Part 2

Four games remained on the schedule when October was half gone: Carver Academy, Pleasanton High, Norwich Academy and St. Matthew’s. St. Matthew’s was Barnstead’s dearly hated rival in every sport and the victor in most. The Blue triumphed almost yearly on the track and won more than her share of the baseball contests. It was only in hockey and football that the records of the two schools came anywhere near balancing. At hockey Barnstead, aided by better ice facilities, was the master, while at football the Brown had almost, if not quite, as many wins to her credit as the Blue. This year, having met defeat last November, the Brown considered it her turn to triumph and meant to do so. And to this end the school worked as one.

And yet there was an exception after all, and that exception was Perry Vose. Perry was eighteen years of age, strongly built, good-looking in a dark and somewhat surly way and what the fellows who had seen him perform called a corking player. But in spite of his ability Perry was not on the team this year. Why this was so Harry learned from Tracey.

“He played in the line two years,” said Tracey. “Left guard, I think. Maybe he was right. Anyhow, he has a beast of a temper and can’t hold on to it. In almost every game he was cautioned for slugging or rough work of some sort, and several times he was put off. Worden stood a lot from him because he was such a dandy player. But last year in the Pleasanton game he mixed it up with the chap who played opposite him, the umpire or the referee caught him, the other chap got a cut lip and Perry was put off. After the game Worden told him he needn’t report again until he could play decently and like a gentleman. Perry ‘sassed’ him for fair, they say; I didn’t hear it; and Worden told him then that he needn’t report again for football as long as he was coaching because he wouldn’t have him. Faculty heard about it and Perry came mighty near being expelled. He had to apologize to Worden and went on probation for two months. That didn’t make him care any more for the coach, and he still hates him like anything. Mention Worden to Perry and he will foam at the mouth!”

And Tracey smiled reminiscently.

“He seems to have a good many friends, though,” said Harry.

“Oh, he isn’t such a bad sort when he behaves. Lots of fellows like him, or pretend to, because his folks are pretty well fixed and Perry always has a lot of money to spend. And he spends it. Still, maybe it isn’t only that. I dare say lots of fellows like him just for――for himself. He can be very decent if he wants to. It’s his old temper that plays hob with him. You and he had any more trouble?”

“No, he’s let me alone and I’ve let him alone.”

“Good scheme, chum. He’s a bad man in a mix-up.”

“I’m not afraid of him,” replied Harry stoutly. “But I don’t see that there’s any use in having a fuss. I said I’d get even with him some day, and I intend to, but I don’t want to lose my place on the second on his account. And it might come to that if we had a row and faculty heard of it.”

“You’re wise. Keep away from him. And if he tries to start anything, run. It would be like him to get you into a rumpus just so faculty would hear of it and, maybe, put you on pro. He’d like that because it would lose Worden a good player.”

“You don’t mean Vose would want to see us beaten just because he dislikes Mr. Worden!”

“Hm; not exactly, perhaps. Still, I wouldn’t wager much on it! If he could get even with Worden I dare say he wouldn’t care a continental whether we won or lost at football!”

“He’s a dandy!” said Harry indignantly. “If that’s the way it is you can bet I’ll keep away from him. I’ll even run if necessary! But if ever I do run from him I’ll run back again when the football’s over! And then he will learn something!”

“Easy!” laughed Tracey. “Perry Vose is three inches taller than you are and three years older――almost.”

“He’s a bully, and I never saw a bully yet who wasn’t a coward at heart.”

“I wouldn’t count too much on that, Harry. He may be a bully, but you’ll find he’s no coward. And he’s a mean chap in a fight. Take my advice and let him alone.”

“I mean to――at present,” replied Harry. “I can’t afford to take any chances. I want to make the first before the season’s over. Think I will, Tracey?”

“Don’t see how you can help it. I’m not much of a football fan, but I hear what the fellows say, and they all seem to think that you are some wonder. Guess I’ll have to wander down to the field and see you in action some day.”

“It’s quite a sight,” laughed Harry.

“I suppose so.” Tracey was silent a moment. Then, with a smile, “Funny how my stock’s gone up lately,” he added.

