Barbour Ralph Henry
Left Guard Gilbert

CHAPTER X
TIM EXULTS AND EXPLAINS

WHEN Don told Tim the latter insisted on performing a triumphal dance about the room to the tune of "Boola." When Don squirmed himself loose Tim continued alone until the droplight was knocked to the floor at the cost of one green shade. Then he threw himself, panting but jubilant, on his bed and hilariously kicked his feet in air. Don observed him with a faint smile.

"You wooden Indian, you!" exclaimed Tim, sitting up and dropping his feet to the floor with a crash. "There you stand like a – a graven image, looking as though you'd just received an invitation to a funeral! Cheer, you idiot! Make a noise! Aren't you tickled to death?"

"You bet I am!" replied Don.

"Well, do something, then! You ought to have a little of my Latin temperament, Don. You'd be a heap easier to live with. If it was I who had just been waited on humbly by the first team captain and invited to join the eleven I'd – I'd make a – a noise!"

"What do you think you've been doing?" laughed Don. "You'll have Horace in here in a minute. Steve says you're to coach me on the signals."

"Tomorrow!" Tim waved his hand. "Time enough for that, Don. Just now it behooves us to celebrate."

"How?" asked Don.

Tim thought long and earnestly. Finally, "Let's borrow Larry Jones's accordion and serenade Josh!" he said.

"Let's not. And let's not go to a fire, either! Think of something better, Timmy."

"Then we'll go out and bay at the moon. I've got to do something! By the time Joe's got his busted rib mended you'll have that left guard position nailed to the planks, Don."

"How about Walton?" asked Don dubiously.

"A fig for Walton! Two figs for him! A whole box of figs! All you've got to do is speed up a bit and – "

"Suppose I can't?"

"Suppose nothing! You've got to! If you don't you'll have me to fight, Donald. If you don't cinch that position in just one week I – I'll take you over my knee and spank you with a belt! Come on over to Clint's room. Let us disseminate the glorious tidings. Let us – "

"I'd rather learn the signals," said Don. "There's only tonight and tomorrow, you know."

Tim appealed despairingly to the ceiling with wide-spread hands. "There's no poetry in his soul," he mourned, "no blood in his veins!" He faced Don scornfully. "Donald P. Gilbert is your name, my son, and the P stands for Practical. All right, then, draw up a chair and let's have it over. To think, though, that I should have to sit indoors a night like this and teach signals to a wooden-head! I wooden do it for anyone else. Ha! How's that! Get a pad and a pencil and try to look intelligent."

"All right? Mark 'em down, then. Starting at the left, number your holes 1, 3, 5, 7, 8, 6, 4, 2. Got that? Number your left end 1, the next man 3, the next 5. Omit centre. Right guard 6, right tackle 4, right end 2. Now, your backfield. Quarter 0, left half 7, right half 8, full-back 9."

"Gee, that's hard to remember," murmured Don.

"And hard to guess," answered Tim. "Now, your first number, unless it's under thirty, is a fake. If it's under thirty it means that the next number is the number of a play. Over thirty, it means nothing. Your second digit of your second number is your runner. The second digit of the third number is the hole. The fourth number, as you doubtless surmise, is also a fake. Now, then, sir! 65 – 47 – 23 – 98! What is it?"

"Left half between end and tackle."

"On the left. Correct. 19 – 87 – 77 – 29?"

"I don't know. Nineteen calls for a numbered play."

"Right again, Mr. Gilbert, your performance is startling! The pity of it is, though, that about the time you get these signals pat Robey'll change them for the Claflin game. So far we've only got eight numbered plays, and they aren't complicated. Want to go into them tonight?"

"No, I guess not. I'd rather get these holes and players sort of fixed in my mind first. We'll go over the plays tomorrow, if you don't mind."

"It will break my heart, but I'll do it for you. Now will you come over to Clint's?"

"I'd rather not, Tim. You go. I want to mull over these signals."

