CHAPTER XV

FUMBLES

Bus Lovell provided what in stage parlance is termed the “comic relief” that week. Bus had made three fumbles in Saturday’s game, and, although he had recovered two of them, Coach Cade decided that Bus needed discipline. So, when a light practice was over on Monday, Johnny requisitioned a scarred and battered ball from Jake and gravely handed it to Bus. “Lovell,” he said, “if you recall the talk we had in the gymnasium one afternoon awhile back you’ll understand why I’m giving you this. Fumbling, Lovell, is a bad habit for a quarter-back. Keep this with you as a reminder of that fact.”

Bus tried to grin, got rather red and finally stammered: “You mean I’ve got to keep it around, sir? Carry it with me like you said?”

A dozen interested spectators wore very broad smiles and there were chuckles when Mr. Cade replied: “Exactly, Lovell. You’re not to part with it for a moment except when you’re asleep. Then the ball rests beside you. You might put it on a chair at the head of your bed. You see, Lovell, the idea is to accustom yourself to the sight and feel of it so that you’ll know what to do with it if you run across it in a game.”

Conscious of the joyous amusement of those who had lingered for the ceremony, Bus put on a good face. “Very well, sir,” he answered as seriously as Mr. Cade had spoken, “I’ll certainly hang on to it.” He put it under an arm and strode off, followed by the group of hilarious team-mates.

His appearance in dining hall that evening was the signal for a deal of razzing. Warned of his approach, the fellows clapped enthusiastically as he stepped through the door with the football swinging in one hand from the lacing. For an instant Bus was nonplused, but then, composing his countenance, he placed the ball under an arm and made his way gravely along the aisle. The honors might have been his if some wag hadn’t started patting a foot in time to Bus’s tread. That set them all going, and poor Bus paced the length of the hall to the rhythmic _tramp-tramp_ of hundreds of feet. After that every one gave way to laughter and the commotion continued until Mr. Kincaid, in charge, arose and calmed it. Bus’s troubles hadn’t ended, though, for it at once became a matter of duty on the part of his companions to deprive him of his treasure. If Bus laid the football beside his plate some one reached around behind him and sent it wobbling among the viands. If he placed it in his lap it was instantly bobbing around under the table, being kicked this way and that, or was out in the aisle endangering the safety of passing trays. If he held on to it with both hands he couldn’t eat! Bus began to suspect that the thing was less of a joke than he had surmised. At least so far as he was concerned. During the evening, if he laid the ball down for an instant it mysteriously disappeared, and he learned that eternal vigilance was the price of peace. He finally solved the difficulty by tying a cord through the lacing and hanging the pesky thing around his neck.

By morning it had occurred to some one of Bus’s intimates that the humorous possibilities of the football had not been nearly exhausted. His appearance at breakfast had fallen rather flat, and the fun of knocking the ball off his lap had somewhat palled. Hence a new way of adding to the joy of life must be devised. The plan evolved required Bus’s consent and participation, and, since Bus was not one to deprive a friend of a little innocent amusement, he gave the first and promised the latter. At quarter to eleven, Bus, who was a member of the Junior Class, repaired to Room C, wherein had already gathered Mr. Kincaid and some forty youths. Mr. Kincaid, on the small platform at the end of the room, snapped his watch shut and nodded toward the door. One of the class, awaiting the signal, arose and proceeded to close it. As though he had waited outside for that moment--as in reality he had--Bus entered, the faithful football snuggled in one arm, his book and pad in hand and an earnest, detached look on his face. There were empty seats, a very few, near the door, but Bus for once chose to sit close to the preceptor and went sedately down the aisle to the very first row, observed by the class with breathless interest and by the instructor with interest which, if not exactly breathless, was quite as earnest. Bus seated himself, placed the football--still attached to his person by the cord--in his lap, folded his hands and raised an expectant gaze to Mr. Kincaid. Mr. Kincaid leveled a pencil at the ball and asked mildly: “What have you there, Lovell?”

“A football, sir,” replied Bus innocently.

“Ah, a football!” The instructor seemed gratified, as though he had suspected the object of being a football and was pleased to have the accuracy of his surmise confirmed. The class maintained a silence quite unusual, anxious to miss no whit of the fun. “You appear,” said Mr. Kincaid, “to be quite attached to it.”

Bus recognized the jest with a polite smile and fingered the cord as a further indication that he had “got” it. “Yes, sir,” he replied, “I am.”

“And”--Mr. Kincaid blinked, a method used to indicate guilelessness which fooled nobody--“and the football seems to be quite as attached to you. A truly beautiful friendship, Lovell.”

“Yes, sir.” Bus spoke more doubtfully.

“Yes, indeed,” went on the instructor musingly, “quite--ah--affecting. Just what was it, Lovell, that drew you together, besides a similarity of mental equipment?”

“Sir?” Repressed snickers from about him confirmed his suspicion that Mr. Kincaid had scored. The instructor was affably patient.

“I asked what first drew you to each other, Lovell, but never mind that. Instead, tell me whether you would be willing to part with your, shall I say alter ego? during a brief period which I propose to devote to the subject of Greek history.”

Bus was back on solid ground again. He had been waiting for that question. He shook his head, sadly yet emphatically.

“Sorry, sir, but that’s impossible,” said Bus firmly.

“Impossible!” Mr. Kincaid clicked his tongue. “Dear, dear! And may I ask--” He paused and peered intently. “Just hold the football up a moment, please, Lovell. Ah, thank you. For the instant I had you confused. Yes, I see. The football is the one with the look of intelligence. As I was saying--”

But what he was saying was lost in the laughter, laughter in which Bus joined only half-heartedly. Mr. Kincaid looked over the class and blinked in gentle reproof. “As I was saying,” he continued, “I am curious to know why you find it impossible to do without your affinity for a mere half-hour or so, Lovell. I hope I am not too inquisitive.”

“Mr. Cade’s orders, sir,” answered Bus with relief. “I have to take it everywhere, sir.”

“Ah, really? An extension course in Football, I presume. Remarkable what strides that game is making, isn’t it? Is there more to your story?”

Bus explained the situation and Mr. Kincaid listened with undisguised interest. And at the end he settled back and said: “Well, well, what a very clever idea of Mr. Cade’s! I shall be anxious to hear how it succeeds, Lovell. And now, having exhausted, not unprofitably I’m sure, some seven minutes of our allotted time, we will turn our attention to less weighty matters.”

Whether or not it was due to the football and its accompanying complications, the fact is that Bus was but illy prepared on the subject of Greek History and, as Mr. Kincaid was flatteringly attentive and called on him very frequently, made a poor showing. Just before the gong rang the instructor stepped down from the platform. He held a book in his hand and he stopped in front of Bus. “Lovell,” he announced, “I regret to say that out of six questions sent your way you fumbled four. To be sure, you may fairly be said to have recovered one, but nevertheless the loss of ground was considerable. On one occasion, if you recall, you lost almost a third of Greece! Fumbling, Lovell, is a--ah--most reprehensible failing, and we must do our utmost to correct it. Taking a leaf from the book of a greater master, certainly a more successful instructor, than myself, Lovell, I intrust this volume to you. It is, as you will observe, my own copy of West’s Ancient World,