CHAPTER IVSCHOOL ELECTIONS"Just a minute, fellows!" called Bunny, as the other Scouts straggled toward the door of the clubhouse, after Horace Hibbs had gone. "I want to tell you something. This morning I spoke to Professor Leland about having a meeting of the whole school, to get ourselves organized and to elect officers. The school, you see, is a good deal like a troop of Boy Scouts; there must be a leader over everybody, and each branch, like each patrol, must have its leader, too. I mean that a student president is to be elected, and a football manager, and somebody to head the athletic association, and—and I don't know what else.""When will the meeting be?" asked Nap."Professor Leland says it will be held late this afternoon, just before our first football practice. Now, the school may feel like electing some of us to offices—""Of course," agreed Specs complacently. "Will there be enough offices for all of us, Bunny?""That's just what I wanted to talk about," the patrol leader answered soberly. "We're organized, of course, and we're known by most of the students, andI think we're pretty well liked. If two or three of us are elected, that will be fine. But we mustn't use our—our power to run things. We mustn't try for all the offices. There are lots of other bully fellows in school, and we want the best man elected to each office, whether he's a Black Eagle or not.""H'm!" said Specs gloomily. "That won't be the way Buck Claxton and his gang will look at it. They'll be out to gobble everything they can get. I'll bet they have it all figured out already."But at a quarter of four that afternoon, when Professor Leland announced to the school that the remaining fifteen minutes of the period would be devoted to a mass meeting of all the pupils, it was evident that "Buck and his gang" had heard nothing of the plan. As a matter of fact, Buck looked uneasily at Peter Barrett, the farmer boy, and at Royal Sheffield, who came to school in an eight-cylinder motor car, as if he were wondering whether they were at the bottom of this move. Marion Genevieve Chester and Clarence Prissier also appeared at a loss. Rodman Cree, who seemed to have forgotten how to smile, showed neither surprise nor any other emotion."This afternoon," Professor Leland began, "we have our first football practice. It is customary, of course, for the squad to elect its own captain, but the school should vote on the team's manager. Moreover, we shall need somebody to act permanently as president of the athletic association, whose duty it will beto look after all athletic activities. One boy has spoken to me about a literary and debating society. Now would be an excellent time for its organization. And, lastly, although it will be better to have a temporary chairman of this meeting, we need a president of the student body to handle future elections. Nominations are now in order for temporary chairman.""I am going to nominate you, Bunny," Nap whispered excitedly from across the aisle.Bunny shook his head. "Please don't. They will think we are trying to run the school.""I nominate Peter Barrett," flashed Buck.This was too much for Specs. "I nominate Bi—I mean, Charlie Jones," he countered."Move that the nominations be closed." It was Buck again."All those in favor of Mr. Barrett say 'Aye,'" announced Professor Leland, when it had been decided to accept no more names.The room shook with the thunder of the answer."All those in favor of Mr. Jones will signify in the same manner."The response was hearty, but hardly a third as loud as the first."Mr. Barrett has been elected temporary chairman of this meeting," decided Professor Leland. "He will take the chair at once."Amid a good deal of hand-clapping, Peter Barrett climbed to the rostrum and pounded on the principal'sdesk with a ruler. His face was red and his patched clothes very conspicuous, but he spoke calmly and slowly."Nominations for manager of the football team," he invited.A little movement a few seats away caught Bunny's eye. After writing something on a slip of paper, Royal Sheffield passed it down the aisle."Mr. Chairman.""Mr. Claxton.""I nominate Roy Sheffield." Quite as if it had been arranged beforehand, the mention of the name was greeted with a volley of applause.Bunny moved uneasily in his seat before rising to be recognized. In some inexplicable manner, he sensed that some plot he could not fathom was under way, and that it was a move against the Black Eagle Patrol. Perhaps he could swing the school with a neat speech of nomination."Mr. Chairman, I want to propose the name of a boy who has the ability to handle this job as well as anybody in school. In the first place, he has brains; in the second place, he can give his whole attention to his job, as I think he is too light to play on the team; in the third place, he has had plenty of experience, because he's managed a scrub team that we Boy Scouts have had for the last two years. He arranged games for us, and he fixed the business end so well that at the end of last season we had our football suits paid forand a little left over. And you'll admit that's pretty good for a team of kids. I don't suppose it's necessary to say for him, any more than it is for anybody else in this school, that he's absolutely honest. I nominate Emerson Elliot Meeker.""For the love of Marengo!" gasped Nap Meeker, who had grown very red.A boy named Leeton was nominated by a little clique at the back of the room. After a long pause, during which nobody seemed to have anything to offer, the nominations were closed."Count the ballots," ordered Peter Barrett to the volunteer ushers who had collected the slips of paper from the pupils. It took nearly five minutes to total the various choices."The vote for manager," announced the chairman, "has resulted as follows: Meeker, 10; Leeton, 17; Sheffield, 80. Mr. Sheffield has been elected manager of the football team."Puzzled and hurt, Bunny Payton crushed in his hand the note that Specs had just slipped over his right shoulder. What was the matter? Why had Nap been so badly beaten? Why? Opening his hand, he smoothed out the note and read in Specs' angular handwriting:Bunny:You will have to admit that we are not the only wideawake bunch in school. I have just seen Molly Sefton, and she says that all yesterday afternoon Buckand his gang were going around telling everybody that we Scouts had said we were going to boss this school. I don't know who is at the bottom of it; maybeRodman the Athlete. (Specs had underlined these three words.) Anyhow, there are a lot of people just waiting for a chance to vote against a Boy Scout, whether he is any good or not.—Specs.Bunny set his teeth. He hoped Specs was mistaken. But if it should turn out to be true—Professor Leland had left the room when Peter Barrett, rapping smartly on the desk, called for the election of a president of the athletic association.A fellow named Bob Kiproy nominated Buck Claxton.Specs hopped to his feet, plainly excited. "I nominate—""Move the nominations be closed," interrupted Sheffield.While Specs struggled against the current, wildly protesting, the motion was carried with a roar, and a moment later Buck Claxton was declared unanimously elected president of the athletic association.Nothing daunted, Specs did his best to nominate S. S. for the presidency of the literary society, but again the school overwhelmed him, carrying into office Clarence Prissier on the crest of the tidal wave.But one more place remained to be filled. However much the opposition had made up its mind to bar all Scouts from office, it was clear that Specs had growndesperate. Before the chairman had finished asking for somebody to head the student association, Specs was on his feet, waving his right arm and shouting wildly, "Mr. Chairman!""Mr. Cree."Peter Barrett was looking directly over Specs' head toward Rodman Cree, who stood, feet apart, in the aisle. The Scout construed this recognition as another unjust fling at the patrol, although, as a matter of fact, Rodman had risen an instant before Specs."Mr. Chairman!" the latter repeated."Mr. Cree has the floor," declared Peter Barrett."I—I nominate—" Specs began lamely.The chairman rapped again on his desk. "We are hearing from Mr. Cree. Go on, Mr. Cree."Now, Bunny, for one, was in no sense adverse to hearing Rodman's nomination. He liked the new boy, and he was sure the new boy liked him, to say nothing of the others in the Black Eagle Patrol. Although he might have scoffed openly at the idea, deep in his heart he was confident that Rodman was about to show his true colors and nominate one of the Scouts; not just any one of them, but their leader, Bunny himself.As Specs floundered back to his seat, Rodman Cree began. "I don't want to nominate any fellow for this office," he said. "I just want to make a suggestion. It's this: There are about forty boys in this school and over sixty girls; and I think this last office should go to a girl." He sat down to a gathering applause that beganwith a few faint hand-spats and ended in a tumult of cheering. The speech was like a douche of cold water to Bunny."I nominate Marion Genevieve Chester!" shouted Buck through the noise.Immediately, as before, the nominations were closed, and Marion declared elected. Then, just as the minute hand of the clock touched four, Peter Barrett declared the meeting adjourned.
SCHOOL ELECTIONS
"Just a minute, fellows!" called Bunny, as the other Scouts straggled toward the door of the clubhouse, after Horace Hibbs had gone. "I want to tell you something. This morning I spoke to Professor Leland about having a meeting of the whole school, to get ourselves organized and to elect officers. The school, you see, is a good deal like a troop of Boy Scouts; there must be a leader over everybody, and each branch, like each patrol, must have its leader, too. I mean that a student president is to be elected, and a football manager, and somebody to head the athletic association, and—and I don't know what else."
"When will the meeting be?" asked Nap.
"Professor Leland says it will be held late this afternoon, just before our first football practice. Now, the school may feel like electing some of us to offices—"
"Of course," agreed Specs complacently. "Will there be enough offices for all of us, Bunny?"
"That's just what I wanted to talk about," the patrol leader answered soberly. "We're organized, of course, and we're known by most of the students, andI think we're pretty well liked. If two or three of us are elected, that will be fine. But we mustn't use our—our power to run things. We mustn't try for all the offices. There are lots of other bully fellows in school, and we want the best man elected to each office, whether he's a Black Eagle or not."
"H'm!" said Specs gloomily. "That won't be the way Buck Claxton and his gang will look at it. They'll be out to gobble everything they can get. I'll bet they have it all figured out already."
But at a quarter of four that afternoon, when Professor Leland announced to the school that the remaining fifteen minutes of the period would be devoted to a mass meeting of all the pupils, it was evident that "Buck and his gang" had heard nothing of the plan. As a matter of fact, Buck looked uneasily at Peter Barrett, the farmer boy, and at Royal Sheffield, who came to school in an eight-cylinder motor car, as if he were wondering whether they were at the bottom of this move. Marion Genevieve Chester and Clarence Prissier also appeared at a loss. Rodman Cree, who seemed to have forgotten how to smile, showed neither surprise nor any other emotion.
"This afternoon," Professor Leland began, "we have our first football practice. It is customary, of course, for the squad to elect its own captain, but the school should vote on the team's manager. Moreover, we shall need somebody to act permanently as president of the athletic association, whose duty it will beto look after all athletic activities. One boy has spoken to me about a literary and debating society. Now would be an excellent time for its organization. And, lastly, although it will be better to have a temporary chairman of this meeting, we need a president of the student body to handle future elections. Nominations are now in order for temporary chairman."
"I am going to nominate you, Bunny," Nap whispered excitedly from across the aisle.
Bunny shook his head. "Please don't. They will think we are trying to run the school."