Presently, having exhausted his vocabulary on his room-mate, Tim went. Don settled his head in his hands and studied the numbered diagram for the better part of an hour. Don was slow at memorising, but what was once forced into his mind stayed there. A little before ten o'clock he slipped the diagram under a box in a bureau drawer and went to bed with a calm mind, and when Tim returned riotously a few minutes later Don was sleeping peacefully.

On Monday, in chapel, Don and the "heroes" of Farmer Corrigan's conflagration had another shock, and Don, for one, wondered when he was to hear the last of that affair. "Since last week," said Mr. Fernald drily, "when I requested the four boys who helped to put out a fire at the Corrigan farm to make themselves known to an admiring public, I have gained an understanding of their evident desire to conceal their identities. I am forced to the conclusion that it was not altogether modesty that kept them silent. The fire, it appears, did not break out until nearly half-past nine. Consequently the young gentlemen were engaged in their heroic endeavours at a time when they should have been in their dormitories. I have not yet found out who they were, but I am making earnest efforts to do so. Meanwhile, if they wish to lighten the consequences of their breach of school regulations, I'd earnestly advise them to call and see me. I may add that, in view of the unusual circumstances, had they made a clean breast of the affair I should have dealt very leniently with them. That is all, I think. Dismissed."

None of the culprits dared to so much as glance at the others on the way out of the hall, but afterward, when breakfast was over, they gathered anxiously together in Number 6 Billings and discussed the latest development with lowered voices, like a quartette of anarchists arranging a bomb party.

"He's right up on his ear," said Clint gloomily. "If he gets us now he will send us all packing, and don't you doubt it!"

"Piffle!" This from Tim, the least impressed of the four. "Probation is all we'd get. Didn't the paper say we were heroes?"

"No, it didn't," answered Tom shortly. "And I wish that paper was in Halifax!"

"Might as well be fired as put on pro," said Clint. "It would mean no more football this year for any of us. My word, wouldn't Robey be mad!"

"Wouldn't I be!" growled Tom. "Look here, do you really suppose he's trying to find out who we were, or was that just a bluff to scare us into 'fessing up!"

"Josh isn't much of a bluffer," observed Don judiciously. "What he says he means. What I don't savvy is why he hasn't found out already. Every hall master has a record of leaves."

"Yes, but it was Saturday night and I'll bet half the school had leave," said Tim. "I dare say, though, that if any fellows are suspected we're amongst 'em, Don. Being on the first floor, Josh knows we could sneak in easily. Still, he can't prove it on us."

"I'm not so sure," replied Don thoughtfully. "Suppose he asked Mr. Brady?"

A dismayed silence ensued until Tom laughed mirthlessly.

"That's one on us," he said. "We never thought of that. Maybe he has asked Brady already."

"Brady doesn't know our names," said Tim. "You didn't tell him, did you, Don?"

"No, he didn't ask. But he could easily describe us so that Josh would recognise us, I guess."

"That's the trouble with being so plaguy distinguished looking," mourned Tim. "Seems to me, fellows, that there's just one thing to be did, and did sudden."

"You mean warn Mr. Brady?" asked Clint.

"Exactly, my discerning young friend. Maybe the horse is stolen – "

"What horse?" asked Tom perplexedly.

"Merely a figure of speech, Tom. I was about to observe when so rudely interrupted – "

"Oh, cut out the verbiage," growled Tom.

"That possibly it was too late to lock the stable door," continued Tim, "but we'd better do it, just the same. Let's see if he has a telephone."

"Of course he has," said Clint, "but I don't think it would be safe to call him up. We'd better see him. Or write him a letter."

"He wouldn't get a letter until tomorrow, maybe," objected Don. "One of us had better beat it over to his place as soon as possible and ask him to keep mum."

"I can't go," said Tom. "I've got four recits this morning and Robey would never let me off practice."

"I don't believe any of us will do much work this afternoon," said Tim. "I'll go if Robey'll let me cut. I wish someone would come along, though. It's a dickens of a trip to make alone. You come, Clint."

"I will if I can. We'll ask Robey at dinner. What shall we say to this Brady man?"

"Just tell him what's doing and ask him to forget what we looked like if Josh writes to him or calls him up or anything. Brady's a good old scout, I'll bet," added Tim with conviction. "Maybe we'd better buy a setting of eggs to get on the good side of him."

