CHAPTER XXIII

WHAT HAPPENED “BLUE MONDAY”

“What we need,” said Payson, “is a forward pass that will work.”

It was shortly after eight o’clock and the scene was the coach’s sitting-room in the village. About the room were seated Colton, Loring, Capes, Dickenson, Hill and Dan of the First Team and Ridge of the Second. The Nordham game was three hours old, but Loring still looked as though he expected someone to play a trick on him any moment.

“The trouble with the passes we have,” said Colton, “is that, once started, they’re too evident, don’t you think so, sir?”

“Yes, I do. Or, anyhow, that’s so of the ‘one man’ pass. By the time left half has made his fake to the right and then turned back to the left again the other team is dead on to what’s up and, if they’re any good, can spoil it. Nordham proved that to-day.”

“From what I can make out, though,” said Loring, “Broadwood hasn’t nearly as brainy a team as Nordham, nor anywhere near as quick.”

“Probably not,” answered Payson, “but we can’t trust to her mistakes to win next Saturday. What I’d like to do is to get hold of a variation of the forward pass that could be counted on to fool the opponent and occasionally make good. I wish the fool play had never been invented, but it’s here and we’ve got to make the best of it. Now let’s talk the thing over. Wait a minute.”

He went to his board and laid out the blue and green disks.

“There now, there’s our regular kick formation. What do you fellows know about a forward pass that won’t advertise itself from the first?”

The others gathered around the board. There was silence for a moment. Then suggestions came from one and another and Payson, with chalk, in hand, drew lines on the blackboard and moved the blue disks about. But no suggestion seemed practicable when worked out. At the end of half an hour Payson leaned back and frowned.

“That idea of Hill’s is the best I’ve heard,” he said, “but it isn’t safe, do you think so?”

“I don’t believe it is myself, sir,” said Hill ruefully.

“No. I was monkeying with an idea the other night,” said Payson. “Let me see; how did that go?” He went to work with his chalk. “There, that was it, but you can see that it won’t really do. It’s a sort of delayed forward pass. There is the usual fake to the right as for a ‘bunch’ pass. The ball goes to left half, who starts to run to the right, too, but doesn’t turn in. As the ball leaves center, left end leaves his place and runs back as though to get into the ‘bunch.’ Instead of that, though, he gets a position farther out and receives the pass from left half after the ‘bunch’ is formed. It might work, but it probably wouldn’t.” He looked up and his eyes met Dan’s. “Here, Vinton, what do you think? You’ve got a head for strategy.”

“It would be mighty risky, sir, I should think. You’d fool some of the other chaps all right, but by the time left end was in place to get the pass the other fellows might see their mistake. And wouldn’t it be better to let left end take the ball on a short pass as he goes by, sir? Then, even if he didn’t make any gain, you’d be sure of keeping the ball?”

Payson studied a moment.

“Yes, I guess that’s so,” he said finally. “Well, that disposes of that as a forward pass. And giving the ball to left end wouldn’t help any, for left half would do better to keep on himself and make the run. It might be worked out in that way, though, a sort of ‘fake forward pass.’ But we haven’t time to learn many new tricks and what we do learn must be worth while. Can’t you think of anything, Vinton?”

Dan was studying the board intently and for a moment he made no reply. Then his hand sought Payson’s and found the chalk and he leaned past him and began to make lines. The others watched with interest. When he finished there were murmurs of approval. “Double passes are risky, though,” muttered Colton.

“So are plain, everyday forward passes,” answered Dan as he straightened up. “I don’t know how this would pan out in play, but it looks all right here, doesn’t it?”

“How do you work it?” asked Payson.

“Well, I’ve drawn it for a pass to the left, but of course it could be the other side just as well. On regular kick formation the ball goes to full-back, who runs to the right as though to throw to the ‘bunch.’ Quarter, right half, end and tackle go down as though to receive it, one of them holding up his hand to signal for the ball. Left half keeps his place for a moment and then runs sharply to the left for about five yards. Left end keeps his man from coming through and then goes around him to the left and takes position, say, ten yards beyond the line. Full-back covers about ten yards to the right and then, instead of throwing toward the bunch, turns and passes across the field to left half and left half passes to left end. Full-back has got to watch the opposing left end and make the throw before he reaches him.”

“I see,” said Payson thoughtfully. “Now let us see what the enemy would do. First of all, expecting a kick or a forward pass, they’d hold our line at first instead of breaking through. Then they’d see the backfield start to the right and they’d move that way, trying to get through to upset the play. Their backs would probably start that way, too, to break up the ‘bunch.’ Now how about the right side of the opponent’s line? We’d have to hold them pretty steady or they’d break through and spoil left half’s catch.”

“They’d be off to the right--their left--as soon as our full-back started that way,” said Colton.

“That’s right,” said Dickenson and Ridge in chorus.

“It looks good to me,” said Loring emphatically. “I wish we’d had it this afternoon to spring on those smart-alecks!”

