The team left for North Lebron at eleven o’clock the next forenoon. The town that had the honour of containing Musket Hill Academy was not so far away in distance, but those who had arranged the train service had not consulted the Parkinson School Football Team, and as a result of this oversight there was an hour and a half to be spent at a junction that boasted, besides a decrepit station, only a blacksmith’s shop, a general store and eight assorted dwellings. Myron knew that there were eight dwellings because he counted them twice. There wasn’t much of anything else to do.
He was not journeying to North Lebron in any official capacity, for his name had not been amongst those announced yesterday by Manager Farnsworth. He was going along, with some sixty other “fans,” mostly because Chas Cummins had insisted on his doing so. Privately, he had entertained the thought up to an hour after breakfast that, not having been invited to attend the contestas a member of the team, it would be the part of dignity to remain away. But Chas wasn’t greatly concerned with dignity, and he had a masterful way with him, and the result was that at a little before nine o’clock Myron was in possession of the knowledge that he was going to North Lebron at eleven-four.
At twelve he was seated on an edge of the platform at the junction, juggling three pebbles in his hand and boredly wondering what it would be like to have to live in the fifth dwelling; the one with the blue-green blinds and the sagging porch and the discarded wagon-seat serving as a porch settle. The day was positively hot for October and few of the travellers had elected to remain inside the coaches. Some of the school fellows were adorning the platform, like Myron, others were strolling about the adjacent landscape in search of adventures, and a merry handful were exercising the baggage truck up and down the planks to the restrained displeasure of the sad-looking station agent. Coming over, Myron had shared a seat with a stranger, a lad of fourteen or so, and had managed to pass the time in conversation on various subjects, but now the youngster had disappeared and no one else appeared to care about taking his place. Joe andChas were with the football crowd in the forward car, and Myron had seen neither of them to speak to since leaving Warne. Andrew Merriman had not been able to come. In consequence, Myron had no one to talk to and was fast reaching the decision that he would have had more pleasure had he remained at home. Even the assurance that he was irreproachably arrayed in a suit of cool grey flannel, with a cap to match, a cream-coloured shirt and patriotic brown tie and stockings didn’t mitigate his boredom. Of late he had been deriving less satisfaction than of yore from his attire. Somehow, whether his tie and stockings matched or whether his trousers were smoothly pressed seemed of less consequence to him. Several times of late he had forgotten his scarf-pin!
His discontented musings were interrupted by the arrival beside him of a youth of perhaps nineteen. Myron had glimpsed him once on the train and been struck by his good looks and by the good taste of his attire. He wore blue serge, but it was serge of an excellent quality and cut to perfection. And there was a knowing touch to the paler blue scarf with its modest moonstone pin and something pleasantly exceptional in the shape of the soft collar. Myron felt a kindred interest in the tall, good-looking youth, and determinedto speak to him. But the stranger forestalled him, for, as soon as he had seated himself nearby on the platform edge, he turned, glancing at Myron and remarked: “Hot, isn’t it?”
The stranger’s tone held just the correct mixture of cordiality and restraint. Myron, agreeing, felt flattered that the well-dressed youth had singled him out. The weather, as a subject of conversation, soon failed, but there were plenty of other things to discuss, and at the end of ten minutes the two were getting on famously. The stranger managed to inform Myron without appearing to do so that he was interested in a sporting goods house in New Haven, that he had been in Hartford on business and that, having nothing better to do today, he had decided to run over to North Lebron and see the game between Musket Hill and Parkinson. “I fancy you’re a Parkinson fellow?” he said questioningly. And when Myron acknowledged the fact: “A fine school, I’ve heard. I’ve never been there. Warne’s off my territory. I’ve been thinking, though, that some day I’d run over and see if I could do any business there. I suppose you chaps buy most of your athletic supplies in New York.”
“I think so. There’s one store in Warne that carries a pretty fair line of goods, though.”
“I think I’ll have to try your town. Parkinson’s rather a big place, isn’t it?”
“We have over five hundred fellows this year.”
“Is that so? Why, there ought to be some business there for my house. I suppose you chaps go in for most everything: football, baseball, hockey, tennis? How about track athletics?”
“There’s a track team,” answered Myron, “but this is my first year and I don’t know much about it yet.”
“I see.” The other looked appraisingly and, Myron thought, even admiringly over his new acquaintance. “I say, you look as if you ought to be playing football yourself, old man. Or is baseball your game?”
“Football, but I’m not on the first. It’s hard work breaking in at Parkinson.”
“Good guess of mine, wasn’t it?” laughed the other. “Thought you had the build for a good football man. I meet a good many of them, you see. How’s this team you’ve got ahead there? Going to lick Musket Hill this afternoon?”
“I don’t know. I hope so. I have an idea that our coach rather expects a hard game, though. I’ve heard that Musket Hill is further along than we are.”
“Those fellows play good football,” said thestranger. “I’ve seen them in action once or twice. I hope you chaps get away with the game, but my opinion is that you’ll have to go some to do it. Got some good men on your team?”
Myron was quite willing to sing the praises of Parkinson, and during the ensuing half-hourthe stranger was treated to quite a fund of informationregarding the school, the football team and Myron Warrenton Foster. Football, though, seemed to interest the tall youth most of all, and several times Myron was turned back to that subject by polite questions. When the train from the south pulled in the two were still conversing and it was but natural that they should share a seat for the remainder of the journey. The stranger could talk interestingly himself and the last part of the trip was occupied with absorbing and even startling adventures met with by him in his business trips. More than once Myron’s credulity was severely taxed, but a glance at the narrator’s frank and pleasing countenance dispelled all suspicions of mendacity. Myron found this chance acquaintance so interesting that he rather hoped they might witness the game together, but when North Lebron was reached the stranger announced that he had one or two errands to attend to before going up to the field.
The stranger was treated to quite a fund of informationThe stranger was treated to quite a fund of information
The stranger was treated to quite a fund of information
“Maybe I’ll run across you there—er—What’s the name, by the way?”
“Foster.”
“Mine’s Millard. I haven’t a card with me. Wish I had. But, I say, Foster, if you don’t mind I’d like to look you up if I get to Warne. Those little towns are dull holes if you don’t know any one in them.”
“I wish you would!” said Myron. “You’ll find me in 17 Sohmer Hall. Can you remember that?”