"Don't be a chump," begged Tim. "I don't call this a comedy situation, if you do, Tim. I'd certainly hate to get on pro and have to drop football!"

"Don't be a chump," begged Tom. "I don't say it's a comedy, but there's no use weeping, is there? What's done is done, and we've got to make the best of it, and a laugh never hurt anyone yet."

"Well, then, let's make the best of it," answered Tom peevishly. "Talking doesn't do any good."

"Neither does grouching," said Tim sweetly. "You leave it all to Clint and me, Tom. We're a swell pair of fixers. If we can get to Brady before Josh does we're all right. And it's a safe wager Josh hasn't asked Brady yet, for if he had he'd be on to us. There's the nine o'clock bell, fellows, and I've got a recit. See you later. Hope for the best, Tom, and fear the worst!"

Tim seized his books and dashed out, followed more leisurely by Clint. Tom remained a few minutes longer and then he, too, took his departure, still filled with forebodings. Don, left to himself, drew a chair to the table and began to study. Truth, however, compels me to state that what he studied was not his German, although he had a recitation coming in forty minutes, but two sheets of buff paper torn from a scratch-pad and filled with writing interspersed with numerals and adorned with strange diagrams, in short, Tim's elucidation of the eight numbered plays which up to the present comprised Brimfield's budget of tricks. It can't be said that Don covered himself with glory in Mr. Daley's German class that morning or that the instructor was at all satisfied, but Don had the secret satisfaction of knowing that stored away in the back of his brain was a very thorough knowledge of the Brimfield football signal code and of Mr. Robey's special plays.

CHAPTER XI
MR. BRADY FORGETS

THAT afternoon Don's knowledge stood him in good stead, for with more than half the first-string players excused from practice, his services were called on at the start, and, with McPhee and Cotter running the squad, the signal drill was long and thorough. Harry Walton viewed Don's advent with disfavour. That was apparent to Don and anyone else who thought of the matter, although he pretended a good-natured indifference that wasn't at all deceiving. Don more than once caught his rival observing him with resentment and dislike, and, remembering that Harry Walton had been a witness of his unconventional return to hall that night, he experienced misgivings. Of course, Harry wouldn't "peach," but – well, Don again wished anyone rather than Harry had stumbled on the secret.

But he didn't have much time for worrying about that matter, for Coach Robey went after them hard that day. In the practice game with the second team Don started at left guard and played the position until within a few minutes of the whistle. Then Harry Walton, who had been adorning the bench, took his place. He didn't look at Don as he accepted the latter's head-guard, but Don was well aware that Harry felt anything but good-will for him. Naturally enough, Harry had, Don reflected, expected to step into Gafferty's place without opposition when news of the extent of the latter's injury had become known, and it was undoubtedly a big disappointment to him to discover that he had to fight a new opponent. Don could sympathise with Harry, for he had endured disappointments himself during his brief football career, but it is difficult to sympathise very enthusiastically when the subject of your sympathy shows his dislike for you, and Don metaphorically shrugged his shoulders as he trotted up to the gymnasium.

"It isn't my fault," he said to himself. "I didn't bust Joe Gafferty's rib and I'm not responsible for Robey's taking me on the first team. Walton will just have to make the best of it."

Don couldn't flatter himself that he had played that afternoon with especial brilliancy, although he had managed to hold his end up fairly well. The fact was that he had been so intent on getting speeded into his performance that he had rather skimped the niceties of line-play. And he wasn't at all certain that he had shown any more speed than usual, either. He awaited Mr. Robey's appearance in the locker-room with some apprehension, certain that if he had erred badly he would soon learn of it. When the coach did arrive at the tail of the procession of panting players and said his say without once singling out Don for special attention, the latter was relieved. He couldn't, he told himself, have done so very badly, after all!

Tom walked back to Billings with Don to learn the result of Tim's and Clint's embassy to the Cedar Ridge Poultry Farm, for the two had obtained leave of absence from Mr. Robey and had set forth on their journey the minute a three o'clock recitation was finished. Tim wasn't in Number 6 when they reached it, but he and Clint tramped in soon after, dusty and weary but evidently triumphant. Tim narrated their experiences.

