Things went badly for Queen's in the second half of the game. Hillard was as brilliant and erratic as ever, and made several dashing runs around the ends, but he inevitably slipped up somewhere, and his unfortunate fumbling lost his team many more yards than he gained for it. Chip played like a demon, trying to justify himself in his own mind for the trick he had played Jimmy, the team and the school. He was in every interference and worked every instant to put Queen's in a position to score, but it was all to no avail. Chip was so intent on his work with the back field that he failed to hold the team together, and as the game went on the Queen's presented a less and less organized effort. Barrows slammed into them for big gains when the Academy had the ball, and at last solved all ofthe Queen's attacks so completely that the old school eleven was making no headway.
Finally, after an exchange of punts, Boston Wheeler, being obliged to kick against the wind, Barrows took up the march to Queen's goal from the latter's 35-yard line. Queen's line was tired physically from the pounding, and weak, for there was not enough stamina now to resist the bigger Academy fellows, who seemed to be growing stronger every minute. There was no Jimmy Turner now to drive his sturdy body fearlessly against the oncoming Barrowites.
"It's all over now," said the Wee One, "the team has lost what little fighting spirit it had at first. They will be buried out of sight with not even a leg to mark the graveyard."
Frank admitted that there was no help for it.
Horton walked up and down the sideline, shaking his head, unable to stop what was coming.
Soon the Barrows' catapult was rammed over the line for a touchdown. The angle was too difficult for the goal when the ball had been brought out, and Morton, who did the kicking, failed. From that point on, the game was a rout. Harding, having none of the qualities for leadership about him, could not hold his team together.He was useless in the emergency which was now upon the Queen's eleven. Chip tried to help by banging his men on the back, and crying desperately to "hold them, hold them, show your sand." But if they ever had any sand it had been scattered earlier in the game.
And how about the Freshman halfback who had been so unkindly thrown out of the game, and who sat watching this second half going against the Queen's School eleven? He was only a Freshman, but black despair was in his heart. He was only a Freshman, but he loved the old place, and he wanted to have the privilege of helping to put the school flag uppermost in all the contests in which she had a part. And to be so meanly tricked for no fault of his, and pitched off the field before the whole school was almost more than he could stand.
When the thing happened he was perfectly well aware how Chip had served him, and he sprang to his feet to settle the matter then and there with his fists, but after a tense moment his senses came back to him. Perhaps others had seen what had actually happened, and he would not have to bear the shame. But no one seemed to have noticed it. The coach evidentlyhad not happened to see the incident, lynx-eyed though he was.
"He may have been looking aside at that moment," thought Jimmy, "and I mustn't blame him. I just looked like a dummy when he turned and saw the ball rolling around on the ground, and a hole big enough to drive an ox-cart through waiting for me. But I'll settle up with Dixon some day, and I hope it isn't far off." He ground the words out between his clinched teeth, and his look boded no good for Chip Dixon when the day of settlement should arrive.
What need is there to go into detail of that disastrous afternoon? Three times more did the jubilant Barrowites plough through Harding's demoralized eleven, and when the final whistle blew, the Queen's crowd saw the awful record on the board of 23 to nothing. It was the worst defeat that had ever come to Queen's at the hands of any but Warwick. It was a sting never to be forgotten, and only to be wiped out with reverse figures twice the size.
"Well, I'm glad that's over," said Gleason to Frank as the crowd slowly filed down off the stand, and the tired teams drew each into a knot and gave the yell for the opponents. "Ifit hadn't been for that rotten fumble of young Turner I think the Wheel-barrows wouldn't have gone home so full."
"It wasn't a fumble, Mr. Gleason," said the Wee One, "and if you thought it was you better run right along to the oculist and have him put his prettiest pair of specs on you!"
"Oh! p'raps it was a clever little piece of legerdemain then," grunted Gleason, but neither Frank nor the Wee One heard him. They were hotfooting it after Jimmy, who was tailing after the squad with his eyes on the ground and gloom in his heart.
Frank ran up behind him and slipped his arm around his shoulder. "We saw it, Jimmy," he said. "I didn't think he dare carry a grudge against you so far. But it lost him the game."
"I don't know," returned Jimmy. "They were too heavy for us." But there was a lightening of his spirits when he felt that the play was not entirely misunderstood. "Dixon made it hard for me to get the ball several times, but he always did it so cleverly that no one could see him. I wouldn't believe it if I hadn't seen it and been the victim of it as well. He got me out and his room-mate in."
"He got you out sure enough," said Frank. "I suspected he would swing something against you, and he was determined to get his room-mate in at any cost."
"Yes, and it cost him the game," said Patterson. "That's what you get for playing favorites. I'll bet the scrub could have put up a better argument against the Academy than the First eleven, the way it played to-day. Wonder what the coach will say to them?"
But the coach had little to say.
"Boys," he said, simply and without any venom in his words, "there's something wrong with you, and we'll try to find it next week. The way you played to-day, you haven't the ghost of a show to win your big game two weeks from now. You are a sore disappointment. I've done the best I could to show you how, but I can't go out there on the field and play your game for you."
It was quite evident from Jimmy's actions that he wanted to be let alone, so Frank and the Wee One slipped out of the gymnasium and headed for the school yard.
"Frank, what are we going to do about it? I don't want Queen's to lose to those farmers up the river, or I'd go to Horton with what Iknow and make a clean breast of it. That would certainly get Dixon fired from the team, but we'd be no better off, for in spite of what you may say about Chip, he's a peach of a quarter."
"Let's go to Dixon and tell him we know that Jimmy's failure to get the ball was due to him, and not to a stupid fumble, as it seems to have appeared to everyone else."
"We'll have our trouble for our pains I think, and I wouldn't be surprised if he fired us both out of his room, and shied a few boots, with feet in them, after us. Chip's got a bad temper, and he's not in a good humor just now."
