Part 5

Past the center of the field Barnstead worked her way, Carstairs, Norman and Harry hitting the line or slanting off the tackles for short and certain gains, and Jones twice making his way on wide end runs. It seemed that St. Matthew’s was always on the point of going to pieces, and yet time and again she responded to the hoarse commands and implorations of her quarter or captain and held her adversary to short gains. But that march down the field took time. St. Matthew’s used up the moments as best she could with injuries and substitutions. She had almost a new team in the field when the last period was half gone, but the new men, if fresher, were less skillful.

On the forty yards Norman fumbled on the third down and Carstairs was forced to punt. St. Matthew’s made a fair catch, taking no risks now, tried an end run and failed, gained a few yards on a forward pass and then kicked to the middle of the field. There Harry, playing back, caught the punt and wormed his way along past three white marks before he was thrown. Then the advance began again. Only seven minutes remained now and the ball was a long ways from the Blue’s goal. On the forty yards an off-side penalty set Barnstead back again, and a groan went up from the stand. Then a wide end run from a fake forward pass regained the penalty distance and four yards besides. Norman was hurt and went off, and Belding took his place. A new center went in at the same time, Surber, who had played a wonderful game, being relieved by White.

Belding’s first try at the line resulted in a fumble, and although Jones fell on the ball Barnstead had lost seven yards. Carstairs, who was weakening noticeably now, failed at a skin-tackle play, and it was fourth down with six to go. Corson looked discouraged, and went back to confer with Jones, while the panting St. Matthew’s players gibed. Whatever it was that Corson suggested Jones shook his head at. It was the quarter himself who made the required distance, running twenty yards across the field to do it and only finding his opening at the last moment, when Harry, forming his interference, bowled over an opposing end.

Then the line-smashing began again. Past the thirty yards went the Brown, past the twenty-five, past the twenty. There were three minutes left. Corson wanted to try a field goal, but Jones again resisted. Harry got through between left guard and tackle and made three yards before he was smothered. Belding redeemed himself by making four outside of right tackle. Carstairs gained a scant yard at center. With two to go on the fourth down, the ball close to the ten-yard line, Jones himself cut through for the distance. They had to use the tape again, but the verdict went to the Brown. Two minutes, said the timekeeper. St. Matthew’s called for time. A guard had his hand rebandaged and a new fullback, primed with advice from the St. Matthew’s coach, loped on. Then the teams lined up again for the final effort.

Carstairs was called on to get past left tackle, but he was caught back of the line for a yard’s loss. Then Jones noticed something. With the advent of the new fullback the Blue was drawing her line closer and the fullback and the two halves were playing up behind it. Jones did some quick thinking then. The ball was almost on the ten-yard line, it was second down and there was eleven to gain. And less than a minute and a half of playing time remained. He might hammer his way through as before for a touchdown, he might try a field goal, he might attempt a forward pass. Any of these would be looked for by the enemy. Of the three the forward pass promised to succeed best since the Blue was playing her backfield up close to the line. But there was one play that had not been used during the game. It had been devised for use around the middle of the field, but Jones, scanning its possibilities, couldn’t see why it should not do as well here under the shadow of the goal. At least it had the merit of unexpectedness, and the enemy’s present formation on defense promised success. At all events, he decided, he would try the line once more. So, calling for Third Formation, which put both tackles at the left of the line and placed the left halfback at the end of the rush line on the right, the end falling in and back, he sent Carstairs plunging at right tackle. The play netted three yards. The timekeeper was slowly walking nearer, watch in hand and eyes on the dial. Then:

“Same formation!” called Jones. “37――39――164――28!” A puzzled glance from Captain Corson rewarded him, and Belding cried “Signals!” in a panicky voice. Jones whispered to him, shot a reassuring look at Corson and repeated:

“37――39――164――28! 37――39――164――――”

Carstairs dropped back a good twelve yards behind center, Jones stepped back mid-way between him and the line and the ball shot to Carstairs. As it settled into his hands he poised it as though to throw it forward and to the left. The St. Matthew’s line had concentrated on its right, and now it struggled to break through, while the backfield started around to intercept the pass. The Blue’s left end plunged straight across, dodging the opposing end, and made for the fullback. Just as he leaped forward, however, Carstairs sidestepped, passed the ball at a quick toss to Jones, who had run back to take it, and threw himself in front of the Blue’s end. They went down together. Jones, the ball tucked under his arm, wheeled across the field for a dozen yards, and then, pausing suddenly, raised the ball and sent it hurtling further out to where, some fifteen feet from the side line, Harry awaited it. Too late the St. Matthew’s players saw the trick. Yards separated their nearest player from Harry as the latter, catching the well-aimed pass coolly, romped unmolested over the line in three strides and, dodging a blue-legged enemy, placed it fairly between the posts!