"Missed the three-fifty car, just as I told Clint we would if he didn't hustle – "

"I had to find a cap to wear, didn't I?" interpolated Clint.

"Well, we found the place all right, fellows, and, say, it's some poultry farm, believe me, dearies! Isn't it corking, Clint?"

Clint grunted assent, stretching tired legs across the floor.

"There's about a thousand acres of it, I guess, and a mile of red chicken houses and runs, or whatever you call 'em. How many hens and things did he tell us he had, Clint?"

"Eighteen hundred, I think. Maybe it was eighteen thousand. I don't remember. All I know is there were chickens as far as you could see, and then some."

"Never mind the descriptive matter," urged Tom. "What did he say? Had Josh been at him? Did he promise – "

"I'm coming to that, dearie. When we found him he was doing something to that car of his in a cute little garage. And, say, it's an eight-cylinder Lothrop, and a regular jim-dandy! Well, he took us into his house first – "

Tom groaned in despair.

" – And fed us on crackers and cake and ginger ale. Say, he's got a peach of a bungalow there; small but entire; and a cute little Jap who cooks and looks after things for him. Well, then he took us out and showed us around the place. Chickens! Gee, I didn't know there were so many in the world! And we saw the incubators and the – what you call them – brooders, and – "

"For the love of mud!" exclaimed Tom. "Can't you get down to dots? Is it all right or isn't it?"

Tim smiled exasperatingly. "Then he showed us – "

Tom arose to his feet and took a step toward him.

"It's all right," said Tim hurriedly. "Everything, Thomas! We told him what was up and how we didn't want Josh to find out it was us who attended Mr. Corrigan's fire party and asked him if he would please not remember what we looked like if Josh asked him. And he said – "

"He laughed," interrupted Clint, and chuckled himself.

"That's right! He laughed a lot. 'You're a little bit late,' he said. 'Mr. Fernald called me up by telephone nearly a week ago, fellows, and wanted to know all about it.' 'You didn't tell him?' I yelped. 'No, I couldn't,' he said. 'You see, you hadn't told me your names, and it was pretty dark that night and somehow or other I just couldn't seem to recall what you looked like! Mr. Fernald sounded considerably disappointed and like he didn't quite believe me, but that can't be helped.' Say, fellows, I wanted to hug him! Or – or buy an egg or something! Honest, I did! He's all right, what?"

"He's a corker!" said Tom, sighing with relief. "You don't suppose Corrigan or any of the others there that night would remember us, do you?"

"Not likely. Mr. Brady didn't think so, anyway."

"Then it's all to the merry!" cried Tom. "Gee, but that's a load off my mind!"

"Off your what?" asked Tim curiously.

"It's all right if Harry Walton keeps quiet," said Don. "If he gets to talking – "

"If he does I'll beat him up," said Tim earnestly. "But he won't. He wouldn't be such a snip, in the first place, and he wouldn't dare to in the second."

"N-no, I guess not," agreed Don. But his tone didn't hold much conviction. "Only, if – "

"I'll tell you fellows one thing," announced Tom vehemently.

"Don't strain yourself," advised Tim.

"And that," continued the other, scowling at the interruption, "is that no one gets me into any more scrapes until after the Claflin game!"

"Gee, to hear you talk," exclaimed Tim indignantly, "anyone would think we'd tied you up with a rope and forcibly abducted you! Who's idea was it, anyway, to go to the village that night?"

"Yours, if you want to know! I don't say I didn't go along willingly enough, Tim. What I do say is —never again! Anyway," he added, "not until football's over!"

Morgan's School, which had defeated Brimfield the year before, 6 to 3, came and departed. Brimfield took the visitor's measure this time, and, although she only scored one touchdown and failed to kick goal, the contest was far less close and interesting than the score would suggest. Brimfield played the opponents to a standstill in the first half and scored just before the end of it. In the third quarter Coach Robey began substituting and when the last ten minutes started the Maroon-and-Grey had only three first-string fellows in her line-up. The substitutes played good football and, while not able to push the pigskin across Morgan's line, twice reached her fifteen yards and twice tried and narrowly missed a goal from the field.

