But Jud didn’t see Myron in the morning, for the reason that we know of. Only Joe was in Number 17 when the football captain knocked, and Joe was not telling all he knew. According to him, Foster was “out just now” and the time of his return was most uncertain. Joe “had an idea” that his friend was dining away from school. Jud said that it didn’t matter much and that he’d see Foster later. Then:
“Maybe you know how bad he’s fixed with the Office, Whoa?” he suggested.
“I don’t,” replied Joe, “for he hasn’t said much to me about it. I know that it’s Latin that’s troubling him, though. He’s been in wrong with Addicks for a couple of weeks. Fact is, Cap, Myron hasn’t been putting in enough time on study. He falls to sleep at the table there about every other night. Guess he’s been getting a bit too much exercise.”
“Yes, we’ve worked him pretty steadily. Too bad, for, between you and me, he was doing mightywell and looked awfully good. I wonder if you can’t find out what the prospects are, Whoa, and let me know. If he could get a clean slate by a week from Monday, say, he might still be of some use to the team. He probably wouldn’t start the Kenwood game, but it’s a fair bet he’d get in for part of it. Driscoll and I were talking about him last night, and I said I thought that maybe you could sort of jack him up; make him see that it is up to him to get square with the Office and get back to the team.”
“Oh, I’ll get him back if it can be done,” Joe assured him. “I was going to, anyway. We need him, Cap.”
“We certainly do, Whoa. See what you can do with him. Wouldn’t some tutoring help? There’s a chap named Merriman in town who’s a regular whale at it.”
“I know him. I’ll have a talk with Myron when he comes back—in, I mean—and let you know, Cap. You leave him to me!”
Jud Mellen had no more than got out of the building when a fearsome knock came at the door and Chas Cummins appeared, scowling ferociously. “Hello,” he said. “Where’s Foster?”
“Out just now,” replied Joe affably. “Want to leave a message?”
“No—yes—Yes, tell him I say he’s to beat it over to my room the minute he shows up here!”
“All right,” said Joe.
Chas clung to the doorknob and continued to scowl, and studied Joe speculatively. Finally: “Isn’t it a mess?” he demanded. “Everything going like clock-work, and then, bingo—Officer, call the ambulance! Honest, Whoa, I could kick Foster from here to New York and back cheerfully, drat his hide!”
“I wish you could kick him back,” said Joe.
“What do you mean?”
“Close the door, will you? Thanks. Can you keep a secret, Chas?”
“Sometimes. Go on. What’s up?”
“Myron’s gone. Went last evening.”
“Fired?”
“No, he just went.”
“Left school, you mean? Well, what—do you know—about that?”
“We’re trying to get him back before faculty gets on to it, but it doesn’t look good. Merriman’s on his trail. Took the nine o’clock train last night. I think he’ll manage to head him off all right, but Myron’s a cranky, stubborn dog and may refuse to come back.”
“Any one suspect so far?” asked Chas with knitted brows.
“Don’t think so. Good thing there’s no chapel on Sunday, isn’t it?”
“Merry Andrew went, you say? Good stuff! If any one can do the persuasion stunt, Andy can. Hang the beggar, what’s he think, anyhow? Doesn’t he know he will get fired if faculty hears about it? And what about me?”
“You?” asked Joe.
“Well, I mean the team,” corrected Chas hurriedly. “He ought to be licked! I’d do it, too, if it would do any good. Honest, Whoa, isn’t this the very limit?”
“Way past it,” agreed Joe. “He’s a crazy guy for sure.”
“When do you expect Andy back?” asked Chas after a moment.
“He might make it by the five o’clock. Ought to be here by eight, anyway.”
“Well, if he doesn’t fetch him it’ll be good-bye to Foster for keeps! What’s wrong with him, anyway? Some one said he was on pro.”
“Don’t know whether it’s out and out probation or not,” said Joe. “Didn’t have much time to talk to him. But he said Doc Lane told him tolet football alone and get hunky with Addicks again.”
“Latin, eh? I always said that language ought to be prohibited! It’s always getting folks into trouble. Well, I suppose there isn’t anything I can do. I wish you’d let me know the news when there is any, Whoa.”
“I will. Keep this quiet, though, Chas. You and Andy and I are the only ones who know, and it mustn’t get any further. I only told you because you and Myron have some game on and I knew you’d keep quiet.”
“Some game on? What makes you think that?” asked Chas.
“Well, I’ve got eyes and ears,” answered the other drily. “I’m not asking questions, though. So long. I’ll let you know how it comes out.”
“Don’t forget. If I’m out leave word with Brown. Just say ‘Yes’ or ‘No.’ I’ll understand. Gosh, I hope Andy fetches him, though!”
Myron reached New York at a few minutes after ten on Saturday night. He had some supper on the way, crushed into a corner of a crowded dining-car, but he wasn’t hungry and ate little. On arrival, quick work in a taxi-cab got him across town in time for a train to Philadelphia that landed him there just before midnight. He hada married cousin living in that city, but he preferred to go to the quiet little hotel at which his mother stayed when on shopping visits. He left an order to be called at half-past six, luxuriated in a bath and crawled wearily to bed. But sleep was still a long way from him, and until after two he lay there wide-eyed and thought and thought, and twisted and turned.
There may be more dismal places in the world than Philadelphia at six-thirty on a rainy morning. If so, Myron had fortunately escaped them. He had left himself barely enough time to dress and reach the station for the seven-twelve express, and when, aroused by the blatantbuz-z-zzof the telephone, he staggered to the window and looked out, he felt that he never could do it. That drab, empty stretch of wet street was the last blow to waning courage. Had he rested well and felt normally fresh he would have charged at his clothes, leaped into a cab and made it nicely, but he was in no condition of mind or body for such hustling methods. Besides, there were later trains, and he was in no hurry to face his folks, and the tumbled bed looked awfully good to him. Three minutes later he was asleep again.
Meanwhile Andrew Merriman was slowly pacing the platform beside the seven-twelve train.He had been there ever since the train had rolled sleepily into the long, gloomy shed. Keeping tabs on the passengers was no difficult task, for they were few in number and moved with dragging feet. Andrew had arrived in Philadelphia at half-past five, after an interminable ride during which he had huddled himself into a seat in a day-coach and slumbered fitfully between stops. It had been a glorious relief to leave that leisurely train and stretch his legs again. He had had breakfast at a nearby lunch-room, and now, all things considered, was feeling very fit. A glance at his watch showed the time to be two minutes to seven. In fourteen minutes from now he would know his fate. He had already arranged his plans in the event that Myron didn’t show up for that train, and he would have three hours in which to carry them out. A portly man with two suit-cases waddled down the long platform and puffed himself up the steps of a car. Even allowing for a disguise, thought Andrew whimsically, that was not Myron. Nor was the next passenger, a fussy little man with two small boys strung out behind him who came so fast that Andrew half expected to see him “snap the whip” any moment and send the tiniest boy hurtling through space. But he didn’t. He herded the children into a car and smiledtriumphantly at Andrew. Evidently, he considered that arriving with only five minutes to spare was a reckless proceeding. There were the usual last-moment arrivals and then the train reluctantly pulled out, leaving Andrew alone on the platform.
