Barbour Ralph Henry
Left Guard Gilbert

"I've told the story because I think it bears me out when I say that football is fine training. I don't say that that boy wouldn't have been just as brave and eager to help if he hadn't been a football player, but I do maintain that he wouldn't have known what to do as readily or how to do it and wouldn't have got at it as quickly. And when the flames are eating their way back from car to car quickness means a whole lot! That's the end of my story, boys. But while I've been telling it I've been looking for some sign to tell me that you recognised the hero of it. I don't find the sign and I'm puzzled. Perhaps you're so accustomed to heroes here at Brimfield that one more or less doesn't stir you. For the satisfaction of my own curiosity I'm going to ask you if you know who I've been talking about."

A deep silence was the only answer. The doctor's audience looked extremely interested and curious, but no one spoke.

"I see. You don't know. Well, perhaps I'd better not tell then." But a chorus of protest arose. The doctor hesitated, and his gaze seemed to rest intently on a spot at one side of the hall and about half-way back. Finally, when silence had fallen again: "I guess I will tell," he said. "It can't do him or you any harm. It may help a little to know that there's one amongst you fine enough to do what I've described. I've never seen that boy from the moment the wrecking train reached the scene of the wreck until tonight, and so I've never spoken to him again. But as I sat on the platform here awhile ago I looked and saw him. I don't forget faces very easily, and as you can understand, I wasn't likely to forget his. As I say, I haven't spoken to him yet, but I'm going to now."

There was a silence in which a dropped pin would have made a noise like a crowbar. Half the audience had turned their heads in the direction of Doctor Proctor's smiling gaze, but all eyes were fixed on his lips. The breathless silence lengthened. Then the doctor spoke.

"How is your hand, Gilbert?" he asked.

CHAPTER XXII
COACH ROBEY IS PUZZLED

SOME twenty minutes later Don dropped into a chair in Number 6 and heaved a deep sigh of relief. "Gee," he muttered, "I wouldn't go through that again for – for a million dollars!"

Tim chuckled as he seated himself beyond the table. "Why not?" he asked innocently. "I thought everyone treated you very nicely."

A smile flitted across Don's face. "I suppose they did, only – I guess that was the trouble! I felt like an awful fool, Tim! Look here, what did he have to go and tell everything he knew for? I was afraid he was going to and I wanted like anything to sneak out of there, but the place was so quiet I didn't have the nerve! At first I didn't suspect that he had seen me. I didn't recognise him until he stood up to speak this evening. Yesterday I thought he looked sort of familiar, but I couldn't place him. He – he talks too much!"

"He said some awfully nice things about you, old man."

"He said a lot of nonsense, too! Exaggerated the whole thing, he did. Why, to listen to him you'd think I saved about a thousand people from certain death! Well, I didn't. I helped about six or seven folks out of those cars. They were sort of rattled and didn't seem to know enough to beat it."

"They weren't in any danger, then?"

"No, not much. All they had to do was crawl out of the way."

"Then they weren't any of them burned, Don?"

"A few were."

"How about the man with the broken arm?"

"Oh, he'd got caught somehow." Don looked up and saw Tim's laugh. "Well," he added defensively, "he needn't have told about it like that, right out in front of the whole school, need he?"

"You bet he need! Donald, you're a bloomin', blushin' hero, and we're proud of you! And when I say blushing I mean it, for you haven't stopped yet!"

"I guess you'd blush," growled Don, "if it happened to you!"

"I dare say, but it never will. I'll never have the whole school get up on their feet and cheer me like mad for three solid minutes! And I'll never have Josh shake my hand off and beam at me and tell me I'm a credit to the school! Such beautiful things are not for poor little Tim!"

Don sighed. "Well, it's over with, anyway."

"Over with, nothing! It won't be over with as long as you stay here, Donald. A hero you are and a hero you remain, old chap. And – and I'm mighty proud of you, you old humbug! Telling us you didn't do anything but help lug folks to the relief train, or something!"

"I didn't say that," replied Don defensively.

"You let us think it. Gee, if I'd done anything like that I'd have put it in the papers!" Tim chuckled and then went on seriously. "You don't need to worry about the fellows thinking you a quitter any more, do you? I guess Proctor settled that once and for all, Don. And suppose you'd run away home the other night. This wouldn't have happened and fellows would have said you had a yellow streak. I guess it was a mighty lucky thing you have little Tim to look after you, dearie!"

"I'm glad I didn't," said Don earnestly. "I'd have made a worse mess of it, shouldn't I? I – I'm sorry you got that punch, though, Timmy."