On the whole it could not be said that Brimfield's performance that blustery Saturday afternoon was impressive, for she was frequently caught napping on the defensive, showed periods of apathy and did more fumbling, none of which resulted disastrously, than she should have. Tim Otis had a remarkably good day and was undeniably the best man in the backfield for the home team. Carmine played a heady, snappy game, and Don, who played the most of three quarters at left guard, conducted himself very well. Don's work was never of the spectacular sort, but at his best he was a steady and thoroughly reliable lineman and very effective on defence. He was still slow in getting into plays, a fact which made him of less value than Joe Gafferty on attack. Even Harry Walton showed up better than Don when Brimfield had the ball. But neither Gafferty nor Walton was as strong on defence as Don.

Walton had been very earnestly striving all the week to capture the guard position, but the fact that Don had been played through most of the Morgan's game indicated that the latter was as yet a slight favourite in Coach Robey's estimation. During the week succeeding the Morgan's game the two rivals kept at it nip and tuck, and their team-mates looked on with interest. At practice Mr. Robey showed no favour to either, and each came in for his full share of criticism, but when, the next Saturday, the team journeyed away from home and played Cherry Valley, it was again Don who started the game between Thayer and Thursby and who remained in the line-up until the fourth period, by which time Brimfield had piled up the very satisfactory score of twenty-six points. In the final five minutes Cherry Valley managed to fool the visitors and get a forward pass off for a gain that placed the ball on Brimfield's fourteen yards, and from there her drop-kicker put the pigskin over the cross-bar and tallied three points. The game was uninteresting unless one was a partisan, and even then there were few thrills. Brimfield played considerably better than in the Morgan's game and emerged with no more important damages than a wrenched ankle, which fell to the share of Martin, who had taken Rollins's place in the last period.

Joe Gafferty came back to practice the following Monday, but was missing again a day or two later, and the school heard with some dismay Joe's parents had written to Mr. Fernald and forbidden Joe to play any more football that year. Joe was inconsolable and went around for the next week or so looking like a lost soul. After that he accepted the situation and helped Mr. Boutelle coach the second. That second had by that time been shaken together into a very capable and smooth-running team, a team which was giving the first more and more trouble every day. Coach Robey had again levied on it for a player, taking Merton to the first when Gafferty was lost to him, and again Mr. Boutelle growled and protested and, finally, philosophically shrugged his shoulders. A week later Merton was released to the second once more and Pryme, who had been playing at right guard as a substitute for Tom Hall, was tried out on the other side of centre with good results. Pryme's advent as a contender for the left guard position complicated the battle between Don and Harry Walton, and until after the Southby game the trio of candidates indulged in a three-cornered struggle that was quite pretty to watch.

Unfortunately for Don, that struggle for supremacy threatened to affect his class standing, for it occupied so much of his thought that there was little left for study. When, however, the office dropped a hint and Mr. Daley presented an ultimatum, Don realised that he was taking football far too seriously, and, being a rather level-headed youth, he mended his ways. He expected, as a result, to find himself left behind in the race with Walton and Pryme, but, oddly enough, his game was in no degree affected so far as he could determine. In fact, within a few days the situation was simplified by the practical elimination of Pryme as a contender. This happened when, just before the Southby game, Tom Hall, together with eight other members of Mr. Moller's physics class went on probation, and Pryme was needed at right guard.

I have mentioned Tom's probation very casually, quite as if it was a matter of slight importance, but you may be sure that the school viewed it in no such way. Coming as it did little more than a fortnight before the big game, it was looked on as a dire catastrophe, no more and no less; and the school, which had laughed and chuckled over the incident which had caused the catastrophe, and applauded the participants in it, promptly turned their thumbs down when the effect became known and indignantly dubbed the affair "silly kid's play" and blamed Tom very heartily. How much of the blame he really deserved you shall judge for yourself, but the affair merits a chapter of its own.