Two minutes later, after Corson had attempted the goal and failed and after the scoreboard had changed its figures to 15 to 10, and after the final whistle had shrilled, a delirious mob took possession of Barnstead Field. Brown flags snapped and waved, caps flew into air and rained earthward and hundreds of hoarse throats cheered and shouted. And Harry, swaying rather dizzily about on the shoulders of two enthusiastic admirers, following the confused line that wound its way around the gridiron, caught sight of a grinning face in the throng beside him and waved a hand.

Perry Vose’s grin broadened.

“Who gave you the black eye, kid?” he called.

“Oh, a friend of mine,” laughed Harry. “Who spoiled your nose for you?”

“A friend of mine!” chuckled Perry. Then, thrusting his way forward, “Here,” he said to one of Harry’s bearers, “let me get there. You’re too small for this job. Why, you’ve got the biggest fellow in school there! Didn’t you know that? Vamoose, I tell you!”

And the youth, looking doubtfully into Perry’s grinning countenance, with its battered nose and swollen lip, finally yielded his place. It didn’t do to make Perry Vose angry!

“BLACK-ON-BLUE”

I

“Willard!”

Mrs. Morris’s rebuke sounded only half-hearted, and she shot an apologetic glance at Willard’s father. But for once Mr. Morris, the sternest of disciplinarians, chose to be deaf. After all, the boy’s disappointment was keen, and so his criticism of Grandma Pierson elicited only the perfunctory warning from his mother. The boy’s disappointment was shared to a scarcely lesser extent by his parents, but they had learned to bear disappointment in silence. Willard, waiting for his father’s reprimand, sat with downcast eyes fixed on his untasted breakfast. Finally, however, as the storm did not break, Willard took courage and went on, but with more caution.

“Well, I can’t help it,” he insisted, with a gulp. “She’d ought never to have promised if she didn’t mean to keep it!”

“I’m certain, Will,” responded Mrs. Morris soothingly, “that your Grandma Pierson fully meant to keep it. Mother was never the sort to say a thing and not mean it.”

“If she hadn’t died, she’d have done just as she said she’d do,” said Mr. Morris. “I guess she expected to live a good many years yet. Eighty-one isn’t very old; leastways, it wasn’t for her; she was such an active old lady. When were we out there before this time, mother?”

“Three years ago Christmas. That was when she made the promise. I sort of wish she hadn’t, seeing it’s turned out as it has.”

“She might have known she’d have to die sometime,” said Willard rebelliously. “Seems as though she might have made a new will after she promised what she did.”

“Maybe she put it off, thinking there’d be more money later,” replied Mr. Morris. “Cousin Joe writes that the whole estate won’t amount to much more than five thousand dollars; and some of that’s in a mortgage that’ll take a lot of handling to realize on. Fact is, mother, I don’t just see where she expected to get the money for Will, anyway, do you?”

Mrs. Morris shook her head thoughtfully. “Perhaps she thought that by the time Will was ready for college she’d have the money. She certainly meant to do something for him, George. She’d always been especially fond of Will.”

“Oh, she meant it, I’m sure. She asked me how much it would take to see him through college, and I told her two thousand. It was her own idea. There wasn’t anything actually said to that effect, mother, but I think it was sort of understood that Will was to have that money and that we weren’t to expect anything more. And there wasn’t any reason why we should. She’d have done quite enough for us if――if she’d done that. As it is, Clara and Alice get it all.”

“I suppose that’s my fault, George. You see, I always wanted her to think we had――had plenty. Mother was always pretty hard on folks that couldn’t get along. And then Clara and Alice both marrying men that couldn’t support them――――”

“I know. I’m glad you did. And I’m not begrudging the money to your sisters. They need it more’n we do, even if―――― Anyway, we’ve always managed to get along pretty fair so far, haven’t we? Maybe we haven’t had many luxuries, Jenny, but we’ve managed, eh?”