"I nominate Peter Barrett," flashed Buck.
This was too much for Specs. "I nominate Bi—I mean, Charlie Jones," he countered.
"Move that the nominations be closed." It was Buck again.
"All those in favor of Mr. Barrett say 'Aye,'" announced Professor Leland, when it had been decided to accept no more names.
The room shook with the thunder of the answer.
"All those in favor of Mr. Jones will signify in the same manner."
The response was hearty, but hardly a third as loud as the first.
"Mr. Barrett has been elected temporary chairman of this meeting," decided Professor Leland. "He will take the chair at once."
Amid a good deal of hand-clapping, Peter Barrett climbed to the rostrum and pounded on the principal'sdesk with a ruler. His face was red and his patched clothes very conspicuous, but he spoke calmly and slowly.
"Nominations for manager of the football team," he invited.
A little movement a few seats away caught Bunny's eye. After writing something on a slip of paper, Royal Sheffield passed it down the aisle.
"Mr. Chairman."
"Mr. Claxton."
"I nominate Roy Sheffield." Quite as if it had been arranged beforehand, the mention of the name was greeted with a volley of applause.
Bunny moved uneasily in his seat before rising to be recognized. In some inexplicable manner, he sensed that some plot he could not fathom was under way, and that it was a move against the Black Eagle Patrol. Perhaps he could swing the school with a neat speech of nomination.
"Mr. Chairman, I want to propose the name of a boy who has the ability to handle this job as well as anybody in school. In the first place, he has brains; in the second place, he can give his whole attention to his job, as I think he is too light to play on the team; in the third place, he has had plenty of experience, because he's managed a scrub team that we Boy Scouts have had for the last two years. He arranged games for us, and he fixed the business end so well that at the end of last season we had our football suits paid forand a little left over. And you'll admit that's pretty good for a team of kids. I don't suppose it's necessary to say for him, any more than it is for anybody else in this school, that he's absolutely honest. I nominate Emerson Elliot Meeker."
"For the love of Marengo!" gasped Nap Meeker, who had grown very red.
A boy named Leeton was nominated by a little clique at the back of the room. After a long pause, during which nobody seemed to have anything to offer, the nominations were closed.
"Count the ballots," ordered Peter Barrett to the volunteer ushers who had collected the slips of paper from the pupils. It took nearly five minutes to total the various choices.
"The vote for manager," announced the chairman, "has resulted as follows: Meeker, 10; Leeton, 17; Sheffield, 80. Mr. Sheffield has been elected manager of the football team."
Puzzled and hurt, Bunny Payton crushed in his hand the note that Specs had just slipped over his right shoulder. What was the matter? Why had Nap been so badly beaten? Why? Opening his hand, he smoothed out the note and read in Specs' angular handwriting:
Bunny:
You will have to admit that we are not the only wideawake bunch in school. I have just seen Molly Sefton, and she says that all yesterday afternoon Buckand his gang were going around telling everybody that we Scouts had said we were going to boss this school. I don't know who is at the bottom of it; maybeRodman the Athlete. (Specs had underlined these three words.) Anyhow, there are a lot of people just waiting for a chance to vote against a Boy Scout, whether he is any good or not.
—Specs.
Bunny set his teeth. He hoped Specs was mistaken. But if it should turn out to be true—
Professor Leland had left the room when Peter Barrett, rapping smartly on the desk, called for the election of a president of the athletic association.
A fellow named Bob Kiproy nominated Buck Claxton.
Specs hopped to his feet, plainly excited. "I nominate—"
"Move the nominations be closed," interrupted Sheffield.
While Specs struggled against the current, wildly protesting, the motion was carried with a roar, and a moment later Buck Claxton was declared unanimously elected president of the athletic association.
Nothing daunted, Specs did his best to nominate S. S. for the presidency of the literary society, but again the school overwhelmed him, carrying into office Clarence Prissier on the crest of the tidal wave.
But one more place remained to be filled. However much the opposition had made up its mind to bar all Scouts from office, it was clear that Specs had growndesperate. Before the chairman had finished asking for somebody to head the student association, Specs was on his feet, waving his right arm and shouting wildly, "Mr. Chairman!"
"Mr. Cree."
Peter Barrett was looking directly over Specs' head toward Rodman Cree, who stood, feet apart, in the aisle. The Scout construed this recognition as another unjust fling at the patrol, although, as a matter of fact, Rodman had risen an instant before Specs.
"Mr. Chairman!" the latter repeated.
"Mr. Cree has the floor," declared Peter Barrett.
"I—I nominate—" Specs began lamely.
The chairman rapped again on his desk. "We are hearing from Mr. Cree. Go on, Mr. Cree."
Now, Bunny, for one, was in no sense adverse to hearing Rodman's nomination. He liked the new boy, and he was sure the new boy liked him, to say nothing of the others in the Black Eagle Patrol. Although he might have scoffed openly at the idea, deep in his heart he was confident that Rodman was about to show his true colors and nominate one of the Scouts; not just any one of them, but their leader, Bunny himself.
As Specs floundered back to his seat, Rodman Cree began. "I don't want to nominate any fellow for this office," he said. "I just want to make a suggestion. It's this: There are about forty boys in this school and over sixty girls; and I think this last office should go to a girl." He sat down to a gathering applause that beganwith a few faint hand-spats and ended in a tumult of cheering. The speech was like a douche of cold water to Bunny.
"I nominate Marion Genevieve Chester!" shouted Buck through the noise.
Immediately, as before, the nominations were closed, and Marion declared elected. Then, just as the minute hand of the clock touched four, Peter Barrett declared the meeting adjourned.
CHAPTER VNOBODY"Who cheers me up when I feel sad?Nobody!"sang S. S. softly, as the pupils trooped down the stairs from the assembly room and out the main door."Who gets me out when I'm in bad?Nobody!"It was Roundy who carried on the refrain. "That song is pretty near right; don't you think so, Bunny?""I've stopped thinking," said Bunny shortly. "It's about time to do something.""Do what?""That's for us to find out."Some twenty of the Lakeville High boys were reporting for football practice. Those with suits shifted to the basement, where a shower bath and lockers had been installed, while the others tramped directly to the field back of the schoolhouse, to begin their work with punting and drop-kicking.The little basement was crowded with candidates in various stages of undress. But because their two yearsof experience had accustomed them to slipping into their togs in a hurry, the seven Scouts were the first to leave. By common consent, they moved to the shady plot under the big oak."Something has happened," Bunny said briefly. "For some reason, the whole school is against us. I don't know why; but whatever the reason is, we'll have to prove that we're the right sort, and that we're not trying to run the school or anybody else except ourselves. The question is, how to do it.""I know how I'd do it," said Specs. "I'd pull right out of this business, unless they want to treat us right. We've played scrub football for two years and made four trips; and I don't believe there is anybody else in school who has been on a regular eleven. Just say the word, Bunny, and we'll get up a team of our own."Roundy growled assent."No, we don't want to do that." Bunny doubled his fists emphatically. "You remember what Horace Hibbs said about working for the school. Fighting the school isn't the kind of thing Scouts ought to do. We don't even care who runs it; all we want is a fair chance to help.""We won't get it. From now on, Bunny, any time we try something, it will be Waterloo for us," Nap jerked an indignant nod."Why can't we take one of them into the patrol for our eighth member?" put in Bi. "Suppose Buck, for instance—"Bunny shook his head. "A week or two ago, Buck might have joined the Black Eagles, but now, if we asked him after this election, he'd think we wanted him because we couldn't get along without him and because we could run the school through him. And I guess that goes for the rest of them, too.""I know they wouldn't be Scouts," added S. S. "I heard Buck and Roy Sheffield and Bob Kiproy talking together. What they are trying to do is to get up a secret society to buck our patrol.""Then there is just one thing for us," Bunny said earnestly, "and that is to go on being the right kind of Scouts just as hard as we can. If we take care of our good turns, they'll take care of us. And if we are loyal and helpful and trustworthy, and live up to the rest of the Scout law, they're going to take off their hats to us, whether they think so now or not. What's more, I bet that before the end of the year they will be asking us how they can form a patrol of their own.""That's all right!" Specs interrupted suddenly. "Maybe they will—at the end of the year. But right now four or five of us are going to make the football team. You know more about the game and can play better than anybody else in school. Are they going to elect you captain or aren't they?""Can't find out till the votes are counted," Bunny returned cheerily. "If anybody nominates me for captain, I'll run, of course.""Then you'll run, all right," promised Specs."And if you are not elected, then I'm through with football at this school. Ab-so-lute-ly! I'll take my suit home to-night. Come on; there's Professor Leland waving to us."Gathering the squad about him, the principal explained that the school board had detailed him as coach. "We may as well begin our practice," he said, "by lining up on both sides of the playground and punting the ball back and forth."First kick at the oval fell to Buck Claxton. Perhaps he was a bit nervous. At any rate, his toe, instead of whirling the ball roof high, sent it tumbling and bounding along the ground, till a low bounce shot it into Bunny's arms."Now show 'em what you can do!" urged Specs in a hoarse whisper.Carefully poising the ball, Bunny booted it up and across the field, till it spun down with a plop into Bi's arms."Nice work, Payton!" shouted the coach."That's showing him!" commented Specs. "He'll see that you didn't play in the back-field two years for nothing. Why, there isn't anybody else in the squad who can punt like that."The next ten minutes proved Specs' boast. Not only could Bunny punt far and away better than the other candidates, but he could drop-kick almost as well. And when the players formed in a great circle and fell upon the ball, the members of the Black Eagle Patroldistinguished themselves again. With the exception of Roundy, who dove so heavily that the ball escaped through his arms, the Scouts downed the pigskin as surely as though it were a watermelon. With the others, this practice did not go as well; even Buck Claxton missed as the ball bounded at an unexpected angle."We'll top off with a little running and tackling," announced the coach, as he retrieved the ball from the last man. "Jones, you take your place forty yards down the field, to catch punts and run them back. Kiproy, you go with him to act as interference. And Claxton, when the ball is punted, you charge down the field and try to tackle Jones between the knees and waist."With Bi in position, Kiproy beside him, and Buck crouching on the line, the coach kicked. It was a high punt, and Buck was almost upon the pair before the ball plumped into Bi's arms. Kiproy ran toward the tackier, but Buck, swerving to one side, eluded him and drove squarely at Bi's legs. Had the latter been under full speed, he would have toppled like a falling tree; instead, checking himself, he