“How do you mean?”

“Why, since the fellows discovered that you were a star football player I am treated with much more respect. You see, I happen to be your roommate. Case of reflected glory.”

“Oh, shut up,” said Harry.

“Fact, though. Wouldn’t be surprised if I went down to posterity as the fellow who roomed with Harry Danforth at prep school! Say, don’t turn me out next year, will you? Think how I’d feel!”

“You make me sick,” grumbled Harry. “You’re twice as popular and――and important as I am.”

“I used to be,” sighed Tracey, “but now I’m just Danforth’s roommate. Still, fame is fame, and――――”

But just there Harry shied a book at him, and in the scuffle that followed fame was forgotten.

In the Carver game Harry had his first try on the School Eleven. Worden put him in at the beginning of the third quarter at left half, displacing Norman. Harry did good work against a team that averaged several pounds lighter and established himself more firmly than ever in the affection and admiration of his fellows. And yet when the fourth period began it was Norman who went in at the left of quarter and Harry retired to a blanket and the bench. Just why this was he couldn’t see, since he was conscious of having played well, better, he honestly believed, than Norman. But facts were facts, and he saw the last ten minutes of a rather listless combat from the substitutes’ bench. Barnstead had no trouble rolling up twenty-seven points and was only scored on when Jones, who took Bob Peel’s place in the last period, fumbled the ball on Barnstead’s thirty yards and a quick-witted and long-legged Carver forward got it and tumbled through a broken field for a touchdown. Poor Jones, whose fortunes were trembling in the balance before, was a sad-faced youth as the players trotted back to the gymnasium after the game, and Harry pitied him. From thence on Jones was frankly a second-string quarter and Bob Peel ruled the roost. Football, like life, is a case of the survival of the fittest, and the boy who makes good in the first more often than not makes good in the latter. And the lessons learned on the gridiron, lessons of obedience to authority, confidence, unselfishness and self-control, are lessons that stand one in good stead in the bigger game to follow. Harry, with some dim notion of this in his mind, mentally compared Jones’ conduct under discipline to Perry Vose’s. Jones probably had a bad hour or two with himself, but the next Monday he turned up smiling and cheerful, and all the rest of the season he worked hard when work was given him, served patiently with the waiters on the bench and never once gave voice to a disgruntled expression. Jones was a good loser, which is scarcer than a good winner. And Harry, looking on, learned a lesson from Jones.

The team had its troubles that week. Plaisted, the best guard the school had, and, with the possible exception of Captain Ted Corson, at fullback, the best player of all, wrenched his knee in practice on Tuesday and went off for what the doctor predicted would be a full week. Parrett, first substitute, took his place at the right of center and filled it fairly satisfactorily, but Plaisted was missed. I think that if ever Worden was tempted to retract his words and offer Perry Vose his old position it was then. But he didn’t. Nor did he show any sign of yielding when, a week later, Plaisted returned to work, hobbled around rather uselessly and was finally retired for good with a bad case of water on the knee. By that time Pleasanton High had come and gone with trailing banners and Barnstead had scored another victory. But the Pleasanton game, although it had been won decisively, 15 to 3, proved to Coach Worden that Parrett was not another Plaisted and that the right of the line was now its weak place. Several experiments were tried during the first of the week, but it was not until Captain Corson was changed from fullback to right guard that the difficulty seemed to be solved. Ted Corson had played guard two years before and so was no novice in the line. To fill Corson’s place, Carstairs, right half, was pulled back to full, and Harry Danforth at last became a member of the School Team. Norman was moved across to the other side and Harry went in at left half. And the school applauded.