"Let's try Harding. Even if he is a dummy, I don't think he'd stand for Dixon making a goat out of him and the rest of his team simply because he wants his room-mate and a brother Gamma to play."
"No use, Frank. Harding hasn't spunk enough. He's a pretty fair end, but he has no more business to be captain than I have to challenge for the heavyweight championship of the world. I'm afraid we can't do anything without busting up this whole eleven."
"What do you suppose the Doctor would do ifit was proven to him that Chip threw the game away for a favorite?" asked Frank.
"Well, if I know anything about Old Glass-eye, I'd say he'd put a stop to the meteoric career of this football eleven of ours. And that's what I don't want to see. If we can only force Chip to drop his grudge against Turner, and get down to business, we might still have a fighting chance, but it's hopeless I'm afraid. The whole of Gamma Tau is behind him. And the worst of it is he's knocked poor Jimmy, and has done it so cleverly that even Horton thinks Jimmy's unreliable in a tight pinch, and if there's anything Horton won't forgive a man for, it is to fail when he is most needed. With no one strong enough to push his case and the captain and Dixon dead against him, there's not much more chance for Turner now."
Frank had been thinking hard, and now he stopped dead in his tracks.
"By Jove!" he said, "I think I know a way to force Chip Dixon to do as we want to have him. If he doesn't do it, there's a fair chance of his ending his career here. I hate to be mean, but when the other fellow is mean and will not let up, we've got to meet him with his own weapons."
"Well, fire away, young Sleuth; do you hold a deadly secret over his head? Out with it if you do."
Frank quickly gave the Wee One a description of the hazing, which was interrupted very frequently by Patterson with snorts of indignation.
"I'll bet Dixon was mixed up in that affair. If we only knew, we'd fix him."
"But supposing we did know?"
"We'd have him where the wool was short and the skin tender."
"Well, that's just it, for when I got back to the room that night Gleason had picked up a wristlet that Chip wore the first day I came here. I haven't seen a wristlet on him since. I looked particularly to-day, and he had none on."
"Any marks on the wristlet you found?" inquired the Wee One, eagerly, beginning to catch the drift of Frank's plan.
"Yes, 'C. D.' inked plainly on the inside of one of the small straps, and besides that I made a hunt in the grass near the boat-house the next morning, trying to trace out the way we went to the river, and accidentally came across the strap with which they tied my hands, and on that was printed Chip's full name. It looks like one ofthe straps which go around an extension grip. Here it is, and here's the leather wristlet."
"Jumping geewhillikins! Come to my arms, you Sherlock Holmes. We have Chip Dixon where we want him. This seems to be certain proof, and if we gave the story to Glass-eye, Chip wouldn't last long enough to pack his suit case. The old man is dead down on hazers since the accident we had here two years ago. He gives every new class a red-hot talk about it.
"To-night you and I will make a call on Mr. Dixon," added the Wee One, who had now thoroughly espoused the Freshman's cause, not only for that individual's sake, but for the sake of justice to the school. "I'll come over to-night after supper, and we will have a little session with our shifty quarterback, which, I think, will make him so gentle that he'll eat off our hand. So long, see you about half-past seven," and the Wee One tore off, but not before Frank had time to shout: "This is all between ourselves."
"Sure," returned the Wee One, "ourselves and Mr. Christopher."
When Frank and the Wee One knocked on Dixon's door that night in the second entry, first floor of Russell Hall, it must be confessed that they were not as brave as they had felt themselves to be earlier in the evening when the plan of campaign had been decided. Frank felt that he had been at Queen's too short a time to be taking the high hand with the quarterback of the eleven, and he was uncertain as to how it would affect his standing in the school.
"I tell you, Willie, I wish there was some other way to get at this," Frank said as they cut across the broad walk under the elms.
"Have you some other plan under your bonnet?"
"No, that's the worst of it. I don't like the idea of being put in the position of forcing Jimmy on the eleven."
"Oh, what are you sticking at? If you don't do it the force will be on Jimmy to keep him off. It may be too late even now, for Jimmy had his chance, and to most of those who saw the game the indications were that he is not to be trusted with the ball in a tight place. We know better because we were suspicious of Chip and had a guess as to what he might be up to."
"All right," said Frank, "but just the same I wish we could get at it in a different way. Probably all on account of me, Jimmy will now get in bad with the Gamma crowd. I wish I hadn't come to school at all."
"Oh, come, if you are getting chills in your pedal extremities we will go back and put you to bed and warm you up with a hot water bottle. But if you are looking for victory, as Napoleon said, 'follow me into the breach.'"
"Don't you worry about my feet, Wee One, they're all right. I was thinking of Jimmy only; I want to help him, not hurt him."
By the time the boys had finished their discussion they had reached the entry.
"Do you know his room?" inquired Frank.
"Yes, second floor right," said the Wee One as he began to climb. "Rooms with Hillard, asyou probably know. Hope Hillard isn't in. If he is it will make it harder to get to the subject, because Hillard would be displaced by Jimmy if he were found good enough to make the team. Here we are."
The Wee One's sturdy knock drew a loud response from within: "Come in." It was Chip's voice, and the tone did not sound pleasant.
Patterson pushed open the door and stalked into the room, as brave as a lion. Frank followed on his heels.
"Came to see you on a little business, Dixon," volunteered the Wee One, as he took a seat over by the fireplace.
"Indeed! You came at a bad time. I'm trying to get back work done."
"Sorry we disturb you, but it's important. This is my friend, Frank Armstrong."
Chip nodded curtly. "Yes, I've seen him before. He hasn't been here very long, has he? Quite an infant, so to speak," and a sneer played on his face.
"No, he hasn't been here very long, but he's going to stay a long while, and may grow up to quarterback of the School eleven or something like that, or make something better," retorted theWee One, who now that the battle was in sight was rather enjoying the preliminary skirmishes.
"Well, what's your business?" said Chip, roughly. "I don't want to appear rude, but I've got a lot of work to do before I go to bed. Football takes most all a fellow's time just about now."
