Barbour Ralph Henry
Full-Back Foster
CHAPTER XXIII
REINSTATED
Myron isn’t likely to forget for a long time the week that followed. Every afternoon at four o’clock appeared Andrew, armed for the fray, and for two hours of a hundred and twenty minutes each Myron wrestled with Latin. Andrew was merciless. From the stroke of four to the stroke of six was the inexorable rule. Myron’s pleas weren’t even heard. After two days he got fairly used to it, though, and then the labour began to bear fruit. Mr. Addicks shot a keen and questioning glance at Myron on Wednesday and followed it with one of mild approval on Thursday. Saturday morning Myron was again out of the woods, although, as Andrew reminded him more than once, whether he stayed so depended on whether he was willing to study hard and long and resolutely. Myron reached the conclusion that he was.
But being out of the woods did not necessarily place him in the full sunlight of faculty favour, and so it was from the grandstand that he saw Parkinson play Chancellor School at Mt. Wansett, and not from the players’ bench. Myron had doubts as to his right to make the trip, and put the matter up to Joe. Joe did not observe, as he might have, that, having got as far away as Philadelphia without leave, going to a not distant town under like conditions shouldn’t worry Myron! Instead, he advised him to put the question up to Mr. Hoyt. The secretary referred to a mysterious book and shook his head. “I can’t find that you have gone on probation, Foster,” he said. “Nothing here indicates it. You say Doctor Lane forbade you to play football? Was anything said about probation?”
“No, sir. I only thought – was afraid – ”
“Well, I should say there was no intention, then. If I were you I’d assume that I was not on probation. However, if you still have doubts I’ll take the matter up with the Principal as soon as he’s at leisure, and if you’ll drop in again about twelve – ”
“But the train goes at eleven, sir!” Mr. Hoyt smiled faintly. “In that case, Foster, I don’t see how you can be here at twelve.”
“You think, then, that – ”
“I think so.”
Myron hurried out before the secretary had time to change his mind and think differently!
It rained that day, and the game was played in a sea of water on a soft and slippery turf. Many boys who had meant to accompany the team backed out when they viewed the weather, and only a handful huddled in raincoats behind the Parkinson bench and aided the Brown with damp enthusiasm. Not that a great deal of cheering was needed, however, for the first period settled the outcome of the contest, and after that it was merely a question of whether Chancellor would score. Parkinson started with the line-up that, so rumour had it, would face Kenwood two weeks later: Stearns and Norris, ends; Mellen and Keith, tackles; Cummins and Dobbins, guards; Cantrell, centre; Cater, quarter; Meldrum and Brown, halves; Kearns, full. But that arrangement did not outlast the second period. The third began with the score 19 to 0 and five substitutes on the field. And during the subsequent thirty minutes of playing time additional changes were frequent. Parkinson ended with many third substitutes in the line-up, to which may be fairly attributed the fact that Chancellor saved her face at the last and scored seven points.
With a slippery field and a wet ball, both teams had stuck pretty closely to line plays, but some five or six minutes from the end, Grove, playing quarter, took a chance and shot the ball to Houghton, at full, for a wide run around left end. Houghton muffed, not a difficult thing to do when the ball is as slippery as a pat of butter and it reaches you off at one side, and the fat was in the fire. A defeated team is a dangerous team, and Chancellor proved it then and there by piling through the Parkinson first and second defences, upsetting the distressed Houghton and salvaging the pigskin some thirty yards from the Brown’s goal-line. For the first time in many long, wet minutes the spectators had something to thrill over. A long-limbed, shock-headed Chancellor forward in mud-reeking pants and torn jersey, wearied and winded, went plunging and stumbling and slipping toward a touchdown with the field strewed out behind him. Interference was hasty but effective. Parkinson and Chancellor youths went down like nine-pins, splashing into puddles, gouging into mud. For a moment it seemed that the incident would end with twenty-two players flat on the wet ground and only the officials erect! But, although many fell by the way, others managed to keep their feet and run it out, and among these was the youth with the ball. Twice he went to his knees, but each time he recovered before the enemy reached him, and in the end he slid over the line close to the left goal-post, and Chancellor shouted and leaped with delight.