III

As the Norwich Academy game drew near the school rose rapidly toward the zenith of football enthusiasm. Studies suffered, as they always do at such times, and the faculty, made wise by experience, was as lenient as possible. It was less the players and substitutes themselves who made sorry showings in the classrooms than the school at large. It was the non-combatants whose minds refused to mix football with study, to the detriment of study. They not only had to watch and speculate upon the local football situation, but must keep close tab on the progress of the college teams as well. Nearly every preparatory schoolboy is for one reason or another an enthusiastic partisan of one or other of the universities. Usually he has selected his college by the end of his first year at school and from then on, or until he changes his inclination, he follows the fortunes of the football heroes representing his future alma mater with breathless interest. So it can readily be seen that the months of October and November constitute a busy season for the schoolboy, with the interest and excitement drawing to a breathless crisis about the middle of November. Barnstead Academy talked football, read football and dreamed football. It had football for breakfast, dinner and supper, and nibbled on it between meals! City newspapers with accounts of the college and big school gridiron doings were at a premium, while illustrated weeklies, picturing and describing recent contests, were passed around from room to room and read and re-read until torn and tattered.

Tracey Colgan, who had heretofore been as little enthusiastic about football as anyone in school, became so deeply interested that he journeyed day after day to the field to watch the play of Harry and, incidentally, the rest of the team. One can’t room with a football player and listen to his talk without eventually becoming at least mildly enthusiastic. Harry was very glad of his chum’s new-found interest, since it gave him someone to talk things over with, someone sympathetic. And Harry was grateful for sympathy just then, for things weren’t going any too well and there were many hours of discouragement. But while sympathetic, Tracey was also sane.

“Look here,” he would say, “what’s the use of getting yourself all stirred up about it? Supposing you don’t keep your place until the St. Matthew’s game. What’s it going to matter a year or two from now? There’s no use getting white hairs and wrinkles over it as far as I can see.”

“That’s because you’ve never played,” replied Harry mournfully. “If you had you’d――you’d understand.”

“I understand that you football chaps are a lot of crazy idiots for two months every year,” answered Tracey. “Great Scott, anyone would think that your blessed lives depended on your making the first team! Suppose you just stop a bit and consider the fact that there are about two hundred fellows here who never looked a football in the lacings!”

“There aren’t; there are only two hundred and forty fellows in school and I guess half of them have played football at some time or other.”

“Well, I was speaking――er――approximately,” replied Tracey, undisturbed. “What I’m trying to make you see is that you and the rest of your tribe are taking the whole thing much too seriously and that the world’s going to keep right on humming around whether you get a black eye in the St. Matthew’s game or look on from the grandstand.”

“That’s all well enough for you,” objected Harry, “but you don’t see it the way we do. If you――――”

“Or _you_ don’t see it the way the rest of us do,” laughed Tracey. “All right. Go ahead and have your conniption fits. But if you keep on worrying the way you’re worrying nowadays you’ll not only lose your place on the team, but you’ll fill an early grave. And flowers are expensive this time of year.”

“I’m not worrying,” replied Harry a trifle resentfully.

“Oh, no, not at all! You’ve been sitting there with that book in front of you for forty-five minutes and you haven’t looked into it once. Bet you don’t even know whether it’s an algebra or a French dictionary!”

“I do, too! It’s”――Harry stole a glance at it――“it’s Cicero.”

“Good stuff! Emulate our old friend then. Bet you Cicero never lost his head over football.”

“He never lost his head over anything,” grumbled Harry, “except his silly old orations.”

“He was a wise old party,” returned Tracey, who had taken a volume of Shakespeare’s Works and was hunting through the pages. “And I wouldn’t be surprised if he knew something about football, either. Here it is. Listen to this. Mr. Cicero is speaking to Casca. ‘Indeed, it is a strange-disposed time; but men may construe things after their fashion, clean from the purpose of the things themselves.’ Yes, sir, I guess they played football where Cicero went to school!”

“That’s nonsense. Besides, Cicero didn’t say that; Shakespeare said it.”

“Makes it more probable, then, that the remark refers to football,” replied Tracey untroubledly. “For, if I remember right, they played football in William’s time.”

“You ought to join the Debating Society,” grunted Harry. “Shut up now, will you, and let me study.”

