Chapter 9

WESTBY IN THE GAME

It was with satisfaction that Westby and Carroll saw Lawrence entering the dining-room with Irving. They had observed the long table spread in the common room of the Upper School, where the visiting team were to be entertained at luncheon, and had supposed therefore that they would have no chance of satisfying their curiosity about the master's brother.

When Irving introduced Lawrence to them, Westby said,--

"We hoped we were going to see you here, but we were afraid you might have to eat outside with your team."

"Oh, I got special permission from the captain for this occasion," said Lawrence. "I'm afraid I'm depriving somebody of his seat," he added to Irving.

"It's Caldwell--I arranged with him about it. He's gone to Mr. Randolph's table."

"Besides, he's only a Fourth Former," said Westby.

Lawrence laughed. "You're Sixth, I suppose?" Westby nodded. "Going to Harvard next year?"

"Yes."

"Good for you. I'll tell you one thing; you couldn't have a better man to get you in than this brother of mine--if I do say it. He tutored me for Harvard--and I guess you've never had a worse blockhead, have you, Irv?"

"Oh, you were all right in some things, Lawrence."

"I'd like to know what. How I used to try your patience, though!" Lawrence chuckled, then turned and addressed the boys, especially Westby and Carroll, as they were the oldest. "Did any of you ever see him mad?"

"Oh, surely never that," said Westby urbanely. "Irritated perhaps, but not mad--never lacking in self-control."

Westby, thinking himself safe, ventured upon his humorous wink to Blake and the others who were grinning; Lawrence intercepted it and at once fixed Westby with a penetrating gaze.

Westby colored and looked down; Lawrence held his eyes on him until Westby looked up and then, in even greater embarrassment under this prolonged scrutiny, down again. Then Lawrence turned to his brother.

"Tell me, Irv," he said in a tone that simply brushed aside as non-existent everybody else at the table--just as if he and his brother were talking together alone, "what sort of kids do you have to look after in your dormitory, anyhow?"

Irving's lip twitched with amusement; Westby, still scarlet, was looking at his plate. "Oh, a pretty good sort--but they're Sixth Formers, you know--not kids."

"Pretty fresh, are they--trying to show off a good deal and be funny?"

"Oh, one or two only; still, even they aren't bad."

Lawrence paid no further attention to Westby. Now and then he spoke to Carroll and to Blake, but most of his conversation--and it dealt with the sort of college life about which boys liked to hear, and about which Irving had never been able to enlighten them--he addressed directly to his brother.

Westby listened to it gloomily; there were many questions that he wanted to ask, but now he did not dare. Evidently Mr. Upton had warned his brother against him, had imparted to his brother his own dislike; that was why Lawrence had nipped so brutally his harmless, humorous allusion to the master's temper.

As a matter of fact, Lawrence had had no previous knowledge whatever of Westby; Irving had always withstood his impulse to confide his troubles. He made now an effort to draw Westby forward and reinstate him in the conversation; he said,--

"Lawrence, you and Westby here may come against each other this afternoon; Westby's first substitute for one of the half-backs on the School eleven."

Lawrence said, "That's good," and gave Westby hardly a glance.

After luncheon, walking down to the athletic field with Westby, Carroll said jeeringly,--

"Well, Kiddy Upton's brother is no myth, is he, Wes?"

At that Westby began to splutter. "Conceited chump! He makes me tired. Of all the fresh things--to sit up there and talk about the 'kids' in Kiddy's dormitory!"

Carroll laughed in his silent, irritating way. "He certainly put you down and out--a good hard one. Why, even Kiddy was sorry for you."

Westby went on fuming. "Sorry for me! I guess Kiddy had been whining to him about how I'd worried him. That's why the chump had it in for me."

"Chump, Wes! Such a peach of a good looker?"

"Oh, shut up. I don't care if he is good looking; he's fresher than paint."

"He would think that was a queer criticism for you to make."

Westby stalked on in angry silence. He was more wounded than he could let Carroll know. There was a side to him which he shrank from displaying,--the gentle, affectionate side of which Irving had had a glimpse when the boy was anxiously watching his young cousin Price in the mile run; and to this quality Lawrence's greeting of his brother had unconsciously appealed. Westby had stood by and heard his words, "_You_ carry that, you little fellow!" had seen the humor in his eyes and the gentleness on his lips, and had felt something in his own throat.

