Clarence McFadden, He Wanted to Waltz“Clarence McFadden, He Wanted to Waltz”
“The sophs!” he cried, as he caught sight of Tom, Phil, Sid, Dutch Housenlager and several others.
“At your service!” cried Phil. “Guess you’ll have to dance to slow music to-night!” And then, to show that it was in revenge for the fire scare, the sophomores sang: “Scotland’s Burning.”
“It worked to perfection, Dutch. However didyou manage it?” asked Tom, as the sophomores, having satisfied themselves that the freshman dance had been spoiled, walked back to college.
“Easy,” answered the fun-loving student. “I mixed up a sticky preparation of glue, varnish, gum and so on, made it into a powder, and put it in alcohol. Then I sneaked in past the doorkeeper I had bribed, and sprinkled the stuff all over the floor. There was no color to it, and they didn’t notice it. The alcohol kept it from sticking until after the march, and then, when the alcohol evaporated, it left the gum ready to do its work.”
“And it did it,” commented Sid.
It certainly did, for the disconcerted freshman and the pretty girls soon left the hall. It was impossible to dance on the floor until the sticky stuff had been scraped off.
“It was rather a brutal trick, after all,” said Tom to Phil a little later, when the three were in their room. “It would have been all right on the freshies alone, but the girls—they had to suffer, too.”
“Of course,” said Sid. “Why not?Secundum naturam, you know, according to the course of nature it had to be. The good with the bad. The freshies brought it on themselves, eh, Phil?”
“Oh, I suppose so,” replied the quarter-back, who was busy with paper and pencil. “Still, itwas a bit rough on the lassies. There were some pretty ones——”
“Oh, you fellows and the girls!” exclaimed Sid in disgust. “You make me sick!”
“That’s all right,” went on Tom easily. “You’ll get yours some day, and then we’ll see——”
“Hello, where’d that picture come from?” asked Sid, pointing to another photograph on the wall beside those of Ruth and Madge. Tom blushed a bit, and did not answer. Phil looked up and exclaimed:
“Why, it’s another picture of my sister! She must have had some new ones taken. Where did it come from?”
“She gave it to me,” explained Tom, and his shoelace seemed suddenly to have come unfastened, so it was necessary to stoop over to tie it.
“Hum!” murmured Phil, with a queer look at his chum’s red face. “She didn’t say anything to me about it. But if you’re going to add to our collection, Tom, I guess it’s up to me to get another one, too.”
“Whose will you get now?” asked Sid. “Haven’t you got enough girls’ faces stuck up around here? Do you want another?”
“Not another,” spoke Phil slowly, “but another of the same one. Miss Tyler promised me one of her new photographs.”
“She did?” cried Tom, and he turned quickly.
“Yes; have you any objections?” and Phil gazed straight at Tom.
“No—oh, no. Of course not,” he added hastily, “only I didn’t know—— What are you doing?” he asked rather suddenly, changing the subject, as he saw Phil’s paper and pencil.
“I’m working on a new football play,” replied Phil, and he, too, seemed glad that the subject was changed.
“That’s more like it,” commented Sid. “Now you’re talking sense. Let’s hear it.”
“It’s this way,” explained Phil, as he showed his chums what he had drawn. “It’s a fake tackle run, and a pass to the right half-back. Nothing particularly new about it, as it’s often used, but my plan is to work it immediately after we run off a play of left-tackle through right-tackle and right-end. After that play has been pulled off, it will look as if we were trying to repeat it, and we’ll catch the other fellows off their guard. In this play, the left-tackle, after the signal, turns back and takes the ball from me. He passes the ball to the right-half, who turns to the left for a run around our left-end. Our full-back charges on the opposing left-tackle, crossing in front of our right-half to better conceal the ball. The left half-back helps the left-tackle to make his quick turn, and then blocks off the opposing right-end, while I helpmake interference for the right-half, who’s got the ball.”
“That sounds good,” commented Tom. “Go over it again.”
Which Phil did, and his two chums both declared it ought to work well. They tried it in practice against the scrub next day, after Coach Lighton and Captain Holly Cross had given their approval to it. The play operated like a charm, and was good for a touch-down. It completely fooled the second eleven.
“It remains to be seen whether it will do the same thing against another team,” said the coach. “But we’ll try it Saturday against the Dodville Prep School. Now, boys, line up, and we’ll run through it again? Also the forward pass and the on-side kick.”
The players were in the midst of a scrimmage, and Joe Jackson had just made a fine run, when Wallops was seen coming across the gridiron. The messenger had an envelope in his hand, and at the sight of him Phil Clinton turned pale.
“Get back, Wallops!” cried the coach. “You’re in the way.”
“I have a telegram for Mr. Clinton,” said the messenger.
“Oh, all right. Come on.”
Phil’s hand were trembling so he could hardly open the message. He read it at a glance. Tomwent close to him, and put his hand on his shoulder.
“Is it—is it——” he began.
“Dad says to hold myself in readiness to come at any time,” said Phil slowly.
There was silence among the players, all of whom knew of the serious illness of Phil’s mother. Coach Lighton went up to the quarter-back and said:
“Well, we won’t practice any more to-day. It’s too bad, Clinton.”
Phil swallowed two or three times. He forced back a mistiness that was gathering like a film over his eyes. He thrust the telegram into his jacket.
“Let’s go on with the practice,” he said sturdily. “We aren’t perfect in that fake tackle run yet, and I want to use it against Dodville.”
It was a plucky answer, and many a hardy player on the Randall eleven felt a new liking for the quarter-back as he went to his place behind Snail Looper, who stooped to receive the ball.
The practice was over. Phil stuck to it until he had, with the assistance of the coach and the captain, drilled the ’varsity into an almost perfect running of the trick play. Of course, how it would work against fierce opponents was another matter. But, in spite of the shock engendered by the receipt of the telegram, Phil would not give up until the men fairly “snapped” into place, after he had given the signal for the fake tackle run and pass to the half-back. Now he and Tom were on their way to their room.
“What are you going to do, Phil?” asked Tom.
“I don’t know,” was the despondent answer. “I—of course, I’ll have to go when I get word.”
“Do you think she’s worse?”
“I’m afraid so; or else they’re going to operate. But don’t let’s talk about it. It breaks me all up.”
“I should think it would. I don’t see how you could stay in practice after you got the message.”