“Sohmer, you said? Number 17? I’ll remember, Foster. Awfully glad to have met you. It’s jolly nice to run across a chap who’s—well, a chap who has your own views on things, if you get me.” He shook hands cordially, evidently regretfully. “I’ll try to find you at the game, old man. If I don’t, look for me in your burg before long. I’m going to have a go at that dealer you spoke of.”
“I’ll try and save a seat for you if you think you’re likely to find me,” offered Myron.
But the other waved a hand. “Don’t bother. I can squeeze in. And I may be rather late in getting there. Good-bye and good luck. Hope you beat ’em!”
That encounter restored both Myron’s self-esteem and good humour, and he enjoyed thesandwich and pie and milk which he ate in company with half a hundred other youths at the little lunch-room on the way uptown. Later, wandering by himself through the leaf-strewn streets about the school campus, he came across Joe and Paxton Cantrell, the latter a sturdy, wide-shouldered youth who was playing his second—and last—season at centre. Cantrell left them a minute or two later to speak to an acquaintance and Myron and Joe walked on to the school gymnasium together.
“They fed us at a hotel down there by the station,” said Joe sadly, “and I want to tell you that not one of us over-ate. Everything came to us in bird baths and you needed a microscope to find the contents. Norris lost his roast beef and didn’t find it until he was through dinner, and where do you suppose it was?”
“In his lap, I guess.”
“No, sir, it had slipped under his thumb-nail!”
Myron told of the stranger encountered at the junction and was quite full of his subject, but Joe didn’t seem to find it interesting and soon interrupted to point out a building. “What do you suppose that is?” he asked. “Looks like a factory of some sort, don’t it? Only it ain’t—hasn’t got any chimneys, as far as I can see.”
“Maybe it’s a hospital or something,” replied Myron. “He says he’s coming to Warne pretty soon and will look me up. I’d like to have you meet him, Joe.”
“Who’s this?”
“Why, Millard, the chap I was speaking of,” answered Myron disgustedly.
“Oh! Glad to know him. Which street do we take now?”
They parted at the gymnasium and Myron joined the throng pressing toward the field, a short block away. He looked for Millard, but didn’t see him. Later, during the intermission, he thought he caught sight of him in the throng behind the Musket Hill bench, but others intervened and he was not able to make certain.
The game started at half-past two, by which time the morning heat had been somewhat abated by a fresh breeze that blew across the oval field and fluttered the big maroon banner above the covered stand that held the Musket Hill rooters. Parkinson’s sixty odd supporters, grouped together on the other side of the field, did valiant service with their voices, but to Myron it seemed that their contribution to the din that prevailed as the two teams trotted on together was very slight. He was wedged in between a stout youth named Hollis,whom he instinctively disliked because of his high-pitched voice, and a studious-appearing boy in spectacles whose name he didn’t know. Hollis had vindicated Myron’s verdict before the teams had finished warming up by showing himself to be one of those cock-sure, opinionated and loud-talking youths of which every school is possessed. His neighbour at his left elbow proved inoffensive and only once during the game uttered any sound that Myron could hear. Then, while every one else was on his feet, shouting and gesticulating, the spectacled youth smiled raptly and murmured, “Oh, bully indeed!”
Myron purchased a score-card from a boy with a maroon band about his arm, exchanging a bright ten cent piece for a flimsy, smoochy slip of paper that, so far as the visiting team was concerned, was as untruthful as it was unlovely. The card declared that “Mullen” would play left tackle for Parkinson, that “Sawtrell” was her centre and that “Wildram” was the name of her left half-back. Myron corrected these misstatements when Captain Mellen had trotted his warriors out on the field, and some others besides, for Coach Driscoll had sent five substitutes to the fray, four linemen and a back. When Myron had got through making over his score-card it looked likeone of his corrected English compositions and read as follows: Stearns, l.e.; Mellen, l.t.; Brodhead, l.g.; Cantrell, c.; Dobbins, r.g.; Flay, r.t.; Grove, r.e.; Cater, q.b.; Brounker, l.h.; Brown, r.h.; Kearns, f.b.
Myron was glad that Joe was to have his chance in a real game, and for the first period watched his room-mate so closely that the general aspect of the game was quite lost on him and he came to with a start when the teams changed fields, realising that however nicely Joe had played—and he had played well: there was no question about that—the eleven as a whole had failed to show anything resembling real football. While neither team had found its gait, Musket Hill had already threatened the visitors’ goal and only a sad fumble had held her away from it. And now, with the second ten-minute period beginning, the ball was again in the Maroon’s possession on Parkinson’s thirty-three yards. Myron sat up and took notice, deciding to let Joe play his game unaided by telepathic waves from the grandstand!
Musket Hill was a heavy team, although her players got their weight from height rather than breadth. They were, almost without exception, tall, rangey youths with an extremely knowingmanner of handling themselves. Myron’s brow clouded as he watched that first play after the whistle. Musket Hill used an open formation, with her backs side by side a full pace further distant than usual. From this formation, with the quarter frequently joining the line of backs at left or right, Musket Hill worked a variety of plays: straight plunges at centre, delayed passes sliding off tackle, quarter-back runs, even punts, the latter, thanks to a steady bunch of forwards, never threatened with disaster. The Maroon played a shifty game, changing her plays often, seldom attacking the same place twice no matter what gains might result. Toward the end the latter rule did not hold good, but for three full periods she observed it rigorously, even to the impatience and protests of her supporters. Before that second period was three minutes old she had settled down into her stride and demonstrated the fact that, whatever favours of fortune might occur, on the basis of ability alone she was more than a match for her opponent.
The Maroon secured her first score less than three minutes from the start of the second quarter as unexpectedly as deftly, and Myron and his companions on the west stand had scarcely recoveredfrom their surprise by the time the goal was kicked! The ball had been on Parkinson’s forty-two yards, after Musket Hill had punted, caught again and carried the pigskin four yards in two downs. The Maroon’s trick of punting from that three-man formation, and close to the line, had got the enemy worried. The latter was never quite certain when an unexpected kick would go over a back’s head, for Musket Hill punted without rule or reason, it seemed. To keep two men up the field at all times was impossible, and so Parkinson compromised and put Brown midway between the line and Cater. As Musket Hill had netted but four yards in two downs, it was fair to assume that she was just as likely to kick on the third down as to rush, and Brown edged further back at Cater’s call. But Musket Hill did the unexpected. There was a quick, dazzling movement behind her line and then the ball arched away to her left. Somehow an end was under it when it came down and, although Stearns almost foiled him, caught it and reached the five-yard line before he was seriously challenged by Brodhead. He had kept close to the side-line, and Brown, playing well back, was his nearest foe when the twenty-five-yard line was reached. But Brown never had a chance, for a Musket Hill youthbrought him low, while a second effectively disposed of Cater a moment after. Brodhead alone stood for an instant between the Brown and disaster—none ever knew how he had managed to get back to the five yards—and for a heart-beat it seemed that the runner was doomed. But Brodhead’s tackle only spun the red-legged runner about and sent him across the final white line like a top in its last gyrations.