Harry’s uneasiness was due to the fact that a youth named Dyker, familiarly known as Dutch, was pressing him closely for the position of left halfback. Dyker had played two years on the second and had won promotion that Fall to the first team as substitute. Just at present Harry and Dyker were alternating in the coveted position and Harry’s heart was filled with fear. Dyker had the advantage of years, being seventeen, and, besides, was a rather clever punter, something which Harry made no claim to be. Harry used to dream about this time that he had sprained an ankle or broken an arm and that Dyker had ousted him for the rest of the season, and groan so loudly in his sleep that Tracey would shy a pillow across at him and beg him to turn over.

For my part I think that many of Harry’s fears were groundless and that in pitting the two boys against each other Worden was only trying to develop each to the utmost. Harry’s dashing brilliancy in a broken field kept him head and shoulders above his rival, who, even if he could punt well and might be needed in the big game for that accomplishment, was only a fair ground-gainer after all. But Harry didn’t realize that and there were moments, when, as it seemed to him, Dyker was pressing him closely for his place, that Harry could almost find it in his heart to wish that Dutch would bust something and retire from the struggle.

Work grew very strenuous that last fortnight. The dummy was resurrected and hung again on his twenty-foot railway, and for three days the first team fellows went back to first principles, throwing themselves upon the stuffed and headless figure at the end of the chain, falling on wabbling, elusive balls and chasing them across the turf to catch them on their erratic bounds. And with this primary instruction went final polishing in signal work and the development of the attack. And almost before anyone realized it, it was Saturday and the day of the Norwich contest, beyond which lay but four days of practice before the final struggle of the football season.

Barnstead turned out to a boy that afternoon, in spite of a drizzling rain, and practiced the songs that were to be sung at the St. Matthew’s game and cheered on the slightest provocation at the behest of eight tireless, merciless cheer leaders who, armed with brown megaphones, waved their arms and shook their fists and demanded “A regular cheer, fellows, and make it good!” on the slightest provocation. Norwich sent over a small but determinedly noisy group of youths, who answered every vocal challenge from across the wet field.

Harry started the game at left half, and provided the first sensation when, two minutes after the kick-off, he stole a forward pass and dodged and squirmed his way through the ruck of players and sped across seven white lines for the first score of the game. When, having placed the pigskin squarely back of the posts with practically no opposition, he scrambled to his feet, eight discarded brown megaphones were tumbling about the turf in front of the stand and eight red-faced cheer leaders were leaping and gesticulating, while from some two hundred eager throats a vast and deafening roar of sound was sweeping across the field.

Later, in the second twelve-minute period, Harry again brought the stand to its feet when, from a double pass behind the line, he got safely away around his own right end and reeled off almost thirty yards before he was pulled down into a puddle. But the most encouraging feature of that game was the work of Captain Corson at right guard and of Carstairs at fullback. Corson was as steady as a wall against the strong attack of Norwich, while Carstairs, in a position he had played but a few days, shone brilliantly. The first half ended with the score 7 to 6, Norwich having failed to kick goal after her touchdown in the second period.

Worden made several changes in the line-up when the second half began. A new left tackle went in, a substitute center was tried, Jones took Peel’s place at quarter and both halfbacks were fresh men. Harry viewed Dyker’s substitution with misgiving as he drew a blanket about him and settled down to watch the contest from the bench. He was a little bit angry with the coach and looked so glum that Bob Peel, squeezing himself into a seat between Harry and a substitute end, ventured consolation.

“Cheer up, Danforth,” said the quarter, kicking him good-naturedly on the ankle. “You don’t know when you’re well off. All we have to do is sit here and see those poor chaps work. It’s fine!”

Harry smiled faintly. “That’s all right for you, Peel. You’re sure of your place. I’m not. Just when I get going fairly well Worden yanks me out and puts in Dyker.”

“Oh, I guess he wants Dyker to help with the punting. It’s up to Carstairs, and it won’t do to work him too hard to-day. As for being sure of your place”――Peel shrugged his shoulders――“there’s no such thing, Danforth. Any of us may wrench a knee or an ankle or something, and then where are we? Why, it’s the uncertainty that makes half the fun!”

“Is it?” muttered Harry without enthusiasm.