“I felt as if I had to, Tom. Of course, I know I’m only a small factor in the eleven——”
“I think you’re a pretty big one,” interrupted the left-end enthusiastically.
“Well, thank you for that; but I mean relatively. I’m only one of eleven players, and my place could be filled. Still, I do flatter myself that I’ve got the team into some kind of machine-like precision, which is very needful in a game. I don’t mean that I’ve done it all alone, for I haven’t. Every man has done more than his share, and with a coach like Mr. Lighton, and a captain like Holly Cross, a fellow can do a lot. But I’m a cog in the wheels of the machine, and you know how it is when you put a new wheel in a bit of apparatus. It may be just as good, or better than the old one, but it’s got to take time to work off the rough spots and fit in smoothly.
“That’s the way I feel. I want to stay in the game and at practice as long as I can, for when I drop out, and a new quarter-back comes in, it’s bound to throw the playing off the least bit, and I’m not patting myself on the back when I say that, I hope.”
“Indeed, you’re not! But it must be nervous work running a team when you know—well, er——” and Tom stopped in some confusion.
“I know,” said Phil simply. “But you can do lots of things when you try hard. I’m going todo this. I’ll hold myself in readiness to jump down to Palm Beach when I get the word, but until then I’m going to stick by the team.”
There was a look on Phil’s face that Tom had never seen there before. It was as if some inner power was urging him along the difficult path that lay before him. He seemed to be drawing on a hidden reserve supply of grit and pluck, and, as he passed up the stairs, with an easy, swaying motion of his athletic body, Tom could not help but admiring his good-looking, well-formed chum.
“I—I hope nothing happens to take him away before we play our last game,” whispered the ’varsity pitcher. “He’s the best quarter Randall ever had, if what the old-timers say is true. If we don’t win the championship I’ll miss my guess.”
He kept on up the stairs after Phil. In the corridor stood Ford Fenton. Phil nodded at him, but did not feel like speaking. His fingers were clasped around the telegram in his pocket.
“Hello!” cried Fenton. “I saw you at practice. That’s a dandy trick you worked, Phil. My uncle says that——”
“Ford,” began Tom gravely, “have you ever had smallpox?”
“Smallpox? My good gracious, no! You don’t mean to say that there’s a case of it here?”
“We haven’t been exposed to smallpox,” went on Tom, “but we are both suffering from a severeattack of Uncleitis, so if you don’t want to catch it you’d better keep away from us.”
“Hu! I guess you think that’s a joke!” exclaimed Ford as he turned and walked away. Then Tom and Phil entered their room.
Something in the look of their faces attracted the attention of Sid.
“What’s the matter?” he asked, despite Tom’s frantic gestures behind Phil’s back, which motions were made with a view to keeping Sid quiet.
“I’m afraid I’ll have to go—go where my mother is, any minute,” said Phil brokenly. “I—I guess I’ll pack up so—so’s to be ready.”
Then the tension broke, and the nervous force that had girt him about when he was on the gridiron gave way, and he sobbed brokenly. Tom instantly began rearranging the books on the table, where they were piled in artistic confusion, and raised such a dust that Sid sneezed. The latter was in the old armchair, which had been mended, after a fashion, following the throwing of it from the window in the fire scare. As Sid tried to get up from the depths of it, there came a crash, and the antique piece of furniture settled heavily on one side, like a ship with a bad list to port.
“There you go!” cried Tom, glad to have a chance to speak sharply. “What are you trying to do—smash it all to pieces? Can’t you get out of a chair without busting it?”
“I—I didn’t mean to,” spoke Sid so gently, and in such a contrast to Tom’s fiery words, that Phil could not restrain an exclamatory chuckle. It was just the thing needed to change the current that was setting too strongly toward sadness, and a moment later the three were carefully examining the chair.
“It’s only a leg broken,” said Phil at length, and during the inspection he kept his face in the shadow. “I can fix it to-morrow,” he went on, and when he arose he was himself again.
“Better put an iron brace on, if Sid is going to do double back somersaults in it,” went on Tom with simulated indignity. “This isn’t a barn, Sid. It’s a gentlemen’s room.”
“Oh, you shut up!” cried Sid, and then the chums were more natural.
Phil arranged that night to leave college at once, in case further bad news was received, and he also communicated with Ruth, planning to take her with him. But there was no need, for in the morning another message was received, saying that Mrs. Clinton had somewhat recovered from the relapse that threatened.
Phil said little, but there was a different air about him all that day, and when he went into practice he actually seemed to carry the team along on his shoulders, so that they crumbled the scrub oppositioninto nothingness, and made five touch-downs in the two short halves they played.
Since the episode of the freshman dance the first-year students had “sung small” whenever the sophomores were about. It was the most humiliating trick that had been “pulled off in so many years that the memory of man runneth not to the contrary,” as Holly Cross put it in one of his favorite quotations. Gerhart was much downcast at first, for, as he was in charge of the affair, it was considered a sort of reflection on his ability. And he laid it all to Tom, Sid, Phil and Dutch Housenlager.
“You wait; I’ll get even with you some day,” he had said to Tom.
“We’re perfectly willing,” answered Tom good-naturedly. “If you think you can put anything over our home plate, why go ahead, and more power to ye, as Bricktop Molloy would say.”
“You just wait,” was all Gerhart answered.
It was the night before the game with Dodville Preparatory School, which institution had an eleven not to be despised. They had met Randall on the diamond and were anxious to come to conclusions with them on the gridiron. Following some light practice, during which the fake tackle run and pass to half-back was worked to perfection, Sid, Tom and Phil went for a stroll along Sunny River. The placid stream had an attraction in the early eveningthat was absent at other times, and the three chums felt its influence as they walked along the banks.
“Do you feel nervous about to-morrow’s game?” asked Tom of Phil.
“Not as much so as if it was against Boxer Hall,” replied the quarter-back. “Of course I—I shall be worrying a bit for fear I’ll get a message from Florida, but I’m going to try to forget it. I want to roll up a big score against Dodville.”
“And against Boxer Hall, too,” added Sid.
“Of course. But that’s some time off, and we’ll improve in the meanwhile. I fancy the game to-morrow will develop some weak spots that will need strengthening.”
They walked and talked for about an hour, and it was dark when they returned to their room.
“No study to-night,” remarked Phil, as he began to disrobe. “Me for pounding the pillow at once, if not sooner.”
