Chapter 8

His excited brain had confused the 'varsity with the freshman signals. Starting on the supposition that he was to receive the ball, the numbers had somehow conveyed to him the idea that the play was around right end. The fact that he was to be practically unprovided with interference did not bother him; if he had had time to consider the matter he would probably have decided that they knew his ability and were not going to insult him by offering assistance. But Pemberton wasn't one to be worried over details. What was wanted was a touchdown, or, failing that, a good long gain. So, with the rest of the back field plunging toward the left, Pemberton started on his own hook toward the right.

He was glad the quarter tossed the ball so exactly; otherwise he would have had to slow down. As it was he was going like an express train by the time he swept around the Princeton line outside of end. Pemberton could not only run like the wind, but could start like a shot from a rifle. That he got clean away before the opponents had found the location of the ball was partly due to this fact and partly to the fact that Yale's backs were messing around in a peculiarly aimless manner which, to the Princeton players, suggested a delayed pass or some equally heinous piece of underhand work. So Princeton piled through Yale's line to solve the difficulty, thinking little of the absurd youth who had shot around her left end without interference.

From Princeton's center to her right end everything was confusion. It was a glorious struggle, but futile. For the ball was snuggled in Pemberton's right elbow, and Pemberton was down near the thirty yards sprinting for goal. In front of him was the Princeton quarter back; behind him, racing madly, came a Princeton half. To his left was a long, dark bank splotched and mottled with blue; from it thundered down a ceaseless cataract of sound that held as a motif entreaty and encouragement. Pemberton saw the waving flags from the corner of his eyes; and the chaos of cheers and shouts drowned the thumping of his heart and the _pat, pat_ of his feet on the trampled turf. Pemberton was enjoying himself immensely, and was grateful in a patronizing way for the coach's confidence in him. Then the quarter back engaged his attention. He glanced back. The foremost of the pursuers--for now the whole field was racing after him--was still a good ten yards behind. Pemberton was relieved. The twenty-yard line, dim and scattered, passed under his feet, and the Princeton quarter was in his path, white and determined, with fingers curved like talons in anticipation of his prey. Pemberton increased his speed by just that little that is always possible, feinted to the left, dug his shoes sharply in the turf and went by to the right, escaping the quarter's diving tackle by the length of a finger. The quarter dug his face in the ground, scrambled somehow to his feet, and took up the chase. But now he was second in pursuit, for the half back had passed him and was pressing Pemberton closely. If the latter had been content to make straight for the nearest point of the goal line the result would never have been in doubt; but Pemberton was not one to be satisfied with bread when there was cake in sight. Nothing would do but the very center of the goal line, and for that he was headed, running straight at top speed.

There the pursuing half back found his advantage, for he held a course nearer the center of the field. It was a pretty race, but agonizing to the friends of Yale and Princeton alike. At the ten-yard line the flying Yale man was a yard to the good; at the five-yard line the Princeton. player had him by the thighs and was dragging like a ton of lead.

Pemberton's fighting spirit came to his rescue. Did that idiot whose arms were slipping down around his legs think that he was going to be stopped here on the threshold of success? Did he know he was trying to hold _Pemberton_? Gosh! He'd show him! Every stride now was like pushing his knees into a stone wall; one, two, three, four, and still the line was three yards away. And now the tackler's arms had slipped down about his knees, holding them together as though with a vise. For an instant Pemberton fought on--a foot, half a foot--then further progress was impossible and he crashed over on his face, midway between the goal posts, the ball held at arms' length, his knuckles digging into the last streak of lime. Some one thumped down on to his head and strove to pull the ball back. But he locked his joints and strained forward until somewhere behind him a whistle shrilled. Then he rolled over on his back, closed his eyes and fought for breath.

Few could have missed that goal; certainly not Yale's quarter back. Once more the ball went over the exact center of the goal line, but this time above the cross bar; and wherever one or more Yale men were gathered together there was rejoicing loud and continued. For the figures on the score board told a different story: Yale, 6; Opponents, 5.