"It was about football that we came over to see you," said Frank, speaking now for the first time.
"Is that so? It's a little late to be going out for the squad," said Dixon, "and, besides that, I'm not the captain."
"I'm aware of that," retorted Frank, "and I'm not going out for the squad this year. We are interested in a fellow who is now on the squad."
"What do you think of Jimmy Turner, that young Freshman who has been showing up so well lately?" broke in the Wee One.
"He'll be good by-and-by, but he is punk now on handling the ball. It was his fumble to-day when we had a chance to score on Barrows that upset the team."
"It wasn't his fumble, and you know that as well as any one," and Freshman though he was, Frank looked the quarterback of the elevenstraight in the eye. That individual had started back at the contradiction, but now recovered himself and, shutting up his fist, he took a step in Frank's direction.
"What do you mean, you little pup? Didn't Turner drop the ball? He could have scored easily if he'd had the gumption to hang onto it."
"He dropped the ball all right, but he dropped it because you didn't give him a chance to get it," said Frank, his fighting blood mounting to his cheeks.
For a moment it looked as if there was to be a scrap right on the spot. At the first accusation Chip rushed over to Frank with his eyes blazing and fists clinched. Frank held his ground, and he was reinforced in an instant by the Wee One, who jumped the moment Chip made his rush. Perhaps the consciousness that he was in the wrong and that the accusation was true withheld the blows that Chip appeared ready to rain upon his visitor.
"Come on, Dixon, let's talk it over," said the Wee One. "Put your bad temper in your pocket, and we will get down to business."
"All right, go ahead, but I don't want any oneto come to my room and tell me that I chucked the game this afternoon."
"But supposing it was true."
Chip blazed out again. "I've a notion to chuck you both out of the room by the way of the window."
"That's neither hospitable nor kind. What we came here to find out is, are you willing to give young Turner a fair chance to make the eleven if he is good enough?" said the Wee One.
"What are you driving at, anyway? I'm neither the captain nor the coach."
"Of course you are not, fortunately, but you're the quarter, and as such you can make or break a halfback that is trying for a place on the team. At present your room-mate, Hillard, is playing at right half, and, naturally, since he is a fraternity brother of yours, you want him to stay there. And you don't want any one else, even though some one else might improve the eleven, to win his place. Isn't that so?"
Chip sat glowering at the speaker, but did not answer.
"All right. There's an old saying I've seen somewhere, and I guess it's true, that 'silence gives consent.' You admit what I've said?"
"I don't admit anything of the kind," snapped Chip. "Hillard is a better back than this fellow Turner will ever be."
"Since," went on the Wee One, as cool as a cucumber, and paying no attention to Chip's interruption, "since you agreed that what I say is true, I want to know if you will play square with Turner. Goodness knows this eleven has been messed up by you and your friends in Gamma Tau pretty badly, and if there's the smallest little bit of a chance to improve it, and let us have an opportunity to pull out the Warwick game, you ought to be willing for the sake of yourself, if not for the school, to drop the favorites."
Chip was showing evidences of the greatest difficulty to keep from bringing the matter then and there to blows. He was opening and shutting his hands and gritting his teeth. Finally he burst forth:
"I don't know what you duffers are here for, trying some kind of bullyragging on me. It's you fellows who are playing favorites, not me. Now I want you both to get out of this room and stay out. I'll play just whoever I wish on that eleven."
"Oh, so you are the captain, after all—I thought you said you weren't."
Chip could have bitten his tongue out for the admission, but it was too late now to change it, and, having made the statement, he went on: "I've got enough of a say to keep Turner on the side line. He's only a Freshman," he said contemptuously. "If he's good enough he can make the team some other year. He can't make it this one, not as long as I'm quarterback."
"Oh, very well, Mr. Dixon, if that's the way you feel about it there's no use in our staying here and keeping you from getting that lesson," said the Wee One, "but getting it will be a waste of time because you will not have a chance to use it. We only wanted a promise from you to let Turner alone, and not to hinder him in any development he may make. Since you are not willing, we have a little story for the Doctor in the morning. If he hears it, you might as well pack your pajamas, and buy your ticket for New York. Good night, Mr. Dixon," said the Wee One, making a sweeping bow. "Come on, Frank, it's no use, the quarterback has a severe case of astigmatism."
Frank rose and the two headed for the door.But Chip's curiosity was aroused. He followed them to the entry. "May I ask what you have that you think the Doctor will be interested to hear?"
"Oh, no," said the Wee One, "we don't want to take your time. It wouldn't help our case any. We must be hurrying along."
"But I insist on knowing," said Chip, following to the head of the stairs. "If you are going to tell the Doctor something about me I have a right to know. What is it?" Alarm began to show in his bearing.
"Well, if you are dying to know about it, it is just this. We have pretty good evidence that you were one of the bunch that hazed Frank here, the night he came to school."
Chip gave a sneering laugh. "Oh, that's it, is it? I guess you won't be able to prove that. And that's what you've been taking up my time for? You are a pretty pair of young sleuths, ha, ha, ha, ha!" Chip threw his head back and laughed long and noisily.
The Wee One waited till Chip had laughed himself out and then said, very quietly: "Well, maybe we can't prove it, and perhaps we were wasting your time and our own. Good night."
Chip stood grinning as the boys took a couple of steps down the stairs. Suddenly the Wee One stopped, put his hand in his pocket, and pulled out the leather wristlet. "Oh, by the way, Chip, is this yours?" he asked, holding it up so that Chip could see it plainly.
"Sure, it's mine," said Chip. "Where did you find it——" and there he stopped as a grin spread over the faces of the two boys who were watching him intently. "No, I guess it isn't, after all; it looked like one I lost," he added, seeing that he had made a slip.