A well-kicked goal added another point to the six, and the teams went back to the centre of the field once more. To Myron it seemed then that Parkinson realised defeat, for there was that in the attitudes and movements of the players that had not been there before. It was not dejection, but it might have been called the ghost of it. And yet for the remainder of the period Parkinson took and held the upper hand and the half ended with the ball in her possession on her forty-eight yards.
Myron wanted to talk over the game very badly, but the youth with spectacles was doing what appeared to be an intricate problem in algebra on the back of his score-card, while as for the stout boy on his other side, he had heard enough of his conversation already. Just now he was knowingly informing his companion that the trouble with Parkinson was that she needed a decent coach.His brief glimpse of Millard—if it really was Millard—distracted him for a moment or two, and after that he listened to the joyful sounds from the Musket Hill side and felt rather disappointed and lonesome.
I should like to tell how Parkinson found herself in the last half of the game and won the contest. But nothing of that sort happened. Coach Driscoll started the third period with all his regulars in the line, and, in consequence, Musket Hill found slower going. Gains in the line were far less frequent, and only outside of tackles was the Maroon likely to win territory. But the home team clearly out-punted the visitors, although, in the final period, Garrison was pulled back from the line to swing his toe for Parkinson. Musket Hill made but one long advance in the last twenty minutes, and, as before, a forward pass was the method chosen. Keene, who had taken Stearns’ place at left end, was caught napping badly, and Meldrum, the left half, who should have seen the signs and been on guard, found himself tied up with the enemy. The result was a fine thirty-seven yard gain that placed the pigskin on Parkinson’s nine yards.
From a Parkinson point of view, the most encouragingfeature of the day developed then when the Brown line, forced back to its six yards and then to its four, and finally retired to its two for being off-side, stood firm and took the ball away a foot from her goal-line. It was then that the west stand shouted and cheered and that Myron, silent a moment for want of breath, heard his spectacled neighbour give vent to the enthusiastic remark already recorded. But no team can win who can’t score, and Parkinson couldn’t score. On attack she was decidedly weak. The ability was there, but the team had not yet learned to make use of it. Individually, nearly every fellow in the Brown line played really excellent football, but teamwork was missing. For a brief four or five minutes at the beginning of the last quarter there came a semblance of it, and Parkinson, securing the ball on a punt near her thirty yards, managed to work it down to the enemy’s thirty. Guy Brown was the bright particular star, and, aided by Meldrum, tore off gain after gain through a weakened left side of the enemy’s ranks. But when Musket Hill brought in two substitutes to bolster the point of attack the advance petered out, and when Brown had twice failed to gain and Kearns had lost a yard on a wide end run, Parkinson was forced to punt. That punt marked theend of Parkinson’s defiance. From then on she plugged away doggedly to avert a worse defeat and, aided by the over-zealousness of Musket Hill’s several substitutes and by the sharp-eyed officials, succeeded. When the final whistle blew Parkinson was down on her twelve yards, her back again to the wall, and only that whistle saved her.
Musket Hill appeared more than satisfied with her score of 7 to 0. It was only her second victory over Parkinson in many years of contest, although there had been ties and close scores, and Myron, standing in his place with the other Parkinsonians and cheering bravely, witnessed a hilarious celebration as Musket Hill overflowed the field and began a sinuous snake-dance from side to side and from goal to goal. Then came a hurried scramble for the four-forty-eight train and a tedious and, for his part, dejected journey back to Warne. He hoped that Millard would show up, although that engaging youth hadn’t spoken of returning by that train. He didn’t, however, and Myron had a dull time of it.
The next afternoon, being Sunday, he and Joe visited Andrew Merriman, and later they rescued Zephaniah from his box-stall and, accompanied by that joyous companion, took a long walk into the country. The afternoon was ideal, although toowarm for brisk walking. Andrew spied some butternut trees up a lane and they prospected. But the nuts were still green, for no hard frosts had visited them yet. The boys found a sunny spot nearby and stretched themselves out on a bank of ferns and Zephaniah had a monstrous adventure with a cricket and got tangled in a blackberry vine and fell off a stone wall and, in short, spent the most glorious hour of his young life.
Andrew and Joe did most of the talking that afternoon. Myron was in a rather gloomy frame of mind, although he couldn’t have found any explanation for the fact. Andrew rallied him once on the score of his silence, and Myron said he was tired. After that he really thought he was. Joe was in high spirits. He had been pitted against a worthy adversary yesterday and, during the time he had faced him, had had a glorious time. Every one said that he had outplayed his opponent, and Joe knew it. He regretted that Mr. Driscoll had seen fit to put Garrison in his place in the last half, however, earnestly assuring Andrew and Myron that if he had stayed in he would have had “that guy Fraser eating out of my hand in the last quarter!” But a good tussle always cheered Joe up wonderfully, and the effects of that strenuous twenty minutes lasted himfor several days: just as a fine big vari-coloured lump under his left eye did!
When Myron returned to Sohmer at dusk he found a scrawled note from Chas Cummins. “No one home!” he read. “Looked for you on the train coming back, but couldn’t find you. What do you know about us? Looks like Fortune favours the brave and all that sort of thing, doesn’t it? Watch for developments tomorrow! Yours, C.C.”
Myron found the note somewhat cryptic. For a minute he thought of going around to see Chas in the evening, but then he decided that if Chas had wanted to see him he would have said so. As a result, he stayed at home and did some much-needed studying.
