Barbour Ralph Henry
Center Rush Rowland
“Hard-up? Why?” asked Ira, puzzled.
“Well, you see, you – you didn’t spend much money on – things – ”
“Meaning my clothes?” asked the other, smiling.
Mart nodded apologetically. “Clothes for one thing. And then I – we got the idea that as your father was a lumberman you wouldn’t be very well-off.”
“I see. Well, dad isn’t exactly a lumberman in the way you mean. He’s president of the Franklin Lumber Company and owns most of the stock. I dare say you could call him rather well-off. And of course he gives me all I need – and a bit more, I guess. As for spending, why, I don’t know, Mart. You see, I’ve lived in a small place all my life, and there’s never been very much to spend money on. And, besides, folks up our way are sort of saving. You get the habit, I guess. I always buy whatever I want that seems worth while, but I like to see that I’m getting the value of my money when I do buy. I didn’t know I was giving you the idea that I was poverty-stricken. I certainly didn’t mean to, Mart.”
“Say no more. My fault! We sort of jumped to delusions, so to say. Personally, I’m glad that you aren’t in the pauper class. It makes it easier for me to get around to the real, bona fide reason of my visit. You thought I dropped in for a social call or to escape Brad and his Debating Society, but I didn’t, Ira. My real reason – but I hardly like to broach it even now.”
“Go ahead,” Ira laughed. “If it’s a loan you can have it, you know.”
“Well, it is,” acknowledged the visitor, palpably embarrassed. “I – the fact is – Oh, hang it, could you lend me fifty dollars?”
Ira nodded promptly. “I could,” he replied.
“Well – er – will you?”
Ira shook his head. “No, I won’t.”
“Oh! Why? I’ll pay it back.”
“I know it, but you couldn’t pay it back for a month of Sundays, Mart, and while you owed it you’d be no use to me as a friend. That’s so, isn’t it?”
“How do you mean, no use?”
“I mean that you’d have it on your mind and you’d be wondering whether I was getting impatient and you’d get so you’d dislike me because you owed me money. How would twenty dollars do?”
Mart laughed. “It wouldn’t do, old Mr. Solomon. Nor ten. Nor five. But I will borrow a half if you’ve got it.”
“What’s the idea?” asked Ira. “Were you fooling?”
“Sure! I just wanted to see what sort of a philanthropist you were. Where’s my fifty cents?”
“In my pocket,” answered Ira grimly. “And that’s where it’s going to stay!”
CHAPTER XX
BEFORE THE GAME
Events rushed headlong past. Ira played a round twenty minutes at centre in the Day and Robins’ game and proved himself steady and dependable. He made mistakes, certainly, more than he liked to remember afterwards, but he never messed a pass and he held his position impregnable against the attack of a not very strong enemy. His sins were those of omission and were due to inexperience. On the whole, he put up a satisfactory game, and Coach Driscoll and the rest were secretly very pleased even if they didn’t say so. The contest was not interesting from the point of view of the spectators except in that it showed the home team to have developed well during the last week. There were ragged moments and some loose handling of the ball by the backs, but the team showed fifty per cent more team play than it had shown before. The new plays, not all of which were used, went smoothly and gained ground. There was a noticeable improvement in kicking, also. Wirt and Captain Lyons made some punts that brought applause and Walter Cole missed but one goal in six tries. Two were drop-kicks from the field and the rest followed touchdowns. Parkinson had no trouble running up twenty-three points in the first half and ten in the second, while her opponent failed to score until the last quarter when a field-goal saved her from whitewash.
Practice was hard on Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday of the next week, but Monday was an easy day and Friday held only a blackboard instruction in the gymnasium for the first team. The school was quite football-crazy by this time and meetings were held almost nightly. The old songs were sung and new ones tried and the cheer leaders went into training. Twice a week the Musical Clubs supplied music, and always earnest, enthusiastic youths waved their arms and predicted victory for Parkinson to a wild and approving chorus of cheers.
Ira no longer sought the field for strenuous half-hours of coaching. He practised with the first team substitutes and got as much and no more work than they did. Sometimes, when he allowed himself to visualise the mighty Beadle, he had qualms of stage fright and heartily wished himself back in private life. It wasn’t that he was afraid of anything Beadle might do to him in the way of punishment, for he didn’t mind taking blows or giving them, but he was certain that Beadle would, in the language of the gridiron, “put it all over him.” And Ira didn’t like to come out second-best, even if it was only in playing centre rush in a football game!