"Well, I'm sure it is yours. There's a very pretty little bunch of initials inside, and they look remarkably like C. D. And how about this perfectly good little strap?" holding up the strap that Frank had picked up on the playground the morning after the hazing. "This has the legend 'C. Dixon' printed very plainly on it. You make very pretty letters, Chip. You will make a fortune as a painter of window signs when you grow up and finish your education." The Wee One's tone was smooth, but irritating, and Chip was ready to fight, but he saw at once that he was powerless, and he knew very well what the Doctor'sattitude would be. The proof was before him.
"Come back into the room," he said, and when they were inside the door, "What do you want me to do?"
"All we want to have you do is to give Jimmy Turner a fair chance. If he is good enough to make the team we don't want you to put anything in his way," said Frank. "In return for this we agree to say nothing about the hazing."
"It's a bargain," said Chip. "Now give me the straps."
"Oh, dear, no," said the Wee One, "we will return those when the season is over. But for the present I think I'll hang onto them, thank you. Good night, Mr. Dixon." The Wee One put the emphasis a little on the Mister. Chip did not answer, but stood with his back towards them, looking out of the window.
"Well, I guess that will hold him for a while," said the Wee One as they left the building. "And now it is up to young Freshman Turner himself."
The Monday following the interview between Frank, the Wee One and Chip Dixon, found things moving very much better down at football practice. Horton turned up with a smiling face at the gymnasium that afternoon while the squad was dressing. "Boys," he said, "we are going to let bygones be bygones. You've been playing worse ball than you knew, and after that awful game on Saturday I thought we might as well all go over to the river and jump in. But that isn't the way to win out."
One of the boys, lacing a refractory shoe, grinned up at him. All had expected a heckling and were not prepared for this.
"But that isn't the way," he continued. "This is the last week we have, that is, the last week of hard work before our Warwick game, for we can't do much the next week which will count foranything. It will be just the polishing-off process. So I'm going to ask you if you will give me your whole attention. We are going out to make this season a success in spite of the up-and-down game we've been playing. Are you with me?"
There was a general murmur of agreement among all the fellows, and a few spoke out. "We will do our best, Mr. Horton," said big Boston Wheeler. "The trouble is that we don't seem to get together."
"That's just it," returned Horton, "you are never thinking about the team; it seems to be always about your individual selves, and no team ever amounted to much that was simply eleven men. The eleven men must work as one man to make gains and stop gains by the other fellow. When you work that way and have confidence in yourselves individually as well as in yourselves as a team, there's nothing can stop you. We have a chance yet to win our big game, a fighting chance if everyone will work with a will. Now, that's all I've got to say, the rest of it is up to you fellows."
It was with something a good deal like determination that the squad tramped out onto the gridiron that afternoon, and under the urgings ofHorton, the First eleven gave the Second such a pummelling as it had never before received. Everything went with a rush. Jimmy was playing on the Second and putting every ounce he had into the work, but he was unable to stop the charges of Dutton, who came through the line like a bull.
Three times the First scored on the Second, and twice held the Second safely inside the 10-yard line. Horton was jubilant, and the practice ended with hope high in every one's heart. Tuesday's practice was even better, and the school, which had fallen away from the support of the eleven, began to take more than a listless interest in the progress of things on the gridiron. Jimmy was still on the Second, and taking most of the punishment from big Dutton. Hillard seemed to have taken on a new grip of the ball and was playing faultlessly. Jimmy had had only one chance at the position on the First, and while he was in this position Chip had lived up to the bargain.
"Wonder what's come over Dixon," said Jimmy to Frank that night, "he gave me that ball to-day as if it were the dearest possession he ever owned and was afraid I might break it. He was socareful he almost made it hard for me, but hard in a different way from the day the Barrows put it over us. No chance for a fumble there."
Frank and the Wee One exchanged winks.
"Oh, I guess Chip has had a change of heart," said the latter. "Reformed, maybe."
"He certainly has reformed as far as I'm concerned. I grew quite fond of him before the practice was over, although I know he doesn't like me."
"Whether he likes you or not makes no particular difference as long as he gives that ball to you right," said Frank.
"Oh, but his sweet disposition comes too late, for I'll not get another chance. Hillard is playing like a breeze, and he's certain to go in first. My only chance is for him to break a leg or his neck or something, then I might have a lick at it."
"But in the meantime you are learning the game. I saw Horton speaking to you the other day; what did he say?"
"Oh, he told me to keep at it, I might make the team in a year or two."
"Don't believe him," broke in Lewis. "Horton was asking for a little bit of advice from my room-mate." Lewis, since his retirement fromthe onerous duties of holding down the sideline, assumed the position of critic and cynic. "And that makes me think," Lewis continued, "I saw Horton talking to you the other day in the gymnasium, Frank. Was he asking you for advice, too?"
"Oh, just telling me that I ought to come out and get a little practice at the game myself. He said he thought I was too light this year, but that I might thicken up next year. He put me through a course of sprouts on what I knew and what I didn't know."
"Didn't take you long to tell him that latter section, I suppose," ventured the loquacious Lewis, "but please take warning from my case and recognize that even the most gifted coach sees only a small amount of the real talent." Lewis threw out his chest.
"Frank, did they tell you how Lewis distinguished himself the first day he was out?" said Jimmy.
"Well, that story ought not to be lost. Horton picked up a couple of elevens the first afternoon we were out, along about the end of the first week of practice. He had been showing us how to fall on the ball, which was where Lewisshone bright as the morning star. When the ball got loose and Lewis fell on it, it never got away, but it generally needed repairs, he fell on it so earnestly, and you know Lewis isn't a featherweight."
"This story is a chestnut, Frank," said Lewis. "Jimmy got it out of a book somewhere and retails it about me. He is giving himself more and more to unbridled fiction."
"Well," continued Jimmy, going on without seeming to notice the interruption from the hero of the story, "Lewis was placed as a halfback on one of these catch-as-catch-can teams. It was an impressive sight to see Lewis trying to run with that ball. About the time he had made up his mind which way to dodge, some one had him about the legs. Horton was good natured then and only laughed. But there was one thing that Lewis could do to the Queen's taste; as I told you, he could fall on that ball, and once, when it came popping out of the line, he dropped on it and saved the day for his side."