Monday afternoon found a number of the regulars absent from practice. The game on Saturday had been a strenuous one and several of the players had earned a rest. Chas was on hand, however, although not in togs, and the same was true of Jud Mellen. Cantrell and Garrison and Cater were absent, and one or two others, and the first squad had a sort of shot-to-pieces look. Dummy practice started the proceedings, and, since much poor tackling had been shown in the Musket Hill contest, the drill was a long one. It seemedto Myron that every one had nerves today, from Coach Driscoll down to the last and least important substitute. Manager Farnsworth, pulling the rope that shot the canvas dummy across the trolley, was short of speech and jerky of manner, Jud Mellen, watching grimly from beside the freshly-spaded pit, frowned and twisted his hands about in his uprolled sweater and made biting comments, and even Billy Goode, normally sweet-tempered as a cherub, looked and spoke as if some one had been casting aspersions on Ireland! Only Chas, grinning like a catfish, appeared unaffected by the general epidemic. Chas joked and jollied and got himself thoroughly hated by all.
Back on the gridiron, Coach Driscoll called Myron from the bench and fixed him with a calculating eye. Myron had visions of clearing out his locker and retiring from football affairs. But what the coach said was: “Cummins tells me he had you at full-back the other day. Ever played there?”
“No, sir, not until Friday.”
“You’re a half, aren’t you? Well, we’ve got plenty of those, such as they are. Think you could learn full-back? Ever done any punting?”
“Some, yes, sir.”
“Get a ball and show me.”
Over on the second gridiron, with a substitute back to catch or chase, Myron swung his foot and dropped the ball and saw it go off at a tangent, and heard the coach say: “Take your time, Foster; you’ve got all day.” When the back had relayed the pigskin from the first team gridiron and Myron had it again in his hands he decided to try to forget that the coach was watching. The result was much better, for the ball went straight toward the other goal and into the waiting arms of the back. The punt wasn’t long, but it had been true, and Mr. Driscoll nodded hopefully.
“Try it again,” he ordered, “and hold your leg straighter. Lock your knee and keep it so.”
After the next attempt he called down the field. “Where did you catch that, Morton?” he asked. The back turned and counted the lines.
“About the forty, sir,” he shouted.
“Not bad,” commented the coach. “We’re on the twenty-five here. Try a low one now. And follow through with your foot. Don’t stop when you strike the ball: keep your foot going right on up: there’s plenty of room for it!”
Four more punts, varying in distance from a wretched twenty yards to a glorious forty-five, followed, Myron seeking to profit by the coach’sinstructions. Then: “I guess that’s enough, Foster,” said Mr. Driscoll. “You’ll stand a lot of practice, but you’ve got a good swing and I wouldn’t be surprised if you could make a pretty fair punter. I’ll give you a chance to show what you can do at full-back. If you buckle down and try hard you’ll stand a chance of a place, for we need another man there. Wish you had about ten more pounds on you, though. Go around with Warren’s squad over there for a while and watch how Houghton does it. I’ll see you again.”
Blanket-wrapped, for Billy Goode had sharp eyes for his charges and the weather had turned colder overnight, Myron followed the first team substitutes in their signal practice for a good twenty minutes. Now and then he caught Chas Cummins’ eye as the squad trotted by, but that youth’s expression was blank and innocent. Finally the benches filled again, coach and captain and manager compared notes like three gentleman burglars meditating a midnight sortie, the trainer busied himself with blankets and the sparse audience on the stand kicked their feet against the boards to put warmth into them. Then Mr. Driscoll faced the benches.
“First and second squads,” he called. “Firstwill kick off. Second, take this goal. Who’s playing right half for the second? You, Robbins? Well, we want you on the first. Morton, you go to the second. All right now? What’s that, Grove? Left tackle? Oh, all right. Simkins! Go in on the first: left tackle. All right, Hersey! Start it up!”
Myron wondered if the coach had forgotten his promise, for Williams was playing full-back on the first squad and Houghton on the second and he, Myron, was adorning the bench with some twenty-odd other subs. Perhaps Mr. Driscoll had changed his mind, thought Myron. At that moment Chas called to him and led him down the side-line a ways. “Drop your blanket, old chap,” he said. “Coach says I’m to pass you a few, though I’m blessed if I know how he expects me to work in a pair of trousers that are two inches too small for me! Get over there by the end of the stand. If you miss them you won’t have to chase them so far. Now then, perhaps you know that in the modern game of football, the full-back is called on to take the snap-back straight from the centre on numerous occasions. Well, I’m the gentlemanly centre for the nonce. That’s a bully word, ‘nonce.’ Now we will suppose”—Chas’ voice diminished to a murmur as he turned his back and placed theball he had brought on the sod before him. Myron spread his hands as he had seen Houghton do, Chas cast a backward glance at him and swept the ball toward him. By leaping two feet off the earth Myron was just able to tip it with his fingers. Chas laughed delightedly.
“Gee, that’s just like Cantrell does it!” he exulted. “In fact, I believe I got it two or three inches higher than he ever did. Guess I’ll get Driscoll to let me play centre!”
Myron recovered the ball and tossed it back. “Maybe I’d better get a soap-box or something to stand on,” he suggested.
“None of your lip, my lad! Watch your step, now!”
This time the ball came straight and shoulder high, and Myron caught it, shifted it to the crook of his left arm and dived forward. “Splendidly done, old chap!” applauded Chas. “Quite professional. Any one can play full-back if he has a good centre like me to pass to him, though. Now, then, here we go again!”
Chas kept it up until he was red in the face from stooping and Myron was tired of it, and only stopped, as he said, because he had heard a suspicious ripping sound in the neighbourhood of his waist. “It’s all right,” he explained a triflebreathlessly, “to die for your school, but no one wants to bust his trousers for it!”
On the way back to the bench Myron said: “What did you mean in your note about Fortune, Cummins? I didn’t get that. Sorry I was out, by the way.”
“I meant that things were coming our way, old chap. Didn’t you observe what a mess of things Steve Kearns made Saturday?”
“Not especially. I guess I wasn’t watching Kearns much.”
“And you grooming for his place! What do you know about you? Well, poor old Steve balled up everything he tried. Every time he got the ball he lost a yard. If they’d turned him around he’d have won the game for us! Between you and me and the bucket there, Foster, you’ve got the chance of a life-time to land on all four feet right square behind the first team. All you’ve got to do is show horse-sense, old chap, and be willing to learn. By the way, you got off a couple of nice punts over there.”
“I don’t see, though, why I couldn’t have had a show at half,” said Myron dubiously. “I don’t know enough about playing full-back, Cummins. I may make an awful mess of it.”
“If you do,” was the grim reply, “I’ll knockthe feathers off you. But you won’t. You mustn’t. Doggone it, son, this is your big chance! You’ve just got to make good! Remember there’s another year coming!”
