CHAPTER VII

PAYSON, COACH

Those first six days were busy ones, yet Dan found plenty of time in which to be homesick. I don’t mean that he wept or went around with a long face; he was pretty nearly sixteen years of age, and, of course, a chap when he gets to be that old has altogether too much pride to act like a baby no matter how much he may feel like one. But on his first and second days at Yardley he went for long walks along the shore or struck inland along the river bank and thought a good deal about Graystone and the folks there and wished heartily that he could see them. The East and Yardley Hall in particular seemed to him then a very lonely, unfriendly place, and the three months which stretched ahead between the present and the Christmas recess looked interminable. Once--it was a dull, cold afternoon with an unfamiliar salt tang in the damp air--he even considered giving it up and going home. He had only to get his bag from his room, walk to the station and take a train. He had plenty of money for all expenses and he felt certain that his father would forgive him even though he would be disappointed in him. The knowledge that it was possible to cut and run at any moment was comforting and reconciled him to remaining for awhile longer. Perhaps he might manage to hang on until the recess. Then, once home, trust him to stay there!

But on the third day, when as usual he started out in the afternoon for a tramp, he suddenly discovered what he had not noticed on the preceding days; that the Sound, aglitter in the afternoon sunlight, dotted here and there with white sails and feathered with the trailing blue smoke of distant steamers, was very beautiful; that the curving shore, clothed in green turf and mellowing trees, edged with gray boulders or warm white sand, was vastly pleasant; that the blue sky, tranquil and summer-like, flecked here and there with streamers of cottony clouds, looked kindly after all; that, in short, this eastern world wasn’t so different from Ohio. He swung along that day with a lighter heart, whistling as he went. He cut a stick from an old willow that grew back from the shore and flourished it merrily. His walk was a series of surprises. The shore curved and capered along the edge of the Sound, revealing all sorts of interesting little coves and nooks and promontories. Once a stone wall came straggling down a hill across a meadow and wandered right out into the water like a bad little boy insisting on getting his feet wet. Dan followed it out, balancing himself on the big stones, and, at the end, jumping from one to another until he stood precariously on the last one of all with the blue sunlit water before him and around him. At a little distance a sloop lay moored. The tide was well out and Dan believed that he could reach it by wading. So he sat down and pulled off shoes and stockings and rolled his trousers as high as they would go and started out. The water was surprisingly warm and save that he once stepped into some sort of a hole and went down until his trousers were wet, he reached his goal without misadventure. The sloop was an old one, broad of beam and snub of nose, and it wasn’t very clean. But Dan pulled himself up onto the deck and dropped from there into the cockpit, where, the tiller under his arm, he sat a long while and watched the sea and the distant boats and made believe--for even at nearly sixteen one may still make-believe--that he was asail.

After awhile he noticed that whereas he had begun by looking eastward he was now looking in quite the opposite direction. That was strange! But the mystery was soon solved. The tide was coming in again and the sloop had swung around until her blunt nose was pointing straight toward the open. Dan glanced toward the shore and the end of the stone wall in dismay. Even as he looked a little wave crept up the side of the last boulder and playfully lapped the toe of one of his stockings. It was time for action. So he slipped over the side and found the water almost to his hips. When he reached the stone and rescued his shoes and stockings he was pretty wet. He went back up the wall and picked out a nice warm spot to dry off in and there with his back to a comfortable rock he spent another half hour, rousing himself at length to finish dressing and go home. There was a good four miles between him and the school, but he felt as though he could walk forty, and so, his willow cane swinging, he stepped out briskly. For the first time since he had reached school he was thoroughly glad just to be alive, to feel the springy turf underfoot, the sun on his face and the little salty breeze about him.