"See him swell up at this part of the story," said Frank.
"That particular afternoon," went on Jimmy, "in one of the scrimmages in which Lewis' teamwas on the defensive, one of the other backs came up to the line, but owing to the mix-up of the signals and a mix-up of players, some one lost his head-gear, and it rolled out on the side that Lewis was defending. He immediately fell on it while the runner recovered, swept over him and scored, and that was the last of Lewis as a real football player. He looked impressive after that coming onto the field, and I think once or twice Horton let him carry the balls, but they were the spare ones which were tied together with a string."
Lewis took the chaffing good-naturedly. "But wait until next year," he said. "I'm going out again and I'll try for center. My weight and fine build will strengthen up that weak spot I can tell you."
"Maybe we'll all be on the team next year," said Jimmy.
"And then it will be a mess, sure," said Frank.
As the boys were still joking about the possibilities of Lewis for center on the team of the following year, there came a knock at the door.
"Come in," yelled Lewis, "don't stop to knock."
It was a Western Union Telegraph messenger.
"A telegram for Frank Armstrong," he said."Went to your room at No. 18, and the fellow over there said to pursue my diligent way thitherwards, and ask for one Frank Armstrong who might be in company of a fat boy with pink cheeks," Jimmy snickered, "and a brick top." It was now Lewis' turn to snicker.
Meantime Frank had taken the telegram and had broken the seal. He read it with the greatest surprise.
"Great Scott, fellows, listen to this:
"'New York, October 25. Frank Armstrong, Queen's School, Milton. David has decided to enter Queen's if possible. Will reach there Thursday. Signed, J. B. Powers.'"
"Can't get along without you. Overpowering magnetism and all that sort of thing," said Lewis.
"It's fine, isn't it?" said Frank. "The school is crowded, but if the Doctor has no objections I can take him over in No. 18 with me. There's barrels of room, and I'm sure Gleason wouldn't mind. He's a good old encyclopedia. He's busy just at present compiling records of the high jump since 1852."
"Why doesn't he go back to 1492," suggestedLewis. "Columbus was quite a little jumper himself."
"And there was the cow that jumped over the moon," said Jimmy; "tell him to get that record sure. The old bovine put them all in the shade."
"Come and tell him yourself," cried Frank, at the door. "I'm going over to see if we can't squeeze another couch in my sleeping den. It's not as big as the Grand Central, but if it can be managed, David is sure going to be with me."
"If the room is too small, why not try a trundle bed?" called out Lewis, but Frank was half way down the stairs and did not hear him.
Frank burst into No. 18 where Gleason was scratching away in his book of records. "Say, Gleason, got any objection to having another room-mate?"
"What, Web-foot, going to leave your old wife?" said Gleason, looking up in surprise.
"I don't mean that. The fellow I was down south with this summer has decided to come to Queen's, if he can get in. I know the dormitories are all crowded, and I'm willing to have him bunk in with me. He's a dandy chap. You'd like him."
"No objections from the Codfish," announced that individual. "We can set up a four-posterin the room here. It'll be very handy to hang our clothes on. We need more room here anyway," and he looked around at the disarray of clothes piled on chairs and tables and window seat. "Bring him in, sir, the more the merrier. Always room at the top," and Gleason returned to his scratching.
"It will not be necessary to put him in here. He can have half of my room," said Frank. "If the Doctor has no objection, it's settled. I had more room than I needed anyway."
"When's he coming?" inquired Gleason.
"The telegram I had says he's on the way and will be here Thursday."
"Is he a Web-foot, too?"
"No, David hasn't any feet to speak of. He walks with crutches and can't take part in athletics, but he's about the finest little chap you ever saw."
"Speaking of feet," said Gleason, "since you are not doing anything in football, why don't you go down to the track and do something there? You are a likely looking athlete, and you might be able to help old man Duffy win some points for Queen's. He needs candidates for every event. Nearly all the first string fellowsgraduated last year. Great chance for some young buck to distinguish himself."
"Why don't you go down and show him some speed yourself?"
"Me? Oh, I'd rather watch. You see I don't come of an athletic family. I'd rather set down what the other fellow does. Got to be some one to do that, you know."
The notion stuck in Frank's head. "I believe I'll do it," he said half to himself. "To-morrow I'll give myself up. I don't think anything will come of it, but I'd like to do something to help the school, and father has barred me out of football this year, but says I'll be hardened up enough if I stay out of it till next fall."
"You'll be hardened enough if you stay with me," said the Codfish, and Frank dived into his room, laughing.
Track athletics at Queen's had not been in a very flourishing condition for some years prior to the opening of our story. The popular sports were baseball and football, and these took the pick of the fellows who had a desire to do some athletic work. Patsy Duffy, the trainer of all the teams, managed now and then to find some pretty good men in the sprints and short distance runs, and he had once sent a team of six down to the Interscholastic games at New Haven, which picked up eleven points in second and third places, and that, when you consider that the school had less than 200 boys to draw from, is not so bad as it might be.
But although Queen's was never in any great danger of winning the Interscholastics, the school was nevertheless nearly always represented by some one. Warwick was, in track athletics, asin every other of the sports, the natural rival of Queen's, and for the last two years had made away with the annual track contest by a good, wide margin of points. The trainer had gone over the incoming class pretty thoroughly for material and had not found much of it, so he was pleased when Frank stepped up to him at the track the next afternoon and said he would like to try for a place on the team.
"Where did you come from?" said Patsy.
"From the Milton High School, but I never did much there in the way of athletics, excepting to play a little baseball and football."
"Can you run or jump?"
"Don't think so."
"Can you sprint or hurdle?"
"Afraid not."
"Jump?"
"Can't even jump, to my knowledge. But I'm willing to try any of them."