“I’ll try, of course, Cummins, but——”
“But me no buts! You keep in mind—There’s Driscoll calling you. Go to it, old chap!”
“Go in on the second there at full-back, Foster. You know the signals, don’t you? All right. Now show something. Warren, give your full-back some work. Come on, first! Get into it! Let’s see some playing!”
The whistle piped before Myron had settled into position, however, and he went back to the bench with the rest and listened to criticism and instruction and moistened his throat with water and half wished that Chas Cummins had let him alone. But, back on the field presently, with the ball arching away overhead, he forgot his stage-fright and gripped his nose-guard with his teeth and piled into the play. Warren, acting on instructions, gave him plenty of work, and he didn’t do it so badly, all things considered. At least, he made three good gains and he got away two punts, one of which surprised him. On defence he showed up decidedly well, and Warren, an earnest little shock-headed youth, gave him praise more thanonce. He had some bad moments, as when, ball in hand for a toss to O’Curry across the line, he found himself besieged by two rampant first team forwards who had somehow broken through, and, unable to heave, let himself be forced back many yards. Afterwards, he told himself aggrievedly that Warren had no right to call on him for a forward-pass, that he had never had much of it to do and couldn’t be expected to be proficient. Besides, if your line let the whole opposing team through on top of you, whatcouldyou do, anyway?
How Coach Driscoll had been impressed, Myron had no means of knowing. The coach made no comments. Myron concluded that he had failed to make good, and he dressed himself and went back to Sohmer in a rather depressed state of mind. But after supper Chas breezed in and relieved him. “Rotten? Nothing of the sort!” declared Chas. “You were positively good, old chap! I’ll bet Driscoll is scratching Houghton this minute and writing ‘Foster’ in his little red book. If you don’t find yourself playing full-back again tomorrow I’ll—I’ll eat my hat. And I need it, too, having none other. You didn’t see our young friend, did you, Dobbins?”
“No,” answered Joe. “I wasn’t out.”
“Well, he’s the coming marvel. There’s no doubt about it. All he’s got to do is learn the position.”
Joe and Myron laughed, the former the more merrily. “That sounds sort of like a real job,” he commented.
“It isn’t, really,” answered Chas earnestly. “You see, Foster knows all the moves but he doesn’t know where to fit them in. After all, playing football is playing football, whether you’re in the line or back of it, Dobbins. I’ll bet that, if I had to, I could step into any position on the team tomorrow and get by with it. I don’t say I’d be a wonder, but I’d do the trick fairly well. That may sound like conceited guff, but it’s a fact, fellows. Foster’s played half, and a full-back’s only a half with another name and a few different things to do. He’ll learn in a week. I’ve got all my money on him to win. I’m tickled, too. When Foster came to me and asked if I thought he could play full-back——”
“When Iwhat?” gasped Myron.
Chas winked and frowned. “When he sprung that on me, Dobbins, I had my doubts. But I said the right thing. I said, ‘Go to it, my boy, and good luck to you!’ I’m glad I did. We surely need more full-backs than we’ve got, and I believeFoster’s going to be a good one. Well, I’m off. By the way, Dobbins, you played a pretty game Saturday. I’ll have to watch my step or you’ll have me on the bench. Good night!”
Chas Cummins proved a good prophet. On the following day Myron slipped into a niche in the first team, one of many hopeful, hard-working youths known as “first team subs.” For a few days, indeed, until after the Phillipsburg game, he was dazed by the sudden leap from obscurity to conspicuity, from what he termed neglect to what was extremely like solicitude. Not that his arrival at the field for practice was the occasion for shouts of acclaim and a fanfare of trumpets, for those at the helm did not show their interest in promising candidates in any such manner, but at last he was quite certain that coach and captain, managers and trainer, were aware of his existence. There were times when he heartily wished that they knew less of it. Some one was forever at his elbow, criticising, explaining, exhorting. Coach Driscoll and Ned Garrison oversaw his punting practice, Snow lugged him to remote corners of the playfield to make him catch passes, Katie drilled him in signals, every one, it seemedto Myron, was having a finger in his pie. And when he was not being privately coached, as it were, he was legging it around the gridiron with the substitutes or tumbling about the dummy pit with a bundle of stuffed and dirty canvas clasped to his bosom. Those were busy, confusing days. And yet no one outside the football “inner ring” appeared to be aware of the fact that a new light had arisen in the Parkinson firmament. Not unnaturally, perhaps, Myron looked for signs of interest, even of awe, from his acquaintances, but he found none. At table in dining hall Eldredge still glowered at him, Rogers cringed and the pestiferous Tinkham poked sly fun. Only Joe and Andrew and Chas, among his friends, showed him honour; and Joe as a strewer of blossoms in his path was not an overwhelming success. Joe seemed to think that his chum’s leap to incipient fame was pleasing but not remarkable, while Myron was absolutely certain that it was stupendous and unparalleled in the annals of preparatory school football. When you are watched and guided as Myron was by those in command you are likely to think that. He wondered whether Joe was not just a little bit envious. Of course, Joe’s position was quite as assured as his own, but Joe had not engaged the time and attention and solicitudeof the entire coaching force. He hoped Joe wasn’t going to be disagreeable about it.
Phillipsburg came and went, defeated easily enough, 12 points to 3, and Warne High School followed a week later. High School always put up a good fight against Parkinson, and she made no exception this year. Coach Driscoll used many substitutes that afternoon and so High School found her work easier. Myron had his baptism by fire in the second period and lasted until the end of the third. He was taken out then because High School had tied the score and it was necessary to add another touchdown or field-goal to the home team’s side of the ledger. So Kearns, who was still the most dependable full-back in sight, took Myron’s place. Kearns gained and lost in his usual way, and had no great part in the securing of the third Parkinson score. Katie was mainly responsible for that, for he sneaked away from the opponent’s thirty-two yards and landed the ball on her eight, from whence it was carried over on the fourth down by Brounker. That made the figures 20 to 14, and there they remained for the rest of the contest.
Myron was huffy about being removed and every one who spoke to him discovered the fact. Of course, he was huffy in a perfectly gentlemanlyway. He didn’t scold and he didn’t sneer, but he indulged in irony and intimated that if football affairs continued to be managed as they had been that afternoon he would refuse to be held responsible if the season ended in defeat. Oddly enough, no one appeared panic-stricken at the veiled threat. Joe grinned, until Myron looked haughty and insulted, and then became grave and spoke his mind. He had an annoying way of doing that, to Myron’s way of thinking.