When he reached the turn of the path at the corner of Whitson he remembered that down on the football field practice was going on. Until now he had thought little about football. Before he had reached Yardley he had entertained notions of trying for the team, but what Tubby and Jake had told him had rather discouraged him; and besides that he had seen some of the players and they were so much older and larger than he that it seemed silly to offer his services; doubtless he would be only laughed at. And then, too, he had been so low-spirited that sport, even football, which of all sports held first place in his affections, had failed to appeal to him. But to-day there was a change in his spirits and he decided that he would go down to the field and look on awhile. So he went, and as he passed along the front of Merle Hall a nice-looking boy with a blue cap tucked rakishly on the back of his head smiled and nodded to him, and Dan’s heart lightened still more. He didn’t know who the boy was, couldn’t even recollect his face, but it was nice to be noticed. Dan never became well acquainted with the youth with the blue cap, but he always felt grateful to him for just that little smiling nod which meant little to the giver but so much to Dan.

The tennis courts were all in use and the players, for the most part white-clad, darted back and forth, to and fro, in a merry scene. Up towards Flat Island two canoes, each manned by a pair of white-shirted boys, were racing down with the tide, the paddles catching the sun as they rose from the water. But the busiest scene was on the gridiron. Dan sought a place along the side-line near the middle of the field and looked on. There were fully sixty candidates in sight, and Dan noticed hopefully that several of them were no older than he and no whit larger nor stronger. Perhaps, after all, he reflected, he might stand a show. If he could make a place with the scrubs it would be better than having no football at all. He realized that when the frost came into the air he would feel strangely lost of an afternoon were he not chasing a pigskin over the yellowing grass.

At the farther end of the field a dozen candidates were punting and catching. These were fellows trying for the backfield positions. An awkward squad of a dozen or so more were falling on the ball. Then there were four squads trotting about the gridiron learning the simpler plays, each squad commanded by a hard-working quarter-back. No signals were used. As one of the squads came abreast of Dan he heard the quarter shout his directions:

“Left half between guard and tackle on his own side!”

Then the ball was passed, left half sprang forward, clutched the ball and went stumbling through the line.

“What’s the matter?” cried an impatient voice. “Who is that man, Watkins? Well, you’ll have to learn to keep your feet under you, whoever you are. Try that again and let me see you hit the line as though you meant it!”

Dan put the speaker down for Payson, the coach. He was a large, broad-shouldered man of about thirty with a determined jaw and a pair of quick, restless black eyes that seemed capable of seeing the whole field at once. In weight he must have been nearly two hundred pounds, but he had the height to carry the weight; and, besides, there was an alertness about him and an easy manner of carriage that gave him a suggestion of speed as well as weight and strength. In college--he had played on both the Cornell and Yale teams--he had been known as “Whopper” Payson, and that was in an age of big men, too. He had played guard, and for one year full-back in those days, and there are plenty of folks who remember his work in the Yale-Princeton game in his last year at New Haven. At Yardley the older boys liked him well, but the younger ones, and especially those who had failed to please him, called him hard names, “bully,” “bear” and “big brute” were some of the more popular ones. He was a hard taskmaster; Dan soon saw that for himself; and he was impatient of shirking or awkwardness or stupidity. When he spoke--and he was not a man who talked when he had nothing to say--he said things in a quick, decisive manner that reminded one of cold steel.

There were a good many fellows at Yardley who believed that Payson didn’t take enough trouble with new candidates, that every year he missed good material for the reason that he was not willing to accord a sufficient amount of patience to green players. There may have been truth in this, yet, on the other hand, Payson, although he had failed the preceding year, had managed during his four-year régime to turn out two winning teams. There was his side of it, too.

“I can’t bother,” he said once, “to spend valuable time teaching the rudiments of football to fellows who may never make good. I have only eight weeks at the most to build my team, and I need every moment of those eight weeks for perfecting. Let the novices learn how to handle the ball on their class teams. Next year I’ll try them out. But a coach can’t conduct a kindergarten and turn out a decent team in eight weeks. Anyhow, I can’t.”

That was John Payson’s side of it, and doubtless there was a good deal of sense in his contention.

Dan liked the coach’s looks very well on the whole. He seemed honest and capable and dependable; above all dependable. He was just the sort of a fellow, thought Dan, that one would want to find on the bridge of a steamer when the rockets were soaring, and just the sort one would be glad to find waiting on the side-line when you trotted off after having been worsted in the first half of your Big Game. Dan approved of Payson. That sounds rather presumptuous, to be sure, but in the same way that a cat may look at a king, doubtless a candidate may pass judgment on a coach.