"Well, this doesn't sound promising, but some of the best I've had knew nothing about it when they came here, and I've sent some of the best men they ever had to Yale and Harvard and Princeton. Ever hear of Tinker Howe, the great Yale half-miler? Yes; well, he was one of themen I trained. Came out here one day and at first couldn't run a half mile in three minutes. But he came along fast. And there was Winchester, the fellow who played tackle on Harvard last year, and who was one of the best shot-putters that ever went to Cambridge. He was one of our fellows, trained right in this little piece of ground."
"I don't believe I'll ever be like those fellows, but I want to try anything you think I'm fitted for."
"Well, suppose you run up to the gymnasium and get into some togs. Miggs, the rubber up there, will fit you out and if you like the work, and I like you, we'll fix you up with a regular suit. Hurry it up, and I'll have you jog around the track once or twice with Watkins here," indicating a young fellow who was prancing up and down the stretch with long, springy strides.
Frank was quickly equipped at the gymnasium with a jersey and a pair of misfit running trousers which Miggs had dug out somewhere for him. "I feel like a scarecrow," thought Frank, "but maybe after this performance to-day he will not consider my efforts worth much."
"Come on now," said Patsy, as Frank cametrotting back to the track. "Let's try a few starts. You will run only fifteen steps or so. Don't suppose you know anything about starting, Armstrong?"
"No, I guess I don't."
"All right. On your marks, get set, GO." Frank, accustomed to the starting signal for swimming, went away like a shot and ran away from the half-miler, who was taking things more leisurely.
"I thought you said you didn't know anything about starting," said Patsy, as he and Watkins came back to where the trainer stood.
"Oh, I forgot to tell you that I have done a little swimming racing, and we start about the same."
"So much the better. Some very good runners are spoiled because they can't start fast enough. When the pistol goes off you'd think they were going to take root. You don't seem to be bothered that way, but I'm afraid you haven't got stride enough for a long distance racer. Try it again."
The boys lined up and started at the word "Go," and again Frank started in excellent form; but this time Watkins was watching for him, andgot off his marks with more speed than before, although, even then, Frank led him a step.
Patsy was smiling as they came back to him. "Did you ever run a hundred yards, Armstrong? No? Well, I'm going to try you at that now and see what you can do. You have the appearance of a sprinter, at least as far as the first twenty yards go. Do you think you can hold it at the pace you set out?"
"Don't know, but I'll try."
By this time a half dozen other runners, in their airy, abbreviated costumes, who had been trotting around the track or taking little dashing spurts, had gathered around to see the new boy tried out, and there was a good deal of interest manifest when Patsy said he would have the new boy try a hundred yards dash.
Just at that moment the Codfish strolled up. "Hello, wifey," he said as he saw Frank in running costume; "took my advice, didn't you? You look handsome, but are you any good?"
"We are just going to try to find out," said Patsy. "I'm going to run him a hundred yards. Will you go up and start him? I want to take his time. Here's a pistol. Collins, go along with Armstrong and pace him down the full distance,and bring him as fast as he can come." Collins was the best sprinter of Queen's, as Frank afterward learned.
At the sound of the pistol, Collins was off with a great burst of speed, but Frank, in spite of his lack of training, followed him closely for half the distance. Then the training of the practised sprinter began to tell and Frank dropped behind, but not so far behind but that Patsy's face wore a much pleased grin when he finished. Collins, who was a Junior and slated for the captaincy if Gamma Tau didn't undertake to knock things out of gear with politics, came back and patted him on the shoulder. "It was well run, Freshman," he said.
"What did he do it in?" said Gleason, coming up to Patsy when Frank, who was not in the best of condition for sprinting, was recovering his wind. Patsy held up the watch. Eleven and two-fifth seconds, it said.
"By Jove, that's good time for a kid, and his first trial, and not in condition, isn't it?"
"It's first rate," said Patsy. "He will be a good one or I miss my guess. He has a good build for a sprinter."
Meantime Frank was taking a turn aroundthe back stretch, and when he came back, Patsy said: "Armstrong, that's enough for to-day." Frank was turning away when Patsy continued, "Don't go yet, I want to have you try a jump for me. We need a jumper badly, and you may be the fellow we are looking for. You said you never jumped?"
"No, only in fun, and the jumps were never measured."
"Well, come over here and try one or two, and we will see if you have any spring in your legs. Most natural sprinters have."
"You see," said Patsy as they reached the broad jump runway, "you get up your speed here and then strike this take-off board with whichever foot comes most convenient for you to jump from; lift yourself into the air and strike in that soft sawdust pit. The jump is measured from the face of the take-off to the point where you break the ground nearest to the take-off block. Do you get me?"
Frank nodded and walked down the runway, measuring carefully with his eye the distance he had to go.
"All ready," shouted Patsy; "come on!"
Frank took a run, gathering momentum as hecame. He saw ahead of him the trainer and Codfish Gleason and a dozen boys watching his effort, and in spite of his best attempts he could not concentrate his mind on that take-off block. It seemed to lie somewhere in a fog, and he simply kept on running with the result that he dashed across it into the sawdust, which is put there to break the fall of the jumpers, tried to stop, and went headlong. He picked himself up, covered with sawdust, and much chagrined at his failure.
"I want to try that over again," he said. "I couldn't seem to see where that block was, and I missed it."
Patsy grinned. "The best of them do that sometimes. It's one of the hardest things in jumping. As you come up to the block, you want to concentrate your mind on that place. Arrange your steps so you will come to it on the foot you can best jump from, and come down on the block as hard as you can, bouncing off it, so to speak, and going as far up in the air as you can. The momentum you have gained in your run will carry you along. That's the idea of the broad jump. And don't get nervous." Patsy communicated this information to Frank as he walked along with him to the head of the runway.