jolted back out of the grasping arms, and while Buck floundered in the dust, jogged complacently down the field."All right, Payton; you act as tackler this time. Claxton catches the ball. Jones is the interference."Specs slapped Bunny on the back. "Show 'em what you can do. Grab that fellow, if it takes a leg!"Either Bunny was luckier than Buck, or a bettertackler; opinion stood divided. But whatever the truth of the matter, Bunny skillfully dodged Bi's forward defense (and Bi was playing hard, too) and managed to stop Buck and actually throw the heavier boy backward.With the next shift, Bunny caught the punt. Buck, with his lack of experience, bungled the interference, but Bunny pushed off Sheffield with his open palm, and romped safely out of danger. Later, on the last change, Bunny shouldered hard-running Peter Barrett out of the way as interference, thereby giving safe passage to Roundy, even after the latter had fumbled the ball."You are running away with the game, Payton," smiled the coach kindly. "If you keep this up, we shall have to put you in a team by yourself.""What did I tell you!" chuckled Specs. "No matter whether they like the Scouts or not, they have to elect you captain. There just isn't anybody else."Bunny said nothing. However much of a glow he felt over Professor Leland's compliment, there remained the undeniable fact that the school was at outs with the Black Eagle Patrol. It was unpleasant to be in this position, but it was worse still to realize how this attitude hampered the Scouts at every turn, both in working for the good of the school and in creating interest in the Scout movement.Specs insisted, in a very audible whisper, that Rodman Cree was part and parcel of this conspiracy, and even hinted that he had purposely tried to lose the relayrace, both while it was being run and afterward, and had later prevented a fitting nomination for presidency of the student association."Look at that!" he growled, as Rodman failed in an easy tackle. "He's no good at anything in the world; anybody can see that. But he makes himself solid with the other crowd by hitting at us."Meanwhile, could they have known it, Royal Sheffield was saying much the same thing about poor Rodman, except that it was Sheffield's idea that the new boy was trying to "get in" with the Scouts by working against the balance of the school."Good enough!" commented the coach, as the last uniformed player went down the field for a tackle. "We have the material for a strong team. Now I want you to elect a good man captain, and we shall call it a day's work."There was a moment's silence in the crowd gathered about Professor Leland, which was broken by Specs, his voice high-pitched and shrill."I nominate the best player in the squad—Bunny Payton!"Without hesitation, Sheffield nominated Buck Claxton; and Jack Turner, whose farm adjoined the Barrett place, put forward Peter."If anybody has the nerve to vote for Buck after the showing he has made this afternoon," said Specs hoarsely, "I'll eat my hat."The coach himself collected the bits of paper whichhad been distributed as ballots, and counted the returns."The vote stands as follows," he said slowly. "Barrett has received two, Payton seven, and Claxton eleven. Claxton is therefore elected captain of the team. The practice to-morrow night will be at the same time. All those who have no suits will see me before they go home."The Scouts stood dumbfounded. Bunny was the first to recover, leaving the group and walking over to congratulate Buck with a warm handshake."Well," observed Specs, "what about it? Do we quit this rotten business, or don't we?""No," Bunny snapped, "we don't. We keep right on practicing every night. If they won't put us on the first eleven, we'll play on the second.""You can play on the third, if you feel like it." Specs had completely lost his temper. "As for me, I've eaten all the crow that's good for me. I'm through!" He turned his back and walked rapidly toward the basement.For a long moment, Bunny stood fast on the field, while the others of the squad drifted toward the dressing room. Rodman Cree he could see waiting uneasily at one side, as if he wished to come up and speak to him. But though Bunny had none of Specs' feeling toward Rodman, at that particular moment he did not wish to speak to anybody. He stared toward the road, pretending to be unconscious of the other's presence.From the basement floated the tenor voice of S. S., singing the final refrain of the "Nobody" song:"Who cares for us an awful lot?Who always helps us on the dot?Who is the only friend we've got?"And the final word, roared by all of the six Scouts, came out in a thundering:"NOBODY!"
NOBODY
"Who cheers me up when I feel sad?Nobody!"
sang S. S. softly, as the pupils trooped down the stairs from the assembly room and out the main door.
"Who gets me out when I'm in bad?Nobody!"
It was Roundy who carried on the refrain. "That song is pretty near right; don't you think so, Bunny?"
"I've stopped thinking," said Bunny shortly. "It's about time to do something."
"Do what?"
"That's for us to find out."
Some twenty of the Lakeville High boys were reporting for football practice. Those with suits shifted to the basement, where a shower bath and lockers had been installed, while the others tramped directly to the field back of the schoolhouse, to begin their work with punting and drop-kicking.
The little basement was crowded with candidates in various stages of undress. But because their two yearsof experience had accustomed them to slipping into their togs in a hurry, the seven Scouts were the first to leave. By common consent, they moved to the shady plot under the big oak.
"Something has happened," Bunny said briefly. "For some reason, the whole school is against us. I don't know why; but whatever the reason is, we'll have to prove that we're the right sort, and that we're not trying to run the school or anybody else except ourselves. The question is, how to do it."
"I know how I'd do it," said Specs. "I'd pull right out of this business, unless they want to treat us right. We've played scrub football for two years and made four trips; and I don't believe there is anybody else in school who has been on a regular eleven. Just say the word, Bunny, and we'll get up a team of our own."
Roundy growled assent.
"No, we don't want to do that." Bunny doubled his fists emphatically. "You remember what Horace Hibbs said about working for the school. Fighting the school isn't the kind of thing Scouts ought to do. We don't even care who runs it; all we want is a fair chance to help."
"We won't get it. From now on, Bunny, any time we try something, it will be Waterloo for us," Nap jerked an indignant nod.
"Why can't we take one of them into the patrol for our eighth member?" put in Bi. "Suppose Buck, for instance—"
Bunny shook his head. "A week or two ago, Buck might have joined the Black Eagles, but now, if we asked him after this election, he'd think we wanted him because we couldn't get along without him and because we could run the school through him. And I guess that goes for the rest of them, too."
"I know they wouldn't be Scouts," added S. S. "I heard Buck and Roy Sheffield and Bob Kiproy talking together. What they are trying to do is to get up a secret society to buck our patrol."
"Then there is just one thing for us," Bunny said earnestly, "and that is to go on being the right kind of Scouts just as hard as we can. If we take care of our good turns, they'll take care of us. And if we are loyal and helpful and trustworthy, and live up to the rest of the Scout law, they're going to take off their hats to us, whether they think so now or not. What's more, I bet that before the end of the year they will be asking us how they can form a patrol of their own."
"That's all right!" Specs interrupted suddenly. "Maybe they will—at the end of the year. But right now four or five of us are going to make the football team. You know more about the game and can play better than anybody else in school. Are they going to elect you captain or aren't they?"
"Can't find out till the votes are counted," Bunny returned cheerily. "If anybody nominates me for captain, I'll run, of course."
"Then you'll run, all right," promised Specs."And if you are not elected, then I'm through with football at this school. Ab-so-lute-ly! I'll take my suit home to-night. Come on; there's Professor Leland waving to us."
Gathering the squad about him, the principal explained that the school board had detailed him as coach. "We may as well begin our practice," he said, "by lining up on both sides of the playground and punting the ball back and forth."
First kick at the oval fell to Buck Claxton. Perhaps he was a bit nervous. At any rate, his toe, instead of whirling the ball roof high, sent it tumbling and bounding along the ground, till a low bounce shot it into Bunny's arms.
"Now show 'em what you can do!" urged Specs in a hoarse whisper.
Carefully poising the ball, Bunny booted it up and across the field, till it spun down with a plop into Bi's arms.
"Nice work, Payton!" shouted the coach.
"That's showing him!" commented Specs. "He'll see that you didn't play in the back-field two years for nothing. Why, there isn't anybody else in the squad who can punt like that."
The next ten minutes proved Specs' boast. Not only could Bunny punt far and away better than the other candidates, but he could drop-kick almost as well. And when the players formed in a great circle and fell upon the ball, the members of the Black Eagle Patroldistinguished themselves again. With the exception of Roundy, who dove so heavily that the ball escaped through his arms, the Scouts downed the pigskin as surely as though it were a watermelon. With the others, this practice did not go as well; even Buck Claxton missed as the ball bounded at an unexpected angle.
"We'll top off with a little running and tackling," announced the coach, as he retrieved the ball from the last man. "Jones, you take your place forty yards down the field, to catch punts and run them back. Kiproy, you go with him to act as interference. And Claxton, when the ball is punted, you charge down the field and try to tackle Jones between the knees and waist."
With Bi in position, Kiproy beside him, and Buck crouching on the line, the coach kicked. It was a high punt, and Buck was almost upon the pair before the ball plumped into Bi's arms. Kiproy ran toward the tackier, but Buck, swerving to one side, eluded him and drove squarely at Bi's legs. Had the latter been under full speed, he would have toppled like a falling tree; instead, checking himself, he jolted back out of the grasping arms, and while Buck floundered in the dust, jogged complacently down the field.
"All right, Payton; you act as tackler this time. Claxton catches the ball. Jones is the interference."
Specs slapped Bunny on the back. "Show 'em what you can do. Grab that fellow, if it takes a leg!"
Either Bunny was luckier than Buck, or a bettertackler; opinion stood divided. But whatever the truth of the matter, Bunny skillfully dodged Bi's forward defense (and Bi was playing hard, too) and managed to stop Buck and actually throw the heavier boy backward.
With the next shift, Bunny caught the punt. Buck, with his lack of experience, bungled the interference, but Bunny pushed off Sheffield with his open palm, and romped safely out of danger. Later, on the last change, Bunny shouldered hard-running Peter Barrett out of the way as interference, thereby giving safe passage to Roundy, even after the latter had fumbled the ball.
"You are running away with the game, Payton," smiled the coach kindly. "If you keep this up, we shall have to put you in a team by yourself."
"What did I tell you!" chuckled Specs. "No matter whether they like the Scouts or not, they have to elect you captain. There just isn't anybody else."
Bunny said nothing. However much of a glow he felt over Professor Leland's compliment, there remained the undeniable fact that the school was at outs with the Black Eagle Patrol. It was unpleasant to be in this position, but it was worse still to realize how this attitude hampered the Scouts at every turn, both in working for the good of the school and in creating interest in the Scout movement.