It was a warm afternoon, and presently Andy Ryan, the trainer, a brisk little, middle-aged Irishman with sandy hair, red face and a pair of eyes as green as his own beloved emerald sod, sought out the coach and secured the release of all candidates save a half-dozen or so unfortunates who, having unwisely taken on unnecessary fat during the summer, were doomed to two laps around the track. The others trotted up the path to the gymnasium and showers, the little gallery of spectators melted away, Andy busied himself with gathering the footballs into the big canvas bag and Dan found himself practically alone with the head coach. Payson was watching the little bunch of players jogging along the cinders across the field, but he was thinking of other matters, wondering, in fact, just how much recognition it would be best to accord to this “new football” which was entering on its second season. He had all of the old-style player’s contempt for the new-fangled tricks like the forward pass and the on-side kick. Last Fall the game with Broadwood had gone against him just by reason of one of those same idiotic tricks, a forward pass, which, after having been handled and dropped by most of the players of the two teams, had been finally captured by a Broadwood tackle on Yardley’s five yards, the tackle managing to fight his way across for a touchdown with the entire playing force struggling about him like chips on the edge of a maelstrom. Instead of accepting this as a vindication of the new game Payson declared it the veriest fluke and added it to his arguments in opposition.

“What science,” he demanded of Andy, “is there in throwing the ball down the field for the whole bunch of players to claw at? What if you do make it go once in ten times? or once in five times? Why, I dare say I could kick a placement from the middle of the field as often as that, but you wouldn’t call me anything but an idiot if I tried it! The onside kick has some sense to it; it might be possible to develop that into a scientific play, but this forward pass business--! Piffle!” And Andy, who was still smarting over Yardley’s defeat, agreed enthusiastically.

Still, Payson wasn’t blinding himself now to the fact that this same forward pass had possibilities in the hands of a fast, well-drilled team, and he would have given a good deal at this moment to have known what Myers, the Broadwood coach, was planning. As far as Yardley was concerned the new football would suit better than the old, for the material was not the sort which promised a powerful attack. Well, he would know better what to do in another week. Probably a mixture of old football and new would be the safest campaign to prepare for. As he turned his eyes encountered Dan’s and he presumed that the boy had been waiting to speak to him.

“Well?” he demanded sharply.

Dan didn’t know whether he had intended speaking to the coach or not, but the opportunity had presented itself and he decided to seize it.

“Is it too late to try for the team, sir?” he asked.

“No.” Payson’s gaze swept him from head to foot swiftly. “Ever played before?”

“Yes, sir, three years.”

“Where?”

“At home on my grammar school team; Graystone, Ohio.”

“What position?”

“End.”

Payson’s face brightened.

“What do you weigh?”

“About a hundred and thirty-eight, I think.”

Payson’s face fell again.

“Can you run?”

“I think so, sir.”

“What’s your time for the hundred?”

“I never tried it.”

“Can you punt?”

“Pretty well.”

“Catch?”

“Yes, sir.”

“All right. See Ryan, get yourself examined by Mr. Bendix, and report to me to-morrow.”

Payson nodded and turned away toward the gymnasium. Dan gave him a start and then followed. Half way up the hill Payson heard the footsteps behind him, turned and waited.

“Know much about this new football?” he asked as Dan joined him.

“We tried it last year, sir, and it went pretty well--sometimes.”

“Sometimes! Yes, I dare say.”

“I think we’d have done pretty well with it,” said Dan, “only we lost our quarter in the middle of the season and I had to break in a new man.”

“Oh, you were captain, were you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Sorry to hear it,” said Payson. “I never had a captain show up here to me that amounted to a hill of beans. Think you could forget it in time?”

Dan flushed at the note of sarcasm in the coach’s voice.

“I don’t think it troubles me much,” he answered stiffly.

“Sounds as though it did,” said the coach dryly. “Still, you didn’t start off your conversation with the announcement, and that’s promising. What’s your opinion of the forward pass?”

Dan hesitated, rather taken aback. He wondered whether Payson was mocking him, but a glance at the coach’s face dispelled that supposition.