Two blocks away was a hotel, and thither he made his way. Capturing a telephone directory, he found a chair by a window and turned to the list of hotels. There was an appalling lot of them and nothing to indicate which were of the sort likely to be patronised by Myron. But he had three hours before him and plenty of money, and was not discouraged. He took a piece of paper from a pocket, unscrewed his pen and set to work. Ten minutes later he was ready. The lobby was practically deserted and he had the telephone booths to himself. When he had exhausted all the nickels he had he crossed to the news-stand and had a dollar bill changed. Then he went on with his campaign. It was slow work, for many of the hotels were extremely deliberate in answering. The voices that came back to him sounded sleepy, and some sounded cross as well.
“Is Myron Foster stopping there?” Andrew would ask.
“Who? Fosdick? How do you spell it? Oh!What are the initials? Hold the line, please.” Then, after a wait: “No such party registered.”
At any rate, that is the way it went for nearly twenty minutes. Then luck turned.
Myron was still slumbering when the telephone rang a second time. For a moment he stared at the ceiling, a perfectly strange ceiling that seemed to return his regard coldly, and strove to think where he was. While he was still struggling the impatient instrument on the table beside the bed buzzed again. Myron reached for it and recollection came to him.
“Yes,” he said sleepily. “Hello!”
“Gentleman to see you, Mr. Foster. Shall we send him up?”
“Gentleman to see me!” echoed Myron. Was it possible that his father had learned already of his departure from school and had come up from Port Foster? He was thoroughly awake now. “What is the name?” he asked. After a moment of silence: “Merriman,” said the voice at the other end. “Merriman?” thought Myron. “I don’t know any Merriman! Except Andy. Who the dickens——”
“I didn’t hear, Mr. Foster,” said the clerk politely.
“Oh—er—all right! Ask him to come up,please.” Myron put the receiver down, unlocked the door and returned to bed to hug his knees and stare perplexedly at the footboard. Who the dickens was Merriman? Of course it couldn’t be Andy. This was Philadelphia, and Andy was several hundred miles away. Well, he would soon know! Then came a tap at the door and Myron said “Come in” in an unnecessarily loud tone and the portal opened. Then it closed again. And Myron, with eyes that looked as big and as round as butter-chips, whispered: “Where’d you come from?”
“Afraid I’ve spoiled your beauty sleep, Myron,” said the visitor. “Sorry, but I’ve been up so long I forgot how early it was.”
“What—what are you doing over here?” gasped Myron.
“Looking for you, of course,” replied Andrew easily as he seated himself on the bed. “Nice quarters you’ve got. Next time, though, I wish you’d locate further up on the alphabet. It’s a long way to the M’s!”
“Are you crazy or—or am I?” asked Myron helplessly.
“Neither, I hope,” answered the visitor calmly. “You see, I set out to find you on the telephone and had to call up about twenty hotels before I got the right one. I started with the A’s and you, as it happened, were among the M’s.”
“What did you want to find me for? Who sent you?”
“Well, I suppose you might say that Joe sent me. At least, he had the idea first. After that, I sort of sent myself.”
“You might have spared yourself the trouble,” said Myron defiantly. “I’m not going back!”
Apparently Andrew didn’t hear that. “Joe was all fussed up, like a hen who’s hatched out a duck. He came around about half-past eight and loaded me with money and handed me my hat, so to speak. Got in here around five-thirty. You didn’t show up at the station for the seven-twelve, so I changed my money into nickels and proceeded to make the telephone company enormously wealthy. You’ve cost me—or, rather, Joe—a lot of money, Myron.” Andrew shook his head sadly. “And I’m not sure you’re worth it, either.”
“I didn’t ask him to spend money on me,” said Myron sulkily. “He hadn’t any business butting in, anyway. It’s my own affair. If I want to leave school I’ve got a right to, and——”
“Back up! Who told you that?”
“Told me what?” asked Myron blankly.
“That you had a right to leave school.”
“Why, no one told me! But it’s so!”
“No, sir, it isn’t,” said Andrew emphatically. “You haven’t any more right to leave school than a soldier has to leave his post, or a policeman his beat. Not a bit more, Myron.”
“That isn’t so,” answered the other excitedly.“It isn’t the same at all. Duty is one thing and—and staying where you don’t get a square deal’s another. My folks have a right to take me away from Parkinson whenever they want to!”
“Have they taken you out?”
“No, they don’t know yet. But they will when I ask them to.”
“That’s all right, then. What your folks do is another matter, old man. It’s what you do that I’m talking about. Why do you say you haven’t had a square deal?”
“Because I haven’t! Look at what Jud did to me! First of all, they made me take too many courses, courses I didn’t want to take at all, some of them. Then when I couldn’t keep them up just as—just as they think I ought to, they came down on me! Jud says I can’t play football. Just because Addicks has it in for me. Addicks calls on me twice as often as any other fellow in class. I hate Latin, anyway. I didn’t want to take it this year. Next year would be time enough. Driscoll made me work like a slave, and I didn’t have time enough for all the things I’m supposed to study, and Jud socked it to me. I’d been trying for a month to get on the team, and now, just when I was sure of a place, Jud springs this! Call that a square deal? I don’t!”
“Well, it’s sort of tough luck, old man. How long are you off for?”
“He wouldn’t tell me. Said we’d wait and see, or something. He can wait. I’m through.”
“Still, I don’t see how you’re helping things much by running away,” said Andrew mildly. “If you want to play on the team you’ll have to do it by mail, won’t you?”
“Oh, I’m done wanting to,” answered Myron roughly. “I’m done with the whole rotten place.”
“And Joe and me? I see.”
“I didn’t say I had anything against you and Joe,” retorted Myron indignantly. “Or—or some other fellows. The fellows are all right. It—it’s the school. The way they do things. They don’t give you a chance. They aren’t fair.”
“So you even up by not being fair, too?”
“What do you mean by that?” asked Myron, glowering.
“Why, you get mad because you think faculty has treated you badly, and then you turn around and treat other folks badly.”
“What other folks?” asked Myron.
“Your friends, the football team and, through that, the whole school.”
“How do you make that out?” Myron demanded, frowning.