“Yes, I think we can make that go, Vinton,” said Payson. “Anyhow we’ll try it against the Second on Monday.”

“Ridge will know the play, though,” Loring objected.

“We’ll give him that advantage,” answered Payson cheerfully with a smile at the Second Team’s captain. “Then if we fool him we’ll be pretty sure we’ve got something good.”

“That ought to make a good play near the goal,” said Colton. “Here’s one thing, though, that we’ve forgotten. Broadwood plays her ends ten yards back on everything except close-formations. That’ll put her right end just about where our left end makes his catch.”

He altered the position of the two green checkers marked “L.E.” and “R.E.”

“I guess that queers it,” sighed Hill regretfully.

“Hold on,” said Payson. “Left tackle can look after that end and keep him out of the way. By that time it won’t matter if his man gets through, although it’s likely that his man will be going around back by that time. We’ll give it a good fair trial, anyhow. I think it will work. If we try a bunch pass first and then this, it’ll fool them.”

He took up his memorandum book and diagramed the play in it, numbering it 17 and 18, seventeen indicating that the play was to be made to the left and eighteen that it was to go to the right. After that, other matters and plays were discussed and it was well along toward ten o’clock when the meeting broke up. When Dan reached his room, after bidding good-night to the others, he found Tubby and Jake Hiltz in possession. Tubby, for once, was in a pleasant humor, and Dan wondered what happened to work such a marvel. Jake took his departure at ten and Dan and Tubby went to bed, the former to dream of a wonderful forward pass in which Alf Loring was the ball and was hurled about by Payson and dexterously caught by Dan for long gains netting numerous touchdowns.

The next day, Sunday, Dan went to Sound View, according to promise, at half-past three to take dinner and spend the evening. He had secured permission very easily, for since he had announced to Mr. Collins that Gerald was to come to Yardley and that their conspiracy had succeeded, Mr. Collins was so pleased that Dan had only to ask to get anything in reason that he wanted. He spent a pleasant afternoon and evening at Sound View and got back just before ten. Tubby was not in, but appeared a few minutes later, informing Dan that he had been spending the evening with Hiltz. As Dan had shown no curiosity, nor felt any, this information was quite gratuitous and Dan speculated about it idly for a minute. But there were more interesting things than Tubby’s vagaries to think about and it soon passed out of his mind.

The next day was Monday, the Eighteenth of November. I mention the fact because it was known for many months afterwards as “Blue Monday,” and appears in a great many diaries as such. A good deal happened on “Blue Monday,” enough to set the school in a ferment of excitement that lasted for several days; and for a proper understanding of it let us begin at the beginning and follow events as they transpired.

The beginning was at about half-past six in the morning. At that hour Professor Angus McIntyre might have been seen coming out of the second entrance of Dudley Hall wrapped in his queer old plaid ulster. He wasn’t seen, as far as I know, for as a general thing at that hour of the morning Kilts and “Mr. McCarthy,” the janitor, whose name, by the way, isn’t McCarthy at all, at all, but just plain Owens, have the place to themselves. The janitor was busy with his assistants in Oxford Hall, and so, as far as I know, Professor McIntyre’s appearance was witnessed only by a flock of noisy sparrows who were indulging in a post-prandial quarrel around the sun-dial. It was the professor’s daily habit to take a walk before Chapel. This morning, since in spite of the early sunlight, the air was sharp and eager, he paused on the bottom of the three stone steps and fastened the topmost button of his ulster. He wore on his head a round, gray cloth hat and held under his arm a thick walking-stick of Scotch oak. It was said that ulster, cap and cane had each been in use by the professor when he first came to Yardley, some twelve years before.

As he paused on the last step his gaze traveled appreciatively over the Quadrangle. (This was the professor’s name for it, but to everyone else it was just the Yard.) The pale sunlight threw long shadows across the grass and the red brick walks, moist with dew, made lines of warm color. Then he stepped onto the pavement and turned to the left, and as he did so his gaze wandered to the building beside him and he stopped short and stared at what he saw. There along the front of the building, between the first and second entrances and beneath the sills of the first-floor windows, were huge daubs of blue paint. The Professor rubbed his eyes and looked again. Then he backed off onto the wet grass and viewed the vandalism in its entirety. The daubs were letters nearly two feet high and here is what they spelled:

NOW FOR BROADWOOD!!

The Professor read and shook his head. Then he turned and viewed the windows of the neighboring buildings. No sign of life met his anxious gaze. Then he disappeared into the second entrance of Dudley.