After the goal was prettily kicked the teams went at it again, but to all purposes the game was over and the score didn’t change again. Twenty-nine to seven were the figures that, later in the day, brought uneasiness to the Kenwood camp. Yet, returning to Warne, it was noticed that Coach Driscoll’s countenance did not reflect the satisfaction shown on other faces. After supper that evening he told Jud Mellen why. “You chaps played a rattling game today,” he said almost regretfully. “I haven’t a criticism to make that’s worth the breath it would cost. Even the second and third subs were good, almost without exception. But I sort of wish you hadn’t done so well, and that’s the truth.”
“Afraid of a slump,” said Jud, nodding thoughtfully.
“Well, not exactly that. When a team reaches its best two weeks before the big game it doesn’t take a slump to queer it. It only needs a return to ordinary playing, if you see what I mean. All you fellows need do to get beaten two weeks from today is to play the sort of football you played last week against Day and Robins. There’s just that much difference between fine football and good football, Cap. If it had been Kenwood today instead of Chancellor, we’d have the championship tucked away in our belt this evening. I guess I’ve made a mistake somewhere: let you fellows come too fast the last week or so. But I didn’t have any warning that you were on the last lap. It hasn’t shown once. Well, it’s up to us now to stay where we are, Cap.”
“Or go ahead,” said Jud.
But Mr. Driscoll shook his head. “I’d like to think so, but I’m afraid we reached top-notch today. I’m always scared for a team that hasn’t had a slump some time during the season. And we haven’t. Not a real, sure-enough slump. There was a tendency after the Phillipsburg game, but it didn’t really amount to anything.”
“Well, I don’t feel like slumping,” laughed Jud. “And I haven’t noticed any signs of it in the others. Every one’s as cocky as you please tonight, and barring a few bruises – and Flay’s knee – they’re all in fine shape.”
“Yes, we came out of it mighty well,” agreed the coach. “I hate a wet field, Cap. I hope to goodness this rain doesn’t keep on for two or three days. Rainy weather can play hob with a team that’s the least bit over-trained.”
“You’re a regular pessimist tonight, Coach,” Jud laughed. “Cheer up! By the way, Dobbins told me this evening that Foster’s expecting to get off pro. Kearns wasn’t half bad today, but it would certainly make me feel easier in what I call my mind to have Foster ready to take his place.”
“Yes. See if you can get him out Monday. There isn’t a whole lot of time left. Still, he’s learned the position fairly well and might give a good account of himself as he is. With another ten days of training he ought to make a good second for Kearns.”
The rain continued during Sunday and Myron was restless and inclined to be as much of a pessimist as the head coach. He was difficult to live with, too, and Joe dragged him over to Mill Street after dinner in the hope that Andrew would be good for his soul. Andrew did, in truth, perk him up not a little, predicting that he would get his release from Doctor Lane the next day.
“I dare say he’s forgotten all about me,” said Myron dismally. “Suppose Addicks doesn’t tell him I’ve made good?”
“Well, it’s up to Addicks, and that’s a fact,” responded Andrew. “If nothing happens by noon, I’d advise you to go to him and tell him the facts. Tell him you want to get back on the team and can’t until he speaks a good word for you to Jud. Addicks is a good sport and will do it. I think he will, anyhow, though. You see if you don’t hear from Jud in the morning.”
So Myron decided to hope for the best and forgot his worries watching the amusing antics of the puppies, by now sturdy little rascals who made their mother’s life a burden and a boredom.
Andrew’s prediction came true, for the next morning Myron was again summoned to the Office and conducted into the presence of Doctor Lane.
“Mr. Addicks tells me that you’re doing very much better, Foster,” announced the Doctor. “In fact, he recommends that we lift the restrictions in your case. Do you think that you will be able to stay in good standing now?”
“Yes, sir. I’m going to try hard, anyway,” said Myron earnestly.