"The take-off, the take-off, the take-off," was drumming through Frank's mind as he came rushing down for it. So determined was he not to overrun the block that he under-did it this time, and he "took-off" about 14 inches before he reached the block. But even in spite of this handicap, the measuring tape showed a jump of 15 feet 6 inches.
"O, but," said Frank, "you are not measuring from where I jumped."
"That's not the way we do it. We measure, as I told you, from the face of the block, so that as you jumped you really handicapped yourself 14 inches. It would have been a very good jump, indeed, if that 14 inches hadn't been wasted. The best jumpers contrive their run so as to hit the center of the block squarely with the ball of the jumping foot, the toe even projecting over the block. Try it once more, and try not to over or under-run the block, but to hit it squarely."
"I never knew there was so much to jumping," said Frank, as he walked back for his third trial. "But this time I'm going to get it if it takes a leg."
Fixing the block firmly in his mind as he had been told, and also the idea of carrying as highas possible into the air, Frank came rushing down the runway. This time he struck the take-off like a veteran, rose in the air and was carried along by his speed. As he was coming down he threw his feet out in front of him so as to get as much distance as possible, but when he struck he had more distance than he could hold and fell backwards. His heels had broken the ground at 16 feet 9½ inches, but in his efforts to keep from falling he had put his hand behind him, and from the block to the break made by his hand it was only a little over 15 feet.
Frank thought it hard lines not to get all he had actually jumped, but saw at once that the rule was right—that the first break in the ground from the face of the take-off was the only right thing to go by, although his actual jump had been in this case two feet farther.
"That's all for to-day," said Patsy, "you've had enough for the first day."
But Frank pleaded for one more try to see if he could not get it right—the very last—and Patsy relented.
And this time Frank did get it right. He came carefully up to the block, got a good raise and carry, and held his footing when he struck theground. The tape measure, held by the Codfish and Patsy, showed 16 feet 3 2-5 inches, a remarkable jump, indeed, for an unpractised schoolboy.
"To-morrow at 2 o'clock I want to see you here, and we'll do a little more work. Your showing to-day is all right. Maybe I can make something out of you," said Patsy, and when Frank had trotted off in the direction of the gymnasium he said to Gleason: "There's the right sort of a chap. Doesn't know much about it, but willing to try, and crazy to make good at whatever he tries. I'll make something out of him, see if I don't. The fall trials come off a week from to-day, but I'll bet in spite of the short time he has had to work, he'll make some of the older ones hustle to keep ahead of him. I don't know yet about his sprinting, but he certainly can jump like a deer."
Frank was at the gymnasium at 2 o'clock the next afternoon, garbed in a running rig that the Codfish had given him.
"How did you come to have running clothes with you?" asked Frank, surprised when the Codfish produced from the recesses of his trunk a neat blue jersey and a pair of spotless running trousers.
"My fond papa said he thought I ought to take some exercise when he sent me up here. He told me he was a peach of a runner in his school days, and talked so much about the way he walloped every one in sight on the track that I got kind of ambitious, and let mother put these things in."
"Why don't you go out for running yourself? You ought to make a runner," and Frank gazed admiringly at the long legs which Gleason had spread out on the window seat, the lower parts of them dressed in gorgeous green socks.
"Oh, I don't like to fatigue myself. If I run I grow weary, and if I'm weary I must rest, and I'd much rather rest without being weary first. Don't feel backward about taking the duds, old chappie, because your Uncle Dudley will never put them on. If they had something like a 15-yard dash I might get out and make a record or two myself, but since the shortest distance is a hundred yards and the longest is a mile, I guess I'll put my spare time in some other way."
"And how about your father's ambitions for you?"
"Oh, dad won't mind. I don't believe he was much of a runner anyway. He just lets his imagination carry him away."
So Frank became the possessor of a fine outfit, and wore it that afternoon with considerable pride. Patsy nodded pleasantly as he came onto the track. "See you're on time," he said. "Now jog around the track very easily two or three times just to get limbered up, and then we will have a few starts with Collins and you. Felt sore this morning, did you?"
"Legs pained me when I woke up this morning. Dreamed that I fell out of an aeroplane."
"It's the jumping," said Patsy. "I've knownfellows when they began to jump to be so sore they'd have to walk with a cane. But you'll soon be over that."
"I sincerely trust so; it's no fun."
Patsy was like the manager of a three-ring circus, as any track trainer, who knows what he is there for and who is worth his salt, ought to be. He had a word of caution to the long-distance runner to run flat-footed and save himself for the sprint, if sprint he must at the end of his race; to the pole-vaulter he reiterated the oft-repeated injunction that to get over the bar when it was 10 feet up meant to pull up with the arms and not altogether a spring from the legs; to the hurdler he gave a minute of his valuable attention, indicating where his take-off for the barrier was too near or too far away, and if he lost too much time in the flight.
"If you're going to hurdle on this track you've got to get down to the track and run on it and not try to sail through the air." And even when he wasn't giving direct coaching, Patsy was making mental notes for use later on when they would be of more value to the coached.
Frank had jogged around several times when Patsy hailed him on one of his trips, and said:"Now I want you and Collins and Herring"—that was the other sprinter in the school, a second string man to Collins—"to come up to the start of the hundred. We will do a little work."
The little work consisted in getting down at the starting line, balancing delicately on the balls of the feet—the one just on the starting line and the other about fourteen inches behind—with the tips of the fingers resting lightly on the ground, and at the sound of the pistol, shooting forward from that position without the delay of a thousandth part of an eye-wink.
On the first trial Frank made a sorry mess of it. The crouching sprinter's start was new to him. He had started the day before from a straight standing position, but when he got to the crouching attitude—pictures of which he had seen many times, and as many times wondered how runners could possibly start from such an awkward position—he found it necessary to come to an upright position before he could get under way. Both Collins and Herring gained a stride on him at the very start, and a stride is a lot in a hundred yard race.