A few minutes later, in the car that was to take them back to town, Pemberton allowed the head coach to shake him by the hand, and strove to bear his honors becomingly. Congratulations roared in his ears like a torrent until he was moved to an expression of modest disclaim:

"Oh, it wasn't anything much," said Pemberton. "I ought not to have allowed that Princeton chap to get near me. But the fact is"--he addressed the head coach confidentially--"the fact is, you see, I didn't quite understand that signal."

THE SEVENTH TUTOR

"I'm being perfectly honest with you," said dad. "I tell you frankly that I don't expect you to succeed, Mr. Wigg----"

"Twigg," corrected the chap in the basket chair.

"Pardon me; Twigg. The boy is simply unmanageable, especially where study is concerned. He--but, there, perhaps it will be best if I don't prejudice you too much. You'll have a free hand; I shan't interfere between you. The last tutor came to me every day with the story of his troubles. I paid him to keep them to himself; I don't want to hear them. I simply hand the boy over to you and say: 'Here he is; make a gentleman of him if you can, and incidentally get him ready for college. Punish him whenever you see fit. Take any method in doing it you like, so long as you don't forget you're a gentleman; brutality I won't stand.'"

I wished I could see the chap's face; but I couldn't; just his feet. He wore low patent leathers.

"If at the end of one month," dad went on, "you have managed to get the upper hand, we'll continue the arrangement. If you have failed I shall have no further need of you. In the meanwhile, until then, you're a member of the family, free to come and go as you like. See that you're comfortable. That's all, I guess. Want to try it?"

"Yes," said the chap. I didn't like the way he said it, though; it sounded so kind of certain. All the others had been a bit nervous when dad got to that point.

"Very well," dad answered. "We'll call it settled. As--er--as a--sidelight on Raymond's code of honor, Mr. Twigg--you said Twigg?--I'll mention that for the last few minutes he has been listening to our conversation from behind the hall door. You may come out now, Raymond."

I went out, grinning. It was all well enough for dad to talk about "the last few minutes," but I was sure he hadn't known I was there until I kicked the door after the chap said "yes" like that. The chap got out of his chair and looked at me as though they hadn't been talking about me for half an hour.

"Raymond, this is Mr. John Twigg, your new tutor," said dad.

"Thought it was about time for another," I said. Twigg held out his hand, and so I shook with him. He shook different from the others; sort of as though he had bones and things inside his fingers instead of cotton wool.

"Glad to see you," he said. "Hope we'll get on together."

"Oh, I'll get on," said I; "but I don't know about you."

"That'll do, Raymond," said dad angrily. "I don't expect you to act like a gentleman; but you might at least be less of a cad."

"I ain't a cad!" I muttered.

"What else are you when you listen behind doors to things you're not expected to hear? When you talk like a gutter snipe and act--"

"You're a liar!" I shouted. "Liar! Liar! Liar!"

Dad's face got purple like it always does when he's mad, and his hands shook. For a moment I thought he was going to jump for me; he never has, no matter how mad he gets. Then he leaned back again in his chair and turned to Twigg with a beast of a sneer on his face.

"You see?" he asked, with a shrug. "Nice, sweet-tempered, clean-tongued youth, isn't he? Want to call it off?"

I looked scowlingly at Twigg. He was leaning back, hands in pockets, looking at me through half-closed eyes as though I was a side show at a circus. I stared back at him defiantly. "Have a look," I jeered. He raised a finger and scratched the side of his nose without taking his eyes off me, just as though he was a doctor trying to decide what nasty stuff to give me. After a bit I dropped my eyes; I tried not to, but they got to blinking.

"No," said Twigg. "If you don't mind I'll walk back to the station and telegraph for my trunk."

"Sit still," said dad, "and I'll get the cart around. Or you can write your message and I'll have Forbes send it."

"Thanks," said Twigg, "I'd like the walk." He turned to me. "Want to go along?"

I grinned at him.

"No, I don't want to go along," I said mockingly.

He didn't seem to notice.

"Luncheon is at--?"

"Two o'clock," said dad.

Dad went into the house, and Twigg put a gray felt hat on his head and strode off down the drive. I sat on the porch rail and watched him. He looked about five feet eight inches, and was broad across the shoulders. He had a good walk. I slouched when I walked. After he was out of sight I rather wished I'd gone along. There wasn't anything particular to do at home, and I could have told him about the other tutors; there's some things that dad doesn't know.