“Well, take Joe and me, for instance. We’re in the picture. You let us take a liking to you, which we wouldn’t have done if we hadn’t thought you a good, square sort, the sort that does his duty even if it looks hard. Then when duty gets a bit tiresome you kick us in the shins and run away. Same way with the team. You went out for it and the coach and the rest spent time and effort on you. They thought you were a square sort, too. They wouldn’t knowingly make a poor investment any more than Joe and I would. Then, when you hit a snag, you repudiate your debt to them and beat it. You had a chance to make a good player of yourself and win a position on the team and help bring about a victory for the school. Because you get mad with Jud, you tell the school to go to the dickens. In other words, Myron, old man, you’re a quitter.”
“I’m not!” cried the other desperately. “You’re making it out all wrong! Besides, it wouldn’t make any difference to the school if I stayed. I’m out of football.”
“I don’t see it. You’re out of football until you get back your class standing. The right thing to do is to get it back as soon as you can. It’s your fault that you lost it. There’s no use kidding yourself, Myron. You got in trouble with Addicksbecause you didn’t play fair with him. You got in trouble with Jud for the same reason. Now you won’t play fair with the rest of us. Think it over.”
“It’s not so, Andy! I tell you I didn’t have time to study that beastly Latin! Joe knows I didn’t. I was too tired at night. I couldn’t!”
“If that’s really so you should have told Driscoll to let up on you. But I think the trouble was that you didn’t make the best use of the time you had. You have two hours every morning, to my certain knowledge, when you’ve no classes, and I’ve never heard of you making use of them for study.”
“It’s all well enough for you to preach,” retorted Myron bitterly. “Youlikethe wretched stuff! You don’t have any trouble with it. I do. I—even if I went back I’d never catch up in class.”
“Oh, yes, you would. I’ll guarantee that. I’ll promise you that you’ll be in good standing with Addicks by next Saturday.”
Myron stared, surprised, doubtful. “How?” he asked at length.
“I’ll look after the ‘how,’ old man.”
“You mean you’ll tutor me again?”
Andrew nodded. Myron dropped his gaze tothe counterpane. A minute of silence followed during which the ticking of Myron’s watch on the bedside table sounded loudly in the room. Then said Andrew briskly: “There’s a New York train at ten, I think. That’ll give you time for breakfast and let us catch the one-something back. You get your bath and dress and I’ll go down and buy a paper. Don’t know but what I’ll have a bite more myself. My breakfast was a trifle sketchy. How long will you be?”
Myron continued to study the counterpane. Another silence ensued. Finally, though, it was broken by Myron. “Twenty minutes,” he said in a low voice.
It was dark when they stepped off the train at Warne. As they did so a form detached itself from the lamp-lit gloom of the platform and a voice asked cautiously: “That you, Andy?” Then Myron felt a hand tugging at his suit-case, and: “Let me have it, kiddo,” said Joe. “We’ll go over to Andy’s and leave it there until tomorrow. Better not take any risks.”
They skirted the end of the train, avoiding publicity as much as was possible, and made their way toward Mill Street. Only when they were a block from the track was the silence broken again. Then Andy asked: “Everything all right, Joe?”
“I think so. But I’m sure glad you didn’t leave it until the next train. I’d have had nervous prostration long before that! I had the dogs out three times and fed them. There wasn’t anything else to do. Maybe they’ve bust themselves eating, but it can’t be helped. That kid over in Williams—Wynant or something—has a grouch a mile long, Andy. You’ll have to kiss him, I guess, before he will ever smile again! How are you, kiddo?”
“All right, thanks,” answered Myron rather constrainedly.
“That’s good. By the way, I had to give the impression that you were having dinner out somewhere. So if any one mentions it you’d better play up.”
“Who did you tell?” asked Myron.
“I don’t think I exactlytoldany one, but I let Jud Mellen go away with the idea.”
“Was he looking for me?”
“Yeah, wanted you to hurry up and get back to work,” replied Joe carelessly. “I told him that if you weren’t back inside a week I’d bust every bone in your body.”
“He will be,” said Andrew grimly. “If he isn’t you may bust mine!”
Just before supper time Joe beat a tattoo onthe portal of Number 16 Goss. Chas Cummins’ voice bade him enter. Joe, however, only stuck his head into the room, and, nodding to Brown, said in a deep, mysterious whisper: “Yes-s-s!” Then he closed the door and went off down the corridor, chuckling. In Number 16, Brown raised his brows and looked inquiringly at his chum.
“Batty?” he asked.
A day passed before Joe and Myron breathed freely. By Monday evening it seemed quite safe to assume that Myron’s absence had passed undetected. They went across town and brought the suit-case home then, Joe, however, transferring certain articles, such as Myron’s pyjamas, to his pockets in case some inquisitive member of the faculty should insist on looking inside the bag. But none challenged and the suit-case went back to the closet and Myron’s toilet articles to their places, and the episode was closed. The two spoke of it but briefly. That was Sunday night, as they were preparing for bed. Then Joe remarked conversationally: “You’re a crazy loon, kiddo, aren’t you?” After a moment of reflection Myron said “Yes,” quite humbly.
“Sure are,” agreed Joe, tossing his trousers in the general direction of a chair. “Any time any guy accuses you of having sense, you knock himdown. I’ll stand by you. Still, you have your uses, and I’m glad to see you in our midst again. How about being here, now that you are!”
“Tickled to death,” owned Myron a bit shamefacedly.
Joe chuckled. “Knew you would be,” he said. “We ain’t—aren’t such a bad lot when you take us, right. Good night, kiddo.”
“Good night, Joe. I—you—I mean, thanks!”
Myron isn’t likely to forget for a long time the week that followed. Every afternoon at four o’clock appeared Andrew, armed for the fray, and for two hours of a hundred and twenty minutes each Myron wrestled with Latin. Andrew was merciless. From the stroke of four to the stroke of six was the inexorable rule. Myron’s pleas weren’t even heard. After two days he got fairly used to it, though, and then the labour began to bear fruit. Mr. Addicks shot a keen and questioning glance at Myron on Wednesday and followed it with one of mild approval on Thursday. Saturday morning Myron was again out of the woods, although, as Andrew reminded him more than once, whether he stayed so depended on whether he was willing to study hard and long and resolutely. Myron reached the conclusion that he was.
But being out of the woods did not necessarily place him in the full sunlight of faculty favour, and so it was from the grandstand that he saw Parkinson play Chancellor School at Mt. Wansett,and not from the players’ bench. Myron had doubts as to his right to make the trip, and put the matter up to Joe. Joe did not observe, as he might have, that, having got as far away as Philadelphia without leave, going to a not distant town under like conditions shouldn’t worry Myron! Instead, he advised him to put the question up to Mr. Hoyt. The secretary referred to a mysterious book and shook his head. “I can’t find that you have gone on probation, Foster,” he said. “Nothing here indicates it. You say Doctor Lane forbade you to play football? Was anything said about probation?”