When he returned a couple of minutes later he had abandoned ulster and cane. In place of the latter he bore a bucket of steaming water, a cake of soap and a scrubbing-brush. Then he got to work. He began with the “N.” The paint where it had been put on thinly was dry but still fresh. Soap, water and brush had their effect, but it was slow work, and by the time the “N” and the “O” were obliterated the water was very blue and the Professor realized that he would never be able to scrub out the whole inscription before time for Chapel. But he changed the water in the pail and kept at work, and at seven o’clock, when Doctor Hewitt raised the shade of his bed-room window, and, adjusting his shaving glass, looked out across the yard, he stared in amazement, just as the Professor had done half an hour before. He even followed out the latter’s programme to the extent of rubbing his eyes. But there was no optical illusion here. The figure with back toward him was undeniably Professor McIntyre; Professor McIntyre washing the front of Dudley Hall!

Now it is well known that higher mathematics, like chess, will, if indulged in too greatly, impair the intellect. The Doctor shuddered with horror and recalled symptoms displayed of late by the professor, which at the time he had thought nothing of. It was terrible, terrible! thought the Doctor. And something must be done at once; it would never do to allow the students to discover the professor in such a ridiculous situation! There was, also, the reputation of the school to be protected!

Three minutes later the Doctor, attired in a dark red, figured dressing-gown, was hurrying across the yard, framing as he went soothing words for the distraught professor. But half-way across, the Doctor’s eyes, near-sighted though they were, solved the mystery. He paused in the middle of the grass-plot, his dressing-gown held away from the moisture, and read the inscription. His first emotion was one of relief; the professor had not gone insane! Then succeeded indignation, and he strode on across the turf with heightened color.

“What is this? What is this?” he demanded.

The professor turned and his jaw dropped. For a moment, I’m firmly convinced, the professor seriously considered pleading guilty to the offense. Doubtless the uselessness of the project occurred to him in time, for he laid the scrubbing-brush down, absent-mindedly wiped his dripping hands on his trousers and sighed deeply.

“It’s blue paint, Doctor,” he said.

“But how did it get here? Who has done this?”

“It’ll be one of the boys, I’m thinking,” answered Kilts sorrowfully, shaking his head. “Just a bit of thoughtlessness, ye ken, Doctor.”

“Thoughtlessness!” said the Doctor with a snort. “Vandalism, you mean, sir.”

“Well, well, I’m getting it off nicely, Doctor. If you could find another brush, now, I’m thinking that between us we could--”

“What!” ejaculated the Doctor. “Are you crazy, McIntyre? Leave it as it is, man! This is no work for you!”

“Well, I thought likely it would cause less trouble if I got it off before the boys saw it, Doctor.” The professor wiped the perspiration from his forehead and looked regretfully at his pail and brush.

“Nonsense, sir! Leave it as it is; the one to take it off is the one who put it there! I’ll get to the bottom of this at once. Call Mr. Collins!”

Mr. Collins appeared on the scene presently. So did some of the fellows. So did more of them. They stopped and stared open-mouthed. Five minutes later the news was all over school and every fellow who was able to reach the scene reached it. Professor McIntyre had left.

“Ah,” said Mr. Collins, “here is a trail of paint. We will follow it up.” They did so, watched curiously by most of the school. The trail led them to the first entrance of Dudley. Inside the door was a large splash on the floor, as though the paint pot had been hit against the corner of the wainscoting. Further along a brush mark showed on the wall and a second was discovered beside the doorway of Number 7. There the trail seemed to end.

“Who rooms here?” demanded the Doctor. Mr. Collins shook his head.

“I’m not certain, sir. Shall we look inside?”

“Yes, I want this thing settled here and now.” Mr. Collins knocked and received no reply. He opened the door.

“Ah!” he said. The light from the room showed finger prints in blue paint on the edge of the door. They passed in. They searched, and--for why prolong the suspense?--under one of the beds in the bedroom, pushed well up against the wall, they found a gallon can half filled with blue paint and containing a brush. They bore it forth in triumph, the Doctor marching ahead in outraged dignity, Mr. Collins following, trophy in hand, looking troubled and thoughtful.

Outside, Yardley Hall was in a state of wild excitement. Wonderment and amusement alternated. Speculation was rife. Who had done it? “Now for Broadwood!” they read, for although the Professor had managed to remove the paint as far as the first R, the inscription was still legible for its entire length, the first of the letters being yet visible as lighter streaks against the dark red bricks.

“Somebody will get thunder for this, all right,” observed Joe Chambers with a grin. “I’m mighty glad I’m not mixed up in it!”

“Gee!” replied Alf Loring. “So’m I! Old Tobey looked like a thunder-cloud.”

At that moment the thunder-cloud reappeared in the doorway. It addressed itself to the throng at large.

“Who rooms in Number 7?” it demanded.

There was a moment of silence during which the fellows around Alf Loring observed him with startled gaze and showed a disposition to remove themselves from close proximity.

“I do, sir,” answered Loring.

The Doctor’s gaze wandered over the group and found him. There was a flush on his cheeks, and the Doctor seized upon it as an evidence of guilt.

“Indeed?” he asked complacently. “And who else, pray?”

“Tom Dyer, sir.”

“I will see you and Dyer in the Office after breakfast, if you please,” said the Doctor.