“Of course we have. You and I don’t need luxuries. I’ve always had everything I really wanted, George. I’d have liked Will to go to college, seeing he’s set his heart on it, but maybe this is for the best, too. Maybe he will be more help to you in the shop.”

Willard, staring distastefully at his plate, frowned impatiently. “That’s fine, isn’t it?” he demanded. “Here I’ve been telling all the fellows that I was going to college in the fall; and I’ve gone and taken the college course, too; and Mr. Chase has been helping me with my Greek! And now――now I can’t go after all! I think it’s”――he gulped――“too bad!”

“Maybe you’ll get there, son, although I don’t see much chance of it next fall. Maybe, though, if business picks up――――”

He stopped with a hopeless shake of his head. Willard scowled.

“I’ve heard that before,” he muttered, “about business picking up. It never has, and I guess it never will.”

“Son, you’ve said about enough,” replied his father sternly. “If I can find the money to send you to college, you’ll go. If I can’t, you’ll have to buckle down at the shop. There’s plenty of men doing well who never went to college. I wanted you should go, but maybe it wasn’t intended so.”

“Well, I’m going, sir! When I get through high school next Spring I’m going to find some work and make enough money to start, anyway! If I can make good on the football team this year maybe I’ll get an offer and college won’t cost me anything.”

“You let me hear of you doing anything like that,” said Mr. Morris grimly, “and I’ll take you out in the shed as I used to and just about take the hide off you. You ain’t too big yet, my boy!”

“He wouldn’t do a thing like that, father. He was just fooling, weren’t you, Will?”

“Lots of fellows do it,” muttered Willard.

“But you’re not to be one of them,” returned his father decisively. “Here, let me see those envelopes.”

Willard passed the packet across to him and watched glumly while his father slid off the faded blue ribbon that held the envelopes together. One by one Mr. Morris held them up and peered into them for the third or fourth time.

“Unless she meant to put some money or a check in one of these,” he murmured, “I can’t understand it.” He laid the six envelopes in a row on the cloth and shook his head over them. Then he took up the papers which, with the strange and disappointing legacy, had arrived from the West by the morning’s mail, but they told him nothing new. Grandmother Pierson’s will, a copy of which Cousin Joe had sent, was short and definite. There was a legacy of some personal trinkets and a small sum of money to an old family servant, and “To my grandson, Willard Morris, the contents of the packet inscribed with his name, which will be found in the mahogany workbox on the table in my bedchamber.” The rest of the estate, real and personal, was bequeathed in equal shares to Mrs. Morris’s two sisters. Cousin Joe’s letter was brief. In pursuance of his duties as executor of the estate, he was forwarding the legacy mentioned in the will; also a copy of the instrument in case they had forgotten its provisions. Willard was to sign the accompanying receipt; and Cousin Joe hoped they were all well.

The package had been done up in a piece of brown paper and tied with a white string――what Grandma Pierson would have called “tie yarn.” On the outside, in the old lady’s shaky writing, was the legend, “For my Grandson, Willard Morris.” Inside they had found six envelopes which, once white, had yellowed with age. The inscription on each was the same: “Miss Ellen Hilliard, Fayle’s Court House, Virginia,” and the postmarks showed various dates in the years 1850 and 1851. In the upper right-hand corner of each envelope was a stamp quite unlike any Mr. Morris had ever seen. Five were buff and one was blue. Each was round and about the size of a silver half dollar. They were printed in faded black. A circlet of stars ran around the outer edge and inside was the inscription, “Postoffice, Alexandria.” In the center was the word “Paid,” and under it a figure “5.”

“You say these were your father’s love letters, Jenny?” asked Mr. Morris.

“Yes. I have seen them many times. Mother read me parts of them, too, sometimes. He wrote beautifully, father did. Mother always kept those letters in that old workbox with the green velvet lining; the one the will speaks about. It was her treasure box, and it was always kept locked. I remember there were three or four daguerreotypes there, and some clippings from newspapers and such things.”

“She was careful to take the letters out,” mused Mr. Morris.