“Same here,” came from Tom, and he began taking off his things. “Last fellow to undress puts the light out,” he added, and then there was a race. Tom and Phil leaped into bed almost at once, and Sid, leaving the light turned on, was scarcely a second behind them. There was a protesting howl from Phil and Tom at their chum’s perfidy, but the next instant Tom uttered a yell.
“Wow! Ouch! Something’s in my bed!” he cried as he leaped out.
“And in mine, too!” came from Sid. “It’s a snake!” and reaching down between the sheets, he pulled out a long reptile.
“Cæsar’s Haywagon!” cried Phil. “I’ve drawn something, too!” and with that he held up a mudturtle.
“Ten thousand thistles!” yelled Tom as he began pulling off his pajamas. “I’m full of needles!”
The scene in the room was one of confusion. Tom was dancing about, rubbing first here and then there on his anatomy. The snake which Sid held was wiggling as if in protest at being suspended by the tail, and was tying itself into all sorts of complicated knots and geometrical figures.
“Look out, it may bite you!” cried Phil, who was holding the mudturtle by the tail, the feet of the animal working back and forth in a vain effort to get a grip on the air.
“It isn’t a poisonous snake,” declared Sid, who was something of a naturalist. “But I wonder who played this trick on us? What ails you, Tom?”
“Yes; what are you wiggling around in that fashion for, son?” inquired Phil, who began to laugh, now that the extent of the scare was evident.
“Wiggle! I guess you would, too, if some one had filled your bed with needles that came right through your pajamas,” replied Tom.
“Needles?” from Sid.
“Needles?” reiterated Phil.
“Yes, needles; ten million of them, by the way I feel!”
Phil placed the mudturtle in the wash basin, where it vainly tried to climb up the slippery porcelain sides. Then he went over to Tom’s bed.
“There are no needles here,” he said.
“No? What are they, then?” demanded Tom, continuing to rub himself.
“Chestnut burrs,” replied his chum, after a more careful inspection. “Some one has taken the stickers off a lot of chestnut burrs and scattered them in your bed. No wonder they went through your pajamas. I’d rather have the mudturtle than them.”
“Or a snake,” added Sid. “I wonder who did it?”
Phil pulled back the covers from Tom’s bed. At the foot, between the sheets, was a piece of paper. The quarter-back made a grab for it and read:
“Compliments of the freshmen. Maybe you won’t be so smart next time.”
“Compliments of the freshmen. Maybe you won’t be so smart next time.”
“The freshmen!” cried Tom. “We’ll make them smart for this!”
“They’ve made you smart already,” commented Sid, as he put his snake in a pasteboard box, andcarefully closed it with a weight on top. “I guess they got ahead of us this time.”
“This is Gerhart’s writing,” went on Phil, looking closely at the note. “He originated the scheme. Let’s see if any other fellows have suffered.”
They partly dressed, and stole silently to the rooms of some of their classmates. No one else had felt the vengeance of the freshmen, and our friends concluded that the performance had been arranged for their special benefit, on account of the friction they had had with Gerhart.
“How am I going to sleep in that bed to-night?” asked Tom ruefully, when they had returned to their room. “It’s like being in a beehive.”
“I’ll show you,” said Phil, and he carefully took off the sheets, folding them up so that the chestnut stickers would not be scattered. “You can do without sheets to-night, I guess.”
“I guess I’ll have to,” went on Tom. “But I’m going to get another pair of pajamas. Those feel too much like a new flannel shirt,” and he went to his trunk, which he began ransacking.
“What can we do to get square?” asked Sid, as he again prepared to get into bed. “We’ve got to teach Gerhart a lesson.”
“That’s what,” agreed Tom. “We’ll discuss it in the morning.”
But it was not so easy as they had supposed to think up a joke to play on the inventive freshman,that would be commensurate with the trick he had perpetrated on them. Besides, Gerhart kept pretty well with his own crowd of classmates, and, as there was safety in numbers, and as our three friends did not want a general class fight, they were, to a certain extent, handicapped. By Gerhart’s grins they knew that he was aware of their discomfiture of the night previous. Tom was sorely tempted to come to fistic conclusions with the freshman, but Sid and Phil dissuaded him, promising to unite with him on some scheme of vengeance. The mudturtle and snake were retained by Sid, who had a small collection of live things.
“We must keep this to ourselves,” suggested Phil that morning, as they started for chapel. “Only our own fellows must hear of it.”
“Sure,” agreed Tom and Sid, but they soon found, from the greetings of the juniors, seniors and freshmen, that the story was all over the school. In fact, to this day the yarn is handed down in the annals of Randall College as an example of how a freshman, single-handed, played a joke on three sophomores; for it developed that Gerhart had done the trick alone.
It was a day or two after this, when Tom and Phil were walking along the river after football practice, that, down near the bridge, they saw Gerhart just ahead of them.
“There’s a chance to take a fall out of him,” suggested Tom, whose appetite for vengeance was still unappeased.
“That’s so,” agreed Phil. “Let’s catch up to him and toss him into the river.”
They quickened their steps, but a moment later they saw a young man come from the bushes at one end of the bridge and join Gerhart. The two walked briskly on, and, as Tom and Phil could see, they were engaged in earnest conversation.
“We can’t do anything now,” spoke Tom. “That’s a stranger. He’s not of Randall College. Look at his cap.”
“He’s from some college,” declared Phil. “That cap seems familiar. I wonder who he is.”
“Give it up,” spoke Tom. “We might as well go back now.”
They were about to turn when suddenly the lad with Gerhart swung about and made a violent gesture of dissent. Then Tom and Phil heard him say:
“I’ll have nothing to do with such a dirty trick, and you ought to be ashamed to make the offer!”
“Oh, is that so?” asked Gerhart, and he did not seem nonplussed. “Well, maybe some other fellow will be glad to get what I have to offer.”
“I don’t believe it!” exclaimed the other. “I’m done with you, and that settles it,” and he crashedinto the bushes and disappeared, leaving Gerhart alone on the road.
“Did you see who that was?” asked Tom, looking at Phil.
“No; I couldn’t make out his face.”
“It was George Stoddard, captain of the Boxer Hall eleven.”
“That’s right,” agreed Phil. “I knew I’d seen him before. But he didn’t look as he used to in a baseball uniform. I wonder what he and Gerhart had on the carpet.”