Specs insisted, in a very audible whisper, that Rodman Cree was part and parcel of this conspiracy, and even hinted that he had purposely tried to lose the relayrace, both while it was being run and afterward, and had later prevented a fitting nomination for presidency of the student association.
"Look at that!" he growled, as Rodman failed in an easy tackle. "He's no good at anything in the world; anybody can see that. But he makes himself solid with the other crowd by hitting at us."
Meanwhile, could they have known it, Royal Sheffield was saying much the same thing about poor Rodman, except that it was Sheffield's idea that the new boy was trying to "get in" with the Scouts by working against the balance of the school.
"Good enough!" commented the coach, as the last uniformed player went down the field for a tackle. "We have the material for a strong team. Now I want you to elect a good man captain, and we shall call it a day's work."
There was a moment's silence in the crowd gathered about Professor Leland, which was broken by Specs, his voice high-pitched and shrill.
"I nominate the best player in the squad—Bunny Payton!"
Without hesitation, Sheffield nominated Buck Claxton; and Jack Turner, whose farm adjoined the Barrett place, put forward Peter.
"If anybody has the nerve to vote for Buck after the showing he has made this afternoon," said Specs hoarsely, "I'll eat my hat."
The coach himself collected the bits of paper whichhad been distributed as ballots, and counted the returns.
"The vote stands as follows," he said slowly. "Barrett has received two, Payton seven, and Claxton eleven. Claxton is therefore elected captain of the team. The practice to-morrow night will be at the same time. All those who have no suits will see me before they go home."
The Scouts stood dumbfounded. Bunny was the first to recover, leaving the group and walking over to congratulate Buck with a warm handshake.
"Well," observed Specs, "what about it? Do we quit this rotten business, or don't we?"
"No," Bunny snapped, "we don't. We keep right on practicing every night. If they won't put us on the first eleven, we'll play on the second."
"You can play on the third, if you feel like it." Specs had completely lost his temper. "As for me, I've eaten all the crow that's good for me. I'm through!" He turned his back and walked rapidly toward the basement.
For a long moment, Bunny stood fast on the field, while the others of the squad drifted toward the dressing room. Rodman Cree he could see waiting uneasily at one side, as if he wished to come up and speak to him. But though Bunny had none of Specs' feeling toward Rodman, at that particular moment he did not wish to speak to anybody. He stared toward the road, pretending to be unconscious of the other's presence.
From the basement floated the tenor voice of S. S., singing the final refrain of the "Nobody" song:
"Who cares for us an awful lot?Who always helps us on the dot?Who is the only friend we've got?"
And the final word, roared by all of the six Scouts, came out in a thundering:
"NOBODY!"
CHAPTER VIBEFORE THE WINDMolly Sefton had something on her mind, a very serious "something," Molly thought; and it was because of this something that Rodman Cree had been invited for his first canoe ride.A light wind curled the water into tiny ripples. It was morning of the last Saturday in September, and across the lake you could see a faint yellowish-red tinge on the maple trees of Shadow Island.The two stood on the pier at the foot of High Street, with the Seftons' new sailing canoe riding in the water alongside. Only the day before it had been delivered from the Fair Play Factory, and now, with the newly varnished paddles and nickled trimmings and white lateen sail, the craft looked very inviting indeed.Molly giggled."What's funny?" Rodman turned, mildly surprised."You are! Why, I haven't seen you smile for a week, but now you simply must, else I shan't allow you in the canoe with me."He did smile, half-heartedly at first, and then more broadly and honestly, till the smile had grown into an old-time laugh."That's better. I am going to take you sailing, after all. But are you sure," she added slyly, "that you can swim?"Rodman answered the question with a contemptuous sniff. "Maybe you can't, though," he said."Well, I just can," Molly asserted proudly; "I can swim two hundred yards. If I kick off my slippers, this dress won't be much heavier than a bathing suit, either. But, of course, father says I must do my sailing where it isn't deep.""Then we'd better edge the shore to that bay by Magoon's boathouse; there's lots of room for tacking, and it's all shallow water."Molly stared suspiciously at the stretch of lake he had pointed out. "How do you know?""Look at the color of the water. Don't you notice that it is a whole lot lighter than the rest of the lake? And did you ever see anybody fishing there? And did you ever notice how that steamer from the other end of the lake never puts in, even when it wants to land somebody at Magoon's pier?"Molly nodded slowly. "But if it's so shallow, why isn't it a swimming-hole?"For a moment, Rodman had no answer. "I don't know—Yes, I do, too. Look at the beach. If you've ever walked along it, you know there's the finest collectionof sharp stones on that beach you ever saw, and it must be the same way under water. You couldn't go in swimming there unless you wore hobnailed shoes.""You're right," Molly admitted, "though I never put things together like that. Of course, then, that's the place for us to go."While Rodman steadied the canoe, she climbed in gingerly, holding to the pier with one hand until he was also aboard."Wait just a minute before you push off," she warned. "Somebody's coming.""It's Horace Hibbs," he said, continuing to look toward the bow of the boat and away from the pier."How do you know?" Molly's voice showed her surprise."By his step, of course. Hello, Mr. Hibbs!"Smiling and genial, the Scout Master bustled out to the end of the pier."Caught a glimpse of you down here; so I thought I would stroll over and see you set sail. Better stick to that bay over there by Magoon's, Molly. It is a nice, level beach, not higher than your chin anywhere. Ready for the football game this afternoon, Rodman?""I am as ready as I'll ever be, sir," the boy returned slowly.Horace Hibbs laughed. "We can't all make the team. You will have your chance some day. All ready, Molly? Lee-board set? I'll give you an easy start, and in a second or two you will be under way."In no time at all, it seemed to Rodman, the sail had filled, and the canoe was slipping over the surface as gracefully and with as little effort as a swan floating downstream."All you have to do," Molly told him, "is to sit still and let me manage the boat. I am a very good sailor."For the second time that morning, Rodman laughed. "You may be a very good sailor, but you're not a very old sailor."Molly paid out the sheet a bit. "I don't see how you know whether I am an old sailor or just a beginner. Maybe I have been sailing canoes for years.""I don't know for sure," apologized Rodman, "but not longer than a week ago I saw you in the library getting a book on sailing. Now, I never heard of a real sailor reading a book about it. They always know it all; at least, they always say they do."It was Molly's turn to laugh now. "You're right. I haven't been at it for years; but Horace Hibbs took me out nine or ten times in that canoe of his, and the last few times I sailed it all by myself. Then yesterday, too, I took him out in mine, and he never gave me a bit of advice, and I tacked and came about and made a beautiful landing—he said so himself. But you do notice things, don't you, Rodman? I've never seen anybody that noticed little things the way you do."They were in the bay now, and Molly pointed the canoe toward the outer edge of the shallow area. The wind was almost directly inshore, but by keeping thesheet close-hauled Molly skimmed along at a merry clip almost into the teeth of the breeze."Ready to come about," warned Molly."Turn to your right; starboard, you know."Easily and with a fair degree of safety, the canoe came about to port. Rodman shook his head."I wouldn't risk that, Molly. When you turn again, running before the wind, come about the simple and natural way—toward the lower tip of your sail."She stole a quick look at him. "How do you know which is better? You told me you were never in a sail-boat before.""Well, I haven't been. Shucks, that's just common sense. If you come about the right way, the sail only straightens out; if you swing the wrong way, the—the boom, I guess you call it, whips across the boat and may upset it. Anyhow, I should think there would be danger. But here is some first-class information. By the looks of the lake, we are going to be in a dead calm before two minutes; and after that"—he studied the horizon—"look out!"True to prediction, the breeze spent itself, leaving the canoe tossing lightly some two hundred yards from shore. Only a bank of hard-edged clouds proved that the wind had not gone home for the day, but was merely resting to muster reinforcements."I'm glad it died down," Molly said promptly, "because now I can talk to you. Rodman Cree, I didn't get you out here just to go sailing, but to find out what'swrong with you. For three weeks, at least, you've been sneaking around like a hermit or something. You don't go with anybody, and nobody goes with you. You used to be happy and light-hearted; now I don't even hear your whistle any more. You don't seem to like anybody, and nobody seems to like you. What's the matter, Rodman? Tell me about it."He straightened his shoulders defiantly. "Well, I guess there is no reason why the fellows should like me. I'm no good. I'm no good at athletics; I can't even play football. The Scouts think I am in with Buck Claxton's gang, and Buck thinks I am working for the Scouts. Why, Bunny Payton is the only friend I have, and you know as well as I do that he has troubles of his own right now."Molly's eyes flashed. "It's miserable, that's what it is; miserable that the school is all split up. But that's no reason why you shouldn't have friends. Why don't the Scouts like you?"Chin on his hands, Rodman doggedly told her the story of the field day between the Scouts and All-School teams. "The Black Eagle fellows think I didn't run my best in the relay race; they think, too, that I was willing to toss away the win after it was over. But that isn't the worst. Do you remember, at the school election, when I said I thought a girl should have some office. Well, the Scouts believe I said that just to keep Specs McGrew from nominating Bunny for president of the student association.""I'll tell them that wasn't so," Molly offered."It won't do any good. Bunny knows the truth, but the others think I am just plain worthless. In football it is the same. I have been out for practice since the first day, but I haven't any chance of making the team. And I am heavier and stronger than a lot of the players on it, too. I've about decided to quit trying. Perhaps my folks will move somewhere else next year. I hope they do.""But it is just a question of time," urged Molly, "before you learn enough to play on the first eleven. Surely you'll do it next year."Rodman's shoulders settled back in a curve. "No, I don't think I'll ever make it. I'm no good, that's all; no good at anything.""I'm ashamed of you, Rodman Cree!" Molly took the sheet line in her fingers once more. "Yes, sir, just plain ashamed of you for being a quitter! Why, if the wind wasn't coming up, I believe I'd make you walk ashore. So there!""It wouldn't make me feel any worse than I do now."Scudding across the lake, ruffling the placid water into combing waves, a gust of wind was leaping toward them. Molly surveyed it with approval. Her chin was set in a firm little curve, and she nodded her head, quite as if she had suddenly come to a decision."Watch!" she said.As the first breath of the breeze reached them, shelet out the sheet. In less than a minute, as it tautened, the canoe was racing before the romping wind, its lateen sail almost at right angles to the craft.In the exhilaration of the speed, Rodman forgot his troubles. "Be ready to turn—come about, I mean," he warned, "or you'll go ashore.""I know what I am going to do," answered Molly, a peculiar note in her voice. "You sit tight and wait."Straight as an arrow, the bow cut the water, with the growing wind tugging hard at the filled sail, till the canoe seemed pulled ahead by some great but invisible water animal."Ready!" shouted Rodman. "Sail's on the port side, you know; don't come about to port.""Well, I'm going to.""You'll upset!""I won't upset! I know I can come up into the wind by swinging to starboard, but I'm going to show you that I can do it the other way, too.""Molly!""You're just a passenger. You sit still and watch." They were barely twenty-five yards from the shore."Coming about!" shouted Molly.Instead of turning to starboard, she deliberately forced the canoe to port. There was a moment of suspense. Then, exultingly, the quickening wind lost its grip on the sail, shivered it an instant as it hit the edge, and finally banged it violently across the canoe."Keep your feet free of the lines!" Rodman yelled,as he threw his weight toward the windward side, in an attempt to counterbalance its power."Look out for yourself!" Molly flung back. "I'm going—"She never finished her sentence. It was choked short as the canoe heeled abruptly and dumped its occupants into four feet of cool September lake.For a moment they stood facing each other; Molly laughing, Rodman furiously out of temper."Why—why don't you do what you can do?" he demanded."Why don't you?" Molly retorted.There was something in her voice that took the anger out of his system."Wha—what do you mean?"Molly pointed to a swimmer far over to the left. "Who's that?"Rodman shaded his eyes. "It's Specs. What's that got to do with it?""How do you know it's Specs?""Well, I'm pretty sure it is aScout, because that's where the Scouts go in swimming. Specs has quit trying for the football team; so he's the only one that would be in swimming, on account of the game this afternoon. And I know the way Specs swims. He uses the overhand stroke, and he does it a good deal better with his right arm than his left.""There you are!" Molly was triumphant. "Why don't you take your own advice, and do what you cando? You are a wonderful observer. You notice everything, and you remember it, too. You can do as much that way as any other. You were right when you said that a girl should be elected to one of the offices, and they all know you were right, no matter what they say. You noticed something there, and you had the courage to tell everybody else about it. What if you can't make the team? If you just do your best, the time is going to come when you will accomplish as much by seeing as the rest will by doing."The look on Rodman's face was a queer mixture of shame and pleasure. He swallowed hard."You're right, Molly. You—you tipped us over here on purpose, didn't you?"Molly smiled, but said nothing."Yes, you're right," admitted Rodman Cree. "And I'll—well, I'll prove that you are." He swallowed again. "Now, if you say so, we'll walk this boat to shore and get another start."For the third time that morning, he smiled. As he towed the light canoe ashore, he even whistled.