"See here, Armstrong," said Patsy. "The sprinter, that is the fellow who runs the shortdistance, hasn't time to start off easy. From the shot he must be moving forward. Now you come straight up. Watch me," and Patsy dropped down to the racing position, and shot away from it with an astonishing swiftness that made Frank open his eyes. Patsy in his time had been one of the best runners, and knew to a nicety just how to do the trick.
"Come on, now again, and remember that you shoot out and not up," and Patsy held the pistol over his head. "Get ready, set——" but Frank in his eagerness felt that the pistol shot was coming, and dashed off only to recover in a moment, and return shame-facedly to the mark.
"That would cost you a yard, Armstrong, if it had been an actual race you were running. But we'll not penalize you this time. Now again."
Little by little Frank began to get the science of starting. Patsy showed him the why and wherefore of hole-digging so that the starter would get a better grip with his feet. In a dozen or more starts Frank showed improvement steadily, and was overjoyed at the praise of the trainer.
"You are doing well, Armstrong," said Patsy; "keep it up. Now take a little rest while I seewhat these high jumpers are doing. They look from here as if they were playing leap-frog. Those fellows never will learn to turn right when they get in the air," and he hurried off to correct some faults his keen eye had detected even from that distance. While he was gone the boys pranced around and took a couple of starts by themselves.
"Have you run much?" inquired Herring, who was a Junior and had worked hard for what he got. He was not especially well built for sprinting, being a little too stocky and short-legged, but what he lacked in form he made up in determination. He had almost reached his limit in development and never could be a first-rater.
"No," said Frank, "I've never run before; this is my first offence."
"Gee whiz, you'll soon have me lashed to the mast. If you can hold the gait you strike at the start clear through to the finish, I'll be third string right off the reel. Here's Patsy back to give us our trial on the hundred."
"Now, boys," said Patsy, "this is the last for you to-day. I want you to run this hundred through as fast as you can. Collins, you take the pole; Herring, you next; and you, Armstrong,have the outside. No crowding. And, Armstrong, don't forget what I told you; don't lose time getting up—the finish isn't up in the air, it's down the track a hundred yards. On your marks!——" The three stepped into the little holes they had dug for their feet. "Get set!——" They crouched and touched the tips of their fingers to the ground, leaning well forward, necks craned and eyes straight ahead.
"Bang!" went the pistol, and six legs and six arms began to work like pistons. Frank had somehow remembered his instructions and got a better start even than Herring. He tore along ahead of that runner who was making a desperate effort to reach him. Collins was running freely on the pole, a half stride in advance. For half the distance the order remained the same, but then Frank's lack of training and lack of experience began to tell, and Herring reached him. At the 80 yards he was running breast to breast with Herring, but that individual's bandy but powerful legs and better wind carried him ahead from that point. Collins finished first, Herring second, and Frank a good third.
"Well run," shouted a hearty voice from the side of the course as the three runners pulled upjust beyond the finish line; and Frank, looking up, saw Colonel Powers and David at the side of the track. He ran over and shook hands, overjoyed to see them. "Thought you weren't coming till Thursday," said Frank, "and this is only Wednesday."
"Well, you see," returned the Colonel, "David couldn't stand it any longer. We came up to Milton last night intending to go down to Eagle Island to-day to look after the house, but David persuaded me to come out here instead, and so here we are. But I didn't know you were a runner as well as a swimmer."
"O, I'm a pretty poor apology for a runner. Maybe I'll be able to run some day and win a point for the school."
"Well, judging by the way you were coming down the stretch with those two fellows, you would be able to put the Powers family to shame, eh, David?"
"Frank can do anything he undertakes as well as the next one," said David, "and I think if he starts out to run he can do it and win. Don't you remember the race down at St. Augustine, father?"
"Track work is over for the day," said Frank;"come along to the gym while I get into my everyday clothes, and we'll go up to the room; or, if you would like to, we'll go over and see the football practice. David, you remember Jimmy, don't you? Well, he is a candidate for halfback on the school eleven, and in spite of his being a Freshman, I think he'll make it."
"Jimmy was the owner of theFoamthat sunk in the foam, was he not?" inquired the Colonel. "I remember how plucky he was when we picked him out of the water. You all were, for that matter."
"And Lewis Russell is here, too, in the same class with us; they entered at the first of the term, and I came in three weeks late."
"Is Lewis on the eleven, too?" inquired David.
"No; Lewis' football sun set very early in his career, and now he sits on the bleachers the same as I do, and watches the other fellows get talked to by the coach.
"How does it come, David, that you changed your mind about school? I thought you were going to study with a tutor the same as last year," said Frank.
"The trouble was," said Colonel Powers, "that David, who has been a pretty quiet fellow allhis life, got a taste of companionship this summer on the yacht, and when he went back to his tutor, old Mr. Melcher, he found the work drier than ever. So he wanted to know if he couldn't come along to Queen's with you."
"Yes," said David for himself. "Before I met you I didn't think I'd go to school at all, but last summer changed me somehow. I saw what a good time Burton had, and when I thought of you over here making lots of friends and taking part in things, I wanted to come along."
"Yes, and it happens," said the Colonel, "that Doctor Hobart is a personal friend of mine, and it was easily arranged that David come here, though it is nearly the end of October and half the first term gone. The only difficulty about it seems to be, for I have just had a talk with the Doctor, in getting the right kind of a room for him; they are crowded to the limit here."
"Oh, I forgot to tell you that the room part of it is all arranged. He's going to bunk in with me. The night I got your telegram I put it up to Gleason, my room-mate, and he had no objections. The place is not big, but plenty big enough for us two."
David beamed with joy, and the Colonel expressedhis pleasure that the boys were to be together again. "David needs companionship to bring him out of himself," he said, "and it is possible that David may be a help to you, Frank."
That night the Colonel and David sat down to table in the school dining hall together with Frank and Jimmy and Lewis, and when dinner was over they strolled under the great elms of the school yard and listened to the Glee Club singing on the steps of Russell Hall. To David it was like fairy-land.