“Oh, probably Gerhart wanted him to go to some sporty gambling affair. I hear he plays quite a high game at cards.”
“Who?”
“Gerhart. Lots of the freshmen of our college have found his pace too fast for them. He and Langridge are thicker than ever. Probably Gerhart wanted some new easy-marks to win from, and is trying to take up with the Boxer Hall boys.”
“Shouldn’t wonder. But Stoddard turned him down cold.”
“Yes; didn’t make any bones about it. Well, I s’pose we could catch up to Gerhart now. But what’s the use?”
“That’s right. Hello! There’s Langridge joining him now, Phil,” and as Tom spoke they saw the sophomore come from a side path and walk along with the freshman. The two began talkingearnestly, and from the manner of Gerhart it seemed that something had gone wrong, and that he was endeavoring to explain.
Tom and Phil forgot the little scene of the afternoon when they got down to studying that night, and as lessons were getting to be pretty “stiff,” to quote Sid, it was necessary to put in considerable time over books. The three “boned” away until midnight, and after an inspection of their beds, to make sure that no contraband articles were between the sheets, they turned out the light and were soon slumbering.
The next day Phil was turned back in Greek, and had to write out a difficult exercise.
“Tell Mr. Lighton I’ll be ready for practice in half an hour,” he said to Tom, as the latter hurried off to get into his football togs. “I’ll come as soon as Pitchfork lets me off.”
“All right,” answered his chum.
When Tom got to the gridiron he found most of the ’varsity eleven there. Coach Lighton was in earnest conversation with Captain Holly Cross.
“Where’s Phil?” asked the coach as Tom came up. The left-end explained.
“Come into the gym, fellows,” went on the coach. “I have something important to tell you. Phil will be along soon.”
Vainly wondering what was in the wind, and whether, by any chance, it concerned Phil, Tomfollowed the sturdy lads across the field. Phil joined the throng before the gymnasium was reached.
“What’s up?” he panted. “Aren’t we going to practice?”
“Yes,” replied the coach; “but first we’ve got to arrange for a new set of signals.”
“New signals?” cried half a dozen.
“Yes. I have just learned, in an anonymous communication, that an offer was made to a rival college to sell our signals. The offer, I am glad to say, was indignantly refused; but if some one is in possession of our system, we must get a new one. Now, if you will come in here I will change the signals, and we will then go to practice.”
Tom and Phil instinctively looked at each other. The memory of the scene between Gerhart and Stoddard, and Langridge’s later presence with the freshman, came to them both at once.
There was a little buzz of talk, following the announcement of the coach. Each player looked at his neighbor, as if to learn whether or not he was the guilty one. But Mr. Lighton at once called a halt to this.
“I will say,” he continued, “that no member of the ’varsity team, nor has any substitute, been guilty of this mean, sneaking piece of business. I don’t even know who it was. I don’t want to know. I don’t know to whom the offer was made. I don’t want to know. But we are going to protect ourselves, and change the signals.”
It was a comparatively simple matter, the way the signals had been devised, to so change them so that another team, even with a copy of the originals, would have found it impossible to know in advance what the plays were to be.
Half an hour was spent in going over the new combinations while the team was in the gymnasium, and then they went out on the field to play againstthe scrub. It was a little awkward at first for Phil to run the eleven under the new system, and he made one or two blunders. But the scrub was beaten by a good score.
“You’ll do better to-morrow,” commented the coach. “It is a little troublesome, I know, to use the new letters and figures, but we’ll practice on them constantly until we meet Boxer Hall on Saturday.”
This was to be the first game of the season with Boxer Hall, the college, which, with Fairview Institute and Randall, formed the Tonoka Lake League. The Randallites were on edge for it, and they had need to be, for Boxer had a fine eleven, better than in many years.
“We’ll have all we want to do to beat them,” said Phil to a crowd of his chums after practice one day. “They’re in better shape than Fairview was.”
“So are we,” declared Tom. “We’re going to win.”
“I hope you do,” remarked Ford Fenton. “They have a peculiar way of playing the game in the first half. My uncle says——”
“Wow!” It was a simultaneous howl from the crowd of lads. They sometimes did this when Ford’s reminiscences got on their nerves. The lad with the uncle turned away.
“I was going to put you on to some of theirtricks,” he continued in injured tones. “Now I won’t.”
“Write it out and hand it to Holly Cross,” suggested Phil.
“Well, Phil,” remarked Tom to his chum on Saturday, about an hour before the big game, when the team was dressing in the Randall gymnasium, “do you feel as if we were going to win?”
“I certainly do,” spoke the quarter-back as he laced his canvas jacket. “I never felt in better shape. Only for one thing——” He paused suddenly, but Tom knew what he meant. It was the fear that, in the midst of the game, he might get bad news about his mother. Since receiving the telegram advising him to be ready to leave for Florida on short notice, Phil and his sister had had word that their mother had rallied somewhat, but that no permanent hope was held out for her recovery.
“Try not to think about it, old man,” advised Tom.
“I—I do try,” responded Phil. “But it—it’s hard work,” and he bent over to tie his shoe.
Out on the gridiron trotted the Randall players. They were received with a burst of cheers, led by Bean Perkins, whose voice was more than ever like a foghorn.
“Give ’em the ‘Conquer or Die’ song,” he called.
“No; wait until they need it,” suggested SidHenderson, who was in the grandstand. “Let’s sing ‘We’re Going to Make a Touch-down Now!’ That’ll be better.”
The verses and chorus welled out from several hundred lusty throats, and the Randall team, which was at quick practice, looked up in appreciation.
“I wonder if any of the Fairview girls will be here,” said Tom as he and Phil were passing the ball back and forth.
“I don’t know about all of ’em,” replied the quarter-back, “but Ruth and Madge are coming.”
“Since when have you been calling her ‘Madge’?” asked Tom, with a sharp look at his chum.
“Since she gave me permission,” was the answer, and Phil booted the pigskin well down the field.
“And how long is that?”
“What difference does it make to you?” and there was a shade of annoyance in Phil’s voice.
“Nothing, only I—er—well—— There they come!” cried Tom suddenly, but it was not to the girls that he referred. The Boxer Hall team had just trotted out, to be received with a round of cheers from their partisans.
“Husky-looking lot,” observed Ed Kerr, as he and the other Randall players gazed critically at their opponents.