“Sure. What the dickens is Carstairs doing off there? He’s way out of position if that’s a delayed pass. Thought so! Lost a yard! I suppose I ought to be sort of pleased when Jones slips up like that, but I’m not. He’s a good old sort, Jones. That’s better! Right through left guard for three! If Dyker would put his head down and forget to slow up every time he strikes the line he’d do a heap better. Let’s see how he boots this. Not bad. Nearly forty yards, I guess. Seems to me if Worden took him in hand he could make a real punter out of Dutch. He’s got another year, hasn’t he?”

“I think so,” answered Harry. “He does punt well, doesn’t he? Gets them off quickly, too.”

“Yes, if he could plunge as well as he can kick he’d get a place. As it is I guess you’re pretty certain to start the game next week. Here comes that delayed pass again. That’s a lot better. We ought to have a score coming to us pretty soon.”

Barnstead was down on Norwich’s thirty-three yards, and it was first down again. Carstairs swept around the left of the Norwich line for six yards or so, made two through center and then fell back as though to try a drop-kick. But the ball went to Simmons, who was playing right half, and Simmons wormed past left tackle for the necessary gain. From the twenty-two-yard line the home team carried the pigskin to the threshold of a score, only to lose it a yard from the last line. Norwich held beautifully. After kicking from behind its goal line the visiting eleven got the ball on a fumble near mid-field and started toward Barnstead’s goal. The Brown’s defense was pretty thoroughly tested during the ensuing five or six minutes and Norwich made the thirty yards without losing possession of the pigskin once. There, however, the Brown stiffened and, after two tries that netted but five yards, Norwich made a forward pass that worked finely and took the ball half the distance to the goal. But the Brown line was pretty tight now, and after being thrice repulsed Norwich tried a desperate place kick from a difficult angle and missed. With the ball back in mid-field the quarter ended.

“I wonder,” mused Bob Peel, “if Worden’s going to be satisfied with what we’ve got. It’s taking chances, I say.”

Apparently the coach had determined to play on the defensive for the remainder of the game and made no change in the line-up. Harry, who had hoped to get in again, scowled at Coach Worden’s back as the latter strolled past the bench. Peel, seeing, laughed.

“Isn’t he the mean old thing, Danforth?” he asked. “Good thing, though, he didn’t turn around just then and see your expression. He might have sacked you for calling him names!”

“I wasn’t,” answered Harry, grinning in spite of himself.

“Thinking names, then. It’s the same thing.”

“Well, I do think he might let me play,” said the other. “You, too.”

“Me? Oh, I don’t mind. You see, Danforth, he’s keeping us out of it because we’re too precious to take chances with. Looking at it in that way, you see, it’s a fine old compliment to our worth and abilities.”

“I don’t look at it that way,” murmured Harry.

“Might as well. Hello! Look at that!”

A Norwich back, the ball tucked into the corner of his left arm, was streaking down the field, evading player after player of the opposing team and crossing one white line after another, while the stands broke into wild, unintelligible tumult! Only Jones, playing well back, stood between the Norwich runner and the goal, and hundreds of voices died into silence as the two forms, one speeding desperately and one advancing alertly and cautiously, drew near. Then a great shout of triumph and relief from the supporters of the home team broke forth, and Peel murmured: “Good old Jonesy! Tackled like a man!”

For Jones had brought down the runner on the twenty-four-yard line with as pretty a tackle as had been seen all season, and Norwich’s hope of winning the game died a sudden death. Coach Worden hurried a new end into the field in place of Shallcross, and the teams lined up on the twenty-four yards. But Norwich’s bolt had been sped. Three attempts at the tackles gained but six yards, and when the left half fell back to kicking position and held his hands for the ball nearly half the Barnstead forwards came rushing through upon him and the ball, striking a leaping figure, went bounding back up the field. The substitute end fell on it near the forty yards, and Dyker punted down the field and out of bounds at Norwich’s thirty-yard line. Three minutes later the game was over, and Barnstead had won by the narrow margin of one point. Harry, trotting back to the gymnasium in the wake of the players, forgot his enmity against the coach in the satisfaction of victory.

IV