“I think,” answered Dan finally, “that it ought to be a good play this year under the changed rules. Last year if the pass failed you lost the ball, no matter what down it was, but this year on the first or second downs you are penalized fifteen yards and keep the ball.”

“Yes, that makes it easier going,” said Payson. “But do you think that the forward pass can be developed into a certain play?”

“No, sir, no more than any other play. It will be perfected a good deal this year, I guess, but the defense will be perfected, too.”

“Do you think it can be developed to a point where you can depend on its gaining once in two tries?”

“Yes, sir. I think it might be made to do better than that if you could keep your opponent in the dark.”

“As how?”

“Well, of course I don’t pretend to know much about it,” said Dan with a note of appeal in his voice. The coach nodded. “But it seems to me that the best thing about the forward pass is its unexpectedness. It ought to be made always from some regular formation, don’t you think so, sir?”

Payson nodded again. They had reached the corner of the gymnasium now and had halted in front of the steps.

“I--we tried it last year by having the quarter make the pass, but it didn’t work. He had to run five yards and by that time the other team was through on us enough to spoil the throw. Then we made it from a kick formation and that worked better, although we lost about seven yards at the start from throwing the ball from a position farther back of the line. But it worked better, for the other fellows could never be sure whether we were going to kick or pass.”

“But it gave them a chance to cover their backfield,” objected the coach.

“Yes, sir, but toward the last of the season we’d all got so we were on the lookout for forward passes whenever anything except close formation was used by the opponent.”

“I suppose so. Well, we will have to try the crazy play ourselves this year, I suppose. You seem to be able to use your brain, my boy, so study this forward pass business up. See what you can contrive for attack and defense. Come and see me some time. By the way, what did you say your name is?”

Dan hadn’t said, but he forbore to mention the fact.

“Vinton, sir; I’m in the Third Class.”

“Vinton, eh? Sounds like an automobile, doesn’t it?” The coach absolutely smiled, which so surprised Dan that he hadn’t the presence of mind to smile back. When he had recovered himself the big oaken door was swinging shut behind the coach’s broad shoulders.

Dan crossed the colonnade between the gymnasium and Merle Hall and cut through the Yard. It was getting well toward twilight and the old stone sun-dial cast a long purple shadow across the turf. Some of the windows were still open in Dudley and Whitson and Clarke, and Dan caught glimpses of groups of fellows at the casements. But this evening the sight neither made him depressed nor envious. At last someone had recognized his existence, someone who counted. Dan climbed the stairs of Clarke with a light heart and when he reached the door of Number 28 flung it open with a bang, for all the world as though he was a person of importance!

Tubby Jones was sprawled Turk-fashion on his bed, with his own pillows and Dan’s at his back, reading a novel. He looked up in scowling bewilderment.

“What do you want to do?” he gasped. “Knock the building to pieces?” Dan laughed gayly as he tossed his cap onto the window-seat.

“If I do,” he answered, “I’ll build a new one and a better one, and I’ll call it Vinton Hall. And I’ll see that you have half a dozen pillows of your own, Jones, so that you won’t have to use these two, which--” Here he deprived Tubby of half his support, sending him rolling against the wall like a football--“happen to belong to me, my friend.”

“I wasn’t hurting them,” declared Tubby in injured tones.

“Oh, no, just getting them nice and dirty,” answered Dan as he threw the pillows onto his own bed, “and--Hello, you’ve been eating that messy popcorn again! It’s all over the shop. Jones, do you know you’re an awful little fat pig? You ought to have a sty of your own, you really ought!”

“Look here, Vinton--” began Tubby wrathfully.

But Dan strode over to Tubby’s bedside and with his hands in his pockets viewed the recumbent one with a broad smile.

“Jones,” he announced, “if I hear one tiny little grunt from you, one fretful squeal, I’ll turn you over and paddle you with your own tennis racket!”

And Tubby was so amazed at the sudden transformation of his sober, taciturn room-mate that he could merely gasp open-mouthed until it was too late for a suitable reply. So he relapsed into a silent condition of wounded dignity, while Dan raked his football togs out of the closet and examined them closely, whistling merrily the while.