BEFORE THE WIND
Molly Sefton had something on her mind, a very serious "something," Molly thought; and it was because of this something that Rodman Cree had been invited for his first canoe ride.
A light wind curled the water into tiny ripples. It was morning of the last Saturday in September, and across the lake you could see a faint yellowish-red tinge on the maple trees of Shadow Island.
The two stood on the pier at the foot of High Street, with the Seftons' new sailing canoe riding in the water alongside. Only the day before it had been delivered from the Fair Play Factory, and now, with the newly varnished paddles and nickled trimmings and white lateen sail, the craft looked very inviting indeed.
Molly giggled.
"What's funny?" Rodman turned, mildly surprised.
"You are! Why, I haven't seen you smile for a week, but now you simply must, else I shan't allow you in the canoe with me."
He did smile, half-heartedly at first, and then more broadly and honestly, till the smile had grown into an old-time laugh.
"That's better. I am going to take you sailing, after all. But are you sure," she added slyly, "that you can swim?"
Rodman answered the question with a contemptuous sniff. "Maybe you can't, though," he said.
"Well, I just can," Molly asserted proudly; "I can swim two hundred yards. If I kick off my slippers, this dress won't be much heavier than a bathing suit, either. But, of course, father says I must do my sailing where it isn't deep."
"Then we'd better edge the shore to that bay by Magoon's boathouse; there's lots of room for tacking, and it's all shallow water."
Molly stared suspiciously at the stretch of lake he had pointed out. "How do you know?"
"Look at the color of the water. Don't you notice that it is a whole lot lighter than the rest of the lake? And did you ever see anybody fishing there? And did you ever notice how that steamer from the other end of the lake never puts in, even when it wants to land somebody at Magoon's pier?"
Molly nodded slowly. "But if it's so shallow, why isn't it a swimming-hole?"
For a moment, Rodman had no answer. "I don't know—Yes, I do, too. Look at the beach. If you've ever walked along it, you know there's the finest collectionof sharp stones on that beach you ever saw, and it must be the same way under water. You couldn't go in swimming there unless you wore hobnailed shoes."
"You're right," Molly admitted, "though I never put things together like that. Of course, then, that's the place for us to go."
While Rodman steadied the canoe, she climbed in gingerly, holding to the pier with one hand until he was also aboard.
"Wait just a minute before you push off," she warned. "Somebody's coming."
"It's Horace Hibbs," he said, continuing to look toward the bow of the boat and away from the pier.
"How do you know?" Molly's voice showed her surprise.
"By his step, of course. Hello, Mr. Hibbs!"
Smiling and genial, the Scout Master bustled out to the end of the pier.
"Caught a glimpse of you down here; so I thought I would stroll over and see you set sail. Better stick to that bay over there by Magoon's, Molly. It is a nice, level beach, not higher than your chin anywhere. Ready for the football game this afternoon, Rodman?"
"I am as ready as I'll ever be, sir," the boy returned slowly.
Horace Hibbs laughed. "We can't all make the team. You will have your chance some day. All ready, Molly? Lee-board set? I'll give you an easy start, and in a second or two you will be under way."
In no time at all, it seemed to Rodman, the sail had filled, and the canoe was slipping over the surface as gracefully and with as little effort as a swan floating downstream.
"All you have to do," Molly told him, "is to sit still and let me manage the boat. I am a very good sailor."
For the second time that morning, Rodman laughed. "You may be a very good sailor, but you're not a very old sailor."
Molly paid out the sheet a bit. "I don't see how you know whether I am an old sailor or just a beginner. Maybe I have been sailing canoes for years."
"I don't know for sure," apologized Rodman, "but not longer than a week ago I saw you in the library getting a book on sailing. Now, I never heard of a real sailor reading a book about it. They always know it all; at least, they always say they do."
It was Molly's turn to laugh now. "You're right. I haven't been at it for years; but Horace Hibbs took me out nine or ten times in that canoe of his, and the last few times I sailed it all by myself. Then yesterday, too, I took him out in mine, and he never gave me a bit of advice, and I tacked and came about and made a beautiful landing—he said so himself. But you do notice things, don't you, Rodman? I've never seen anybody that noticed little things the way you do."
They were in the bay now, and Molly pointed the canoe toward the outer edge of the shallow area. The wind was almost directly inshore, but by keeping thesheet close-hauled Molly skimmed along at a merry clip almost into the teeth of the breeze.
"Ready to come about," warned Molly.
"Turn to your right; starboard, you know."
Easily and with a fair degree of safety, the canoe came about to port. Rodman shook his head.
"I wouldn't risk that, Molly. When you turn again, running before the wind, come about the simple and natural way—toward the lower tip of your sail."
She stole a quick look at him. "How do you know which is better? You told me you were never in a sail-boat before."
"Well, I haven't been. Shucks, that's just common sense. If you come about the right way, the sail only straightens out; if you swing the wrong way, the—the boom, I guess you call it, whips across the boat and may upset it. Anyhow, I should think there would be danger. But here is some first-class information. By the looks of the lake, we are going to be in a dead calm before two minutes; and after that"—he studied the horizon—"look out!"
True to prediction, the breeze spent itself, leaving the canoe tossing lightly some two hundred yards from shore. Only a bank of hard-edged clouds proved that the wind had not gone home for the day, but was merely resting to muster reinforcements.
"I'm glad it died down," Molly said promptly, "because now I can talk to you. Rodman Cree, I didn't get you out here just to go sailing, but to find out what'swrong with you. For three weeks, at least, you've been sneaking around like a hermit or something. You don't go with anybody, and nobody goes with you. You used to be happy and light-hearted; now I don't even hear your whistle any more. You don't seem to like anybody, and nobody seems to like you. What's the matter, Rodman? Tell me about it."
He straightened his shoulders defiantly. "Well, I guess there is no reason why the fellows should like me. I'm no good. I'm no good at athletics; I can't even play football. The Scouts think I am in with Buck Claxton's gang, and Buck thinks I am working for the Scouts. Why, Bunny Payton is the only friend I have, and you know as well as I do that he has troubles of his own right now."
Molly's eyes flashed. "It's miserable, that's what it is; miserable that the school is all split up. But that's no reason why you shouldn't have friends. Why don't the Scouts like you?"
Chin on his hands, Rodman doggedly told her the story of the field day between the Scouts and All-School teams. "The Black Eagle fellows think I didn't run my best in the relay race; they think, too, that I was willing to toss away the win after it was over. But that isn't the worst. Do you remember, at the school election, when I said I thought a girl should have some office. Well, the Scouts believe I said that just to keep Specs McGrew from nominating Bunny for president of the student association."
"I'll tell them that wasn't so," Molly offered.
"It won't do any good. Bunny knows the truth, but the others think I am just plain worthless. In football it is the same. I have been out for practice since the first day, but I haven't any chance of making the team. And I am heavier and stronger than a lot of the players on it, too. I've about decided to quit trying. Perhaps my folks will move somewhere else next year. I hope they do."
"But it is just a question of time," urged Molly, "before you learn enough to play on the first eleven. Surely you'll do it next year."
Rodman's shoulders settled back in a curve. "No, I don't think I'll ever make it. I'm no good, that's all; no good at anything."
"I'm ashamed of you, Rodman Cree!" Molly took the sheet line in her fingers once more. "Yes, sir, just plain ashamed of you for being a quitter! Why, if the wind wasn't coming up, I believe I'd make you walk ashore. So there!"
"It wouldn't make me feel any worse than I do now."
Scudding across the lake, ruffling the placid water into combing waves, a gust of wind was leaping toward them. Molly surveyed it with approval. Her chin was set in a firm little curve, and she nodded her head, quite as if she had suddenly come to a decision.
"Watch!" she said.