Doctor Lane smiled. “In that case I believe that you will succeed, my boy. It’s wonderful what really trying will accomplish. Very well, Foster. You have permission to go back and grind your face in the sod again. Like football do you?”
“Very much, sir.”
“So do I. I used to play it once, a good many years ago. Do you consider that we have a good chance to beat Kenwood this fall?”
“Yes, sir, I think we will. We’ve got a bully team!”
“So I understand. Well, we’ll hope so. Good morning, Foster.”
Once outside the door of the outer office, Myron broke into song. As a musical effort it was not remarkably successful, but as an expression of his feelings it met all requirements. Turning into the entrance corridor, he almost ran into Paul Eldredge. He and Paul had never spoken since the encounter on the walk that evening. Paul’s attitude toward him had been one of armed neutrality expressed in sullen silence and sarcastic glances. Now, acting on impulse, Myron stopped and spoke.
“Say, Eldredge,” he blurted, “let’s call it off! What do you say? I’m sorry for whatever it was that – that offended you.”
Eldredge, surprised, at a loss, stared at Myron’s smiling countenance for an instant, trying to think of something sarcastic. Failing, he grunted, and then, as Myron kept silence and waited, he said: “All right,” none too graciously; adding: “I’m satisfied if you are. You started it, anyway.”
Myron couldn’t remember whether he had or hadn’t just then, so he yielded the point. “Did I? I’m sorry then. Let’s forget it, eh?”
Eldredge nodded more amiably. “Sure! I’m willing.”
Then Myron nodded, laughed for no reason that the other could fathom, and hurried on. The laugh had nothing to do with Eldredge or with the making of peace, but was just an advertisement of the fact that life looked very good to him at the moment.
Mr. Addicks, a half-hour later, positively beamed on him, to the quiet amusement of those of the class who knew of Myron’s recent status, and Myron decided that the Latin instructor was “a corking old chap.” Reinstatement amongst the first team substitutes proved a most casual affair that afternoon. He reported to Farnsworth and the manager said, rather decently, “Glad you’re back, Foster. All right, get into it. That’s your squad down the field.”
CHAPTER XXIV
EDDIE APPLIES THE BRAKE
I think the experiences of the past week had cleared the air in Myron’s case. Perhaps Andrew’s curtain lecture at the hotel that Sunday morning had its effect. Perhaps, too, the knowledge that Joe and Andy had cared enough to go to all that scheming and effort to bring him back and save him from his own folly bucked him up. At all events, he went to work hammer-and-tongs and by Wednesday night had Steve Kearns looking worried. Chas, viewing events interestedly, chuckled to himself. Things were working his way. Not only was he secretly aiding and abetting the career of Myron, but there were three others among the first and second choice fellows who were under his care and who, willingly or unwillingly, followed his instructions. Had Chas cared to he could have taken a pencil and paper and written down the line-up for next season’s first important contest. Needless to say, against the position of left guard would have been the name of Cummins.
Chas was not without his qualms of uneasiness, though, for Brodhead was now pushing him hard for his place. Attending to the duties of next year’s captain in anticipation somewhat detracted from his playing qualities, and when, on Thursday, he found himself left on the bench while Brodhead was sent into the game against the second at left guard, he realised dismayedly that he would have to let next season look after itself for the present and reinstate himself in the coach’s good graces. Chas’ plans revolved on his election to the captaincy, and it wasn’t usual to elect to that position a fellow who had not played in the big game. Chas studied his scarred knuckles thoughtfully and wondered to just what extent Mr. Driscoll would let his personal feelings rule when it came to a choice between him and Brodhead for the Kenwood game. Chas knew perfectly well that the coach, without disliking him, held it in for him on one or two scores, and one must allow for a certain amount of human nature, he reflected, in even a football coach! Mentally he shook his head and acknowledged that he would have to mend his ways. He wasn’t certain, for that matter, that it was not already too late, that, to use his own expression, he had not already “spilled the beans”!