“No, sir. I only thought—was afraid——”
“Well, I should say there was no intention, then. If I were you I’d assume that I was not on probation. However, if you still have doubts I’ll take the matter up with the Principal as soon as he’s at leisure, and if you’ll drop in again about twelve——”
“But the train goes at eleven, sir!” Mr. Hoyt smiled faintly. “In that case, Foster, I don’t see how you can be here at twelve.”
“You think, then, that——”
“I think so.”
Myron hurried out before the secretary had time to change his mind and think differently!
It rained that day, and the game was played in a sea of water on a soft and slippery turf. Many boys who had meant to accompany the team backed out when they viewed the weather, and only a handful huddled in raincoats behind the Parkinson bench and aided the Brown with damp enthusiasm. Not that a great deal of cheering was needed, however, for the first period settled the outcome of the contest, and after that it was merely a question of whether Chancellor would score. Parkinson started with the line-up that, so rumour had it, would face Kenwood two weeks later: Stearns and Norris, ends; Mellen and Keith, tackles; Cummins and Dobbins, guards; Cantrell, centre; Cater, quarter; Meldrum and Brown, halves; Kearns, full. But that arrangement did not outlast the second period. The third began with the score 19 to 0 and five substitutes on the field. And during the subsequent thirty minutes of playing time additional changes were frequent. Parkinson ended with many third substitutes in the line-up, to which may be fairly attributed the fact that Chancellor saved her face at the last and scored seven points.
With a slippery field and a wet ball, both teams had stuck pretty closely to line plays, but some five or six minutes from the end, Grove, playingquarter, took a chance and shot the ball to Houghton, at full, for a wide run around left end. Houghton muffed, not a difficult thing to do when the ball is as slippery as a pat of butter and it reaches you off at one side, and the fat was in the fire. A defeated team is a dangerous team, and Chancellor proved it then and there by piling through the Parkinson first and second defences, upsetting the distressed Houghton and salvaging the pigskin some thirty yards from the Brown’s goal-line. For the first time in many long, wet minutes the spectators had something to thrill over. A long-limbed, shock-headed Chancellor forward in mud-reeking pants and torn jersey, wearied and winded, went plunging and stumbling and slipping toward a touchdown with the field strewed out behind him. Interference was hasty but effective. Parkinson and Chancellor youths went down like nine-pins, splashing into puddles, gouging into mud. For a moment it seemed that the incident would end with twenty-two players flat on the wet ground and only the officials erect! But, although many fell by the way, others managed to keep their feet and run it out, and among these was the youth with the ball. Twice he went to his knees, but each time he recovered before the enemy reached him, andin the end he slid over the line close to the left goal-post, and Chancellor shouted and leaped with delight.
After the goal was prettily kicked the teams went at it again, but to all purposes the game was over and the score didn’t change again. Twenty-nine to seven were the figures that, later in the day, brought uneasiness to the Kenwood camp. Yet, returning to Warne, it was noticed that Coach Driscoll’s countenance did not reflect the satisfaction shown on other faces. After supper that evening he told Jud Mellen why. “You chaps played a rattling game today,” he said almost regretfully. “I haven’t a criticism to make that’s worth the breath it would cost. Even the second and third subs were good, almost without exception. But I sort of wish you hadn’t done so well, and that’s the truth.”
“Afraid of a slump,” said Jud, nodding thoughtfully.
“Well, not exactly that. When a team reaches its best two weeks before the big game it doesn’t take a slump to queer it. It only needs a return to ordinary playing, if you see what I mean. All you fellows need do to get beaten two weeks from today is to play the sort of football you played last week against Day and Robins. There’s justthat much difference between fine football and good football, Cap. If it had been Kenwood today instead of Chancellor, we’d have the championship tucked away in our belt this evening. I guess I’ve made a mistake somewhere: let you fellows come too fast the last week or so. But I didn’t have any warning that you were on the last lap. It hasn’t shown once. Well, it’s up to us now to stay where we are, Cap.”
“Or go ahead,” said Jud.
But Mr. Driscoll shook his head. “I’d like to think so, but I’m afraid we reached top-notch today. I’m always scared for a team that hasn’t had a slump some time during the season. And we haven’t. Not a real, sure-enough slump. There was a tendency after the Phillipsburg game, but it didn’t really amount to anything.”
“Well, I don’t feel like slumping,” laughed Jud. “And I haven’t noticed any signs of it in the others. Every one’s as cocky as you please tonight, and barring a few bruises—and Flay’s knee—they’re all in fine shape.”
“Yes, we came out of it mighty well,” agreed the coach. “I hate a wet field, Cap. I hope to goodness this rain doesn’t keep on for two or three days. Rainy weather can play hob with a team that’s the least bit over-trained.”
“You’re a regular pessimist tonight, Coach,” Jud laughed. “Cheer up! By the way, Dobbins told me this evening that Foster’s expecting to get off pro. Kearns wasn’t half bad today, but it would certainly make me feel easier in what I call my mind to have Foster ready to take his place.”
“Yes. See if you can get him out Monday. There isn’t a whole lot of time left. Still, he’s learned the position fairly well and might give a good account of himself as he is. With another ten days of training he ought to make a good second for Kearns.”
The rain continued during Sunday and Myron was restless and inclined to be as much of a pessimist as the head coach. He was difficult to live with, too, and Joe dragged him over to Mill Street after dinner in the hope that Andrew would be good for his soul. Andrew did, in truth, perk him up not a little, predicting that he would get his release from Doctor Lane the next day.
“I dare say he’s forgotten all about me,” said Myron dismally. “Suppose Addicks doesn’t tell him I’ve made good?”
“Well, it’s up to Addicks, and that’s a fact,” responded Andrew. “If nothing happens by noon, I’d advise you to go to him and tell himthe facts. Tell him you want to get back on the team and can’t until he speaks a good word for you to Jud. Addicks is a good sport and will do it. I think he will, anyhow, though. You see if you don’t hear from Jud in the morning.”
So Myron decided to hope for the best and forgot his worries watching the amusing antics of the puppies, by now sturdy little rascals who made their mother’s life a burden and a boredom.
Andrew’s prediction came true, for the next morning Myron was again summoned to the Office and conducted into the presence of Doctor Lane.
“Mr. Addicks tells me that you’re doing very much better, Foster,” announced the Doctor. “In fact, he recommends that we lift the restrictions in your case. Do you think that you will be able to stay in good standing now?”
“Yes, sir. I’m going to try hard, anyway,” said Myron earnestly.
Doctor Lane smiled. “In that case I believe that you will succeed, my boy. It’s wonderful what really trying will accomplish. Very well, Foster. You have permission to go back and grind your face in the sod again. Like football do you?”
“Very much, sir.”
“So do I. I used to play it once, a good manyyears ago. Do you consider that we have a good chance to beat Kenwood this fall?”
“Yes, sir, I think we will. We’ve got a bully team!”
“So I understand. Well, we’ll hope so. Good morning, Foster.”