For all his affectation of worldliness and cynicism, the boy was a hero-worshiper at heart, and could never resist being attracted by a fine face and a handsome pair of eyes and a pleasant voice; Lawrence had in the first glance awakened an enthusiasm which was eager for near acquaintance. And now, although he talked so venomously against him, it was not Lawrence whom he reproached in his heart; it was himself.

Why had he been unable to resist the impulse to be smart, to be funny, to be cheap? He might have known that a fellow like Lawrence would see through his remark and would resent it; he might have known that his silly, clownish wink could not escape Lawrence's keen eyes.

So Westby walked on, gloomily reproaching himself, unconscious that at that very moment, walking a hundred yards behind, Irving was defending him.

"A month ago, Lawrence, I'd have been glad to have you light on Westby as you did," he said. "But now I'm rather sorry."

"Why so?"

"Oh, he's had some hard luck lately, and--well, I don't know. Those encounters with a boy don't seem to me worth while."

"You've got to suppress them when they're fresh like that," insisted Lawrence. "For a fellow to talk to you in that fresh way before a guest--and that guest your brother--I don't stand for it; that's all."

"No, I don't either. Well, it doesn't matter much; reproof slides off Westby like water off a duck's back."

They talked of other things then until Lawrence had to join his team and enter the athletic house with them to dress.

Out on the field Irving mingled with the crowd, walked to and fro nervously, stopped to say only a word now to a boy, now to a master, and then passed on. It was foolish for him to be so excited, so tremulous, he told himself. Lawrence had parted from him with the same calmness with which he might have gone to prepare for bed. It was all the more foolish to be so excited, because the accessories to promote a preliminary excitement were lacking,--rivalry, partisanship; the visiting team had no supporters.

The School had turned out to see the game, but there was no cheering, no thrill of expectation; the boys stood about and waited quietly, as they would before ordinary practice. It would be different in another week, when the St. John's team were sharing the athletic house with St. Timothy's, and the adherents of the two schools were ranged opposite each other, waving flags and hurling back and forth challenging cheers--cheers meant to inspirit the players while they dressed. But now Irving was aware that he in all the crowd was the only one whose nerves and muscles were quivering, whose voice might not be quite natural or quite under his control, whose heart was beating hard.

If Lawrence should not play well this time--the first time he had ever seen him play! Or if anything should happen to him! Irving tramped back and forth, digging cold hands into his pockets.

The Harvard team was the first to leave the athletic house; they broke through the line of spectators near where Irving stood and trotted out on the field. As they passed, he caught his brother's eye and waved to him. In the preliminary practice Irving watched him eagerly; with his light curly hair he was conspicuous, and as he was on the end of the line his movements were easy to follow. It seemed to Irving that he was the quickest and the readiest and the handsomest of them all.

Out came St. Timothy's, and then there was a cheer. The two teams went rollicking and tumbling up and down the field for a few moments; then Collingwood and the Harvard captain met in the centre, Mr. Barclay tossed a coin, and the players went to their positions. Mr. Barclay blew a whistle; the game began.

From that time on Irving trotted up and down the side lines, his heart twittering with pride and anxiety. After every scrimmage, after every tackle, he looked apprehensively for a curly light head; he was always glad when he saw it bob up safely out of a pile. Through all the press and conflict, he watched for it, followed it--just as, he thought in one whimsical moment, the French troopers of Macaulay's poem watched for the white plume of Navarre.

If he had known even less about the game than he did, he must still have seen that for Harvard his brother and Ballard, the fullback, were playing especially well. Ballard, with his hard plunges through the centre and his long punts, was the chief factor in Harvard's offensive game; Lawrence was their ablest player on the defense.

After the first ten minutes St. Timothy's made hardly an attempt to go round his end, but devoted their assaults to the centre and other wing of the line.

If there was one thing for which Collingwood, the best football player in the School, had achieved a special reputation, it was the fleetness and dexterity with which he could run the ball back after punts. He was known as the best man in the back field that St. Timothy's had had in years. So when Ballard prepared for his first kick, the spectators looked on with composure.

It was a fine kick; the ball went spiraling high and far, but Collingwood was under it as it fell, and Dennison was in front of him to protect him.

Yet Lawrence, rushing down upon them, was too quick, too clever; Dennison's attempt to block him off was only a glancing one that staggered him for the fraction of an instant; and the ball had no sooner struck in Collingwood's arms than Lawrence launched himself and hurled the runner backwards.