That Thursday Myron got himself talked about. He went in at full-back in the second half, vice Kearns, and showed himself a remarkably proficient player at that position. Coach Driscoll watched him in genuine surprise, although, as usual, he hid his feelings. “He’s just about four times as good as he was before he was laid off,” he said to himself, “and at least twice as good as I ever thought he would be. Why, the chap’s a born full-back! Give him a few more pounds for line-bucking and he will size up with any of them. Next year he ought to be All-American material, by Jupiter! But I mustn’t spoil him. He’s too good. And if he gets to knowing how good he is, he’s likely to get fond of himself and fizzle out. I think he’s the sort to do that. No, I guess we’ll keep your spurs trimmed down pretty close, Foster, my lad!” And in furtherance of that plan the coach strode across to the first team backfield and metaphorically ripped Myron up the back, to the bewilderment of Myron and the puzzlement of Jud and Joe and Katie and some others! Myron ended the game in a chastened mood, conscious of having made two touchdowns, one by a wide run behind good interference and one by downright grit from the four yards when the advance had seemed at an end, but equally conscious that he had not done as well as he should have. He had Coach Driscoll’s word for the latter, although the coach had somehow failed to specify very exactly wherein Myron had failed. There had been talk about “getting low” and “using your legs,” but Myron didn’t really see how he could have struck the line much lower without going into it on his head or how he could have got another ounce of push out of those wearied legs of his. In the end, having been refreshed with food and having listened to hearty praise from his friends, he decided that coaches were strange persons not always to be taken seriously. But he didn’t get a swelled head over the day’s performance, which was what the coach had guarded against.
There was no practice on Friday for the first team players, and so when Myron found a note in the mail that morning signed Maurice Millard saying that the writer would be in Warne that noon and asking Myron to meet him at the hotel at two o’clock, the latter was able to promise himself an enjoyable afternoon. Unfortunately, he had a recitation at two, but he left a note for Millard at the hotel in the forenoon postponing the meeting until a quarter to three. He recalled Millard very pleasantly and was glad he was to meet him again. He liked that name, too, Maurice Millard: it had a swing to it, he thought, even if it did sound rather like the name of a moving-picture artist! He wished that Millard had chosen to look him up at his room, for he would have liked to introduce him to Joe. Joe had seemed somehow rather sceptical as to Millard’s charms. But he could bring the visitor to Sohmer later on, for of course he would want to see the school and visit the football field and so on.
But, rather strangely – or so Myron thought, – Millard declared in favour of taking a drive into the country. “We can look around the school when we get back,” he explained. “It’s a wonderful day for a drive and I’m much fonder of the country than I am of towns. And we can have a jolly chat, too, and you won’t have to interrupt yourself every ten seconds to say ‘That’s Smith Hall, built in 1876 and used by General Washington as headquarters during the football game between Parkinson and Kenwood,’ or some other such dope.”
As to its being a wonderful day for driving, Myron had his doubts, for summer had returned and the weather was decidedly hot in spite of the fact that November was two weeks old. Still, driving might be pleasanter than walking, and the guest had the right to choose his entertainment, and Myron capitulated. To find a conveyance, however, was not so easy, for no Jehus slept along the curb in front of the little hotel when they went in search of one. Myron suggested walking to the station, only a block or so distant, and Millard consented. The difficulty was solved before they got that far, however, for a new, highly varnished taxi-cab darted toward them from a side street and a dimly remembered youth on the driver’s seat hailed Myron by name. He proved to be the fellow who had conveyed Myron to Sohmer that first day of school, and by the time the latter had ended negotiations for the hiring of the cab by the hour he remembered that the sandy-haired young man was named Eddie Moses. The cab appeared to be brand-new and was certainly a vast improvement over the former one. They went briskly out of the town toward Sturgis, and, with all windows open, the drive promised to be as enjoyable as Millard had predicted.