“Kiddo,” said Joe, on this occasion, “if I was you I’d let Driscoll and Mellen run things their own way. Maybe their way don’t always look good to you, but you aren’t in possession of all the—the facts, so to speak. When they put in Kearns today they had a reason, believe me, Brother. You attend to your knitting and let theirs alone. If they drop a stitch, it’s their funeral, not yours. You’ve got just about all you can do to beat Kearns and Williams for full-back’s position——”
“I’m ahead of Williams right now,” said Myron with asperity.
“All right, kiddo; you stay there. Don’t get highfaluting and swell-headed. Just as soon as you do you’ll quit playing your best and Williams’ll slip past you. Take an old man’s advice, Brother.”
“I wish you’d stop that ‘Brother,’” said Myron pettishly. “I’m not your brother. And I’m not swell-headed, either. And I don’t try to tell Driscoll how to run the team. Only, when I know my own—my own capabilities I naturally think something’s sort of funny when things happen like what happened today!”
“Lots of funny things happen that we can’t account for in this world,” remarked Joe philosophically as he bent over his book again. “Best thing to do is let ’em happen.”
“Oh, rats!” muttered the other.
It was about this time that Myron began to have fallings-out with Old Addie. Old Addie—he wasn’t phenomenally old, by any means, but he seemed old in a faculty composed of young or youngish men—was well-liked, and kindly and just to a fault. But he had views on the importance of Greek and Latin not held by all members of his classes. He believed that Herodotus was the greatest man who ever lived and Horace the greatest poet, and held that an acquaintance with the writings of these and other departed masters was an essential part of every person’s education. Many disagreed with him. Those who disagreed and kept the fact to themselves got on very nicely. Those who were so misguided as to disagree andsay so earned his pitying contempt; although contempt is perhaps too strong a word. Myron in a rash moment confessed that Latin didn’t interest him. He had to think up on the spur of the moment some plausible excuse for being illy prepared, and that excuse seemed handy. The result was unfortunate. There was a meeting in Mr. Addicks’ study in the evening, a meeting that lasted for an hour and a quarter and that included readings from the Latin poets, essayists and historians, sometimes in translation, more often in the original. Myron, bored to tears, at last capitulated. He owned that Latin was indeed a beautiful language, that Livy was a wonder, Cicero a peach and Horace a corker. He didn’t use just those terms, but that’s a detail. Mr. Addicks, suspicious of the sudden conversion, pledged him to a reformation in the matter of study and freed him.
But the conversion was not real and Old Addie soon developed a most embarrassing habit of calling on Myron in class. Myron called it “picking on me.” Whatever it was called, it usually resulted disastrously to Myron’s pretences of having studied in the manner agreed on. Old Addie waxed sarcastic, Myron assumed a haughty, contemptuous air. They became antagonistic andtrouble brewed. Myron didn’t have enough time to do justice to all his courses, he declared to Joe, and since Latin was the least liked and the most troublesome it was Latin that suffered. There is no doubt that two and a half hours—often more—of football leaves a chap more inclined for bed than study. Not infrequently Myron went to sleep with his head on a book and had to be forcibly wrested from slumber by Joe at ten o’clock or thereabouts. So matters stood at the end of Myron’s first fortnight of what might be called intensive football training. So, in fact, they continued to stand, with slight changes, to the morning of the day on which Parkinson played Day and Robins School.
The team was to travel away from home for that contest and Myron was to go with it, not as a spectator, but as a useful member of the force. He did not go, however. At chapel his name was among a list of seven others recited by the Principal, and at eleven he was admitted to the inner sanctum, behind the room in which he had, a month and a half ago, held converse with Mr. Morgan. This time it was “Jud” himself who received him. The Principal’s real name was Judson, but at some earlier time in his incumbency of the office he had been dubbed Jud, and in spite of thepossible likelihood of getting him confused with the captain of the football team, he was still so called. Doctor Lane taught English, but his courses were advanced and Myron had not reached them. In consequence he knew very little of Jud; much less than Jud knew of him; and he felt a certain amount of awe as he took the indicated chair at the left of the big mahogany desk. The Doctor didn’t beat about the bush any to speak of. He advanced at once to the matter in hand, which appeared to be: Why wasn’t Myron keeping up in Latin?
Myron said he thought it must be because he didn’t have time enough to study it. He said it was his firm belief that he was taking too many courses. He thought that it would be better if he was allowed to drop one course, preferably Latin, until the next term. Doctor Lane smiled wanly and wanted to know if Myron was quite sure that he was making the most of what time he had. Myron said he thought he was. He didn’t say it very convincedly, however. Doctor Lane inquired how much time each day was devoted to Latin. Myron didn’t seem to have a very clear impression; perhaps, though, an hour. Jud delved into the boy’s daily life and elicited the fact that something like two and a half hours were devoted tolearning to play full-back and something less than three to learning his lessons. Presented as Jud presented it, the fact didn’t look attractive even to Myron. He felt dimly that something was wrong. He attempted to better his statement by explaining that very often he studied between hours—a little. Doctor Lane was not impressed. He twiddled a card that appeared to hold a record of Myron’s scholastic career for a moment and then pronounced a verdict.
“Foster, as I diagnose your case, you are too much interested in football and not sufficiently in your studies. Also, football is claiming too much of your time. Football is a splendid game and a beneficent form of exercise, but it is not the—what I may call the chief industry here, Foster. We try to do other things besides play football. Perhaps you have lost sight of that fact.”
Jud let that sink in for a moment and returned the card to its place in an indexed cabinet, closing the drawer with a decisivebangthat made Myron jump.
“So,” continued the Principal drily, “I think it will be best if you detach yourself from football interests for—for awhile, Foster.”
Silence ensued. Myron gulped. Then he asked in a small voice: “How long, sir?”
“Oh, we won’t decide that now.” Jud’s voice and manner struck Myron as being far too bright and flippant. “We’ll see how it works out. I’ve known it to work very nicely in many cases. I shall expect to hear better—much better—accounts of you from Mr. Addicks, Foster. Good morning.”
And that is why Myron didn’t go bowling off to the station with the rest of the team, and why Kearns and Houghton played the full-back position that afternoon, and why, after a miserable six hours spent in mooning about a deserted campus and a lonely room, Myron packed a suit-case with a few of his yellow-hued shirts and similar necessities and unobtrusively made his way to Maple Street in the early gloom of the October evening.