Once outside the door of the outer office, Myron broke into song. As a musical effort it was not remarkably successful, but as an expression of his feelings it met all requirements. Turning into the entrance corridor, he almost ran into Paul Eldredge. He and Paul had never spoken since the encounter on the walk that evening. Paul’s attitude toward him had been one of armed neutrality expressed in sullen silence and sarcastic glances. Now, acting on impulse, Myron stopped and spoke.
“Say, Eldredge,” he blurted, “let’s call it off! What do you say? I’m sorry for whatever it was that—that offended you.”
Eldredge, surprised, at a loss, stared at Myron’s smiling countenance for an instant, trying to think of something sarcastic. Failing, he grunted, and then, as Myron kept silence and waited, he said: “All right,” none too graciously; adding: “I’m satisfied if you are. You started it, anyway.”
Myron couldn’t remember whether he had orhadn’t just then, so he yielded the point. “Did I? I’m sorry then. Let’s forget it, eh?”
Eldredge nodded more amiably. “Sure! I’m willing.”
Then Myron nodded, laughed for no reason that the other could fathom, and hurried on. The laugh had nothing to do with Eldredge or with the making of peace, but was just an advertisement of the fact that life looked very good to him at the moment.
Mr. Addicks, a half-hour later, positively beamed on him, to the quiet amusement of those of the class who knew of Myron’s recent status, and Myron decided that the Latin instructor was “a corking old chap.” Reinstatement amongst the first team substitutes proved a most casual affair that afternoon. He reported to Farnsworth and the manager said, rather decently, “Glad you’re back, Foster. All right, get into it. That’s your squad down the field.”
I think the experiences of the past week had cleared the air in Myron’s case. Perhaps Andrew’s curtain lecture at the hotel that Sunday morning had its effect. Perhaps, too, the knowledge that Joe and Andy had cared enough to go to all that scheming and effort to bring him back and save him from his own folly bucked him up. At all events, he went to work hammer-and-tongs and by Wednesday night had Steve Kearns looking worried. Chas, viewing events interestedly, chuckled to himself. Things were working his way. Not only was he secretly aiding and abetting the career of Myron, but there were three others among the first and second choice fellows who were under his care and who, willingly or unwillingly, followed his instructions. Had Chas cared to he could have taken a pencil and paper and written down the line-up for next season’s first important contest. Needless to say, against the position of left guard would have been the name of Cummins.
Chas was not without his qualms of uneasiness, though, for Brodhead was now pushing him hard for his place. Attending to the duties of next year’s captain in anticipation somewhat detracted from his playing qualities, and when, on Thursday, he found himself left on the bench while Brodhead was sent into the game against the second at left guard, he realised dismayedly that he would have to let next season look after itself for the present and reinstate himself in the coach’s good graces. Chas’ plans revolved on his election to the captaincy, and it wasn’t usual to elect to that position a fellow who had not played in the big game. Chas studied his scarred knuckles thoughtfully and wondered to just what extent Mr. Driscoll would let his personal feelings rule when it came to a choice between him and Brodhead for the Kenwood game. Chas knew perfectly well that the coach, without disliking him, held it in for him on one or two scores, and one must allow for a certain amount of human nature, he reflected, in even a football coach! Mentally he shook his head and acknowledged that he would have to mend his ways. He wasn’t certain, for that matter, that it was not already too late, that, to use his own expression, he had not already “spilled the beans”!
That Thursday Myron got himself talked about. He went in at full-back in the second half, vice Kearns, and showed himself a remarkably proficient player at that position. Coach Driscoll watched him in genuine surprise, although, as usual, he hid his feelings. “He’s just about four times as good as he was before he was laid off,” he said to himself, “and at least twice as good as I ever thought he would be. Why, the chap’s a born full-back! Give him a few more pounds for line-bucking and he will size up with any of them. Next year he ought to be All-American material, by Jupiter! But I mustn’t spoil him. He’s too good. And if he gets to knowing how good he is, he’s likely to get fond of himself and fizzle out. I think he’s the sort to do that. No, I guess we’ll keep your spurs trimmed down pretty close, Foster, my lad!” And in furtherance of that plan the coach strode across to the first team backfield and metaphorically ripped Myron up the back, to the bewilderment of Myron and the puzzlement of Jud and Joe and Katie and some others! Myron ended the game in a chastened mood, conscious of having made two touchdowns, one by a wide run behind good interference and one by downright grit from the four yards when the advance had seemed at an end, but equallyconscious that he had not done as well as he should have. He had Coach Driscoll’s word for the latter, although the coach had somehow failed to specify very exactly wherein Myron had failed. There had been talk about “getting low” and “using your legs,” but Myron didn’t really see how he could have struck the line much lower without going into it on his head or how he could have got another ounce of push out of those wearied legs of his. In the end, having been refreshed with food and having listened to hearty praise from his friends, he decided that coaches were strange persons not always to be taken seriously. But he didn’t get a swelled head over the day’s performance, which was what the coach had guarded against.
There was no practice on Friday for the first team players, and so when Myron found a note in the mail that morning signed Maurice Millard saying that the writer would be in Warne that noon and asking Myron to meet him at the hotel at two o’clock, the latter was able to promise himself an enjoyable afternoon. Unfortunately, he had a recitation at two, but he left a note for Millard at the hotel in the forenoon postponing the meeting until a quarter to three. He recalled Millard very pleasantly and was glad he wasto meet him again. He liked that name, too, Maurice Millard: it had a swing to it, he thought, even if it did sound rather like the name of a moving-picture artist! He wished that Millard had chosen to look him up at his room, for he would have liked to introduce him to Joe. Joe had seemed somehow rather sceptical as to Millard’s charms. But he could bring the visitor to Sohmer later on, for of course he would want to see the school and visit the football field and so on.
But, rather strangely—or so Myron thought,—Millard declared in favour of taking a drive into the country. “We can look around the school when we get back,” he explained. “It’s a wonderful day for a drive and I’m much fonder of the country than I am of towns. And we can have a jolly chat, too, and you won’t have to interrupt yourself every ten seconds to say ‘That’s Smith Hall, built in 1876 and used by General Washington as headquarters during the football game between Parkinson and Kenwood,’ or some other such dope.”
As to its being a wonderful day for driving, Myron had his doubts, for summer had returned and the weather was decidedly hot in spite of the fact that November was two weeks old. Still,driving might be pleasanter than walking, and the guest had the right to choose his entertainment, and Myron capitulated. To find a conveyance, however, was not so easy, for no Jehus slept along the curb in front of the little hotel when they went in search of one. Myron suggested walking to the station, only a block or so distant, and Millard consented. The difficulty was solved before they got that far, however, for a new, highly varnished taxi-cab darted toward them from a side street and a dimly remembered youth on the driver’s seat hailed Myron by name. He proved to be the fellow who had conveyed Myron to Sohmer that first day of school, and by the time the latter had ended negotiations for the hiring of the cab by the hour he remembered that the sandy-haired young man was named Eddie Moses. The cab appeared to be brand-new and was certainly a vast improvement over the former one. They went briskly out of the town toward Sturgis, and, with all windows open, the drive promised to be as enjoyable as Millard had predicted.