Ernest Hicks came again shortly after that second call and spent the better part of an hour bolt upright in one of the more uncomfortable chairs and talked far over Ira’s head, eventually arising and taking his departure as abruptly and noisily as usual. Ira returned the visit and in the course of the next month a rather odd friendship sprang up between the two. “Old Earnest,” while grateful to Ira for the restoration of his encyclopedia, sympathised with his benefactor because of the latter’s regrettable ignorance on so many important subjects, and Ira was very sorry for Hicks because that youth had stowed his brain so full of impractical knowledge! But they got on very well together, and Ira had to acknowledge that “Old Earnest’s” erudite conversation was an excellent antidote for an hour of Mart Johnston’s persiflage.
Ira ordered himself a suit about this time from the tailor recommended by Gene, and Humphrey, not to be outshone, followed his example. Humphrey had a little money in the keeping of his “financial agent” and it worried him until it was spent. Ira’s suit fitted him perfectly and was becoming, but Gene, cordially commending it, was forced to the mental reservation that Ira had somehow looked more like Ira in his old duds!
The St. Luke’s Academy game aroused the school to new heights of football ardour, for it proved to be a see-saw, nerve-racking affair from kick-off to last whistle. St. Luke’s was theoretically an easy aggregation to subdue and had been given her location in the season’s schedule for that reason, but something had happened since last year at St. Luke’s, and the big, rangy team that trotted onto Parkinson Field that Saturday afternoon was quite a different proposition to that of last Fall. Coach, captain and players scented trouble at first sight of the purple-legged team and even the spectators had an inkling that the home team’s “easy game” was to prove less simple than had been expected.
Parkinson received a bad fright in the first minute of play, when Cole dropped St. Luke’s kick-off and recovered it on his six-yard. Two attempts at the purple line netted but four yards and, amidst a tense and uneasy silence, Wirt dropped well back of his goal line to punt. Even after that Parkinson was still in danger, for Wirt’s kick, purposely sent high to avoid blocking, was caught in a current of air and came down but thirty-odd yards from goal. St. Luke’s sprang a lateral pass from a wide formation and got seven yards, but when she attempted to repeat the play on the other side of the line Brad managed to pierce the running interference and bring down the man with the ball for a three-yard loss. In the end St. Luke’s tried a goal from the thirty-four yards and kicked short.
There was no scoring until the second quarter was almost over. Then Parkinson electrified the watchers by pulling off a forward-pass, Wirt to Price, that covered nearly thirty-five yards. From St. Luke’s twenty-six to her twelve, Parkinson advanced by line plunging, Wirt and Wells alternating. Then St. Luke’s braced and two tries availed little. Wirt went back to kicking position and Dannis broke through centre for five. On the fourth down, with four to go, Wirt again dropped back, but again the play was a fake, for, after an interminable moment of suspense during which the Parkinson backfield became seemingly inextricably mixed-up, Cole was discovered sneaking around the enemy’s left flank. When he was down the tape had to be used. Parkinson had got her distance, though, by half the length of the ball, and from the two-yard line Cole went over on the second attempt. Lyons kicked an easy goal.
St. Luke’s evened the score soon after the beginning of the second half. Her big backs were fast and heavy, and got away quickly from a three-abreast formation close up to the line. Parkinson failed to stop them after a lucky fumble had given the ball to the enemy near the centre of the field. St. Luke’s had to fight hard to win, but win she did, finally pushing her left half across the Brown’s goal line near a corner of the gridiron. A good punt-out put her in position to kick goal and a moment later the score stood at 7 – 7. In that advance both Conlon and Donovan were severely battered, and the latter was taken out then and Conlon a few minutes later. Conlon’s withdrawal called on Ira, and Ira held the centre of the line fairly intact for a good twenty minutes. It was a far stiffer trial than he had had, and just at first the desperate plunges of the hard-fighting enemy quite took him off his feet, physically and mentally. But when he once discovered that no quarter was given or taken today he promptly revised his ideas and held his own on most occasions.
