CHAPTER XXVI

“TUBBY” PACKS A BAG

Gerald hadn’t seen Dan for several days, and on Saturday he set out shortly before twelve, having gone through the form of eating an early luncheon, with eager steps. Gerald didn’t use the automobile nowadays when he wanted to merely go around the corner. Dan had laughed him out of that. All the way through the Yardley woods and up the hill Gerald tasted in anticipation the delight and excitement of the afternoon’s contest. The game was to begin at two o’clock and Gerald hoped to have a half-hour with Dan before it. He went up to Dan’s room, found it empty and sat down to wait. After awhile Tubby appeared. He didn’t seem pleased to discover Gerald in possession, and his stare of surprise gave place to a frown of annoyance. Gerald felt that he ought to apologize.

“I wanted to see Dan,” he said, “but I can wait outside just as well if you want to--to dress or anything.”

Tubby hesitated. His first impulse was to drive Gerald out, to give vent to the dislike which he entertained for the younger boy. But Tubby was in a strange mood to-day, and instead he only said, almost graciously, “I’m not going to dress--much. You can stay here.”

Then he looked at his watch, frowned and asked Gerald the time.

“Twenty-two minutes of one,” answered Gerald, looking at his own watch. Tubby corrected his timepiece with a growl for its eccentricities. “I wonder when Dan will be here,” pursued Gerald timidly. “Have you seen him lately?”

“Saw him in commons at dinner,” replied Tubby.

“Oh, have you had dinner?”

“Yes, had it early on account of the game. I suppose you knew there was to be a game?” The irony was lost on Gerald.

“You bet,” he answered. “I’m going to see it. I wouldn’t miss it for anything. I hope Dan will do something fine.”

“Fine? How do you mean?” asked Tubby, turning to view the other curiously.

“I mean play a great game! Make a touchdown or something!”

“Oh!” Tubby was silent a moment. Then he smiled maliciously. “Dan isn’t going to play,” he said.

“He isn’t! Why--what--”

“Haven’t you heard?” asked Tubby easily. “He’s on probation. They say--in fact he’s owned up to it--that he painted the front of Dudley the other night.”

“Painted it?”

“Yes, painted ‘Now for Broadwood!’ all along the front in blue letters. Faculty was awfully peeved and put Alf Loring and the fellow he rooms with on probation. They found the paint pot under a bed in their room. Then Dan confessed to it and so they let Loring off and put him on.”

“And he can’t play?” cried Gerald incredulously.

“Of course not; you can’t do much of anything if you’re on probation--except study!”

“I don’t believe he ever did it!”

“But he’s acknowledged it. It--” Tubby looked at Gerald intently--“was Sunday night.”

“Why, he was with me Sunday night! He came over in the afternoon and stayed until almost ten o’clock! He couldn’t have done it, Jones!” Tubby shrugged his shoulders.

“Well, he says he did! I guess he knows.”

He looked at his watch again, arose and wandered somewhat restlessly about the room, glancing at Gerald now and then and pausing to listen to the sounds in the corridor. Finally,

“I guess he isn’t coming up here,” he said carelessly. “Maybe he’s gone over to the library or somewhere.”

“Can’t he see the game?” asked Gerald anxiously.

“Not he! He can’t go off the grounds. He might watch it from the hill, though. I guess he will do that.”

“I--I’ll wait a few minutes longer, I think, if you don’t mind,” said Gerald troubledly. Tubby shrugged his shoulders.

“Wait as long as you like,” he said. He went to his closet and got down his bag, a big yellow Gladstone. Then he pulled open the drawers of his bureau and began transferring some of his clothes to the bag.

“Are you going away?” asked Gerald.

“Yes, going home over Sunday,” replied Tubby. “I’m sick of this place. Got to have a change.” He wandered along his side of the room, adding a book or a photograph or some trifle to the contents of the bag. Finally it was filled and strapped. Tubby set it at the foot of his bed, placed coat and umbrella over it and drew his chair to the table. For the next quarter of an hour he wrote, pausing and scowling over his task. When he had finished three notes sealed and addressed, lay beside him. He looked at his watch. It was after one o’clock.

“What time does your train go?” asked Gerald politely.

“One-forty-three,” was the answer in preoccupied tones. Then, “Say, Pennimore, I wish you’d do me a favor. I want this note to get to Payson, the coach, right away. Will you take it to him? I won’t have time myself. Do you mind?”

“Not at all; I’ll be very glad to,” replied Gerald eagerly.

“All right. And here’s one for Dan. You might hand it to him when you see him. It’s something I meant to see him about before I went. It--it’s kind of important. You won’t forget it, will you?”

“No, I’ll find him right away.”

“Well, but the one to Payson is the most important. So just look him up first. I’m much obliged.” Tubby dropped the third note into his pocket and put on his cap. “I’ve got to go across to the Office a minute. Coming along? I don’t think Dan’s coming up here. You’ll probably find him around the grounds somewhere.”