As the first breath of the breeze reached them, shelet out the sheet. In less than a minute, as it tautened, the canoe was racing before the romping wind, its lateen sail almost at right angles to the craft.
In the exhilaration of the speed, Rodman forgot his troubles. "Be ready to turn—come about, I mean," he warned, "or you'll go ashore."
"I know what I am going to do," answered Molly, a peculiar note in her voice. "You sit tight and wait."
Straight as an arrow, the bow cut the water, with the growing wind tugging hard at the filled sail, till the canoe seemed pulled ahead by some great but invisible water animal.
"Ready!" shouted Rodman. "Sail's on the port side, you know; don't come about to port."
"Well, I'm going to."
"You'll upset!"
"I won't upset! I know I can come up into the wind by swinging to starboard, but I'm going to show you that I can do it the other way, too."
"Molly!"
"You're just a passenger. You sit still and watch." They were barely twenty-five yards from the shore.
"Coming about!" shouted Molly.
Instead of turning to starboard, she deliberately forced the canoe to port. There was a moment of suspense. Then, exultingly, the quickening wind lost its grip on the sail, shivered it an instant as it hit the edge, and finally banged it violently across the canoe.
"Keep your feet free of the lines!" Rodman yelled,as he threw his weight toward the windward side, in an attempt to counterbalance its power.
"Look out for yourself!" Molly flung back. "I'm going—"
She never finished her sentence. It was choked short as the canoe heeled abruptly and dumped its occupants into four feet of cool September lake.
For a moment they stood facing each other; Molly laughing, Rodman furiously out of temper.
"Why—why don't you do what you can do?" he demanded.
"Why don't you?" Molly retorted.
There was something in her voice that took the anger out of his system.
"Wha—what do you mean?"
Molly pointed to a swimmer far over to the left. "Who's that?"
Rodman shaded his eyes. "It's Specs. What's that got to do with it?"
"How do you know it's Specs?"
"Well, I'm pretty sure it is aScout, because that's where the Scouts go in swimming. Specs has quit trying for the football team; so he's the only one that would be in swimming, on account of the game this afternoon. And I know the way Specs swims. He uses the overhand stroke, and he does it a good deal better with his right arm than his left."
"There you are!" Molly was triumphant. "Why don't you take your own advice, and do what you cando? You are a wonderful observer. You notice everything, and you remember it, too. You can do as much that way as any other. You were right when you said that a girl should be elected to one of the offices, and they all know you were right, no matter what they say. You noticed something there, and you had the courage to tell everybody else about it. What if you can't make the team? If you just do your best, the time is going to come when you will accomplish as much by seeing as the rest will by doing."
The look on Rodman's face was a queer mixture of shame and pleasure. He swallowed hard.
"You're right, Molly. You—you tipped us over here on purpose, didn't you?"
Molly smiled, but said nothing.
"Yes, you're right," admitted Rodman Cree. "And I'll—well, I'll prove that you are." He swallowed again. "Now, if you say so, we'll walk this boat to shore and get another start."
For the third time that morning, he smiled. As he towed the light canoe ashore, he even whistled.
CHAPTER VIITWO YARDS TO GO"Hold 'em, Lakeville!"The crowd surged against the rope that had been stretched along the sides of the football field where the Lakeville and the Grant City high-school teams were playing the first game of the season. It was a vacant lot at the north of town; not an ideal ground, by any means, but put in order for the sport by being cleared of rocks and stubble and marked with broad stripes of whitewash."All ready, Chick!" "Are you ready, Bert?" "Signal!" "What's the signal?" "Steady there." "Signal?"The Grant City team, which seemed to have occasional spells of confused conversation, appeared all at sea as the ball was about to be put in play."Signal?" "Hey, signal!"The left guard and tackle of the visitors rose from their crouch, apparently uncertain as to the play. At that instant, however, the ball was passed. Logically, with two men out of the play, Lakeville should havehad no trouble in stopping the runner with the ball. But he crashed through the Lakeville line between right tackle and end, past Peter Barrett, on secondary defense, in spite of that youth's frantic dive, and so free till, some twenty-five yards distant, Bunny, who was playing back, wriggled through the interference and plumped the runner to earth.On the side lines, Substitute Rodman Cree dug his finger nails into his palms. "It's a trick play," he muttered. "They don't seem to understand it themselves, but they gain every time they try it. What's the secret?""Three minutes of the half left!" Horace Hibbs, acting as official timer, squinted inquiringly at the two teams. "If our boys don't stop that maneuver, Grant is going to score, sure as shooting.""It's the third time, too," Rodman put in, "but they always gain their distance—and more. I wish I could figure it out."Following his resolution of the morning, he had come to the game without hope of playing, but with the fixed intent to do everything in his power for the team. So far, he felt he had failed.True, before the game started, his quick eye had noted that the cord used by the linesmen for measuring downs was almost a yard short. This fact he had pointed out to Mr. Sefton, acting linesman for Lakeville, and the mistake had been corrected. It was Rodman, too, who before the game had discovered andlevered away a small boulder, hidden near one of the goal posts. In the case of Bennett, the substitute halfback, who squatted on the side lines and followed each play with the movements of his body, thus wearing himself out before he was put in the game, Rodman had induced the boy, by a joking remark or two, to stretch out and relax until he was wanted. But he felt that these aids were really nothing at all. Wasn't it impossible, after all, to do anything worth while for the team when you weren't the coach, and couldn't play, and when everybody had lost faith in you?But, at least for the moment, he forgot his difficult task in the smash of the play that was bringing the first half to an end. The ball had touched Lakeville's thirty-yard line, when Jump intercepted a forward pass and ran it back a third of that distance. A sturdy drive by Barrett brought fifteen more; a forward pass netted another substantial gain; three line plunges left Lakeville but twenty-five yards to go."Six—eight—five—seven—three!" cried Bunny at quarter. Like well-oiled bits of machinery, the Lakeville eleven clanked into the kick formation, with Bunny back to receive the pass. Professor Leland shook his head.Rodman saw the gesture and understood. Because the Lakeville team was lighter, the coach had ordered a kicking game, with a try for goal from the field whenever the eleven was well within the enemy's territory. Twice before, however, Bunny's attempts had failed;there was no reason to expect him to put the ball over the goal this time.The long pass was made and caught. Bunny dropped the pigskin point-down, caught it with his toe as it touched the ground, and kicked it toward the looming goal posts. It went short and wide."He can't do it." The coach was talking for his own benefit. "I was afraid he couldn't."Rodman plucked up courage. "No, he can't, of course. I knew he couldn't."The coach turned to the substitute. "What do you mean, Cree? I thought Payton was a friend of yours.""He is, sir; my best friend. But don't you see why he can't get off a good drop-kick?"The whistle had blown to signal the end of the half. Both teams were trooping off the field. But Professor Leland, after turning as if to join the eleven, stopped by Rodman's side."Look here, Cree, if you know any reason why Payton can't kick as well in a game as he can in practice, suppose you tell me now, before I instruct the boys not to follow this plan of play in the second half.""Yes, sir, I'll tell you." Rodman's voice was joyous. At last, he was able to do something worth while. "Look at the sun. The game started late, and now it shines toward the west goal, directly in Bunny's eyes every time he kicks. See that sun? Then there's the wind. It isn't much of a wind, sir, but it's kicking up a lot of dust, which always blows toward Bunny—intohis eyes. But that isn't all." His words came fast; he was afraid the coach would leave before he was done. "Those Grant City fellows, sir, have three corking fine players at center and guards, and our line doesn't take care of them. They get Roundy excited and nervous, and he passes the ball high and wild. That means the kick is sent off in a good deal more of a hurry than it should be. And Buck isn't playing close enough to the line to stop that right tackle."Professor Leland nodded. "I believe you are right, Cree. I've noticed a few of those points myself, but you've seen more than I have. All right; we'll give Bunny another chance at a goal from the field."The talk between halves to the team was full of encouragement. "We're doing well," the coach told them; "mighty well. But we are going to do just a little better. We must score on that team, and we must hold it. Now in this business of field goals—"To the unmixed delight of Rodman, Professor Leland made use of the very arguments which the substitute had brought up a minute before. "When they kick off to us this half, as they will, I want the ball rushed down the field to a point where we can try another drop for goal. Then, Payton, because we shall have changed goals, your eyes will be free of dust; Claxton will handle that tackle; Jones and Turner will take care of the combination at center, which will allow you, Magoon, to make the best pass of your life. We can do it all, I know."As the boys stretched out to rest for the remainder of the period, Rodman's satisfaction was marred by only one thought. Although he had done his part to aid the team, neither Bunny nor the others knew anything about it. And it was their friendship and respect he wanted."Old Leland is the boy!" Roundy commented lazily to Bunny. "He saw what was wrong, and he fixed it up, too. He's the kind of coach to have.""We all know that," Bunny responded fervently."Why, you can't kick into the sun and dust any more than you can fly; but I couldn't tell him so."It was on the tip of Rodman's tongue to explain the origin of the suggestion. In spite of the impulse, however, he kept silent."All ready to save the day, Cree?" jeered Buck. "You'd be all right, at that, except that you'd probably stumble over the whitewash on the goal line and drop the ball."It was hard to keep his temper under these flings with which Buck Claxton favored him from time to time. So far as his naturally friendly nature was capable of hating anybody, Rodman had begun to hate Buck. Above everything else, he was glad that Professor Leland was the coach, instead of Buck, and that he himself was working for the whole school and not for Buck Claxton.At the same time, he admitted to himself that Buck was not a bad captain, despite his tendency to fumblein a crisis. With Roundy Magoon at center, Turner and Bi Jones at guards, Kiproy and Collins at tackles, Sheffield and Jump Henderson at ends, and a back field composed of Barrett and Collins at halves, Buck Claxton at full, and Bunny at quarter, the Lakeville High football team was developing into a snappy, hard-fighting eleven. They were sure of themselves.When the whistle called them out on the field again, Rodman noted that they trotted forth with a jauntiness which matched very favorably the do-or-die expression of the Grant City players."Everybody in it!" shouted Buck, as the team made ready to receive the kick-off.Jump caught the punt, running back the ball at an angle and passing it to Sheffield, who drilled to the middle of the field before he was stopped. Capping this gain came a series of short, sharp plunges, till the distance to Grant's