Parkinson dropped a field-goal over from the twenty-six-yard line just before the third quarter ended and St. Luke’s came back with a second touchdown soon after the beginning of the fourth. As she failed to kick goal, the score stood 13 to 10 when the last period was half gone. Parkinson was showing her quality and no one was surprised, although many were vastly relieved, when, after a punting battle, Dannis got away and eluded the enemy as far as its seventeen-yards. Two tries at the tackles resulted in short gains and then Wirt went back to kick. Ira followed advice and took so much time that the impatient St. Luke’s players began to rage. But when the pass shot away it was straight and true and Wirt would have had plenty of time to get the ball out had he tried. But he didn’t try. He trotted out to the left, and, just as the enemy leaped at him, threw diagonally to Ray White, and Ray went over the line without challenge. Lyons made the Parkinson total 17 by kicking a clever goal, and the remaining three or four minutes failed to change it.
The school was highly elated over that contest, and the elation was expressed in a monster meeting that night in the Auditorium at which the team and first substitutes sat sheepishly on the stage and heard themselves cheered and praised. Ira was glad he had managed to beat Brackett to the last chair in the back row, for the whole proceeding seemed much too emotional. Ira always rather resented having his emotions disturbed, and tonight the singing and the cheering had their effect.
There was only light practice Monday, but on Tuesday they went back to the grind. There had been several mix-ups in signals on Saturday and Coach Driscoll was after them today hot and heavy. More new plays were experimented with. Eventually all but two were discarded and Parkinson went into the Kenwood game with fewer plays in her repertoire than any brown team in years. Evening sessions began in the gymnasium at which the plays were diagrammed on the blackboard and afterwards walked through on the floor. Each man had to know what to do in every play, and the coach was not satisfied until the lot were gone through with in perfect precision and smoothness. And that didn’t happen until Thursday evening. In the scrimmages, and there were hard ones on Wednesday and Thursday, Ira found himself starting at centre each time, for Conlon had been fairly badly used up in the St. Luke’s game and too much work might have put him stale. He got in for a few minutes, however, each afternoon, and Ira couldn’t see that he was any the worse for wear.
During the final fortnight of the season the players were supposed to be in bed before ten o’clock and unnecessary noise in the dormitories was frowned on. Ira obeyed the rule, but as his neighbour across the corridor had evidently not heard the request for silence, he didn’t always get to sleep promptly. The stout youth knew more different ways to make a racket than a cage full of monkeys, Ira decided!
On Friday there was a half-hour of signal work and some practice later for the kickers. Then the regulars trotted off and the third-string men and the second team pushed each other around for fifteen minutes for the benefit of the school which had marched to the field with banners and songs and cheers. That contest ended the second team’s activities for the year. The regulars were dressed and waiting for them on the gymnasium steps when they came back and there was a fine and heartening exchange of cheers. Then the marchers arrived and cheered first and second, coach, trainer, rubbers, manager and school, and went off again, singing, to parade twice around the yard and once through the town. The final mass meeting came off that evening, but neither Ira nor any other member of the team was there. They walked or trotted through the plays in the gymnasium, listened to a few words of final advice from Mr. Driscoll and then went home to bed and, in most cases, sleep. Anyone who has lived through a night before the Big Game knows that one or two, at the least, didn’t find slumber very speedily.
Saturday was cold, raw and cheerless at dawn, but in the middle of a long forenoon the sun peeped out for a few minutes. The wind peeped out too, however, and, unlike the sun, it stayed out. The football men had been excused from recitations and at ten o’clock they were taken in four big automobiles on a long ride that ate up most of the time remaining until the early lunch hour. When they returned they found town and campus in the hands of the enemy, for blue pennants were to be seen on every side. Kenwood ate her dinner at The Inn, just outside of town on the Sturgis road, and came rolling up to the field at a little before two. At two-thirty to the second, Captain Lyons having won the toss and chosen the up-wind goal, Kenwood kicked off.
CHAPTER XXI
PARKINSON SCORES
The sun broke forth at the very instant that the Kenwood kicker’s toe sent the pigskin hurtling from the tee, and a flood of wintry sunshine illumined the scene. But a chilling wind still blew from the northeast, snapping the big brown banner above the grandstand and eddying amidst the serried ranks of the onlookers. Brown pennants flapped and blue pennants, fewer in number, waved back defiantly. On the Parkinson side of the field the substitutes sat huddled in their sweaters and blankets on the bench or lay sprawled on the windrow of marsh hay that had covered the gridiron overnight and was now piled in the lee of the barrier. Ira, cross-legged, his back to the boards, meditatively chewed at a grass blade as Wells doubled himself over the ball, dug his cleats and went swinging off to the left behind his converging teammates. Five yards, seven, and then he was down, the arms of a Kenwood end wrapped about his thighs. Dannis’ voice piped shrilly across the wind-swept field: “Line up, Parkinson! Signals!”