At a few minutes past eight that evening Joe clattered hurriedly up the stairs of the house in Mill Street and thumped imperatively at Andrew’s door. Just why he thumped didn’t appear, since he threw the door open without waiting for permission. Andrew looked up inquiringly from his book in the yellow radius of light around the table.
“Hello,” he greeted. “Slide under the bed and maybe they won’t find you.”
“It’s that idiot, Myron,” announced Joe breathlessly, and sank into a chair.
“What’s he done now?” asked Andrew interestedly.
“Bolted!”
“Bolted?”
“Beat it—vamoosed—lit out—gone!”
“Where? What for?”
“I don’t know where, but he’s gone. I suppose he’s headed home. He’s in wrong at the Office over Latin, and this morning Doc Lane told him to quit football. He was to have gone alongwith us to play Day and Robins, you know, and was all keyed up about it. I didn’t get many of the details: only saw him for about three minutes just before we left: but he was talking then about firing himself and hiring out to Kenwood for the rest of the year.”
Andrew frowned. “A sweet thought,” he murmured sarcastically.
“Oh, he wouldn’t do it,” said Joe. “He likes to talk like that, but he’s all right behind his mouth.”
“I hope so. Where—when did he go?”
“Search me. I know he was gone when I got back at six, or a little before. I thought, of course, that he was around somewhere; probably at Alumni. But he wasn’t at dinner and he didn’t show up afterwards, and I remembered his line of talk this morning and got to snooping around and found his suit-case gone and some of his things; brushes and sponge and the like of those.”
“Maybe he got leave to go home over Sunday.”
“I thought of that and found out from Mr. Hoyt. Had to be careful so he wouldn’t get suspicious, but I got away with it, I guess. He hasn’t asked for leave; and wouldn’t have got it anyway, I guess. No, he’s just plain beat it.”
Andrew whistled softly and expressively.
“That fixes him,” he said regretfully. “On top of probation——”
“That’s the point,” urged Joe. “He’s dished for fair if faculty gets wind of it. That’s why I came.Ican’t go. I asked Driscoll and he said nothing doing. So it’s up to you, Andy.”
“Up to me? Go? Where?”
“Go after him and bring him back,” answered Joe. “I looked up trains. He probably waited until after dark, because he wouldn’t have risked being seen with a suit-case, and if he did he must have taken the six-eighteen for New York. There’s no train for Port Foster out of Philadelphia until seven-twelve tomorrow morning. He might stay in New York overnight or go on to Philadelphia, so the best way’ll be to go right through to Philadelphia and watch the Port Foster trains.”
Andrew stared amazedly. “Look here, Joe,” he said, “are you suggesting that I go to Philadelphia after Myron?”
“Sure,” answered Joe impatiently. “What did you suppose? And you’ll have to get a hustle on, too: it’s about eight-fifteen now and your train goes at nine-five. I’d go in a minute, but I’m in training and the rule’s strict, and if I got caught—fare thee well!”
To Joe’s surprise, Andrew began to laugh. “Well, you’re a wonder, Joe,” he gasped. “Why, man alive, I can’t go traipsing all over the United States like that! I’m beastly sorry for Myron, but——”
“Why can’t you?” demanded Joe, scowling. “Some one’s got to, and that’s flat. If he’s caught away from school without permission they’ll chuck him as sure as shooting. Why do you say you can’t go, Andy?”
“Why—why, for one reason, I can’t afford it, you idiot! How much do you think it’ll cost to go to Philadelphia and back? I’m no millionaire! Why——”
“I thought of that.” Joe pulled a roll of bills from his trousers pocket and flung it on the table. “There’s twenty-five, all I have right now. It’s enough, I guess.”
Andrew stared at the money in surprise. “Well—but—look here, I’ve got an engagement in the morning. And how do you know I can get leave?”
“Take it! No one’ll know you’re away,” said Joe. “Gosh, we’ve got to risk something!”
“Wehave? You meanIhave, don’t you?”
“Oh, what’s the difference? Myron’s a friend, ain’t he, and we can’t let him go and kill himselfoff like this without making a try, can we? Besides, the team needs him bad. If he’d hung on a bit longer he’d have been full-back and—and everything! I—I’d like to wring his silly neck!”
Andrew smiled. Then he stared thoughtfully at the table. At last he seized the roll of money, thrust it in his pocket and pushed back his chair. “Guess you’re right, Joe,” he said. “What time did you say the train goes?”
“Nine-five.” Joe jerked out his watch. “You’ve got forty minutes. Better pack a toothbrush and a night-shirt, kiddo.”
“Pack nothing,” replied Andrew. “A toothbrush and a comb will see me through, and those go in my pocket. I want that brown book, though, and some sheets of paper. Better have my fountain pen, too. You’ll have to take a message to Wynant, 29 Williams, for me, Joe. Better do it tonight. Tell him I’m called away and can’t be around in the morning. I’ll see him when I get back. Now, what about the dogs? Mind coming around in the morning and letting them out and feeding them? Good! We’re off, then.”
Andrew turned out the light and they fumbled their way to the door. Outside, Andrew gave the key to Joe. “Don’t forget the dogs, Joe,” he reminded.“Now, then, tell me again about these trains. It’s Philadelphia I’m going to, is it?”
Joe explained carefully as they hurried through the illy-lighted streets toward the station. “Better get to Philadelphia by the first train you can make, Andy. You can sleep on the way, some. The first Sunday train for Port Foster leaves Philadelphia at twelve minutes past seven. There isn’t another until ten-something. He may wait for that. You’ll have to watch for him on the platform. For the love of mud, Andy, don’t miss him!”
“I won’t!” answered the other grimly as they entered the station. “Wait here a minute. I’m going to call up the Office.”
“The Office!” exclaimed Joe aghast. “What for?”
“To get permission.”
“But——”
“I know. I won’t. Here, you buy the ticket. Get it to Philadelphia and return if you can. I’ll be right with you.”
Andrew was as good as his word. Joe viewed him anxiously. “Did you get it?” he asked.