The visitor was as smartly, if quietly, dressed as when Myron had seen him last, and Myron was secretly glad that he had gone to extra pains in the matter of his own attire. Myron asked about business and Millard reported everything fine, and said that he had managed to get a small order from the local dealer in athletic supplies that morning. “Not much, you know, but enough to let us show him that we have the goods he wants and can sell to him cheaper than that New York house. It’s a wedge, Foster.”
In spite of Millard’s expressed love of the country, he didn’t seem to pay much attention to its beauties. Before they had gone a mile he had switched the conversation from athletic goods to football, of which he appeared to know a great deal. Myron wondered if he had played when at school, and what that school had been, but somehow he never got around to asking. He was glad enough to talk about football, and he managed before long to let Millard know that he was now a member of the Parkinson first team. Millard was clearly delighted with his friend’s good fortune, and congratulated him warmly.
“I’ll bet anything you’ll make good, too, Foster, when you fellows meet Kenwood. I hear they’ve got only a fair team over there this year. I was talking to a fellow from there only a couple of days ago. ‘We aren’t telling it around, Art’ – my name’s Maurice Arthur, you know, and some fellows call me Art,” he explained parenthetically. “‘We aren’t telling it around, but between you and me we’ve got a pretty punk outfit this year. We’re trying to keep Parkinson guessing, but if they play the sort of game they played against Chancellor they’ll have us on the run from the beginning.’ Maybe I oughtn’t to tell this to a Parkinson fellow, but he didn’t tell me not to, and you and I are friends, so I guess there’s no harm. Besides, I’d like mighty well to see you fellows lick that Kenwood bunch. They’re too stuck-up for me.”
“I won’t say anything about it to any one,” said Myron virtuously. “Probably your friend wouldn’t want it to get to our team.”
“Oh, never mind what he wants. If telling your fellows’ll do them any good, you go ahead and tell them. I’ll stand for it. How is the team getting along, by the way? That was certainly a peach of a licking you gave Chancellor. I was reading about it in the paper last Sunday.”
Myron replied that the team was getting on famously, and went into rather intimate details to prove it. Millard was flatteringly interested and encouraged Myron to talk, which Myron was nothing loath to do since he was on a subject that appealed to him vastly. Millard had many questions to ask, questions which showed conclusively that he had a close understanding of football and a wide acquaintance among players. With such a listener Myron found it easy to pursue his subject. Millard introduced debate by throwing doubt on the ability of the Parkinson ends. He said he thought Cousins and Leeds, the Kenwood ends, would have the better of the argument, and was only convinced to the contrary after Myron had very thoroughly explained Stearns’ and Norris’ methods, both on offence and defence. There was simply no end to Millard’s interest in football, and once – they were running through the town of Sturgis at the moment – when Myron feared that he was boring the other, in spite of apparent willingness to listen, and sought to change the subject, it was Millard who soon brought it back again.
How the matter of signals came up, Myron didn’t afterward recall, but it did, and it was exhaustively dealt with. Millard spoke of a case he knew of where the intricacy of the signals had lost an important game for a certain high school team. “I always think that the more simple the signal system is the better it is. You take the big colleges, now, Foster. They don’t ball the men all up with double numberings and ‘repeats’ and all those silly tricks. They select a simple system, one that’s easy to learn and remember. Why, I’ve seen quarter-backs stutter and fumble around for whole minutes trying to get their signals straightened out. And as for the number of times that backs have spoiled a play because they didn’t get the signals right – ” Millard whistled eloquently.
“Guess we won’t have any trouble that way,” answered Myron complacently. “Our system’s as simple as simple.”
“That so? Holes and players numbered from left to right, eh?”
“No, we begin at the ends.”
“Yes, that’s a better scheme. Left end is 1, left tackle, 3, and so on, I suppose.”