“They are that,” conceded Bricktop Molloy,one of the biggest guards who ever supported a center.
“I’m afraid they’ll do us,” came from Snail Looper, who was not of a very hopeful turn of mind.
“Nonsense! Don’t talk that way, me lad!” objected Bricktop, lapsing into brogue, as he always did when very much in earnest. “Just because they’re a lot of big brutes doesn’t argue that we can’t smash through them.Omnis sequitur, you know.”
“Oh, you and your Latin!” exclaimed Tom. “Don’t we get enough of that in class.”
“It’s a fine language,” went on Molloy, who was a good classical scholar. “But suppose we line up and run a bit.”
The practice was over, the preliminaries had all been arranged, the new ball was brought out and handed to Boxer Hall, for Captain Stoddard had won the toss, and elected to kick off. The yellow spheroid was placed on the center line, on top of a little mound of earth.
“Are you all ready?” asked the referee, and Captain Holly Cross cast a quick eye on his team, which, spread out on their field, was like an aggregation of eager foxhounds, waiting for the start.
“Ready,” answered Holly.
“Ready,” responded Stoddard.
The whistle sounded shrilly, and a moment later Pinkey Davenport’s good right toe had met the pigskin with a resounding “thump,” and the ball was sailing toward the Randall goal.
Jerry Jackson caught it and began scuttling back toward the center of the field. Tom, with Ed Kerr and Bricktop Molloy, formed interference for him, and with their efficient aid Jerry rushed the leather back for thirty yards, or to within five yards of the middle of the gridiron. There he was downed with a vicious tackle by Dave Ogden, who had managed to get through between Tom and Bricktop, though they flung themselves at him. Jerry lay still for a moment after falling, with the ball tightly clasped in his arms. Captain Cross ran to him.
“Hurt?” he asked anxiously.
“No. Only—only a little wind knocked out of me,” answered the plucky left half-back. “I’m all right now.”
“Line up, fellows!” cried Holly, and Phil began rattling off a string of numbers and letters.
It was a signal for Kindlings to take the ball through tackle, and, as he got it, the right half-back leaped for the hole that was opened for him. Right through he plunged, staggering along, half pulled, half shoved, until it was impossible to gain another inch, and Kindlings was buried out of sight under an avalanche of players. But the required gain had been made, and Phil signaled foranother try at the Boxer Hall line. Captain Stoddard was vainly calling on his men to brace and hold their opponents, while from the grandstand came wild cheers at the first sign of prowess on the part of Randall.
This time Holly Cross went through guard and tackle for a fine gain, and next he was sent between right-tackle and end. So far there had not been a halt in the progress of bucking the line, but when, on the next play, Ed Kerr was called on to go through between left-end and tackle, he felt as if he had hit a number of bags of sand. There was not a foot of gain, and Ed barely saved the ball, which bounced from his arms; but he fell on it like a flash.
“Don’t try there again,” whispered Kerr to Phil, as he took his position once more. Phil, however, had seen that the Boxer Hall line was weak, and he determined for another try at it, but in a different place. This time Jerry Jackson was called on for a run around right-end, and so successful was it that he went to the twenty-five-yard line before he was heavily thrown. The tackling of the Boxer Hall lads was severe when they got a chance at it.
Phil, in a flash, determined for a field goal trial. The chances were in favor of it, for there was no wind, and the position was right. Besides, if it was successful it would add immensely to the spiritof his team, and give them a rest from the hard line bucking.
Quickly he gave the signal, and Holly Cross ran to the thirty-yard line for a drop kick. The ball came back and was cleanly caught. The Randall line held, and Holly booted the pigskin in fine shape, but with a groan almost of anguish the players and supporters of the college by the river saw the ball strike the cross-bar and bounce back. The attempt had failed.
The leather was brought out to the twenty-five-yard line, and Boxer Hall prepared for her turn at it. On the first try they gained fifteen yards through a hole that was ripped between Grasshopper Backus and Dutch Housenlager. They then gathered in ten more by a run around Tom’s end, though he made a desperate effort to stop the man with the ball.
“Right through ’em, now, fellows!” called Captain Stoddard to his players. “Rip ’em up!”
“Hold ’em! Hold ’em!” besought Holly Cross.
And hold the Randallites did. The wave of attack fell back in a sort of froth of players as Pinkey Davenport tried in vain to gain through center. Snail Looper was like a great rock. Once more there was a try at the line, Dave Ogden being sent in with a rush. But he only gained three yards, and it was inevitable that Boxer would punt. The backs of the Randall team ran toward their goal,but Boxer worked a pretty trick, and on a double pass made fifteen yards before the man was stopped.
“That’s the stuff!” cried the Boxer coach, and he ran on the field to whisper to Captain Stoddard.
But the thoughtless action of the coach brought its punishment, for Boxer was penalized ten yards on account of their trainer coming on the field without permission. There was much kicking at this, but the officials insisted, and it stood. Then, with a net gain of less than was needed, and on the last down, Boxer had to kick. Holly Cross got the ball and rushed it well back before he was downed.
So far the playing had been pretty even. Though Boxer was a bit weak on defense, they played a snappy game, and seemed to be able to outgeneral their opponents. Now Randall had another chance to show what they could do.
“Give ’em the ‘Conquer or Die’ song now!” cried Bean Perkins, and the strains of “Aut vincere aut mori” welled out over the gridiron. It seemed to give just the stimulus needed, and when Kindlings had been sent crashing into the line for a twelve-yard gain, Phil quickly resolved on the fake tackle and pass to half-back play. First, however, he called for Ed Kerr to make a try through right-tackle, and when this had been accomplished, with a smashing force that temporarily demoralized the Boxer Hall players, Kindlings was once more requestedto oblige. He took the ball from Ed, who had received it from Phil, and around right-end he went, with beautiful interference. It completely fooled the other team, and when the Boxer full-back finally managed to stop Kindlings it was on the ten-yard line.
“Touch-down! Touch-down!” yelled the Randall supporters.
“Touch-down it shall be!” exclaimed Phil.
Smash and hammer, hammer and smash, batter and push it was for the next three minutes! Boxer was desperate, and with tears in their eyes her players sought to stem the tide rushing against them. But Randall was not to be denied. Again and again her men went battering against the wall of flesh and blood, until, with what seemed a superhuman effort, Holly Cross was shoved over the line for a touch-down.
