter, not the bookkeeper, not the
heiress and her fancy celebrity lawyer—not even the television
actress, one of his lovers du jour, whose capacity for sadism may
well match his own. They are all invisible to him, as if they have
already withered away to nothing.
Instead, he looks at me. It’s hard without his glasses, but he
makes me out, here in the back row, and he squints, and his
piercing blue eyes home in hypnotically on mine. There is no
remorse there; there is no love—not even the smolder of nostalgia.
There is surprise; there is desperation; there is resentment; there is
fury.
He wanted so badly for the roles to be reversed, for me to be in a
prison jumpsuit and him to be watching quietly from the front of the
courtroom. He even predicted it, the last time we were in the same
room together, in April of 1999: “The next time I see you, you’ll be
dead or in jail.” He spent almost twenty years, and God knows how
much liquor-heiress money, working to achieve that outcome. But he
failed.
He failed, justice prevailed, and now he’s the one on trial. In the
process, he’s dragged down five of the women in his inner circle: his
second-in-command, Nancy Salzman, and her dutiful daughter,
Lauren; Kathy Russell, the bookkeeper; Clare Bronfman, the liquor
heiress and NXIVM’s primary source of funding; Allison Mack, the
Smallville actress who allegedly procured other women for him. They
are all martyrs to the cause, all expendable.
But not me. Not Toni Natalie.
I’m the one who got away.
I:

Young Genius
Chapter 1:

THE SMARTEST MAN


IN THE WORLD

Rochester, New York, 1991


________________________________________

He’s the smartest man in the world,” my husband said.


“The smartest man? In the world?”
“Well, one of the smartest. His IQ is over 200. One of the highest
ever measured. And he’s coming here, to Rochester.” He showed me
the news clipping. The man in the photo was young, boyishly
handsome, with a nice head of hair and round John Lennon glasses.
He did not look like the smartest man in the world. He looked like
one of those overgrown kids in the comic book stores who play
Dungeons & Dragons. “Plus, there’s a foot of snow outside. What
else are we going to do?”
“Keith Raniere,” I read out loud, incorrectly pronouncing the name
with two syllables instead of three. (It’s ren-EAR-ee, not ren-EAR.) “I
don’t know.”
“You really don’t want to go? I thought this would be right up
your alley.”
He sounded disappointed, and I didn’t want to disappoint him. I
was thirty-two years old, and Rusty was my third husband. He
owned a chain of tanning salons—a successful business that
afforded him ample free time. We were friends before becoming
romantically involved. After three years of marriage, we still loved
each other, but there’s no question the ardor had cooled. In 1988,
we’d adopted a baby boy. I’d always wanted children, but it hadn’t
worked out. The dynamics of the marriage shifted when Michael
came into our lives. As we gave most of our attention to our
beautiful new baby, Rusty and I were drifting apart. After two failed
marriages, I recognized the warning signs. And I didn’t want that. If
Rusty really wanted me to go with him to the Holiday Inn to see the
Smartest Man in the World, if this small gesture would please him, I
was happy to make the concession.
Besides, it’s not like my interest wasn’t piqued. I have always
been insecure about my lack of formal education, having dropped
out of high school two weeks into my sophomore year. Someone
smart enough to attract the attention of Guinness World Records
must have great wisdom to impart—or so I believed. I was curious
about what this local genius would have to say. It was the topic of
discussion that raised a red flag.
“It’s a multilevel marketing company, isn’t it? You know how I feel
about MLMs.” We’d been involved with them before. Joined as
affiliate members, sold memberships to our friends, racked up fat
commissions—which was well and good until the day the promised
check didn’t arrive, and we called to ask about it, and the number
was disconnected, and all the money was gone.
“I’m not saying we should join, just that we should hear what he
has to say.”
“Okay, sure, fine, let’s go. But I mean it: I am not signing up; I
don’t care how smart he is.”
Maybe if I’d put my foot down, if I’d refused to accompany Rusty
to the Holiday Inn, our relationship would have survived this rough
patch. Maybe we’d still be together, thirty years later, presiding over
an empire of tanning salons that stretched from Maine to Michigan.
Ours wasn’t exactly the romance of the century, but he was loyal,
fun, caring—a kind man and a decent partner.
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But I know better than to play at “what if.” It was my destiny to
meet Keith Raniere. And as the Greek tragedies make clear, it is
impossible to run away from one’s fate.