"Whew! What a fierce tackle!" ejaculated a boy near Irving admiringly.

"I think Lou did well to hang on the ball," responded his friend.

Irving heard; he went about greedily drinking in comments which that tackle had evoked. He found himself standing behind Westby and the other substitutes, who, wrapped in blankets, trailed up and down the field keeping pace with the progress of their team.

"No!" Briggs, one of the substitutes, was saying. "Was that Kiddy Upton's brother? He's a whirlwind, isn't he?"

"Looked to me as if he was trying to lay Lou Collingwood out," returned Westby sourly.

At once Irving's cheeks flamed hot. He put out his hand and touched Westby's shoulder; the boy turned, and then the blood rushed into his cheeks too.

"Was there anything wrong about that tackle, Westby?" Irving asked.

"It just seemed to me he threw him pretty hard."

Irving spoke to the three or four other substitutes standing by.

"I don't know much about football; was there anything wrong with that tackle--that it should be criticised?"

"It looked all right to me," said Briggs.

"If there is any question about it, I shall want to talk to my brother--"

"Oh, it was all right," Windom spoke up. "It was a good, clean, hard tackle--the right kind. Wes is always down on the enemy, aren't you, Wes?"

Westby stood in sullen silence. The next play was started; St. Timothy's gained five yards, and in the movement of the crowd Irving and Westby were separated.

For a few moments Irving's thoughts were diverted from his brother, and his joyous excitement was overshadowed by regret. He felt less indignant with Westby than sorry for him; he knew that the boy had repented of his hasty and intemperate words. If he would only come up and acknowledge it--so that he might be forgiven!

Then Irving put Westby out of his mind. St. Timothy's had kicked; Ballard had recovered the ball for Harvard on St. Timothy's forty-yard line, and then Warren, the quarterback, had made a long pass straight into Lawrence's hands; Lawrence started to run; then, just as Chase and Baldersnaith were bearing down for the tackle, he stopped and hurled the ball forward and across to Newell, the other Harvard end.

It sailed clear over the heads of the intervening players; Newell had been signaled to, had got down the field and was ready for it; three St. Timothy's players ran to get under the ball, but instead of blocking Newell off and merely trying to spoil his catch, they all tried to make the catch themselves; they all leaped for it. Newell was the quickest; he grabbed the ball out of the air and went down instantly, with the three others on him--but he was on St. Timothy's ten-yard line.

It was a brilliant pass and a brilliant catch; St. Timothy's stood looking on disconsolate, while the Harvard players gathered exultantly for the line-up. Three rushes through tackle and centre and one run round Lawrence's end carried the ball across St. Timothy's line for a touchdown. Ballard kicked the goal.

There was no more scoring that half. In the second half St. Timothy's kicked off; Harvard got the ball and set about rushing it back up the field. They had gained ten yards and had carried the ball forty yards from their own goal, when they lost possession of it on a fumble. The spectators cheered, and began shouting,--

"Touchdown, St. Timothy's, touchdown!"

There was more shouting when, with Collingwood interfering for him, Dennison broke through the Harvard left tackle and made fifteen yards. Then Collingwood made a quarter-back kick which Morrill captured on the Harvard five-yard line.

The St. Timothy's cheering broke out afresh, Scarborough leading it. Irving joined in the cheer; he was glad to see Collingwood and the others making gains--provided they did not make them round Lawrence's end.

On the five-yard line the Harvard defense stiffened. On the third down the ball was two yards from the goal line.

"Everybody get into this next play--everybody!" cried Collingwood appealingly; he went about slapping his men on the back. "Now then--twelve, thirty-seven, eighteen."

There was a surge forward, a quivering, toppling mass that finally fell indecisively. No one knew whether the ball had been pushed across or not. No one wanted to get up for fear it might be pushed one way or the other in the shifting.

Barclay and Randolph, who was umpire, began summarily dragging the players from the pile, hauling at an arm or a leg; at last Dennison was revealed at the bottom hugging the ball--and it was just across the line.

Then all the St. Timothy's players capered about for joy, and the spectators shouted as triumphantly as if it had been the St. John's game; the Harvard team ranged themselves quietly under the goal. Dennison kicked the goal, and the score was tied.