Oh, what yelling and cheering there was then! Even the voice of Bean Perkins, strident as it was, could not be heard above the others. The grandstands were trembling with the swaying, yelling, stamping mass of enthusiasts congregated on them.
Holly Cross kicked a beautiful goal, and with the score six to nothing against them, Boxer Hall prepared to continue the game. There was no let up to the play. It was fast and furious. For a time it seemed that Boxer would score, as, after getting possession of the ball by means of a forwardpass, they ripped off twenty yards, and followed that up by gathering in ten more by a smashing play through center. Snail Looper was knocked out, and had to go to the side lines, Rod Everet replacing him. This, to a certain extent, weakened the team, and Randall could not seem to hold. The ball was rushed along until it was within three yards of the maroon and yellow goal. Then, responding nobly to the entreaties which Holly Cross, made, his players held stiffly, and Randall got the ball on downs. No time was lost in booting the pigskin out of danger, and before another formation could be made the whistle blew, and the first half was over.
“Fellows,” remarked Coach Lighton in the dressing-room during the rest, “I needn’t tell you that you’ve got to play for all you’re worth to win this game. We’re going to have trouble this half. With Looper gone, though I expect Everet will do nearly as well at center, it means a certain loss of team work. But do your best. Their line isn’t as strong as I feared, but they play much fiercer in the attack than I expected. However, I think you can rip ’em up. Get another touch-down—two if you can—and prevent them from scoring. They may try for a field goal. If they do, get through and block the kick. Now rest all you can.”
The second half started in fiercely. Randall kicked off, and succeeded in nailing the Boxer Hallman with the ball before he had run ten yards. But when the line-bucking began something seemed to be the matter with the Randall players. They were shoved back very easily, it appeared, and, with constant gains, the ball was carried toward their territory. So eager did the Randallites get at one stage that they played off-side, and were penalized ten yards. Again there was holding in the line, and ten yards more were given to Boxer Hall for this. The opponents of Randall were now within thirty yards of the goal. By a smash through center they ripped off five more. Then Pinkey Davenport dropped back for a trial for a field goal, and made it. The score was now six to five in favor of Randall.
When Randall got the ball again there was a change at once noticed. More confidence was felt, and so fiercely did her players assail the line that they carried the pigskin, in three rushes, well toward the middle of the field.
Phil gave the signal for a forward pass, and it was well executed. Then came a fake kick, and this was followed by an on-side one. Both netted good gains, and once more Randall was jubilant.
“Right through the line!” cried Phil. “Eat ’em up, fellows!”
His players responded to his call. Through tackle, guard and center, then around the end, the plays being repeated, the ball was carried. Themen were tiring, but Phil would not chance a kick. They had no sure thing of a field goal now, as a little wind had sprung up. Up and up the field the spheroid, yellow no longer, but dirty and grass-stained, was carried. On the Randallites took it, until they were on the twenty-five-yard line. There was a form of madness among the college supporters now. Once more came the fierce cries for a touch-down, and once more Phil called to his teammates to respond. The signal for some sequence plays was given. It was well these had been practiced, for Phil’s voice could scarcely be heard. One after another four plays were reeled off. They were all effective, and though Boxer Hall tried to stem the rush, it was impossible. Over the line went the Randall lads, to the inspiring chorus of: “Tear ’Em Apart and Toss ’Em Aside!”
“Touch-down! Touch-down! Touch-down!” came the frantic cries, the players mingling their voices with those of the spectators on the grandstand. The goal was missed, but the score was now eleven to five in favor Randall.
Again came the line-up after the kick off. By a fumble Boxer lost the ball, and Tom Parsons fell on it. Then began another fierce attack on the Boxer eleven. But the terrific line-smashing was telling on both teams, though more so on Randall. There was less power in her attack.
Boxer held for downs, and the kick was a weakone, the ball going only a short distance. Then Boxer Hall began to rush it back, and by a trick play got it so far down the gridiron that another field goal was kicked. It began to look dubious for Randall, but there was no give-up in her playing. Securing the ball, Phil kept his players on the rush. Down the field they went, a forward pass netting a good gain and wonderfully saving the wind of the now almost exhausted team. An on-side kick was also used, and then, seeing a weak place in the adversary’s line, Phil in turn sent Kindlings, Jerry Jackson and Holly Cross at it. In vain did Boxer Hall try to stop up the gap, but their left-tackle and guard were about all in. In two minutes more Bricktop Molloy was shoved over the line for a third touch-down, and, as goal was kicked, the score was seventeen to ten.
“One more touch-down!” cried Holly Cross, but there was no time for it. Two minutes more of play and the whistle blew. Randall had won one of the fiercest games she had ever played.
“A cheer for Boxer Hall!” cried Holly Cross, and the despondent players, grieving over their defeat, sent back an answer. Then came cheer upon cheer from the grandstand, where waved the yellow and maroon of Randall, and Bean Perkins led in the song: “We Have Come and We Have Conquered!”
“Great, old man!” cried Tom to Phil, who was limping slightly. “Are you hurt?”
“I shouldn’t care if I was in pieces after the way we walloped them! Come on over here. I see my sister and Madge!”
Tom followed, his head singing from a severe knock he had received.
Phil’s sister hurried down from the grandstand to greet him.
“Oh, Phil!” she cried. “Did you get hurt?” for she saw him limping, and she held out her hands to him.
“Just a little twist,” he explained. “Not worth mentioning. How are you, Madge?” he went on, after patting his sister on the shoulder, and he held his hands eagerly out to Miss Tyler.
“Fine!” she exclaimed. “Oh, wasn’t it a great game?”
“For us,” put in Tom, who had greeted Ruth, and now turned to the other girl.
“Good afternoon, Tom,” spoke Madge, and Tom fancied there was just a tinge of coldness in her voice. She continued talking to Phil.
“Did you think you would win?” asked Phil’s sister of Tom as she looked eagerly up into his face.
“Well, not all the while,” replied the left-end.“Once or twice I began to think we’d lose. But you can’t down Randall.”
“No; it takes Fairview to do that, not Boxer Hall,” put in Madge quickly.
“Now, be nice—be nice!” pleaded Phil with a laugh. “I thought you were a friend of mine, Madge.”
“So I am,” she replied gaily; “but I can’t help saying that.”