I found Twigg kept a diary. He went to the city on the Wednesday afternoon after he came, and I rubbered around to see what I could find. The diary was in his table drawer. It was awful dull rot until I got to the last page or two. The day before he'd written a lot about me. This was it; I copied it:

"June 1st.

"Fourth day at Braemere. First desire to throw it up and acknowledge defeat quite gone. Am determined to see it through. I think I can win. At all events the thing won't lack interest. Can't flatter myself that I've made much headway. R. is like a rhinoceros. Can't find a vulnerable spot anywhere. He seems morally calloused. I say seems because I can scarcely believe that a boy of sixteen can really be as absolutely unmoral as he appears. Perhaps, eventually, I will find an Achilles' heel.

"Mr. Dale stands by his agreement. He never offers to interfere. So much the better. Mr. D.'s attitude toward R. is humorous as well as lamentable. He views the boy as though he were entirely irresponsible for his being. It is plain that he sees no connection between the boy's extraordinary character and his own; yet they are alike in many particulars; one could almost express my meaning by saying that R. is his father in an uncultivated state. Mr. D. ascribes the boy's faults to the other side of the house; he is convinced that the ungovernable temper and lack of moral sense are unfortunate inheritances from the late Mrs. D. Probably this is true in a measure. R. was the only child. The mother died at his birth. Mr. D, returned to this country when R. was four years old, and purchased this estate. Here the boy has grown up practically neglected. During twelve years Mr. D. has been out of the country the better part of eight. The boy has been left to the care of servants. For the past three years he has been in the hands of tutors, whose periods of service ran from one week to three months. I am the seventh in line to attempt the work.

"Physically R. is in good shape. He is fond of outdoor life; likes horses, dogs and animals generally; rides well; shoots and fishes. Mentally he is decidedly above normal, but quite untrained. Hates study. Would grade about third year in Latin school. I shall begin at the bottom with him. It's going to be a hard pull, but I'm going to win out."

I was going to empty the ink bottle over the pages; but I knew if I did he'd hide the book or lock it up, and I wanted to see what else he'd write. So I put it back in the drawer. I was sure I'd have him done to a turn in a month. But it was going to take longer than with the other fools, though.

"That'll do," said Twigg. "You haven't studied a lick, have you?"

"Not a lick," I answered.

"When do you think of beginning?" he asked.

"Not going to begin at all."

"Oh, poppycock, my boy." He tossed down the Latin book and yawned. "Don't you want to go to college?"

"No; not if I've got to study all that darned stuff."

"What kind of stuff?"

"Darned stuff, I said. You heard me, didn't you?"

"Yes; but I thought perhaps I'd mistaken. Well, we'll try this again to-morrow. How about mathematics?"

I winked.

"Not prepared? German ditto, I presume?"

"I haven't studied at all, I tell you."

"Well, we know where to begin to-morrow, don't we? Is there any decent fishing around here?"

"Find out," I muttered.

"Oh, well, I didn't suppose there was," he answered. "It's an out-of-the-way spot up here, anyway."

"That's a lie! There's as good trout and pickerel fishing here as there is anywhere in the State, if you know the proper place to look for it."

"Maybe; maybe there are lions and tigers if you know where to look for them. But I'll believe it when I see them."

He yawned again and looked out the window and drummed on the desk. After a bit I said:

"You city fellows think you know it all, don't you? If you want fishing I'll take you where you'll get it."

"I'm not particular about it," he said. "I know about what that sort of fishing is; sit on a bank or stand up to your waist in water all day, and catch two little old four-ounce trout and a sunfish."

I jumped up.

"I guess I know more about this place than you do," I cried angrily. "You come with me and I'll show you fish."

"Too sunny, isn't it?" he asked.

"Not for where I mean."

"Got an extra rod?"

"Yes; you can take my split bamboo--if you won't go and bust it."

"All right; if I break it I'll buy you another. Fish from the bank, do you? or shall I put boots on?"

"Boots. Got any?"

"Yes. I'll go up and put them on. Take those books off with you, please. You won't have time for studying before night."

"I won't then, either," I said.