goal was halved."Six—eight—seven—five—thirteen!"At the warning of the key number, seven, Bi and Turner crowded closer to Roundy at center, while Buck played close to the line to block a threatening tackler. Guarded on both sides, with wind and sun at his back, and with a sure, swift pass to handle, Bunny drop-kicked a perfect goal.The first points had been scored. The count stood: Lakeville, 3; Grant City, 0.The crowd, made up largely of Lakeville people, shouted joyously, threw hats into the air, and celebratedwith much squawking of auto horns. After she had yelled herself hoarse, Molly climbed from the Sefton car to exchange a word with Rodman."Isn't it glorious?" she cried. "We're winning our first game. S. S. told me what Professor Leland said about Bunny's kicking. Wasn't that just too smart for anything?"Rodman's face lengthened. He wanted very much to tell Molly that the advice was the result of his observations. But something, he could not tell what, checked the words."We're getting them, all right," he said, instead. "All we have to do now is to hold when they begin to batter against our line.""Oh, we can do that." Molly nodded confidently. "You wait and see."Following the kick-off, the battle raged uncertainly in the middle of the field. Near the end of the third quarter, however, Grant City took the ball on downs, and began a steady onslaught that was formidable. Then, when the Lakeville line seemed to have braced, Rodman came to his feet like a puppet on a string. There it was again! Grant was calling for its trick play."Signal! What's the signal?" called a confused voice. "All ready, Bert?" "Dig into 'em!" "Signal?" "Wait a minute!" "Hold it!" "Signal!"Grant's right guard and tackle stood up straight intheir places, looking helplessly toward the quarterback."Signal?"Like the flare of a flashlight, the mystery cleared in Rodman's mind. Why, of course, that was the answer! Why couldn't Buck solve it, or Bunny, or some one of those players in the Lakeville line, already glancing up at the confused babel of voices. Surely, they must see through such an obvious device.They must—No! Back whirled the ball; forward shot the compact interference and runner. Before the wiry half was tackled, he had covered a cool fifteen yards. It was first down again for Grant.An unworthy thought burned in Rodman's brain. Why should he tell Coach Leland about the play? Why not put the problem squarely up to the squad at the end of the quarter, when, by previous agreement, it would be permissible to talk with them? In that way, all of the fellows would see they had been mistaken in him; would be forced to realize that he was some good, even if he couldn't make the team. Why should he allow the coach another chance to walk off with borrowed laurels?His forehead creased with trouble wrinkles while his conscience wrestled with the question. No-o!... It wouldn't be the thing to do, after all. He was still a member of the football squad. As such, it was his business to acquaint the coach, or whoever was in charge of the team, with any helpful information. Simple loyalty demanded that."First down; ten yards to gain!"As he foresaw, Grant did not attempt the trick again. It was a clever play, but its abuse would certainly lead to discovery. Probably, indeed, if they were shrewd—and somebody with brains was undoubtedly in command of the visiting eleven!—they would not try it until they were within striking distance of the goal. Then, unless checked, it would mean a sure touchdown and the game.Twice more Grant City made small gains. As they lined up for the next play, time was called, with the ball in possession of the visiting team on Lakeville's thirty-yard line.Rodman started. He must warn the coach at once."Professor Leland!"At that very moment, Mr. Gorse, who was refereeing, called to the coach."Just a second, Cree." Throwing a hasty word of advice to the team, the coach started across the field toward the referee.Fifteen seconds passed. Professor Leland was still arguing some point with Mr. Gorse. Thirty seconds! The conversation went on.Well, if he couldn't talk to the coach, he must put the matter squarely before the next man under him. But the person now in charge of the team was Buck Claxton; and Buck—well, Buck was Buck! He couldn't bring himself to tell Buck anything. He even started to squat again on his blanket, when, quiteto his own surprise, he found himself walking over to the side of the captain. After all, as long as he practiced with the squad, he must be loyal."Oh, Buck!""Well?" snapped Claxton. "What d'ye want?"Rodman hesitated, tempted at the last second to turn back with the message undelivered. But once more a better impulse prevailed. In a voice purposely low, that the others might not overhear, he offered his explanation."That play where the whole Grant team gets to talking before the ball is passed—watch it! I thought first it was some trick, but it's really only a straight plunge by their half. The reason they gain is because they throw you fellows off by yelling for the signal and all that. Part of the line stands up and looks at the quarterback. You all think they are mixed on the signal, but they aren't. The reason it works is because they catch our team when it doesn't expect the ball to be passed, when our own guard and tackle have straightened up a little, too, to see what's going on. Yes, they do! I've been watching 'em. But they don't realize it."Buck tried vainly to interrupt, but there was no checking the torrent of Rodman's words."They get all your attention off the game, and then, bingo! the ball is put in play. It's a fact, Buck! Remember now, if they start jabbering at each other, and one side of the line begins to stand up straight, thatmeans the play is going right through there. Remember that—"He was still talking earnestly when the whistle blew, with Buck, his face stolid, staring steadily at the ground and scraping marble rings in the dust with his right shoe-toe."Ready, Lakeville!" shouted the captain; and the game was on again.A lucky fumble brought the ball into the home team's hands, and Bunny punted out of danger. After that, steadily and surely, with all the advantages of weight and experience, the Grant eleven began to grind its way down the field. Desperately, Lakeville crouched and set itself; still more desperately, Grant City ploughed onward. The formations were slow and deliberate; the visitors risked no fumble or error. Often the gains were only a foot or two, but each fourth down found another ten yards covered. Rodman realized that some keen brain was directing the team, balancing time against gains, and playing for one touchdown that would turn the threatened defeat into a victory."Curtains!" groaned Specs somewhere in the background, quite loudly enough for Rodman to hear. "Curtains! Hold 'em, fellows! Hold 'em!""Three minutes to play!" announced Horace Hibbs."If we can only hold them from that goal!" muttered Coach Leland."Grant's ball! First down; ten yards to gain!"A plunge through center netted three of them; a wriggling half eeled around right end for another two; the same play on the other side brought the total to eight. Lakeville was fighting gallantly, but superior weight was beginning to tell."Fourth down; two yards to gain."Already the ball was in the very shadow of the goal posts. If this final attack succeeded, it meant a touchdown. Rodman Cree shivered in his blanket. Suppose they tried the trick play now. Would Buck—"What's the matter, Billy?" "Ready there, Chick!" "Signal!" "What's the signal?" "Never mind!" "Hold her!"The right tackle and guard of the Grant City team straightened up."Signal?" called a bewildered voice.Rodman gripped his fists tight. Was it to go through, even after he had warned Buck? But suddenly, hard and high above the din from the Grant line, the Lakeville captain's voice rang clear:"Get down, Bi! On the job, Kiproy! They're coming through you! It's the right half! Everybody together now!Stop him!"The ball was snapped. Like a battering-ram, the right half of the Grant team, pocketed in perfect interference, catapulted against the Lakeville line,—against Bi and Kiproy, backed by Peter Barrett and Buck Claxton. For just the fraction of a second, the line wavered, threatening to snap. Then it tautenedinto a stone wall, against which the runner crashed and fell back. There was no gain. The trick had failed. It was Lakeville's ball almost on her goal line.Bunny punted out of danger. Grant City had just time to line up for one weak charge before the whistle announced the end of the game. By checking that one play, Lakeville had prevented a touchdown and had won, 3 to 0.In the minds of the victorious players, there was no doubt as to the fellow who deserved the credit. Scouts and all, they hoisted Buck to their shoulders, cheering him as they marched around the field.From where he stood, Rodman Cree could see Molly leaning from the car and waving her pennant. On the side lines, Clarence Prissler was executing a war dance of his own. In the midst of a group of girls, Marion Genevieve Chester was leading the school cheer. And it was all for Buck!Nobody knew what Rodman had done, of course, except the coach and Buck; and evidently they weren't going to tell. For a bitter moment, Rodman argued with himself. Should he go on with the thankless job?Across his brain flashed the memory of a sentence he had read in the Scouts' "Handbook", "A Scout is loyal." It was one of the twelve laws; it meant him, too, whether he was a Scout or not. It was a law that applied to everybody all over the world. He didn't have to be a Scout to keep that law.With a stiffening of his shoulders, he lifted his head, as if to stare all Lakeville in the face."I'm going to keep on," he said, "whether anybody knows what I am doing or not. I may not be a Scout, but I'm as loyal as any one of them. I am loyal to the school, and to the team, and to everybody who has a claim on me. Yes, and I am going to keep on being loyal."They were giving three cheers for Buck now, with Specs, clad in his street clothes, leading them all. Before he knew it, Rodman was adding his voice to the praise."And I wouldn't be anything else," he said suddenly. "I wouldn't be anything else."
TWO YARDS TO GO
"Hold 'em, Lakeville!"
The crowd surged against the rope that had been stretched along the sides of the football field where the Lakeville and the Grant City high-school teams were playing the first game of the season. It was a vacant lot at the north of town; not an ideal ground, by any means, but put in order for the sport by being cleared of rocks and stubble and marked with broad stripes of whitewash.
"All ready, Chick!" "Are you ready, Bert?" "Signal!" "What's the signal?" "Steady there." "Signal?"
The Grant City team, which seemed to have occasional spells of confused conversation, appeared all at sea as the ball was about to be put in play.
"Signal?" "Hey, signal!"
The left guard and tackle of the visitors rose from their crouch, apparently uncertain as to the play. At that instant, however, the ball was passed. Logically, with two men out of the play, Lakeville should havehad no trouble in stopping the runner with the ball. But he crashed through the Lakeville line between right tackle and end, past Peter Barrett, on secondary defense, in spite of that youth's frantic dive, and so free till, some twenty-five yards distant, Bunny, who was playing back, wriggled through the interference and plumped the runner to earth.
On the side lines, Substitute Rodman Cree dug his finger nails into his palms. "It's a trick play," he muttered. "They don't seem to understand it themselves, but they gain every time they try it. What's the secret?"
"Three minutes of the half left!" Horace Hibbs, acting as official timer, squinted inquiringly at the two teams. "If our boys don't stop that maneuver, Grant is going to score, sure as shooting."
"It's the third time, too," Rodman put in, "but they always gain their distance—and more. I wish I could figure it out."
Following his resolution of the morning, he had come to the game without hope of playing, but with the fixed intent to do everything in his power for the team. So far, he felt he had failed.