"Forget it! It was worth it! Being the room-mate of a hero atones for everything you ever did to me, Donald. I'm that proud – "

But Tim didn't finish, for Don started around the table for him.

At the time this conversation was taking place Mr. Robey and Doctor Proctor were walking back to the former's room in the village through a frosty, starlit night.

"You certainly managed to spring a sensation, Gus," observed the coach as they turned into the road.

"I should say so! Well, that boy deserved all the cheering and praise he received. And I'm glad I told that story."

"Well, it's got me guessing," responded the other. "Look here, Gus, take a chap like the one you described tonight. What would you think if he quit cold a week before the big game?"

"Quit? How do you mean, George?"

"Just that. Develops an imaginary illness. Tells you he doesn't feel well enough to play, in spite of the fact that he has nothing more the matter with him than you or I have. Probably not so much. Shows absolute relief when you tell him he's dropped. What would you say to that?"

"You mean Gilbert did that?" Mr. Robey assented. "I wondered why he wasn't on the platform with the rest of the team," mused the doctor. "I'd say there was something queer about it, George. When did this happen?"

"Last week. Thursday or Friday, I think. He'd been laid off for a day or so and I thought he'd gone a bit fine, although he's rather too phlegmatic to suffer much from nerves. Some of the high-strung chaps do go to pieces about this time and you have to nurse them along pretty carefully. But Gilbert! Well, on Saturday – yes, that was the day – he'd been reported perfectly fit by the trainer and just as a matter of form I asked him if he was ready to play. And, by Jove, he had the cheek to face me and say he wasn't well enough! It was nonsense, of course. He'd simply got scared. I told him so and dropped him. But it's curious that a boy who could do what you told of this evening could prove a quitter like that."

"You say he seemed relieved when you let him go?"

"Yes, he showed it plainly."

"That is funny! I wonder what the truth of it is?"

"Nerves, I suppose. Cold feet, as the fellows say."

"Never! There's something else, old man, that you haven't got hold of. Can he play?"

"Y-yes. Yes, he can play. He's the sort that comes slow and plays a bit logy, but he's steady and works hard. Not a brilliant man, you know, but dependable. He's been playing guard. Losing him has left us a bit weak on that side, too."

"Why not take him back then? Look here, George, you're a good coach and all that, but you're a mighty poor judge of human nature."

"Piffle!"

"It's so, though. You've only got to study that chap Gilbert to see that he isn't the quitting kind. His looks show it, his manner shows it, the way he talks shows it. He's the sort that might want to quit; we all do sometimes; but he couldn't because he's got stuff in him that wouldn't let him!"

"That's all well enough, Gus, but facts are facts. Gilbert did quit, and quit cold on me. So theories don't count for much. And this human nature flapdoodle – "

"I don't say he didn't quit. But I do say that you've made the wrong diagnosis, George. Did you talk to him? Ask him what the trouble was? Go after the symptoms?"

"No, I'm no physician. He said he wasn't feeling well enough to play. I told him we had no place for quitters on the team. He had nothing to say to that. If you think I can feel the pulse and look at the tongue of every fellow – "

Doctor Proctor laughed. "And take his temperature too, eh? No, I don't expect you to do that, George. But I'll tell you what I would do, and I'd do it tomorrow too. I'd call around and see Gilbert. I'd tell him that I wasn't satisfied with the explanation he'd made and I'd ask him to make a clean breast of the trouble, for he must be in some trouble or he wouldn't thank you for firing him. And then I'd stop cutting off my nose to spite my face and I'd reinstate him tomorrow afternoon!"

"Hmph! The trouble with you doctors is that you're too romantic. You imagine things, you – "

"We have to imagine, George. If we stuck to facts we'd never get anywhere in our profession! You try a little imagination, old chap. You're too matter-of-fact. What you can't see you won't believe in."

"I certainly won't! As the kids say, seeing's believing."

"Well, there's a very unattractive board fence across the road, George. On the other side of it there are shrubs and grass. I can't see them, but I know they're there."

"More likely tin-cans and ashes," grunted Mr. Robey.

"Pessimist!" laughed the other. "But never mind; ashes or grass, something's there, and you can't see it and yet you've got to acknowledge the existence of it. Now haven't you?"

"I suppose so, but" – Mr. Robey laughed – "I'd rather see it!"

"Climb the fence and have a look then! But you'll try my plan with the boy, won't you?"

"Yes, I will. If only to satisfy my curiosity, Gus. Hang it, the chap can't be a quitter!"