"Well, anyhow, we won't leave them here. Let's keep the shop looking ship-shape. By the way, it's a bit late, isn't it? How about lunch?"

"Take some grub with us. I'll tell Annie to put some up. I'll meet you on the steps in ten minutes."

"All right; I'll be there. Er--Raymond!"

"Huh?" said I.

"You've forgotten the books."

"Oh, let 'em wait."

"All right." He sat down at the desk again.

"Ain't you going fishing?" I asked.

"No. I think not," he answered. "Somehow, while those books are here I feel that we ought to stay at home and study. I dare say the fish will be there to-morrow as well as to-day, eh?"

"Oh, all right," I said sulkily. "Only you can't make me study, you know."

I sat down and put my hands in my pockets. I looked at him out of the corners of my eyes. He didn't seem to have heard me.

"Let's see," he said after a moment. "How many lines were we to have in this?"

"I don't remember," I growled. Then I jumped up and grabbed the books. "You make me sick," I said. "I'm going fishing."

I took the books out and slammed the door as hard as it would slam.

The day after we went fishing, and got fourteen trout, I had early breakfast and rode Little Nell over to Harrisbridge and played pool with Nate Golden, whose dad has the livery stable, all morning. We had dinner at the inn, and when I got back it was nearly three o'clock. Tommy, the stable boy, told me as I rode in that Twigg had left word he wanted to see me when I got back. Well, I didn't want to see him. So I went in the kitchen way and up the back stairs to my room. When I opened the door there was Twigg, sitting in the rocker with the books all spread out on the center table.

"Hello," he said. "I'm making myself at home, you see. We're a bit late with lessons, Raymond, so I thought we might have them up here; then we won't interfere with your father's writing."

"I don't know 'em," I said.

"I'm afraid you haven't studied them. Never mind; when you get your boots off we'll go over them together. Here, hold them up. There's no use bothering with jacks when you've got some one to pull them off for you."

I let him do it. He sort of takes you by surprise sometimes and you don't know just what to say or do. Afterwards I threw myself onto the bed and lighted a cigarette. Twigg looked at me and raised his eyebrows.

"Don't smoke while lessons are going on, please," he said.

"Will if I like," I said.

"I'm afraid I can't have that."

"Well, if you don't like it you can lump it." But just the same I kept a sharp eye on him.

"Well, you're the host up here," he answered calmly. "I suppose I must consider that." Then what did he do but take out that reeking briar pipe of his, ram it full of nasty strong tobacco and begin to smoke! "One thing at a time, eh? We'll have a quiet smoke first and lessons afterwards. Tell me what you've been doing."

"None of your darned business," I said warmly.

"I suppose it isn't." He took up a book, one of Marryat's, crossed his legs and began to read. Gee! how that old pipe smelled! I laid on the bed and watched him blowing big gray clouds out under the corner of his mustache. When I'd smoked three cigarettes he looked over at me.

"Ready?" he asked.

"No, I'm not ready."

"Let me know when you are," he said. Then he filled the pipe again and went on reading. After a bit I crawled off the bed. My head felt funny, and I was almost choking with the smoke. He laid down the book and looked up at me.

"Shall we begin?" he asked.

"I don't care what you do," I growled. "I'm going outdoors."

"Not yet," said he. He got up and locked the door and put the key in his pocket. "You forget the lesson."

"You let me out, darn you!" I yelled. "I'm not going to study. You can keep me here all night and I won't study. You see if I do!"

"Don't be silly," he said, just as though he were talking to a kid. "You and I are going over those lessons if it takes to-night and to-morrow and the rest of the week. When you're ready to begin let me know; I shan't ask you again." And then he went back to that book.

After a while it began to get darkish. I went back to the bed and tried to sleep, but I couldn't. I could have killed Twigg; but there wasn't any way to do it. He kept on reading and smoking. About six o'clock he said:

"This is quite a yarn, isn't it? Somehow I never seemed to find time for Marryat when I was a boy. You've read this, of course?"

"Yes," I muttered.

"Like it?"

"Yes."

"What's your favorite book?"

"I dunno; Froissart, I guess."

"Yes, that's a good one. Ever read 'Treasure Island'?"

"No; who's it by?"