For the next ten minutes neither team succeeded in making much progress. St. Timothy's were playing more aggressively than in the first half; twice Kenyon, the Harvard halfback, started to skirt round Lawrence's end, but both times Baldersnaith, the St. Timothy's tackle, broke through and dragged him down. Baldersnaith, Dennison, Morrill, and Collingwood were especially distinguishing themselves for the School.

At last, after one of the scrimmages, Dennison got up, hobbled a moment, and then sat down again. Collingwood hurried over to him anxiously.

"Wrenched my ankle," said Dennison. "I guess I'll be all right in a moment."

Waring, the Fifth Former, who acted as water-carrier, ran out on the field with his pail and sponge. Mr. Barclay examined the ankle, then turned to Collingwood.

"I think he could go on playing," he said. "But if I were you I'd take him out now and save him for the St. John's game. You don't want to risk his being laid up for that."

Dennison protested, but Collingwood agreed with Mr. Barclay. He turned and called, "Westby"; and as Westby ran out, Dennison picked himself up and limped to the side-line.

It was Harvard's ball in the middle of the field. Though it was only the first down, Ballard dropped back to kick.

"Now then, Wes, hang on to it," Collingwood cried as he and Westby turned and ran to their places in the back field.

Westby had a faint hope that the kick might go to Collingwood; he didn't feel quite ready yet to catch the ball; he wanted to be given a chance to steady down first. But he knew that was exactly what the Harvard quarterback intended to prevent.

The ball came sailing, high and twisting; he had to run back to get under it. Then he planted himself, but the ball as it came down was slanted off by the wind, so that he had at the last to make a sudden dash for it; it struck and stuck, hugged to his breast, and then over he went with a terrific shock, which jarred the ball from his grasp.

Irving had seen the play with mingled joy and sorrow. It was his brother who had made the tackle; it was Newell, the other Harvard end, who had dropped on the fumbled ball.

Westby and Lawrence got to their feet together; Lawrence's eyes were dancing with triumphant expectation; the ball was Harvard's now on St. Timothy's twenty-yard line. And Westby went dully to his position, aware of the accusing silence of the crowd.

"All right, Wes; we'll stop them," Collingwood said to him cheerfully.

Westby did his best and flung himself desperately into the thick of every scrimmage. The whole team did its best, but Harvard would not be denied. By short rushes they fought their way down, down, and at last across the goal line--and the game was won. There were only three minutes left to play, and in that time neither side scored.

When Mr. Barclay blew his whistle, the Harvard team assembled and cheered St. Timothy's, and then St. Timothy's assembled and cheered Harvard. After that the players walked to the athletic house, beset on the way by the curious or by friends.

Westby was the victim of condolences, well meant but ill-timed; he responded curtly when Blake, pushing near, said to him, "It was awfully hard luck, Wes--but after that you played a mighty good game." He wished nothing but to be let alone, he wished no sympathy. He knew that he had lost the game; that was enough for him.

In the dressing-room he sat on a bench next to Lawrence Upton and began putting on his clothes in silence. The other boys were talking all round him, commenting cheerfully on the plays and on the future prospects of the teams.

Lawrence refrained from discussing the game at all; he asked Westby what St. Timothy's boys he knew at Harvard, and where he expected to room when he went there; he tried to be friendly. But Westby repelled his efforts, answering in a sullen voice. At last Lawrence finished dressing; he picked up his bag and turned to Westby.

"Look here," he said, and there was a twinkle in his eyes. "I'm going to be at Harvard the next three years; we're likely to meet. Must a little hard luck make hard feeling?"

"Oh, there's no hard feeling," Westby assured him.

"Glad to hear it. Good-by." Lawrence held out his hand.

"You're not going to stay for supper?"

"No. I'm going back with the team on the six o'clock train--hour exam on Monday. My brother's waiting for me outside; I want to see him for a while before we start. I hope to come up here some time again--hope I'll see you."

"Thanks. I hope so. Good-by."

The words were all right, but Westby spoke them mechanically. It had flashed upon him that Lawrence would now learn from his brother the charge that he had so unjustly and hotly made. And of a sudden he wished he could prevent that. He would have been glad to go to Irving and retract it all and apologize; anything to keep Lawrence from hearing of it.

Why had he been so slow in dressing--why hadn't he hurried on his clothes and gone out ahead of Lawrence and made it all right with Irving!

With a wild thought that it might not yet be too late, he flung on his coat and rushed from the building--only to see Irving and Lawrence walking together across the football field.