“Maybe she had a feeling that she wouldn’t get well. I suppose she destroyed the letters. She wouldn’t want anyone reading them afterward, you see, mother wouldn’t. Of course, it might be that her mind wandered a little toward the end and she thought she was really doing something for Will when she put his name on the package.”

“But Cousin Joe says the will was made almost a year before she died,” objected Mr. Morris. “I guess her mind was all right then. Well, it’s plumb funny.” He arose from the table with a sigh. “That’s what it is, plumb funny.” He pulled out a big silver watch and looked at it. “Son, I guess it’s time we were hiking along.”

Willard pushed his chair back disconsolately and arose. He was seventeen, rather tall for his age, and had strong, broad shoulders like his father’s, or as his father’s had been before constant bending over desk and bench had stooped them. The boy had a good-looking, frank face and nice eyes, but just at present the brown eyes were gloomy and the face expressed discontent.

“Better take those envelopes before they get lost, Will,” counseled his mother. He regarded them with a scowl of contempt.

“I don’t want the old things,” he muttered as he left the room. Mr. Morris, looking after him, frowned and then sighed. Mrs. Morris echoed the sigh.

“I guess this settles it, Jenny,” said Mr. Morris, tucking the Audelsville _Morning Times_ in his pocket. “If I could get hold of the money any way, he should have it, but I don’t know where to turn for it, and that’s a fact.”

“Never mind, dear,” said Mrs. Morris as her husband stooped over her chair to kiss her. “There’s almost a year yet and something may turn up. You never can tell.”

“Well, might as well look on the bright side, I suppose,” returned Mr. Morris, “although things haven’t been turning up my way much of late, Jenny.”

His gaze encountered the envelopes again, and he stared at them a moment. Then, with a puzzled shake of his head, he passed out.

II

It was a fortnight later that Willard, returning from practice with the high school football team, and passing in front of Mrs. Parson’s boarding-house, heard his name called and looked up to see Mr. Chase at the open window of his room.

“Come up and pay me a visit, Will,” said the Assistant Principal.

Willard hesitated a moment. He had been rather avoiding Mr. Chase for the last two weeks. Now, however, he waved his hand and, turning in at the gate, entered the house and climbed the stairs to the teacher’s room. Mr. Chase was seated at a small table by the window.

“Pardon me if I don’t get up, Will,” he said. “I’ve only got two more of these things to paste, and I want to get them in before the light goes. Well, how are you getting on at football?”

“Pretty fair, sir.”

“Find it more interesting than our old friend Homer, eh? You know we haven’t had a Greek lesson for a long time, Will.”

“No, sir, and I――I guess there isn’t any use having any more.”

“Why, how’s that? Think you know enough to get by those exams, do you?”

“I’m not going to take them, sir. I――I’m not going to college, after all.”

Mr. Chase looked up in surprise. “Not going!” he exclaimed. “Why, Will, I thought that was all settled. What’s changed your mind?”

Willard very nearly replied that Grandma Pierson had changed his mind, but he didn’t. Instead, “Father can’t afford it, sir,” he answered.

“Dear, dear, I’m sorry! Is it――quite settled? Isn’t there any hope, Will?”

“No, sir, I don’t think so. Not unless I earn the money somehow, and I guess I couldn’t do that!”

“It would take some time,” Mr. Chase agreed dubiously. “You’d need pretty nearly three hundred a year, Will, although you might scale that down a little. I’m sorry, awfully sorry.”

“Yes, sir, so’m I.”

There was silence for a moment. Then Mr. Chase asked: “And you don’t think you want to go on with the Greek, eh? Suppose you found next Fall that you could go after all, my boy. You’d have hard work passing, I’m afraid.”

“I don’t believe there’s any hope of it, sir.”

“Still, the unexpected sometimes happens, doesn’t it? You wouldn’t want to lose your chance for the want of a little Greek, now, would you?”

“No, sir, but――――”

“Then don’t you think we’d better go on with our Friday evenings, Will? I do. Even if you shouldn’t get to college, my boy, a working knowledge of Greek isn’t going to be a bad thing to have. Now suppose you drop in on Friday after supper?”

“Very well, sir, I guess I might as well. I――I haven’t studied much lately, though.”

“Better look it over a bit before Friday then. There, that’s done! Now we’ll light up and have a chat.”