The visitor was as smartly, if quietly, dressed as when Myron had seen him last, and Myron was secretly glad that he had gone to extra pains in the matter of his own attire. Myron asked aboutbusiness and Millard reported everything fine, and said that he had managed to get a small order from the local dealer in athletic supplies that morning. “Not much, you know, but enough to let us show him that we have the goods he wants and can sell to him cheaper than that New York house. It’s a wedge, Foster.”
In spite of Millard’s expressed love of the country, he didn’t seem to pay much attention to its beauties. Before they had gone a mile he had switched the conversation from athletic goods to football, of which he appeared to know a great deal. Myron wondered if he had played when at school, and what that school had been, but somehow he never got around to asking. He was glad enough to talk about football, and he managed before long to let Millard know that he was now a member of the Parkinson first team. Millard was clearly delighted with his friend’s good fortune, and congratulated him warmly.
“I’ll bet anything you’ll make good, too, Foster, when you fellows meet Kenwood. I hear they’ve got only a fair team over there this year. I was talking to a fellow from there only a couple of days ago. ‘We aren’t telling it around, Art’—my name’s Maurice Arthur, you know, and some fellows call me Art,” he explained parenthetically.“‘We aren’t telling it around, but between you and me we’ve got a pretty punk outfit this year. We’re trying to keep Parkinson guessing, but if they play the sort of game they played against Chancellor they’ll have us on the run from the beginning.’ Maybe I oughtn’t to tell this to a Parkinson fellow, but he didn’t tell me not to, and you and I are friends, so I guess there’s no harm. Besides, I’d like mighty well to see you fellows lick that Kenwood bunch. They’re too stuck-up for me.”
“I won’t say anything about it to any one,” said Myron virtuously. “Probably your friend wouldn’t want it to get to our team.”
“Oh, never mind what he wants. If telling your fellows’ll do them any good, you go ahead and tell them. I’ll stand for it. How is the team getting along, by the way? That was certainly a peach of a licking you gave Chancellor. I was reading about it in the paper last Sunday.”
Myron replied that the team was getting on famously, and went into rather intimate details to prove it. Millard was flatteringly interested and encouraged Myron to talk, which Myron was nothing loath to do since he was on a subject that appealed to him vastly. Millard had many questions to ask, questions which showed conclusivelythat he had a close understanding of football and a wide acquaintance among players. With such a listener Myron found it easy to pursue his subject. Millard introduced debate by throwing doubt on the ability of the Parkinson ends. He said he thought Cousins and Leeds, the Kenwood ends, would have the better of the argument, and was only convinced to the contrary after Myron had very thoroughly explained Stearns’ and Norris’ methods, both on offence and defence. There was simply no end to Millard’s interest in football, and once—they were running through the town of Sturgis at the moment—when Myron feared that he was boring the other, in spite of apparent willingness to listen, and sought to change the subject, it was Millard who soon brought it back again.
How the matter of signals came up, Myron didn’t afterward recall, but it did, and it was exhaustively dealt with. Millard spoke of a case he knew of where the intricacy of the signals had lost an important game for a certain high school team. “I always think that the more simple the signal system is the better it is. You take the big colleges, now, Foster. They don’t ball the men all up with double numberings and ‘repeats’ and all those silly tricks. They select a simple system,one that’s easy to learn and remember. Why, I’ve seen quarter-backs stutter and fumble around for whole minutes trying to get their signals straightened out. And as for the number of times that backs have spoiled a play because they didn’t get the signals right——” Millard whistled eloquently.
“Guess we won’t have any trouble that way,” answered Myron complacently. “Our system’s as simple as simple.”
“That so? Holes and players numbered from left to right, eh?”
“No, we begin at the ends.”
“Yes, that’s a better scheme. Left end is 1, left tackle, 3, and so on, I suppose.”
“No, we don’t number the players that way. The openings——”
The taxi-cab stopped so suddenly that Myron bit his tongue over the last word as he pitched forward. Of course Millard described much the same gymnastic feat, but it is doubtful if Millard heard, or thought he heard, what Myron did in the brief instant that his head protruded through a front window, for Eddie Moses’ neck stayed Myron’s forward flight and Eddie’s mouth was but a few inches from Myron’s ear. And in the part of a second that it remained there it got theimpression that some one, presumably Eddie, had distinctly said: “Shut up!” That impression did not register on his brain, however, until he was back in his seat and Eddie had released his emergency brake. Then, while Eddie, in reply to Millard’s somewhat incensed question, was apologetically explaining something about a dog that had run almost under the wheels, he stared startledly at the back of Eddie’s head. That told him nothing, though, and he harked back to the interrupted conversation to discover what could have brought such a fiercely voiced admonition from the driver, if, indeed, that admonition had not been imagined. The shaking-up, however, had jostled memory as well as body, and it was Millard who supplied the information he sought.
“I didn’t see any dog,” he said huffily to Eddie. “Guess you imagined it. Now, then, Foster, you were explaining about that numbering.”
“What numbering?” asked Myron blankly.
“Forgotten?” laughed Millard. “Why, we were talking about signals, don’t you remember?”
“Oh, yes,” answered Myron thoughtfully. “So we were. How would it do to take the Princeville Road back, Eddie? That’ll give us more of a drive.”
As a matter of fact, it would do nothing of thesort, and Myron knew it, and Eddie Moses knew it when he added cheerfully, “All right, boss!” Only Millard didn’t know it, although it is likely that he suspected it later when, in far less time than it had taken them to reach Sturgis, they were back again in Warne. During that journey back, made at a greater speed than the trip away, Millard tried vainly to swing the conversation back to the topic of football, and football signals in particular, but Myron seemed to have suddenly wearied of the subject and wouldn’t stay put a minute. He pointed out features of the landscape for Millard’s admiring observation and invented quite a few interesting legends about passing houses or farms. After a while Millard managed to display some enthusiasm for nature and for the legends and was quite the entertaining and charming youth he had been before that shaking-up. But Myron thought that there had been a quarter of an hour subsequent to it when the visitor had sounded out of patience and even a trifle short-tempered. He might have simply imagined it, though. They were back in town long before five, and Millard’s train didn’t leave until after six, and there was plenty of time to visit the school, but Millard recalled a forgotten appointment at the hotel and was set down there accordingly.He was most apologetic and thanked Myron for a good time and begged to be allowed to go halves on the cab bill. This privilege Myron indignantly denied. Millard promised to look Myron up again shortly.