They went out together, Tubby leading the way along the corridor and down the stairs. Outside he remarked:

“Dan says you’re coming here after Christmas.”

“Yes, I am,” replied Gerald uneasily, dreading the next question.

“Got your room yet?”

“No, not yet. Father has spoken about it, though.”

“I see. Thought perhaps you and Dan would room together.”

“I’d like to,” answered Gerald, “but--I don’t know--”

“You’d better. He’s a good sort, Dan is. He and I--” there was pride in Tubby’s voice--“have been pretty good chums.”

“But won’t you--” began Gerald.

“Me?” said Tubby carelessly. “Oh, I may decide to change my room. You can’t tell. Perhaps I won’t be here after Christmas.”

“Oh, I hope you will,” murmured Gerald.

“Oh, cut it out!” It was the old Tubby once more. “You make me sick, you do, Pennimore. What’s the good of lying about it? You know blamed well you wouldn’t care if I never came back.”

“Not when you talk that way,” returned Gerald with spirit. “But when you’re nice--”

Tubby laughed and flushed. They had reached the entrance to Oxford.

“You’re a queer guy,” he said, and nodded. “Well, so long. See you again maybe. Don’t forget the note to Payson.”

“I won’t. Good-bye, Jones. I hope you’ll have a pleasant visit home.”

“Oh, I’m sure to,” answered Tubby ironically. “They’ll all be terribly pleased to see me! So long!”

He disappeared into the building and Gerald turned his steps toward the gymnasium, seeking Dan and Payson.

But he wasn’t destined to find Dan just then, for that youth was two miles away, loitering dejectedly along the shore. Dinner had been at twelve o’clock, a breathless, excited repast for everyone, Dan thought, save himself. He had felt terribly out of it all, and, although he desired Yardley to win the game as much as any of her supporters, he felt that he couldn’t remain around school to watch the fellows trooping down to the field. He had eaten little and his dinner was soon over. Afterwards he had wandered across the Prospect and the railway bridge and, without thinking, had plunged into the woods.

For awhile his main desire had been to place distance between himself and the school, to get away somewhere where he wouldn’t keep recollecting every minute what he had missed. But one can’t walk away from recollection, and, although he had tramped a good two miles along the Sound, his thoughts were still on the game. What a game it would be! And how he hated Williams who would have his place at left end! If only it wasn’t the last game of the year! Who knew what might happen before next Fall; why, he might be dead or something! Perhaps to-day was his last chance to play, and here he was on probation--!

Probation!

He stopped suddenly and looked about him. Why, he had no business here, off of the school grounds! He had forgotten; he must get back at once. He turned and hurriedly retraced his steps, praying that none of the Faculty would see him before he was once more within bounds. He didn’t feel especially guilty about it, since he had disobeyed quite unintentionally, but it might not be easy to convince the Doctor of his innocence. He breathed freer when he was once more across the bridge. The grounds and buildings looked strangely empty and were uncommonly quiet. He looked at his watch and found that it was five minutes of two. And at that moment, borne on the breeze, came, faint but distinct, the long-drawn cheers of Yardley. Dan clenched his hands and hurried toward Clarke Hall. Once past the entrance the disturbing sounds no longer reached him. He closed the door of his room and turned the key in the lock, as though the better to shut out sound, tossed his cap aside and picked up a book desperately.

Suddenly, as his gaze roamed from the book, it occurred to him that Tubby’s side of the room looked strangely bare; most of his photographs had disappeared and the top of his dresser was denuded of toilet articles. He wondered a moment. But the solution didn’t come to him and his thoughts returned to the game. Ten minutes passed. He had read only a page of the book and had not the slightest idea what it had meant. Footsteps sounded down the corridor and came rapidly nearer. There was a knock at the door. Gerald’s voice cried “Dan! Dan! Are you in here?” A hand tried the door. Dan made no answer. He didn’t want to talk to Gerald just then. There was another challenge, a pause and then the footsteps hurried off again. Downstairs the front door slammed subduedly. Dan took up his book again. But it was no use, and presently he donned his cap and hurried as fast as Gerald had done down the stairs and out of the building. He had to know how the game was going!

He turned into the Yard at the corner and crossed it rapidly. He might not leave the ground but there was nothing to keep him from seeing the game from the edge of the hill or--He gave a grunt of satisfaction. The gymnasium! That was it! There was a window on the running track looking directly down upon the field which lay only a few hundred yards distant. The gymnasium was silent. The afternoon sunlight streamed in at the big westerly windows, high up under the peak of the roof, and motes of dust swam in the golden paths it made. He climbed the stairs to the track and hurried to the window on the north. Two big blue and green flies were buzzing fretfully against the panes. Before him was the meadow, the path, the tennis courts and the field, the latter fringed with figures. The two stands, one on each side of the gridiron, were packed with spectators and the blue banners of Yardley and the green of Broadwood were everywhere. On the field, a golden-yellow expanse of sun-bathed autumn turf, two thin lines were facing each other. A white-sweatered referee skipped nimbly out of the way, the lines surged together in a sudden confused jumble of struggling canvas-clothed forms, there was a moment of indecision, the confusion melted away, order grew out of chaos and once more the lines faced, now five yards nearer the south goal. Yardley had made first down; Dan saw the linesmen trot along with the poles and chain. He looked at his watch. The time was twenty minutes after two; only fifteen minutes remained of the first half. If only he knew whether any scoring had been done! He believed that if he could get to the top of the window he could look over the corner of the nearest stand and see the score-board. But there was nothing to hold on by. He thought a moment and then raced across to the trophy room, returning presently with a chair. By standing on the back of it he could see. The score-board was blank of figures!