"He isn't. I'll stake my reputation as – as a romanticist on that! I'd like mighty well to stay and solve the mystery with you, but I'll have to jump for that early train. I wish, though, that you'd drop me a line and tell me the outcome. I'm interested – and puzzled."

"All right. I'm not much of a letter-writer, though. I'll see you before you go back and tell you about it. You'll be in New York on Sunday, won't you?"

"Until two o'clock. Have lunch with me and see me off. Come to the hotel as early as you can and we'll hold post-mortems on the games. Let's hope that Princeton and Brimfield both win next Saturday, George!"

CHAPTER XXIII
CROSS-EXAMINATION

DON found being a hero an embarrassing business the next day. The masters bothered him by stopping and shaking hands and saying nice things, and the fellows beamed on him if they weren't well enough acquainted to speak and insisted on having a full and detailed history of that train-wreck if they were! Of course they all, masters and students, meant well and wanted to show their admiration, but Don wished they wouldn't. It made him feel horribly self-conscious, and feeling self-conscious was distinctly uncomfortable. At breakfast table his companions referred to last evening's incident laughingly and poked fun at Don and enjoyed his embarrassment, but it wasn't difficult to tell that Doctor Proctor's narrative had made a strong impression on them and increased their liking for Don. When, just before Don had finished his meal, Mr. Robey left the training-table and crossed the room toward him he braced himself for another scene in which he would have to stand up and be shaken by the hand, and possibly, and worst of all, listen to some sort of an apology from the coach. But Don was spared, for Mr. Robey only placed a hand on the back of his chair, included the rest of the occupants of the table in his "Good-morning," and said carelessly: "Gilbert, I wish you'd drop over to Mr. Conklin's office some time this morning and see me. What time can you come?"

"Half-past ten, sir?"

"That will be all right, thanks."

The coach returned to his table, leaving Don wondering what was up. Possibly, he thought, the coach wanted to make some sort of retraction of his accusation of Saturday, although Don didn't believe that Mr. Robey was the sort to funk a public apology. If it wasn't that it could only be that he was to be offered his place on the team again. Don sighed. That would be beastly, for he would have to tell more fibs, and brand new ones, too, since not even a blind man would believe him ill now! It was something of a coincidence that Don should run across Walton in the corridor a few minutes later. Don was for passing by with no recognition of the other, but Walton, with a smirk, placed himself fairly in the way.

"Great stuff, Gilbert," he said with an attempted heartiness. "Some hero, eh, what?"

"Drop it, Walton!" Don lowered his voice, for others were passing toward the doorway. "And I'll thank you not to speak to me. You know my opinion of you. Now shut up!"

Walton found nothing to say until it was too late. Don approached the gymnasium after his ten o'clock recitation with lagging feet. He had scant taste for the impending interview and would have gladly avoided it if such a thing had been possible. But he didn't see any way out of it and he heard the big door bang to behind him with a sinking heart. Why, he hadn't even thought up any new excuse!

Mr. Robey and Mr. Conklin, the athletic director, were both in the latter's room when Don knocked at the half-opened door. Mr. Conklin said "Good-morning" and then followed it with: "I've got something to attend to on the floor, Robey, if you'll excuse me," and went out, closing the door behind him. Don wished he had stayed. He took the chair vacated by the director and faced Coach Robey with as much ease as he could assume, which was very little. The coach began without much preamble.

"I didn't ask you over here to talk about last night, Gilbert, or to offer you any apology for what I said on the field last Saturday. I don't believe much in spoken apologies. If I'm wrong I show it and there's no mistake about it. I think I was wrong in your case, Gilbert. And I'll say so, if you like, very gladly, and act so if you'll prove it."

"I don't want any apology, sir," answered Don. "I guess you were right enough."

"Well, that's what I want to find out. What was the trouble, Gilbert?"

"Why, just what I said, Coach. I – I didn't feel very fit and I didn't think it would be any use playing, feeling like I did. If you don't feel well you can't play very well, and so I thought I'd say so. I didn't mind being dropped, sir. I deserved it. And – and that's quite all right." Don got up, his eyes shifting to the door.

"Wait a minute! Let's get the truth of this. You're lying, aren't you?"

Don tried to look indignant and failed, tried to look hurt and failed again. Then he gave it up and dropped his gaze before the searching eyes of the other. "I'm feeling some better now," he muttered.