“We’ll beat you next time,” went on Phil, and he dodged back to escape a little blow which Madge aimed at him with her small flag. Then the two laughed. Tom, who was chatting with Ruth, heard them, and he half turned to see what was going on. He was just in time to see Phil grasp both Madge’s hands, and his face turned red. Ruth noticed it, and she said:
“Phil and Madge seem to get on well together.”
“Almost too well,” was Tom’s thought, but he said nothing and changed the subject.
“Well, Tom,” said Phil at length, “I suppose we’d better go dress like respectable citizens. You’ve got a spot of mud on your nose.”
“And you have one on your ear,” added Ruth. “I think Tom—I mean Mr. Parsons—looks quite artistic with that beauty spot.”
“We can dispense with the ‘Mister,’ if you like, Ruth,” said Tom boldly.
“Oh!” laughed Ruth. “I don’t know what my brother will say. Eh, Phil?”
“Oh, I guess it’s safe to call ‘Dominie’ Parsons by his front handle,” said Phil. “He’s warranted not to bite. Go ahead, sis.”
“All right,” she agreed with a laugh. “There—Tom”—and she hesitated prettily at the name—“better run along and wash up.”
“Will you wait here for us?” asked Tom. “We’ll take you over to Fairview, then, eh, Phil?”
“Surest thing you know!” exclaimed the quarter-back. “That is, if Madge is agreeable.”
He looked at her. She blushed just a trifle, and, with a little gesture, answered:
“If Ruth insists on having her brother, why——”
“But I don’t want my brother!” cried Ruth gaily. “Whoever heard of a sister walking with her own brother? I’m going to let you have him, and I—er—I——” She paused, blushing.
“I’ll fill in!” cried Tom quickly.
Madge looked at him, but said nothing.
A little later on Tom, beside Ruth, and Phil, walking with Madge, started for the trolley to Fairview. As they were crossing the campus, which was thronged with players, visitors and some of the Boxer Hall team and its supporters, Wallops, the messenger, came along with a telegram in his hand.
“Is that for me?” asked Phil eagerly, and his face was pale, while his voice trembled. His sister looked quickly at him. Evidently she feared the same thing he did.
“No; it’s for Professor Tines,” replied the messenger, and Phil breathed a sigh of relief as Wallops passed on.
Garvey Gerhart, who, with Langridge, was standing near Phil at the time, started. Then a curious look came over his face.
“Langridge,” he asked the sophomore, “have you anything to do?”
“Nothing special. Why?”
“Well, if you haven’t, come along with me. I’ve just thought of an idea.”
“They’re mighty scarce,” retorted the former pitcher. “Don’t let it get away.”
“Take a walk over by the chapel, and I’ll tell you,” went on Gerhart. “There isn’t such a crowd there.”
Phil and Tom, with the two girls, were soon on the way to the co-educational college. The trip was enlivened by laughter and jokes. Madge and Phil seemed very good friends, and, as for Tom, though he wondered at the sudden companionship that had sprung up between the quarter-back and the pretty girl he had once been so anxious to get away from Langridge, he could not help but congratulate himself on knowing Ruth. Still, he couldnot altogether understand Madge. He had been fond of her—he was still—and he knew that she had liked him. The slender tie of relationship between them was no bar to an affection that differed in degree from cousinly. Yet Madge plainly showed her liking for Phil. Could it be, Tom thought, that she was jealous of him, and took this method of showing it? He did not think Madge would do such a thing, yet he felt that part of her gaiety and good spirits, when in company with the handsome quarter-back, were assumed for some purpose.
“If it wasn’t that Ruth is such a nice girl, and that Phil and I are such friends, I’d almost think that he and I were—well—rivals,” thought Tom. “Oh, hang it all! What’s the use of getting sentimental? They’re both nice girls—very nice—the—the only trouble is I don’t know which I think the nicer.”
The two chums left the girls at the Fairview College campus, for it was getting late. Tom shook hands with Ruth, and then walked over to Madge to say good-by. She had just finished speaking to Phil.
“Well, when can your ‘cousin’ come over to see you again, Madge?” asked Tom with a smile.
He held out his hand, but Madge affected not to see it. Tom felt uncomfortable, and then, as if she realized it, she said to him:
“Well, ‘Cousin’ Tom, I don’t know that you’llcareto come over to see me again,” and with that she turned and walked away.
Tom remained staring after her for a moment. Then, with a shrug of his shoulders, he wheeled and joined Phil, who had been a silent witness to the little scene.
“Say, aren’t girls odd?” asked Tom.
“Very,” agreed his chum. “But you said that once before, you know.”
“No; did I?” asked Tom, and he was rather silent on the way back to Randall.
Meanwhile, Langridge and Gerhart had spent much time strolling about the chapel walk. It was getting dusk, and the fading light of the perfect fall day was shining through the wonderful, stained-glass windows of the little church. The long casements, with representations of biblical scenes, were a soft glow of delicate hues. But the two lads had no eyes for these beauties.
“I think that will put a crimp in his playing!” Gerhart remarked, as he paused to light an oriental cigarette, or, rather, something that passed for one.
“But it’s risky,” expostulated Langridge. “If it’s found out, and it’s sure to be, you’ll have to leave college.”
“I don’t care. I’d be willing to, if I could have my revenge on him for keeping me off the team.I don’t like it here, anyhow. The other game I put up on him didn’t work, but this one will.”
“And when will you try it?”
“At the last and deciding game. The way I figure it is that the final tussle will come between Randall and Boxer Hall. I’ll be ready with it then. It will certainly knock him out.”
“But it may lose us the game and the championship.”
“What do I care! I’ll be square with Clinton, and that’s what I want. I got the idea when I saw how frightened he was when Wallops had that telegram. Don’t you think it will work?”
“Sure it will work. It’s a great idea, but—but——” and Langridge hesitated. “It’s a brutal trick, just the same.”
“Oh, you’re too chicken-hearted. Come on and I’ll buy you a drink. That will put some life in you.”
“All right,” said Langridge weakly, and he went.
Out on the athletic ground Grasshopper Backus was practicing the standing broad jump. It was one of the things he was always at, whence his nickname. But, as Holly Cross used to say, “Grasshopper had about as much chance of making the track team as he had of making a perfect score at tennis,” a game which the big lad abhorred. For, though Grasshopper was very fond of jumping and practiced it every time he got a chance, there was something wrong with his method, and he never could get beyond the preliminaries in a contest. Still, he kept at it.