He descended until his feet were on the chair-seat, and so, with the two flies buzzing about him, and a little ray of sunlight on his head, he stood and watched the battle. Twice messengers hurried up the path below him and hurried back again. Once he heard the door open downstairs, heard footsteps on the floor below, but he was too intent on the struggle to heed. He tried to open the window that he might hear the sound of the referee’s whistle or the grunting of the umpire’s horn, but the casement stuck fast and all his strength could not budge it.

Yardley was down on Broadwood’s fifteen yards now and Loring was smashing the backs against the green line. But the gains were small. Only a yard that time through tackle. Dan knew intuitively that it was the third down and held his breath as the lines formed again and Loring’s back bent and his head turned as he shouted his signals. Then the backs took up the punt formation, the ball arched slowly back into Capes’ outstretched hands, the field sped to the right. It was a forward pass, but--ah, there was Williams getting through at the left! He was stopped! No, he was by! Good old Williams! Now Capes had turned and was running to the left, the ball at arms length for throwing. And there went the pass, too high, maybe, but straight as an arrow toward the waiting left end. If Williams would only get it! He would! He had it! No, Broadwood’s right half had thrust him aside at the last instant and a green-stockinged youth was snuggling the ball to earth! Dan groaned. A roar of delight and relief arose from the farther stand and green flags waved in the sunlight.

Down the field sped the ball from the powerful toe of Broadwood’s punter and for awhile the play was hidden from Dan by the stand. He climbed to the back of the chair again, but still he could see nothing. There was five minutes of play left. At the lower end of the gridiron the crowds were pushing onto the field. That meant that the ball was near the side-line well up at the other end. But still the players were hidden. Then, suddenly, like a dart from a cross-bow, a green-shirted form swept into sight, the ball clutched in the crook of his arm. It was all over in the instant. Broadwood had scored! The farther stand was crazy with delight and the cheers rolled up against the closed window in a cloud of sound. Dan groaned. That was his contribution to the noise. Broadwood kicked the goal. The score-board was no longer barren of figures, for a big 6 stood after the word “Opponents.” There was little more done before the whistle blew, and the stands partly emptied as the spectators stretched their cramped limbs.

Dan got down from his chair and stretched his own, finding comfort in the thought that there still remained another thirty-five minutes of play. Lots of scoring could be done in that time. Many a game had been won in a handful of seconds! Yardley had almost scored once; the next time she would do it! He wondered how that Broadwood man had got away. Let’s see, it had been--by Jove, yes, it had been around left end! Dan was but human, and for an instant he derived a spice of satisfaction from the thought that perhaps the fellows and Payson were wishing that they had him at the left of the line. But that was only momentary. He was sorry for Williams. Williams was a good sort, and it was no fault of his that he had Dan’s place.

The ten minutes of intermission went slowly to the solitary watcher up there on the running track, but at last the teams trotted out again and at last the battle was renewed. It was Yardley’s kick-off and once more the play passed from sight behind the nearest grand-stand. Minutes went by. Now and then the ball arched into sight against the sky, but of the players nothing was to be seen by Dan save, occasionally, Loring as he trotted back for a punt. Ten minutes had already passed. Time had been called for some reason. Dan knew that by the way the spectators along the line turned their attention from the field. Dan’s attention wandered too, wandered to a figure hurrying up the path. It was Ridge of the Second. At the moment Dan recognized him, Ridge, as though conscious of the other’s regard, raised his eyes to the window. Dan heard a shout, saw Ridge wave a hand and break into a run. The next moment the door banged downstairs and Ridge was shouting up to him.

“Vinton! Dan Vinton! Come on, you fool! Get your things on! Payson wants you! You’re to go in! We’ve been looking for you for hours! Hurry, man, hurry! Williams is all in, and--”

“Do you mean I’m to play?” shrieked Dan, leaning over the railing and regarding the breathless Ridge with astounded countenance.

“Of course! Will you get a move on?”

“But I can’t play! I’m on probation! I’m--”

“I don’t know anything about that,” yelled Ridge in a panic of impatience. “Payson says you’re to play, and play you shall if I have to carry you down there myself! Vinton, for the love of Mike, get your togs on! I’ll help you! Don’t stand there with your mouth open like a blamed idiot! Can’t you move? Don’t you understand that--”

But Dan was moving now.