"Stevenson; know him at all?"

"Did he write 'Tower of London' and those things?"

"No, he didn't. He wrote 'Kidnapped' and 'The Black Arrow' and 'David Balfour,' and a lot of other bully ones."

"'Kidnapped'?" I said. "I'd like to read that. It sounds fine."

"I'll get it for you, if you like."

"You needn't; if I want it I can get it myself, I guess."

"Certainly."

About seven I began to get awfully hungry. Twigg lighted the gas and filled his pipe again. It made me feel sick and funny inside just to see him do it.

"You stop smoking that smelly thing in my room," I said.

"I beg your pardon, I'm sure," he said. "Just remember, however, that it was I who objected to smoking in the first place." He put his pipe down. There was a knock at the door and Annie asked if we were there.

"Yes, all right," Twigg said. "Please tell Mr. Dale that Raymond and I are going to do some studying before dinner, and ask him not to wait."

"It's a lie!" I yelled. "He's locked me in. You tell my father he's locked me in, and won't let me have any dinner. Do you hear, Annie?"

"Yes, Mr. Raymond." It sounded as though she was giggling.

"You might leave some cold meat and a pitcher of milk on the sideboard, Annie; enough for two," said Twigg. "If we get through by nine we'll look for it."

"Very well, sir," she answered.

"You--you think you're smart, don't you?" I sobbed. "I'll--I'll get even for this, you bet!"

I don't care! I was hungry, and the wretched old tobacco smoke made me feel funny. You'd have cried, too. He made believe he didn't hear me.

"You're just a big, ugly bully! If I was bigger I'd smash your face! Do you hear me?"

"Yes, my boy, and----"

"I'm not your boy! I hate you, you--you----"

"And let me remind you that you're wasting time." He took out his watch. "It's now a quarter after seven. If we're not through up here by nine, there'll be no dinner for either of us."

"Glad of it! Hope you'll starve to death. I'm--I'm not hungry. I had dinner at Harrisbridge with Nate Golden."

"Who's Nate Golden?" he asked.

"None of your business. If he was here I'd get him to lick you!"

"Lucky for me he isn't here, eh?" Then he went back to reading. I got hungrier and hungrier and had little pains inside me. I put a pillow over my head so he wouldn't hear me crying. Then, after a long while I got up and went to the table and took up a book. He didn't pay any attention. I went back and sat on the bed for a minute. Then I took up the book again and threw it down so it would make a noise. He looked around.

"Ah, Raymond," he said, "all ready? Suppose we start with the Latin!"

There wasn't any use not studying, because he didn't play fair. No man has any right to starve you. So I studied some every day after that. Old Gabbett, the chap I had before Twigg, used to shrug his shoulders when I wouldn't study, and tell me I was a good-for-nothing and would live to be hung. Then he'd go off to his room and let me alone. Browning, the chap before old Gab, used to get jolly mad and throw books at me, and swear to beat the band. I used to swear back and call him Sissy. He was a Sissy; he was about nineteen and didn't have any mustache or muscle, and he couldn't do a thing except study and play patience. It was rather good fun, though, getting him mad; it was mighty easy, too. But Twigg was different from any of them. When he wasn't putting it onto me he wasn't such a bad sort--for a tutor.

Anyhow, he wasn't a Sissy. He could catch fish and ride fine, and he could beat me at target shooting with a .32 rifle. He told me one day that he was stroke on his crew for two years. I guess that's where he got his big shoulders and muscles. You ought to see his muscles. We went in swimming one day and I saw them. I'll bet he was the strongest chap up our way. After he had been there a couple of weeks he went to the city again; and I read his diary. But there wasn't anything in it about me except one thing which he had written on June 15th. It said:

"R.'s propensity for eavesdropping and similar ungentlemanly actions renders it unadvisable to write anything here that I do not want read by others. Were it not for the aforesaid propensity and one or two lesser faults I could like the boy immensely. I have hopes, however, that when he realizes how contemptible and petty these things are he will cease doing them. He told me once that his favorite book was Froissart. I wonder if he thinks Froissart was ever guilty of listening behind doors, spying into others' diaries and swearing like a tough?"

Wonder how he knew?

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