Speaking of ancient Greece: there was something about Keith’s


backstory that always struck me as a piece of heroic mythology. He
was born in Brooklyn (the borough where half a century later he
would be incarcerated) in 1960, making him two years younger than
I. Like David Koresh, like Charles Manson, like L. Ron Hubbard, Keith
was an only child. His father worked in advertising; his mother
taught dance. They divorced when Keith was eight. He and his
mother moved to Suffern, an affluent suburb in Rockland County,
New York, the last stop on the New Jersey Transit commuter train
line to Manhattan.
He was sent to private schools, but if the legends are to be
believed, Keith didn’t really need them. At two, he was speaking in
complete sentences, like Charles Wallace in A Wrinkle in Time. At
four, he demonstrated an understanding of the rudiments of
quantum mechanics. Over the course of a long weekend at age
twelve, he taught himself advanced algebra, geometry, trigonometry,
and calculus. (Isaac Newton himself discovered calculus during a
similar period of intense boredom, but it took him a bit longer.) That
same year, he became the East Coast judo champion for his age
bracket.
At thirteen, Keith was taking college classes in mathematics and
computer science. At sixteen, he left high school early to enroll full-
time at Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute, the well-regarded tech
university in Troy, New York. He would ride around the RPI campus
on a unicycle. Look, he seemed to be saying, I am agile of mind and
of body. At twenty-two, he earned undergraduate degrees in
physics, mathematics, and biology—three majors, an achievement
that required sixty additional credits. Then came his big break. At
twenty-seven, he correctly answered forty-six of the forty-eight
questions on an impossible brainteaser test given by the exclusive
Mega Society, placing his IQ somewhere in the stratospheric 170–
180 range. This gave Keith local notoriety. On June 26, 1988, the
Albany Times Union ran a feel-good piece about him for its Sunday
“Living Today” section, under the headline “Troy Man Has a Lot on
His Mind—IQ Test Proves What Many Suspected: He’s One in 10
Million”:

You might say Keith Raniere is one in a million.


He’s a member of Mega, a high-IQ society with a minimum
requirement at the one-in-a-million level. Actually, the 27-year-old
Troy resident is in an even more exclusive category. By answering
correctly all but two questions on a 48-question, self-administered
test, Raniere moved up to the rarified one-in-10-million level…
Geniuses, apparently, are born, not made. Raniere says he was
identified early as a bright child. By age 2 he could spell the word
“homogenized” from seeing it on a milk carton. He was
precocious in math development and says he had an
understanding of subjects such as quantum physics and
computers by age 4…
He’s not your stereotypical genius. Watchful blue eyes look out
from behind aviator glasses. His brown hair is parted stylishly
down the middle. He has the physique of an athlete, which he is.
He was East Coast Judo champion at age 12, tied with the state
record for the 100-yard dash, is an avid skier, swimmer and wind
surfer. He says he plays seven instruments and also sings “high
tenor” in local musical productions.

He is, the article tells us, an “amazing young man, who requires
only two to four hours of sleep,” and he finished the Mega Society
test in two weeks.

“There’s no enforceable time limit. Some people take up to a year


to answer the questions. It’s suggested you limit yourself to no
more than one month,” he explains.
Unlike with some tests, applicants are encouraged to use such
reference aids as dictionaries, thesauri and pocket calculators, he
says. Guessing is permitted. There is no penalty for wrong
answers or guesses so guessing is advantageous.
Assistance from others, however, is prohibited. “But,” says the
young genius, “who could give you assistance?”
Who, indeed.