“I want to see the school and all that, you know, Foster,” he declared. “Wish I could run up there now, but I’ll be tied up until train time. The next time I come you must come down and have dinner with me.”
They shook hands and parted, Myron returning to the cab and bidding Eddie drive him to Sohmer. But out of sight of the hotel Myron leaned over and addressed the back of Eddie’s freckled neck. “Did you say anything to me the time I went through the window?” he asked.
“Yeah, I said ‘Shut up!’ You was doing a lot of fancy talking to that guy, seemed to me. ’Course, he might be a friend of yours and all, but you was telling him things about the football team that you hadn’t ought to, see? That’s why I jammed on the ’mergency. There wasn’t no dog at all!”
“Oh,” murmured Myron, “I see. Maybe you’re right. Anyway, I’m much obliged. Of course, Millard is perfectly square, but he might talk.”
“Yeah, he might,” agreed Eddie. “Or hemight let some one else do the talking. Here you are, sir! Sohmer Hall, home of the rude rich! Thank you, sir.” Eddie winked knowingly. “I’m not talking any. Don’t you worry about me, sir. So long!”
Myron made his way up the steps of the dormitory, under the envious regard of three third class youths, and climbed the stairs somewhat thoughtfully. Certainly, Maurice Millard was all right, but he was awfully glad that Eddie had imagined that dog. Millard had repeated what the Kenwood chap had told him about the Kenwood team, information plainly not intended for publicity, which showed that he was not exactly close-mouthed. On the whole, decided Myron, he had come horribly near to making an utter fool of himself. He decided to say nothing about it to Joe. Joe must already have a good enough opinion of his common sense!
The preliminary season came to an end the next day with the St. Luke’s Academy game. Football affairs had become fairly hectic now and the school marched to the field behind a strident brass band, cheering and singing. Mass-meetings had been held twice weekly ever since the Warne High School contest, and songs had been practised and cheers rehearsed, and today Parkinson was in fine voice and filled with enthusiasm. St. Luke’s was not a formidable opponent, and for that reason had been chosen to fill in the last date before the Kenwood game. A wise coach selects the semi-final adversary with care and deliberation, and a wrong selection may work much harm to his charges. St. Luke’s was warranted by past experience to give Parkinson a good battle without requiring any extraordinary exertions on the latter’s part. Usually the score was one or two touchdowns to none, although not so long ago the generally docile St. Luke’s had kicked over the traces in the annual event and thrown a healthy scare into Parkinson. On that historic occasionthe final score had been 17 to 10 in the home team’s favour.
The Brown line-up was exactly as at the start of the Chancellor game, with a single exception. The name of Foster appeared as full-back instead of Kearns. Whether he had been put in to save Kearns for the Kenwood game or whether he was there on his merits, Myron couldn’t decide. But he played a good game while he remained in the line-up. The cheering was fine and put heart into them all, and Myron felt that afternoon as though he could “lick his weight in wild-cats,” as Joe might have put it. He wasn’t called on for many punts, which was perhaps fortunate, for his punting still lacked control. If he got distance he was likely to send the pigskin to the wrong place, while if he obtained direction he was liable to kick short. But in the other departments he showed up strongly. He was a big addition to the backfield on defence, using his weight very knowingly, and more than one St. Luke’s gain was nipped in the bud by him. Speed aided him at line plunges, and his runs, of which he got off three during the time he played, together netted nineteen yards against clever ends. Altogether, he was a success, and coach and school recognised the fact, and when, five minutes after the beginning of the secondhalf, he got rather the worst of a mix-up with the St. Luke’s left half and was taken out in favour of Kearns, he got a hearty cheer as he walked none too steadily to the bench.
Myron was not the only player who deserved praise that afternoon, for every fellow on the team was good. If the perfection exhibited in the Chancellor game was not quite duplicated it was possibly because the incentive was lacking. St. Luke’s was outweighed by several pounds and was slower than she should have been. And she seemed, too, to lack plays adapted to her style of football. Parkinson failed to score in the first quarter, ran up eleven points in the second, seven more in the third and, in the last period, with a line consisting almost entirely of substitutes, and with second-string backs behind it, added a field goal by way of good measure. Every one, even Coach Driscoll, appeared perfectly satisfied with the afternoon’s performance, and Parkinson’s stock soared high that evening. It looked very much as if the season was to glide smoothly and uneventfully to a satisfactory close. But a week still intervened, and in a week much may happen.
On Monday, Norris, right end, started the programme of events by breaking a bone in his rightankle. He did it by falling over a pail on the stairs in Williams Hall. It wasn’t a serious disaster, but it might easily impair his playing ability five days later. Tuesday, Grafton, first-choice substitute for Captain Mellen, came down with laryngitis, and Snow, who was due to take Cantrell’s place at centre in the event of that player’s retirement, was called home to Illinois because of serious illness in the family. Coach Driscoll smiled grimly and wondered what further misfortunes could happen in the remaining three days. Coach Driscoll, it may be said, was never designed for the peaceful life. He was more contented when he was facing difficulties. Jud Mellen, himself worried by the ill-luck, remarked almost resentfully Tuesday evening: “Gee, Coach, any one would think you’d got news that the whole Kenwood team was down with the sleeping sickness, you look so bright and merry. I’m sick!”
“No use pulling a long face, Cap,” replied Mr. Driscoll. “After all, we’ve come through the season remarkably. Something was bound to go wrong, and I felt it. I guess I’m rather relieved to find out what it is. And it might have been worse.”
“Yes, we might have lost the whole team,” responded Jud sarcastically. “Oh, I suppose wecan pull through if nothing worse happens, but I’m expecting Katie to fall off a roof or Brown to get kicked by a mule tomorrow. This has got me going for fair!”
“You look after Number One,” advised the coach. “The best way to kill a trouble is to laugh it to death!”
Jud expressed incredulous surprise when Wednesday passed without further misfortunes. There was a monster meeting that night and a march through town and a speech by the Principal from the porch of his residence and much enthusiasm and noise. Myron did not take part in the observances, for the players were now required to remain in their rooms evenings as far as possible and to be in bed promptly at ten o’clock. So far, Myron had felt no nervousness, nothing approaching stage-fright, but when Thursday arrived and the field was well surrounded with cheering youths and townsfolk and the band that was to play on Saturday was adding to the din and there was only light signal work, followed by punting and catching for the backs, instead of the relief of a good, hard scrimmage, why, then he felt a trifle fluttery about the heart. It meant so much to all those eager-eyed, laughing but secretly earnest boys about him, that hoped-for victory,and he was chosen to aid in the securing of it! The realisation of responsibility sobered him and then left him a trifle panic-stricken. Suppose he failed them, the coach and Captain Mellen and the school! For the moment it seemed that in such an event he would not have the courage to stay on and face them all. He almost wished that Coach Driscoll would let Kearns play instead! But that wish didn’t last long, and the panic was short-lived, too. There was still a vague uneasiness disturbing him, however, and that uneasiness was due to remain with him during his waking hours until the whistle blew on Saturday.