A moment of suspense and then the brown-shirted backs lunged at the Kenwood centre, faltered, stopped and came tumbling back.
“Nothing doing there,” muttered Brad, at Ira’s left.
Then came a try at left tackle and a short gain, with Cole carrying the ball. A third attempt was hurled back by the right of the Blue’s line, and Wirt dropped back. The ball went corkscrewing down the field, borne on a blast of the whistling wind, and the players sped under it. Here and there a man went down, rolled over, found his feet again and sped on. The Kenwood quarter signalled for a fair-catch and heeled the ball on his ten-yard line.
“Good work,” commented Brad. “They’re taking no chances with the ball floating like that. Ever try to catch in a high wind, Rowland?”
Ira shook his head.
“It’s hard. You can’t tell where the silly thing will come down until just before it gets to you. Now we’ll see what they’ve got in the way of an attack. Hello!”
Kenwood was shifting her whole left side except the end. Parkinson shuffled over to meet the attack, the ball was snapped and the quarter was running back with it, while, far off at the left, a blue-stockinged end was racing down the field with upraised arm.
“Not a soul with him!” groaned Brad. The ball went streaking across, well above the heads of the players. Cole, discerning the danger too late, was running hard and Dannis was making toward the side line. But the pass was safe and the Kenwood end plucked the ball from air, tucked it in the crook of his arm and started for the distant goal. Cole’s effort was late and only Dannis stood in the path of the runner. But Dannis got him and they went rolling together over and over into the hay, while the Kenwood substitutes scattered right and left.
“Twenty yards easy,” said Brad drily. “If Price gets fooled like that again it’s good night to us! It was a peach of a throw, wasn’t it?”
“I guess we weren’t looking for it,” said Ira. “I thought they’d rush.”
“So did I. They’ll bear watching. No one saw that. They’ll try our line now, though. There they go! You would, would you? Well, you can stay where you are, Kenwood! How much did they get? Not more than a yard, eh?”
“About two feet, I think,” answered Ira. “Brackett was right there, that time.”
Kenwood tried the centre and pushed through for two and a wide end run around the Parkinson left gave her three more. Then the Blue was forced to punt and the pigskin settled into Dannis’ arms and he dodged one end and scampered over two white lines before he was pulled down.
Parkinson plugged at the centre, hurling Wirt and Cole into the blue wall, but Kenwood stood fast and Wirt again booted the ball far down the field. With that wind behind him it was no feat to kick fifty yards once he got the ball high enough and this time the opposing left half-back caught well over in a corner. It was a fair-catch again, which was fortunate, since both Parkinson ends were by him when the ball came down. Kenwood tried another long forward and again eluded the enemy, but the throw was short this time and the ball went back. A plunge at Conlon got through for six and a skin-tackle play on the right added two more. But, with two to go on the fourth down, Kenwood again punted, trying to keep the ball low and out of the wind with the result that it rolled out of bounds near the Parkinson forty-yard line. Parkinson was not yet satisfied that she couldn’t dent the opposing line, and Cole and Wells were hurled against it, with the result that after three attempts the ball was not far from where it had started.
“Gee, they’ve got some line there,” marvelled Brad. “I suppose ‘The’ wanted to know what he’s up again, but it looks to me as if he was silly not to kick while he’s got this wind behind him. All right, Lester! Make it a good one! Get down there, Ray!”
Once more the pigskin sped toward the further goal and once more the Brown and the Blue scampered after it. This time the ball went askew and landed outside near Kenwood’s thirty. The Blue made the first down of the game then. Parkinson failed to diagnose a cross-buck play that slashed her line at left guard, and a big blue-legged back came fighting through and wasn’t stopped until he had put eight yards behind him. Two plunges gave Kenwood the rest of her distance and the blue pennants waved and triumphant cheers crashed out. Kenwood found encouragement and smashed savagely at the Parkinson line. Twice she made three yards. Then Fred Lyons dived through and brought down the runner behind the line, and Kenwood punted to the enemy’s eighteen. And so it went for the rest of that quarter, Kenwood plunging and punting only when she was forced to, Parkinson plunging and punting regularly on third down. The wind tipped the scales in the home team’s favour, and when but a scant three minutes remained it was Parkinson’s ball on her own forty-eight yards. The stand was cheering hopefully now. Coach Driscoll, hands in pockets, uncoated, walked slowly back and forth, his gaze always on the play, his expression always undisturbed.