“Why don’t you give up?” asked Phil, who, with Tom and Sid, strolled down where the lone student was leaping away as if the championship of the college depended on it.
“Say, you let me alone,” objected Grasshopper, as he prepared for a jump. “I beat my own record a while ago.”
“By how much?” asked Phil.
“Well, not much; a quarter of an inch, but that shows I’m improving.”
“Yes; at that rate you’ll be through college, and a post graduate like Bricktop before you make enough gain to count,” declared Tom.
“Oh, you let me alone!” exclaimed the exasperated one. With that he jumped, and then, with a measuring tape, he carefully noted the distance he had covered.
“Any gain?” asked Sid.
“No; I went back an inch then,” was the reply.
“Like the frog in the well,” went on Phil. “He jumped up three feet every day, and fell back four feet every night.”
“Aw, quit!” begged Grasshopper, who was sensitive, in spite of his enormous bulk.
“You go high enough, but you don’t go far enough,” commented Sid. “Now, if they allow hurdling in football, you’d be right in it for jumping over the line to make a touch-down.”
“Maybe they’ll change the rules so as to allow it,” spoke Grasshopper hopefully.
“Get out, you old Stoic!” cried Phil. “Come and take a walk with us. Tom is going to blow us to ginger ale.”
“No; I’m going to keep at it until I beat my best mark,” and the jumper again got on the line.
“Curious chap,” commented Phil, as the three chums walked on.
“But as good as they make ’em,” added Tom.
“That’s what!” spoke Sid fervently.
Snail Looper soon recovered from the effects of the hard Boxer Hall game, and practice was resumed with the ’varsity bucking against the scrub. There was a big improvement shown in the first team, for the players had demonstrated that they could meet with an eleven counted among the best, and win from it.
“Well, fellows, are you all ready for the trip Saturday?” asked the Coach at the conclusion of the practice. “None of you are falling behind in studies, I hope?”
Captain Cross assured Mr. Lighton that every man on the team was A1 when it came to scholarship.
“Now, a word of advice,” went on the coach. “Don’t get nervous over this out-of-town trip. We’re going up against a hard team, and on strange grounds, but just think of it as if you were going to play Fairview, or Boxer Hall, or Dodville Prep right here. The worst feature of out-of-town games is that they throw the men off their stride. Don’t let that happen to you.”
They all promised that it should not, and then the players separated. The coach had arranged for a game with a distant college—Wescott University—which boasted of a superb eleven. Itmeant a long trip on the train, two days spent away from Randall, and a day to come back in.
The journey to Wescott University was much enjoyed by the eleven and the substitutes. They reached the city at dusk, and were at once taken to the hotel, where quarters had been secured for them. A big crowd of students had planned to come from Randall to see the game, a special excursion train having been arranged for.
“Now, fellows, early to bed to-night,” stipulated the coach after supper was over. “No skylarking, and don’t go to eating a lot of trash. I want you all to be on edge. We’ll devote to-morrow to practice, and the next day to wiping up the gridiron with Wescott.”
Tom and Phil roomed together, and at midnight Tom, who had just fallen into a doze, after envying the sound slumber of his chum, was awakened by the latter.
“I’m sick, Tom,” said Phil faintly.
“What’s the matter, old man?” asked the left-end anxiously, and he jumped out of bed, turning on the electric light.
“I don’t know, but I’m dizzy, and I feel—well, rotten, to put it mildly.”
“That’s too bad. Can I get you anything?”
“Better call Mr. Lighton. I don’t want to take a lot of dope unless he says so.”
Tom quickly dressed and called the coach, whowas on the same floor where all the football players had their rooms. He came in quickly, and after one glance at Phil insisted on calling the hotel physician. The doctor went through the usual procedure, and left some medicine for Phil.
“What is it?” asked the coach of the physician.
“Nothing, only his stomach is a little upset. Change of diet and water will sometimes do it. He’ll be all right in the morning.”
Phil was better the next day, but when he went out to practice with the lads, there was a lassitude in his movements, and a lack of snap in his manner of running the team, that made several open their eyes. Mr. Lighton said nothing, but Tom whispered to his chum to “brace up.” Phil tried to, and managed to get through the practice with some return of his former vim. He went to bed early that night, and slept soundly—too heavily, Tom thought, as it might indicate fever.
The day of the game, however, Phil seemed all right. His face was paler than usual, and there was a grimness about his lips that Tom seldom saw. The Randall boys had light practice in the morning, running through the signals, and then took a rest until it was time to go on the field.
There was a big attendance, and the cheers of the small contingent of Randall supporters could hardly be heard. The preliminary practice seemed to go all right, and when the whistle blew therewas a confident eleven that lined up against Wescott. The play was hard and snappy, with much kicking and open work. The rivals of Randall had a couple of backs who were excellent punters, and the visitors were kept busy chasing the ball. But there came a change, and when Randall had the pigskin Phil rushed his men up the field to such good advantage that they scored the first touch-down, to the no small dismay of the Wescott team.
“Now, Phil, some more work like that,” said Holly Cross, but the quarter-back did not answer.
Wescott got possession of the ball toward the close of the first half, and with surprising power rushed it up the field. In less time than had been thought possible they had a touch-down. Randall lost the pigskin on fumbles, and when Wescott got it again they kicked a field goal. This ended the half.
Phil staggered as he walked to the dressing-room for the rest period.
“What’s the matter?” asked the coach quickly.
“Nothing—I’m—I’m all right,” answered the quarter-back, and he gritted his teeth hard.
Wescott kicked off in the second half, and Holly Cross managed to run the ball well back.
“Rip out another touch-down!” the captain cried as he got in place for the first scrimmage. Phil began on the signal. He hesitated. The playerslooked at him quickly. He was swaying back and forth on the ground. Once more he tried to give the combination of letters and figures. But the words would not come. He put his hands out to steady himself, and a moment later, with a groan, toppled over.
“He’s hurt!” cried Tom as he sprang to the side of his chum. “But I never knew Phil to give up.”
Holly Cross was bending over him, while the other Randallites crowded up, and the Wescott lads stretched out on the field. A doctor ran in from the side lines on a signal from the coach. He felt of Phil’s pulse.
“Why, the chap has a high fever!” he exclaimed. “He has collapsed from it. He can’t play any more! Take him off the field!”
A groan went up from the Randall players.