The second team, its usefulness at an end, cheered and was cheered and performed a dignified ceremony behind the east goal, to which, since the first team players had trotted back to the gymnasium, the audience flocked. Gravely, reverently, torn jerseys, worn-out pants, shoes beyond aid and various other disreputable articles of football attire and use were piled on the jumping pit. Then a football rules book was laid on top of all, a gallon of kerosene applied and around the blazing pyre the members of the second team slowly circled with joined hands, chanting a strange jumble of atrocious Latin and scarcely more acceptable English. Gradually the pace grew fasterand the pæan brisker until, presently, the scene was a ludicrous whirl of bodies amidst a wild shriek of song and a cloud of smoke. In such manner the second team disbanded, at the end, spent with laughter and breathless from their exertions, giving three feeble groans for Kenwood and “nine long Parkinsons”!
Friday was a long and gloomy day. There was little use trying to do anything at recitations if you were on the team, and not much more if you weren’t. You just bluffed, if you could, or threw yourself on the mercy of the instructors, trusting that they would prove human enough to be lenient. They usually were, for long experience had proved to the Parkinson faculty that for a week before the big game and for several days after it normal members of the student body were incapable of interest in studies. To make matters more dismal on Friday, it rained. It didn’t rain in a cheerful, whole-souled way, but drizzled and stopped and sulked and drizzled again, and you wanted to be outdoors if you were in and wanted to be back again as soon as you were out. There was blackboard work for the players in the afternoon and signal drill in the evening. Afterwards Myron and Joe and Andrew chatted in Number 17 until bedtime, while from over in front of ParkinsonHall the cheers of some five hundred youths arose to the cloudy sky. Then came ten o’clock, and Andy went, and the room-mates got thoughtfully out of their clothes and crept beneath the covers, each a trifle more silent than usual. To Myron’s surprise, sleep came after a very short time, and when he awoke the sun was bright in a crisp November world and there were roystering sounds from the bath-rooms down the corridor.
The first Kenwood invaders appeared well before noon, and every hour after that brought more until by two o’clock the streets of the town, already fairly impartially arrayed as to shop windows with the blue and the brown, wore a decidedly cerulean hue. For the team, dinner was served at twelve instead of one, and after that there remained a long hour and a half before they could find relief from inaction. They were at liberty to do as they liked within reasonable limits, and Myron and Joe and Chas wandered across the campus and down School Street in search of diversion. Chas was, in his own language, “too old a bird to have nerves,” and he didn’t intend that either of the others should either. He was bubbling over with good spirits and kept Myron and Joe laughing from the time the three of them left the campus. Perhaps hischeerfulness was largely due to the fact that, at the eleventh hour, Coach Driscoll had chosen him over Brodhead for left guard. And perhaps the coach had never intended to do anything else. Chas never knew as to that. But he did know that had things turned out differently for him his plans for next season would have been of as much interest as a last year’s bird’s nest!
Their progress through the unusually thronged streets was frequently interrupted while Chas greeted an acquaintance, generally one of the enemy. In front of the hotel quite a crowd had collected to peer through doors and windows at the Kenwood heroes, who, having eaten dinner, were herded in the lobby about coach and trainer and rubbers. The three pushed into the throng until they could glimpse their adversaries, and Chas pointed out several of the notables to the others: Leeds, captain and right tackle; the much-respected McAfee, left half-back; Odell, full-back and goal kicker extraordinary; Garrity, the Blue’s clever quarter. “And the others I don’t know the names of,” said Chas, “although that whaling big, pop-eyed monster must be Todd, their centre. He’s a new one this year. Wonder which of the bunch is Lampley, the chap I’m up against.”
“And I wonder which is my man,” said Joe. “I hope he’s like his name!”
“Frost, isn’t it?” asked Chas. “They say he’s good, but you’ll know more about him along toward four-thirty.”
“Who are the fellows over there by the desk?” asked Myron.
“The tall one’s their coach, and I guess the others are the Board of Strategy, which is a fancy name for a bunch of fellows who travel around with the team and get their expenses paid out of the travelling fund. I think the short fellow is Whitely, their manager, but I’m not certain. Come on, we’ll see enough of them before the afternoon’s over!”
In the act of turning, Myron’s gaze encountered a rather tall youth in the lobby whose face became for the first time visible to him at that moment. Surely it was Maurice Millard, he thought. And yet it couldn’t be, since Millard would never be hob-nobbing with the Kenwood coach. Resisting Chas’ tug at his sleeve, he gazed at the object of his speculations while a vague uneasiness took possession of him. It was Millard! He knew him now. It was Millard in a long fuzzy brown ulster and a derby hat, Millard looking far less carefree and cordial than he remembered him. Myronseized the departing Chas and literally dragged him back through the crowd.
“Who’s the tall, good-looking fellow in the brown coat?” he demanded anxiously.
“Where is he? I don’t see any good, tall-looking fellow in—Oh, yes! That’s What’s-his-name, the Kenwood third baseman. He’s a pill. He’s played with them two years. Know him?”
“I think so,” answered Myron, “a—a little. His name’s Millard, isn’t it?”
“Mill-ah? No, it isn’t Mill-ah; it’s Cooke, Arthur Cooke. Come along home and stop annoying the animals.”
Myron looked again, but there was no chance for doubt. He turned and made his way through the group of loiterers in the wake of Chas and Joe. When he had overtaken the former he asked earnestly: “Are you quite certain his name is Cooke, Cummins?”
“Sure I am! Why not? He’s the blow-hard that was going to do all sorts of things to Liddell last spring, if you believe the papers. He is a pretty fair batter, and that’s no joke, but Liddell had him swinging like a gate and as mad as a hornet. He got a scratch single, and that’s all he did get, the big boob!”
“And—and he’s—he’s one of the KenwoodBoard of Strategy, as you call it?” asked Myron faintly.
“Yes, sort of. He scouts for them, I guess. Anyway, I heard they caught him snooping around the grounds of Chancellor last year and mighty near tore his shirt off. Kenwood has a fine old spy system, Foster, but it never gets her anywhere except back home!”
Myron set the pace for the rest on the way back, his thoughts appearing to affect his feet. It was still only a little after a quarter past one and they were not due at the gymnasium until two. In that scant three-quarters of an hour, reflected Myron sickeningly, he must find Coach Driscoll and make his humiliating confession. Whether he had given Millard, or Cooke, enough information to affect the game, Myron didn’t know, but he did know that the manly and honest thing to do was to tell the coach all about it and let him decide that question. That Mr. Driscoll would let him play on the team after his confession had been made was highly improbable, but there was no help for that. In front of Parkinson Hall he made some sort of confused excuse to the others and hurried away.