Coach Robey laughed shortly. "Gilbert, you can't lie worth a cent! Now, look here. I'm your friend. Why not come across and tell me what's up? I know you weren't sick. Danny gave you a clean bill of health that morning. And I know you haven't got any nerves to speak of. There's something else, Gilbert. Now what is it?"

"Nothing, sir."

"Then why did you act that way?"

"I – I just didn't want to play."

"Didn't want to play! Why not?"

"I wasn't doing very well, and it was pretty hard work, and there was Walton after the place, too. He could play better than I could."

"Who told you so? Walton?" asked the coach drily.

"I could see it," murmured Don.

"So you were suddenly afraid of hard work, eh? It had never bothered you before, had it? Last year or this year either?"

"No, I guess not."

"Perhaps it was more because you felt that Walton would be a better man for the place, then?" surmised the coach.

Don agreed eagerly. It was a case of any port in a storm by now and he was glad enough to have the coach find an explanation. "Yes, sir, I guess that was it."

"Well, that was generous of you," said the other approvingly. "But didn't it occur to you that perhaps I would be a better one to decide that matter than you? You've never known me to keep a fellow on the team for sentimental reasons, have you?"

"No, sir."

"Hm. Now when was it – I mean how long before last Saturday was it – that you and Walton talked it over?"

"Sir?" Don looked up startledly. "I – we – there wasn't any talk about it," he stammered.

"Well, what did Walton say?"

Don hesitated, studying Mr. Robey's face in the hope of discovering how much that gentleman knew. Finally: "When do you mean?" he asked.

"I mean the time you and Walton talked about which was the best man for the position," replied the other easily. To himself he reflected that he was following Gus Proctor's advice with a vengeance! But he was by this time pretty certain of his ground.

"I don't remember that we ever – exactly did that," Don faltered. "There was some talk, maybe, but he – he never said anything like that."

"Like what?"

"Why, that he was a better guard."

"Then what put the idea in your head, Gilbert?"

"I suppose I just saw it myself."

"But you were playing the position pretty regularly before Thursday or whatever day it was you were taken ill, weren't you?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then how could you tell that Walton was better?"

"I don't know. He – he seemed better. And then Tim told me I was too slow."

"Tim Otis? Otis had better mind his own business," grumbled the coach. "So that was it, then. All right. I'm glad to get the truth of the matter." The little tightening of Don's mouth didn't escape him. "Now, then, I'm going to surprise you, Gilbert. I'm going to surprise you mightily. I'm going to tell you that Walton is not a better left guard than you. He isn't nearly so good. That does surprise you, doesn't it?"

Don nodded, his eyes fixed uneasily on the coach's.

"Well, there it is, anyway. And so I think the best thing for all of us, Gilbert, is for you to come back to work this afternoon."

Don's look of dismay quite startled the other.

"But I'd rather not, sir! I – I'm out of practice now. I've quit training. I've been eating all sorts of things; potatoes and fresh bread and pastry – no end of pastry, sir! – and – and candy – "

Mr. Robey grunted. "You don't show it," he said. "Anyway, I guess that won't matter. I'll chance it. Three o'clock, then, Gilbert."

Don's gaze sought the floor and he shook his head. "I'd rather not, sir, if you don't mind," he muttered.

"But I do mind. The team needs you, Gilbert! And now that I know that you didn't quit because you were afraid– "

"I did, though!" Don looked up desperately. "That was the truth of it!"

Mr. Robey sighed deeply. "Gilbert," he said patiently, "if I couldn't lie better than you can I wouldn't try it! You weren't afraid and you aren't afraid and you know it and I know it! So, then, is it Walton?"

After a moment Don nodded silently.

"You think he's a better man than you are, eh?"

Don nodded again, but hesitatingly.

"Or you've taken pity on him and want him to play against Claflin, perhaps."

"Yes, sir. You see, his folks are going to be here and they'll expect him to play!"

"Oh, I see. You and Walton come from the same town? But of course you don't. How did you know his folks were coming, then?"

"He told me."

"When?"

"About – some time last week."

"Was it the day you had that talk about the position and which of you was to have it?"

"I guess so. Yes, sir, it was that time."

"And he, perhaps, suggested that it would be a nice idea for you to back out and let him in, eh?"

Don was silent.

"Did he?" insisted the coach.

"He said that his folks were coming – "

"And that he'd like to get into the game so they wouldn't be disappointed?"

"Something like that," murmured Don.

"And you consented?"

"Not exactly, but I thought it over and – and – "

Mr. Robey suddenly leaned forward and laid a hand on Don's knee.

"Gilbert," he asked quietly, "what has Walton got on you?"