“No, we don’t number the players that way. The openings – ”
The taxi-cab stopped so suddenly that Myron bit his tongue over the last word as he pitched forward. Of course Millard described much the same gymnastic feat, but it is doubtful if Millard heard, or thought he heard, what Myron did in the brief instant that his head protruded through a front window, for Eddie Moses’ neck stayed Myron’s forward flight and Eddie’s mouth was but a few inches from Myron’s ear. And in the part of a second that it remained there it got the impression that some one, presumably Eddie, had distinctly said: “Shut up!” That impression did not register on his brain, however, until he was back in his seat and Eddie had released his emergency brake. Then, while Eddie, in reply to Millard’s somewhat incensed question, was apologetically explaining something about a dog that had run almost under the wheels, he stared startledly at the back of Eddie’s head. That told him nothing, though, and he harked back to the interrupted conversation to discover what could have brought such a fiercely voiced admonition from the driver, if, indeed, that admonition had not been imagined. The shaking-up, however, had jostled memory as well as body, and it was Millard who supplied the information he sought.
“I didn’t see any dog,” he said huffily to Eddie. “Guess you imagined it. Now, then, Foster, you were explaining about that numbering.”
“What numbering?” asked Myron blankly.
“Forgotten?” laughed Millard. “Why, we were talking about signals, don’t you remember?”
“Oh, yes,” answered Myron thoughtfully. “So we were. How would it do to take the Princeville Road back, Eddie? That’ll give us more of a drive.”
As a matter of fact, it would do nothing of the sort, and Myron knew it, and Eddie Moses knew it when he added cheerfully, “All right, boss!” Only Millard didn’t know it, although it is likely that he suspected it later when, in far less time than it had taken them to reach Sturgis, they were back again in Warne. During that journey back, made at a greater speed than the trip away, Millard tried vainly to swing the conversation back to the topic of football, and football signals in particular, but Myron seemed to have suddenly wearied of the subject and wouldn’t stay put a minute. He pointed out features of the landscape for Millard’s admiring observation and invented quite a few interesting legends about passing houses or farms. After a while Millard managed to display some enthusiasm for nature and for the legends and was quite the entertaining and charming youth he had been before that shaking-up. But Myron thought that there had been a quarter of an hour subsequent to it when the visitor had sounded out of patience and even a trifle short-tempered. He might have simply imagined it, though. They were back in town long before five, and Millard’s train didn’t leave until after six, and there was plenty of time to visit the school, but Millard recalled a forgotten appointment at the hotel and was set down there accordingly. He was most apologetic and thanked Myron for a good time and begged to be allowed to go halves on the cab bill. This privilege Myron indignantly denied. Millard promised to look Myron up again shortly.
“I want to see the school and all that, you know, Foster,” he declared. “Wish I could run up there now, but I’ll be tied up until train time. The next time I come you must come down and have dinner with me.”
They shook hands and parted, Myron returning to the cab and bidding Eddie drive him to Sohmer. But out of sight of the hotel Myron leaned over and addressed the back of Eddie’s freckled neck. “Did you say anything to me the time I went through the window?” he asked.
“Yeah, I said ‘Shut up!’ You was doing a lot of fancy talking to that guy, seemed to me. ’Course, he might be a friend of yours and all, but you was telling him things about the football team that you hadn’t ought to, see? That’s why I jammed on the ’mergency. There wasn’t no dog at all!”
“Oh,” murmured Myron, “I see. Maybe you’re right. Anyway, I’m much obliged. Of course, Millard is perfectly square, but he might talk.”
“Yeah, he might,” agreed Eddie. “Or he might let some one else do the talking. Here you are, sir! Sohmer Hall, home of the rude rich! Thank you, sir.” Eddie winked knowingly. “I’m not talking any. Don’t you worry about me, sir. So long!”
Myron made his way up the steps of the dormitory, under the envious regard of three third class youths, and climbed the stairs somewhat thoughtfully. Certainly, Maurice Millard was all right, but he was awfully glad that Eddie had imagined that dog. Millard had repeated what the Kenwood chap had told him about the Kenwood team, information plainly not intended for publicity, which showed that he was not exactly close-mouthed. On the whole, decided Myron, he had come horribly near to making an utter fool of himself. He decided to say nothing about it to Joe. Joe must already have a good enough opinion of his common sense!