Andrew nodded. “Yes. I told Mr. Hoyt I had to be away overnight on important matters. He hemmed a bit at first, but finally came around.So that’s all right. I feel rather better for having faculty’s blessing, Joe.” Ten minutes later the long train rolled in and Andrew climbed aboard. He was going into a day coach, but Joe pulled him back and hurried him down the platform, past a hundred lighted windows and hustled him into a parlour-car. “Might as well be as comfortable as you can,” he explained. “You can get a pretty fair nap in one of those chairs if you don’t mind waking up with a broken neck! Good-bye and good luck, Andy!”
“Good-bye. See you tomorrow afternoon or evening. Don’t forget Tess and the puppies!”
Then the train pulled out and Joe heaved a sigh of relief and made his way back to the campus and Williams Hall and the indignant Mr. Wynant.
About the same time Coach Driscoll and Captain Mellen were talking things over in the former’s lodgings. Parkinson had played smooth, hard football that afternoon, bringing encouragement to both, and their countenances still reflected satisfaction. “Looks as though we had struck our gait at last, Cap,” said Mr. Driscoll, puffing comfortably at his pipe.
“It does look so,” agreed Jud. “It’s time, too, with only two more games before Kenwood.”
“Well, I’d rather see a team come slowly and not reach the peak too early in the season. I’m more afraid of slumps than the smallpox, Mellen. Remember year before last’s experience?”
Jud nodded. “If we can hold it where it is, Coach, we’ll be all right, I guess. Some of the fellows certainly played themselves proud today: Keith and Meldrum and Norris——”
“And Mellen,” suggested Mr. Driscoll, smiling through the smoke.
“I guess I didn’t do so badly,” Jud allowed. “But that Dobbins was the corker, when you come right down to brass tacks, don’t you think so?”
“Dobbins played as remarkable a game as I’ve seen in a long, long time,” was the reply. “The way he opened holes in the D. and R. line was pretty. They weren’t holes, either, they were—were nice, broad boulevards! A stick of dynamite wouldn’t have made more of a mess of their centre!”
“And he’s all there on defence, too,” said Jud. “Steady as a concrete wall. He and Keith work like twins.”
“Pretty,” agreed Mr. Driscoll. “I guess there’s no question as to who’ll play right guard against Kenwood. I wish, though, I knew whowas going to play full-back.” Mr. Driscoll frowned. “You’re sure Foster’s out of it?”
“Fairly. I only know what you know. I haven’t seen him. I’m not surprised, though. He was beginning to show a good deal of side and you know yourself that when a fellow gets his head swelled he comes a cropper one way or another.”
“I know. Still, we mustn’t be too hard on the boy, for we’ve paid him a good deal of attention and that’s likely to turn a chap’s head unless it’s screwed on pretty tightly. And we’ve worked him hard, too. Maybe he hasn’t had time to do enough studying.”
“Well, he’s out of it, anyway. It’s hard luck, for I thought he was coming along finely. I guess it will have to be Kearns, after all.”
The coach nodded. “I haven’t lost hope of Kearns yet, Cap. He’s got it in him to play good football. I was wondering, though, if we could spare Brounker for the position. He’s a good half, but we may not need him there, and perhaps with some coaching between now and three weeks from now he’d be better than Kearns.”
“I suppose there’s a chance of Foster getting clear before the Kenwood game,” said Jud doubtfully, “but he wouldn’t be much use to us.”
“Mighty little,” replied the coach. “Of course, if he was off only a week it would be different. In that case we could take him back and have him handy in case Kearns went bad. But I don’t know——”
“I guess I’d better see him in the morning and find out what the prospects are. If he will saw wood and get rid of his conditions, or whatever his trouble is, by a week from Monday——”
“Yes, tell him that. Brow-beat him a bit. Get him on his mettle. I’ll see him, if you think it would be better.”
“I’ll take a fall out of him first,” said Jud. “By the way, he and Dobbins room together. It might be a good scheme to get Dobbins after him. I guess they’re pretty close from what I hear, and maybe he’d listen to Dobbins when he wouldn’t to me. Well, anyway, I think we can lick Kenwood this year even without a full-back,” he ended.
Mr. Driscoll smiled and shook his head. “Let’s not be too sure, Mellen,” he said. “Wait until the Sunday papers come. Six to six sounds pretty good for Phillipsburg, but we don’t know yet how many of her subs Kenwood used. That coach of hers is a foxy chap, and it may be that he was satisfied to get away with a tie and leave usguessing. Perhaps he thought we had scouts over there today, looking them over.”
“I sort of wish we had had,” said Jud. “Oh, I know your idea on the subject, Coach, and I’m not saying you aren’t right, but, just the same, it’s a handicap. Kenwood sends fellows to watch our playing and gets lots of useful information, I’ll bet, and we have to depend on what the papers tell us. And most of that guff is written by fellows friendly to Kenwood. If the Kenwood coach wants the news to go out that the team is rotten, it goes out, and we have to swallow it. I’d give a hundred dollars to see her play Montrose next Saturday!”
“That’s high pay for acting the spy,” replied the coach gravely. “See here, Jud Mellen, you’re a fair and square, decent sort, from all I’ve seen of you, and I’ve known you for three years. You wouldn’t pick a pocket or lie, and I’ve never yet seen you doing any dirty work in a game. Then just how would you explain it to your conscience if you went over to Kenwood next Saturday with the idea of seeing how much information you could get hold of regarding Kenwood’s plays and signals and so on?”
“But, gosh ding it, Mr. Driscoll, I wouldn’twear a false moustache and all that! I wouldn’t sneak in, I’d go openly. There’s no reason why I shouldn’t see Kenwood play a game of football just because I happen to play with Parkinson!”
“Not if just being entertained was what you were there for, Cap,” answered the other. “But it wouldn’t be. You’d be a spy, and you know it, old son. That’s what I object to. When the time comes that it is an understood and mutually agreed on thing that members of one football team are welcome to see another team play, why, then I won’t make a yip. But you know how we love to get word here from the gate that a Kenwood scout has gone in! We cut out new plays and try to look worse than we are.”
“You mean we would if you’d let us,” laughed Jud.
“You do it, anyhow,” said the coach, smiling. “I’ve watched you too often. The last time we had visitors I asked Cater why he didn’t use a certain play in front of the other fellow’s goal and get a score and he looked innocent and said he’d forgot it. No, we’ll get along without that sort of stuff, Mellen, while I’m here. I don’t like it a bit.”
“Well, I said you were right,” Jud laughed.“I just had to have my little kick. Hello, nearly ten! I must leg it. I’ll see Foster in the morning; Dobbins, too; and let you know what I learn. Good night, Coach.”