“I didn’t know you collected stamps, Mr. Chase,” said Willard as the teacher closed the window and lighted the study lamp on the big table.

“Haven’t I ever shown you my books?” asked Mr. Chase. “Yes, I’m a ‘stamp fiend,’ Will. It’s not a bad hobby. Expensive, though. I couldn’t afford it if I was married. I suppose,” he added ruefully, “I oughtn’t to afford it now.”

“I started to collect stamps when I was a little kid,” confided Willard as he took the chair Mr. Chase pushed forward, “but I didn’t get very far. I don’t know what ever became of my stamps. I guess they’re in the attic, though.”

“Yes? Did you have many?” asked Mr. Chase as he washed the mucilage from his fingers at the stand.

“Only about a hundred, I guess. I had a Cape of Good Hope, though.”

“Did you?” Mr. Chase inquired. “Which one was it?”

“I don’t remember. Is there more than one!”

“Quite a few,” Mr. Chase laughed. “And they differ considerably in value. You must show me your collection sometime.”

“I guess it isn’t worth showing,” murmured Willard. “I guess all my stamps are just common ones. There was one, though, I paid a dollar for. I forget what it was. I suppose you have an awful lot?”

“About twelve hundred only, I believe, but some of them are rather good. When I stop to consider what those stamps have cost me, though, I have to shudder. Still, stamps――rare ones, I mean, aren’t a bad investment. You know the good ones increase in value right along.”

“Twelve hundred!” exclaimed Willard. “Why, I didn’t know there were so many stamps in the world!”

“There are a good many more than twelve hundred,” replied the teacher with a smile. “And I don’t go in for ‘freaks’ much, either; nor revenues. Revenues in themselves would keep a man busy.”

“What do you mean by freaks?” asked Willard.

“Oh, ‘splits’ and ‘blanks’ and surcharges and such. Of course, though, I have a few surcharges.”

“And what is a split, Mr. Chase?”

“A split is a stamp of, say, two-cent denomination cut diagonally across. Each half equals in value a one-cent stamp. Some time ago when an office ran out of one-cent stamps it would cut up a lot of twos. Sometimes a ten-cent stamp was split to make two fives, and in one case three-cent stamps were cut in such a way that two-thirds of them did duty for a two-cent stamp. Later, when the government ran out of a certain issue they merely took a stamp of a lower denomination and surcharged it, that is, printed over it the larger denomination. I have a friend who makes a specialty of provisional stamps, such as ‘splits’ and ‘postmasters.’ He pays no attention to anything else, and has two full books already, I believe.”

“Some stamps cost a lot, don’t they?” Willard asked.

“Unfortunately, a good many of them do,” Mr. Chase chuckled. “There’s a rumor that someone paid seventeen thousand dollars not so long ago for a pair of Mauritius postoffice stamps, one-penny and two-penny. Those are mighty rare and I’ve never seen them. Then there’s the British Guiana one-cent and the Niger Coast Protectorate; one of the latter――I forget its list number――is perhaps the rarest stamp in the world, since only one of its kind was ever printed.”

“My!” said Willard. “That must be worth a lot!”

“So much that it’s never had a price put on it, I guess. Some of our own stamps are worth quite a lot, too. Take some of the Postmasters’ Provisionals, for instance. Only one copy is known of an issue from Boscawen, New Hampshire, and whoever has that surely has a prize.”

“What is a Postmasters’ Pro――what you said?”

“Provisional?” laughed Mr. Chase. “I’ll show you.” He reached under the table and pulled out a big square album, and Willard moved his chair nearer. “Provisional stamps were made and issued by postmasters in the days before we had a national postage stamp system. Here’s one issued in Trenton, New Jersey, and here’s one from Portland, Maine. See? Some of them are pretty simple; just the name of the office and the words ‘Paid――5.’ They’re interesting, though, and, as I say, some of them bring a lot of money.”

“How――how much did those cost?” asked Willard eagerly.

“These? Oh, not much. This one was twelve and――let me see――that was eight, I think, and――――”

“Eight cents!”

“Hardly! Eight dollars, my boy.”

“Well――well, if they came from some other place would they be worth that much?” stammered Willard.

“Depends on how many there are; how rare they happen to be. It’s scarcity that fixes the prices on stamps――and most other things.”