That first article, seemingly so innocuous, helped propel him to


fame and fortune. At twenty-eight, Keith began claiming that he was
in Guinness World Records for “Highest IQ,” checking in at an eye-
popping 240—brainier than Albert Einstein (170), Stephen Hawking
(190), Garry Kasparov (194), or Marilyn vos Savant (228), the Mega
Society member and Parade columnist, who from 1986 to 1989
actually was listed in Guinness World Records for “Highest IQ.” Keith
was also a virtuoso musician who could play a variety of different
instruments, including piano. Juilliard was after him, or so he
claimed. For a while, he contemplated a career as a classical pianist,
but he found a higher calling: multilevel marketing. He forsook the
concert hall for the Amway distribution center.
At twenty-nine, after a short stint at Amway, he and four of his
friends founded a business called Consumers’ Buyline, Inc., or CBI.
Like all multilevel marketing companies, its success depended on the
recruitment of new affiliates and new members. This venture is what
brought Keith Raniere to Rochester, and into my life.

The CBI seminar was held in one of the ballrooms at the Holiday Inn
in Rochester, out by the airport. I’d driven past it a thousand times
but never actually been inside. It hadn’t been renovated in quite a
while and still had that seventies feel to it: well-worn deep-pile
carpets with kaleidoscope patterns, oversize lighting fixtures, plenty
of ashtrays. Rusty and I smoked cigarettes and watched people
show up. It wasn’t packed, but it wasn’t empty, either. A solid if
unremarkable turnout for the Smartest Man in the World.
The first thing I noticed about Keith is how short he was: five six,
maybe five seven. In my pumps, I towered over him. His short
stature, combined with his rosy cheeks and a pageboy haircut that
was one remove from a mullet, made him look like a child playing at
dress-up. He may have a 240 IQ, I thought, but he looks like Little
Lord Fauntleroy. He was unassuming in person, even shy, but he
came alive onstage. He fed on the adulation of his audience.
Intelligence burned in his bright blue eyes, and there was a devil-
may-care bounce in his step.
“Sheesh,” Rusty whispered. “What a geek!”
“Well, what did you expect? Tom Cruise?”
Keith took off his glasses, gave them a polish, replaced them, and
began to sell us on the wonders of Consumers’ Buyline. As he did so,
all lingering doubts about his credentials vanished from our minds,
along with my initial reservations about involving myself with
another MLM.
The underlying concept of CBI was brilliant: customers would buy
memberships to join the group, and the group’s collective purchasing
power would be sufficient to buy merchandise at wholesale prices. It
was the same general idea that Sam’s Club and BJ’s and Costco was
capitalizing on. I liked it because it was consumerist. It saved
shoppers money. As long as you bought more items than it cost to
join, it was a savvy investment, because it made goods more
affordable. The greater the number of members, the steeper the
discount. Everybody won.
For Keith, it was the perfect business model, because once CBI
reached critical mass, it would be self-sustaining—like Rusty’s
tanning salons, but with potentially exponential streams of revenue.
As a multilevel marketing company, it had its affiliates do the bulk of
the recruitment, for which they would receive commissions.
Employees would negotiate with suppliers and keep the books. In
time, Keith could simply kick back and watch the money roll in.
And I understand that it was just multilevel marketing, akin to
Avon or Amway, and one remove from life insurance sales. But Keith
made it seem different. Bigger. Larger than life. More important. He
made us feel like we were joining not just a budding commercial
enterprise, but a new way of life.
“You have a 240 IQ,” I said to him after the presentation. “Why
are you not curing cancer? Why are you not changing the world,
making it a better place?”
“I am changing the world,” he replied without hesitation. “I am
making the world a better place. Don’t you want to come along?”
When we shook hands after the presentation, he gazed deep into
my eyes, and I was mesmerized. Everything else faded from view—
my husband, the other attendees, the Rochester Holiday Inn—and it
was like I was the only person who existed for him in the entire
world. There was no question that Rusty and I would join up. We
wanted to be part of something so obviously special. We wanted in.
We were eager to proselytize for CBI, to spread the Consumers’
Buyline gospel.
We believed in Keith Raniere.