“If we can get to their thirty-five, Walt can put it over the bar,” said Brad tensely. “Wouldn’t you think ‘The’ would try that split-line play, Rowland? Look where Kenwood’s playing her ends! Man alive, we could get around that left easy! I believe he’s going to. No, it’s another line play. Oh, tush!”
“Looks like a forward,” observed Ira. “Unless we’re really going to kick on first down!”
“It’s an end-around, that’s what it is. I hope it’s Price. It is! Here he comes! Oh, rotten pass! Got it, though! In, you idiot! In! Got him! No, he’s past! Go it, Chester! Go it, you – Wow! Five – ten – twelve yards, old man! What do you know about that, fellows?”
Expressions of delight from the substitutes, however, were drowned in the roar that swept over their heads from the stand behind them. The cheer leaders were on their feet again, brown megaphones waving. Brad leaned closer and shouted amidst the din: “It’s square on their forty, Rowland! And it’s first down! We’ve got them going!”
“There isn’t much time,” said Ira doubtfully.
“Time enough! Two more rushes and then a try-at-goal and first blood for old Parkinson!”
Wirt back again and the ball to Cole for a plunge at left guard. Only a scant yard and a half gained. Wirt still back and the ball to Wells, and the backfield trailing to the right like a wall, with the runner scurrying along behind it. A break in the opposing line, a quick turn by Wells. Through! But only through, for a Kenwood man is on him and half a dozen bodies pile together and the whistle blows.
“Four more!” cried Brad. “Now then, Walter! Put it over, old man. You can do it with this wind back of you!!”
But it was still Wirt back, and Brad groaned and shook his head sadly as Cole tucked the ball to his stomach and went head-on into a resolute defence for a scant half-yard gain.
“Oh, shucks! Fourth down!” wailed Brad. “Why the dickens didn’t they try for a goal? What’s this? Another end-around? No, it’s Wells outside tackle. Watch it! By Jove, he’s done it! How much did we need? Four? Then we’ve got it! Got to measure it, eh? Who’s that down? One of our fellows? No, he’s a Blue-leg.”
“Kenwood left tackle,” said Ritter from further along. “How much time is there, Brad?”
“I don’t know. About a minute, I think. We’ve got it! First down! We’ll do it yet!”
The linemen were trotting off, trailing the chain, and the referee had waved his arm toward the Kenwood goal. The Parkinson cheer leaders were dancing along the side line and a mighty volume of triumph rolled across the field.
Parkinson went back at the centre and was stopped short, Wells squirmed outside tackle for two yards, Cole smashed at the right guard and went spinning through for another two. Now the pigskin lay almost on the twenty-five-yard line. The timekeeper was edging nearer and nearer. Ira viewed him anxiously and chewed harder on that straw. A sudden lull in the wind allowed Dannis’ voice to reach them:
“Come on now, Parkinson! Let’s have it! Signals! Lyons back!”
“It’s a place kick!” exclaimed Brad. “Go to it, Fred! Hold that line, Parkinson!”
Dannis was on one knee and patting the turf. Fred was walking back slowly. Then he stopped, studied the distance and shortened it a stride. Dannis crept further back and leaned an elbow on the ground. From the blue team came hoarse commands, implorations:
“Get through, Kenwood! Block this kick! Block this kick!”
A moment of silence, a brown streak from between Conlon’s legs, the ball settles in Dannis’ hands. Very carefully he turns it, points it. Fred Lyons steps forward one step and his right foot swings in a long arc. The lines are battling fiercely. Kenwood comes plunging, leaping through, arms upstretched. But the ball is sailing well above the eager fingers. Now the wind has it and it veers to the right, still rising, turning lazily over in its flight, sailing nearer and nearer the further upright —
An instant of silence and suspense and then a wild burst of acclaim from the Brown stand, for the Parkinson players are running back, thumping each other on the shoulders, capering, tossing their head-harnesses aloft!
“Goal!” shouted Brad exultantly. “Three for us! Cheer, Rowland, you wooden Indian!”
Ira smiled. “It’s bully, isn’t it? I thought at first he’d missed it, though.”
“So did I. I guess it was pretty close. Well, that’ll do for a start. Three points may look pretty big when this game’s over!”