In hindsight, it’s clear that Keith embellished, exaggerated, and


sometimes invented critical details in his life story. Judo champion?
Seven instruments? Two hundred forty? Juilliard? He had his ad-man
father’s flair for promotion, and he understood that superlatives
(biggest, strongest, smartest) sell. But in 1991, I believed him, just
as the Times Union reporter who took him at his word believed him,
as my husband believed him, as the CBI affiliates and employees
believed him.
And why would anyone have thought otherwise? Keith Raniere
walked the walk. He may not have been the smartest man in the
world, but he was absolutely and without question a genius.
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shout. The back had missed the ball. Pandemonium broke loose on
the House side. Cal, racing up, found Spud snuggling the ball to his
arms, with half a dozen players above him.
“House’s ball!” cried the referee. “First down!”
“Line up, fellows! Get into this now! Here’s where we score!”
That was Brooks, ecstatic. The ball was on Hall’s thirty-two yards
and there remained eight minutes of time; plenty of time to win or
lose. Brooks went down the line, thumping backs, encouraging,
entreating.
“Play hard, House! Here’s where we win! Play hard, hard, HARD!”
“Watch for a forward pass!” shouted Grow as the quarter knelt.
Cal could hear Brooks panting like a steam-engine beside him.
Dixon, his opponent, shifted warily, his eyes flitting from Cal to the
ball. The signal came. Cal wondered if he had got it right, but there
was no time for speculation. The lines clashed. Dixon pulled him in
and went through. But the play was safe, Boyle, whirling like a
Dervish with the oval tightly clasped in his arms, getting past tackle
on the other end.
“Second down! Seven to go!”
“Signal!” piped M’Crae. “Signal! Sixty-two, forty-one, thirteen,
twenty-eight—”
Cal shot across at Pete Grow, Brooks in advance, and Ned
slammed by tackle for two yards more. But there was still five to go
and the backs eyed M’Crae and their captain anxiously as the teams
lined up again. Brooks had been playing for a touchdown, but now it
seemed that a try at a field-goal was all that remained, for five yards
was more than they could hope to tear off at one try. But the ball,
although well inside the thirty yard-line, was near the side of the
field and the goal angle was extreme.
“Kick formation!” called M’Crae, and trotted back.
But when the signals came Cal knew that there was to be no kick,
and so did Pete Grow.
“Fake!” he shouted. “Fake!”
But the warning was late, for a House player stood almost on the
side-line on the short side of the field and after swinging his foot as
though kicking, M’Crae made a nice pass to him. It was caught
before the Hall left end saw what was up. But the gain was short, for
the man with the ball was forced over the line at the twenty-two
yards. Still, it was first down again and House still had the ball. In
came the pigskin fifteen paces and again the teams faced each
other. The Fungus squirmed through for four yards, and Boyle
slammed the Hall center for three more.
“Third down!” called Brooks. “Only three to go. Come on now, you
House! Get into this! Make it go!”
And make it go they did, although it was necessary to bring the
chain in and measure the distance before Jim decided that House
had again won a first down. The Red was almost on the ten yards
now and the Blue was desperate. Grow threatened and pleaded. Cal,
the light of battle in his eyes, gave Dixon all that youth wanted to
do. Once he and Brooks made such an opening that Boyle, who
carried the ball, might have driven through in coach and four. But
the backs stopped him for a short gain. Then The Fungus writhed
past left tackle for a good four yards and there was less than three
to go, and the ball was almost on the five yard streak. Pandemonium
reigned about the field. Jim stopped the game while the crowd was
pushed back from the goal-line. Brooks thumped an open hand with
his clenched fist.
“We’ve got to do it, fellows, we’ve got to do it!” he kept repeating.
“They can’t stop us now!”
It was two and a half to go for a first down, five for a score. It
was the height of impudence to select Grow as the victim of the next
play, but he had been put effectively out of it a moment before and
M’Crae thought he might again. There was a fake pass to Ned and
Boyle grabbed the ball and dashed past Brooks. But Hall had sized
up the play and the secondary defense leaped forward to close the
gap. For an instant the line wavered. Cal, fighting with every ounce
of strength, felt it give and a fierce exultation seized him. But
despair followed after, for the tide turned. He felt himself going back.
Beside him Boyle was grunting and panting, the ball held tight. The
House backs threw themselves into the melee, but it was no use.
The whistle blew and the referee pulled them away. They had lost
first down and the ball by a full yard on the very threshold of victory!
M’Crae, casting one despairing look at Brooks, turned and trotted up
the field. Brooks, white and miserable, croaked encouragement.
“All right, fellows, we’ll take it away from them! How much time,
please?”
The time-keeper trotted up, watch in hand.
“Four and a half minutes,” he called.
Hall, grinning and happy, settled into line. The first plunge netted
her six yards right through House’s left wing. Brooks scolded and
stormed.
“Hold them! Hold them! Can’t you hold them?”
Hall’s quarter started his signals, but Grow stopped him. There
was a whispered consultation and Grow walked back behind his
goal-line and held his arms out.
“Kick!” shouted Brooks. “Block it, block it, block it!”
Block it! Cal remembered Ned’s words. Here, then, was his first
and final chance to show his worth! Could he get through? And if he
did could he get near the ball? He eyed Dixon stealthily. That youth
looked pretty solid and formidable. To get inside of him seemed
hopeless. The only chance was to coax him in and then get through
between him and end, and after that there was a long way to go.
But he would try it.
He edged close to Brooks and Dixon followed him. Grow raised his
arms. Center shot back the ball. Cal feinted to the left and then
sprang past Dixon to the right. A back stood in his way, but Cal sent
him staggering. All was confusion and cries and rushing players. Cal
saw Grow swing his long leg and heard, or thought he heard the
sound as boot met ball. And then he was leaping sideways, arms up-
stretched. Something struck him fair under the chin, something that
staggered him and then went bouncing erratically back past Brooks,
who was stumbling under the attack of the enemy.
For what seemed a long minute to Cal he couldn’t get started.
When he did he dodged a frantic pair of blue-clad arms and ran like
the wind. The ball was trickling along the turf far back from the goal-
line. Half a dozen players, red and blue, were after it, but Cal was
ahead. A Hall player came tearing along behind him and Cal knew
that if he missed the ball on the first attempt his chance was gone
forever. He didn’t wait until he was fully up to it, but dived for it as a
cat pounces at a mouse. The distance was more than he had
thought and he came to earth with the teetering pigskin an arm’s
length away. But he got it, reached it and grabbed it toward him just
as the pursuing foe fell upon him and drove all the breath from his
body. Others followed, falling and scrambling. Someone tried to
wrest the prize away from him, but Cal, although there was scarcely
a gasp left in him and his eyes seemed popping from his head, hung
to it tenaciously, striving hard to snuggle it under his body. Then
somewhere a whistle blew and little by little the awful weight lifted
and he could draw a full breath again.
“Let me have it, Boland.”
That was M’Crae’s voice and he was pulling at the ball. But Cal
only shook his head and held on.
“It’s—mine!” he gasped.
Then someone turned him over on his back and tore the ball from
his hands and began lifting his arms up and down. But Cal was all
right now. Brooks, grinning, his face as white as a sheet of paper
save for two disks of red in the cheeks, pulled him to his feet and
hugged him.
“O you Boland!” he gasped huskily. “O you Boland!”
Cal smiled embarrassedly.
“I cal’late that was a touchdown, wasn’t it?” he asked.

There was no goal kicked, but what did that matter? House didn’t
care and Hall could get but slight satisfaction from the fact. Two
minutes later the game was over and House, victor by 5 to 0, went
cavorting and dancing off the field, tired, aching, bruised and happy.
An hour later, after House had cheered itself hoarse in front of the
gymnasium, the West House eight marched back across the park,
Sandy striding ahead with the Silver Shield held proudly before him.
The West House eight did I say? Rather the West House nine, for
beside Sandy tripped Miss Molly Elizabeth Curtis, the Obnoxious Kid,
waving triumphantly her red and white banner!

THE END.

Transcriber’s Notes:
Punctuation and spelling inaccuracies were silently corrected.
Archaic and variable spelling has been preserved.
Variations in hyphenation and compound words have been
preserved.
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