True, before the game started, his quick eye had noted that the cord used by the linesmen for measuring downs was almost a yard short. This fact he had pointed out to Mr. Sefton, acting linesman for Lakeville, and the mistake had been corrected. It was Rodman, too, who before the game had discovered andlevered away a small boulder, hidden near one of the goal posts. In the case of Bennett, the substitute halfback, who squatted on the side lines and followed each play with the movements of his body, thus wearing himself out before he was put in the game, Rodman had induced the boy, by a joking remark or two, to stretch out and relax until he was wanted. But he felt that these aids were really nothing at all. Wasn't it impossible, after all, to do anything worth while for the team when you weren't the coach, and couldn't play, and when everybody had lost faith in you?
But, at least for the moment, he forgot his difficult task in the smash of the play that was bringing the first half to an end. The ball had touched Lakeville's thirty-yard line, when Jump intercepted a forward pass and ran it back a third of that distance. A sturdy drive by Barrett brought fifteen more; a forward pass netted another substantial gain; three line plunges left Lakeville but twenty-five yards to go.
"Six—eight—five—seven—three!" cried Bunny at quarter. Like well-oiled bits of machinery, the Lakeville eleven clanked into the kick formation, with Bunny back to receive the pass. Professor Leland shook his head.
Rodman saw the gesture and understood. Because the Lakeville team was lighter, the coach had ordered a kicking game, with a try for goal from the field whenever the eleven was well within the enemy's territory. Twice before, however, Bunny's attempts had failed;there was no reason to expect him to put the ball over the goal this time.
The long pass was made and caught. Bunny dropped the pigskin point-down, caught it with his toe as it touched the ground, and kicked it toward the looming goal posts. It went short and wide.
"He can't do it." The coach was talking for his own benefit. "I was afraid he couldn't."
Rodman plucked up courage. "No, he can't, of course. I knew he couldn't."
The coach turned to the substitute. "What do you mean, Cree? I thought Payton was a friend of yours."
"He is, sir; my best friend. But don't you see why he can't get off a good drop-kick?"
The whistle had blown to signal the end of the half. Both teams were trooping off the field. But Professor Leland, after turning as if to join the eleven, stopped by Rodman's side.
"Look here, Cree, if you know any reason why Payton can't kick as well in a game as he can in practice, suppose you tell me now, before I instruct the boys not to follow this plan of play in the second half."
"Yes, sir, I'll tell you." Rodman's voice was joyous. At last, he was able to do something worth while. "Look at the sun. The game started late, and now it shines toward the west goal, directly in Bunny's eyes every time he kicks. See that sun? Then there's the wind. It isn't much of a wind, sir, but it's kicking up a lot of dust, which always blows toward Bunny—intohis eyes. But that isn't all." His words came fast; he was afraid the coach would leave before he was done. "Those Grant City fellows, sir, have three corking fine players at center and guards, and our line doesn't take care of them. They get Roundy excited and nervous, and he passes the ball high and wild. That means the kick is sent off in a good deal more of a hurry than it should be. And Buck isn't playing close enough to the line to stop that right tackle."
Professor Leland nodded. "I believe you are right, Cree. I've noticed a few of those points myself, but you've seen more than I have. All right; we'll give Bunny another chance at a goal from the field."
The talk between halves to the team was full of encouragement. "We're doing well," the coach told them; "mighty well. But we are going to do just a little better. We must score on that team, and we must hold it. Now in this business of field goals—"
To the unmixed delight of Rodman, Professor Leland made use of the very arguments which the substitute had brought up a minute before. "When they kick off to us this half, as they will, I want the ball rushed down the field to a point where we can try another drop for goal. Then, Payton, because we shall have changed goals, your eyes will be free of dust; Claxton will handle that tackle; Jones and Turner will take care of the combination at center, which will allow you, Magoon, to make the best pass of your life. We can do it all, I know."
As the boys stretched out to rest for the remainder of the period, Rodman's satisfaction was marred by only one thought. Although he had done his part to aid the team, neither Bunny nor the others knew anything about it. And it was their friendship and respect he wanted.
"Old Leland is the boy!" Roundy commented lazily to Bunny. "He saw what was wrong, and he fixed it up, too. He's the kind of coach to have."
"We all know that," Bunny responded fervently.
"Why, you can't kick into the sun and dust any more than you can fly; but I couldn't tell him so."
It was on the tip of Rodman's tongue to explain the origin of the suggestion. In spite of the impulse, however, he kept silent.
"All ready to save the day, Cree?" jeered Buck. "You'd be all right, at that, except that you'd probably stumble over the whitewash on the goal line and drop the ball."
It was hard to keep his temper under these flings with which Buck Claxton favored him from time to time. So far as his naturally friendly nature was capable of hating anybody, Rodman had begun to hate Buck. Above everything else, he was glad that Professor Leland was the coach, instead of Buck, and that he himself was working for the whole school and not for Buck Claxton.
At the same time, he admitted to himself that Buck was not a bad captain, despite his tendency to fumblein a crisis. With Roundy Magoon at center, Turner and Bi Jones at guards, Kiproy and Collins at tackles, Sheffield and Jump Henderson at ends, and a back field composed of Barrett and Collins at halves, Buck Claxton at full, and Bunny at quarter, the Lakeville High football team was developing into a snappy, hard-fighting eleven. They were sure of themselves.
When the whistle called them out on the field again, Rodman noted that they trotted forth with a jauntiness which matched very favorably the do-or-die expression of the Grant City players.
"Everybody in it!" shouted Buck, as the team made ready to receive the kick-off.
Jump caught the punt, running back the ball at an angle and passing it to Sheffield, who drilled to the middle of the field before he was stopped. Capping this gain came a series of short, sharp plunges, till the distance to Grant's goal was halved.
"Six—eight—seven—five—thirteen!"
At the warning of the key number, seven, Bi and Turner crowded closer to Roundy at center, while Buck played close to the line to block a threatening tackler. Guarded on both sides, with wind and sun at his back, and with a sure, swift pass to handle, Bunny drop-kicked a perfect goal.
The first points had been scored. The count stood: Lakeville, 3; Grant City, 0.
The crowd, made up largely of Lakeville people, shouted joyously, threw hats into the air, and celebratedwith much squawking of auto horns. After she had yelled herself hoarse, Molly climbed from the Sefton car to exchange a word with Rodman.
"Isn't it glorious?" she cried. "We're winning our first game. S. S. told me what Professor Leland said about Bunny's kicking. Wasn't that just too smart for anything?"
Rodman's face lengthened. He wanted very much to tell Molly that the advice was the result of his observations. But something, he could not tell what, checked the words.
"We're getting them, all right," he said, instead. "All we have to do now is to hold when they begin to batter against our line."
"Oh, we can do that." Molly nodded confidently. "You wait and see."
Following the kick-off, the battle raged uncertainly in the middle of the field. Near the end of the third quarter, however, Grant City took the ball on downs, and began a steady onslaught that was formidable. Then, when the Lakeville line seemed to have braced, Rodman came to his feet like a puppet on a string. There it was again! Grant was calling for its trick play.
"Signal! What's the signal?" called a confused voice. "All ready, Bert?" "Dig into 'em!" "Signal?" "Wait a minute!" "Hold it!" "Signal!"
Grant's right guard and tackle stood up straight intheir places, looking helplessly toward the quarterback.
"Signal?"
Like the flare of a flashlight, the mystery cleared in Rodman's mind. Why, of course, that was the answer! Why couldn't Buck solve it, or Bunny, or some one of those players in the Lakeville line, already glancing up at the confused babel of voices. Surely, they must see through such an obvious device.
They must—No! Back whirled the ball; forward shot the compact interference and runner. Before the wiry half was tackled, he had covered a cool fifteen yards. It was first down again for Grant.
An unworthy thought burned in Rodman's brain. Why should he tell Coach Leland about the play? Why not put the problem squarely up to the squad at the end of the quarter, when, by previous agreement, it would be permissible to talk with them? In that way, all of the fellows would see they had been mistaken in him; would be forced to realize that he was some good, even if he couldn't make the team. Why should he allow the coach another chance to walk off with borrowed laurels?
His forehead creased with trouble wrinkles while his conscience wrestled with the question. No-o!... It wouldn't be the thing to do, after all. He was still a member of the football squad. As such, it was his business to acquaint the coach, or whoever was in charge of the team, with any helpful information. Simple loyalty demanded that.
"First down; ten yards to gain!"
As he foresaw, Grant did not attempt the trick again. It was a clever play, but its abuse would certainly lead to discovery. Probably, indeed, if they were shrewd—and somebody with brains was undoubtedly in command of the visiting eleven!—they would not try it until they were within striking distance of the goal. Then, unless checked, it would mean a sure touchdown and the game.
Twice more Grant City made small gains. As they lined up for the next play, time was called, with the ball in possession of the visiting team on Lakeville's thirty-yard line.
Rodman started. He must warn the coach at once.
"Professor Leland!"
At that very moment, Mr. Gorse, who was refereeing, called to the coach.
"Just a second, Cree." Throwing a hasty word of advice to the team, the coach started across the field toward the referee.
Fifteen seconds passed. Professor Leland was still arguing some point with Mr. Gorse. Thirty seconds! The conversation went on.
Well, if he couldn't talk to the coach, he must put the matter squarely before the next man under him. But the person now in charge of the team was Buck Claxton; and Buck—well, Buck was Buck! He couldn't bring himself to tell Buck anything. He even started to squat again on his blanket, when, quiteto his own surprise, he found himself walking over to the side of the captain. After all, as long as he practiced with the squad, he must be loyal.
"Oh, Buck!"
"Well?" snapped Claxton. "What d'ye want?"
Rodman hesitated, tempted at the last second to turn back with the message undelivered. But once more a better impulse prevailed. In a voice purposely low, that the others might not overhear, he offered his explanation.
"That play where the whole Grant team gets to talking before the ball is passed—watch it! I thought first it was some trick, but it's really only a straight plunge by their half. The reason they gain is because they throw you fellows off by yelling for the signal and all that. Part of the line stands up and looks at the quarterback. You all think they are mixed on the signal, but they aren't. The reason it works is because they catch our team when it doesn't expect the ball to be passed, when our own guard and tackle have straightened up a little, too, to see what's going on. Yes, they do! I've been watching 'em. But they don't realize it."
Buck tried vainly to interrupt, but there was no checking the torrent of Rodman's words.
"They get all your attention off the game, and then, bingo! the ball is put in play. It's a fact, Buck! Remember now, if they start jabbering at each other, and one side of the line begins to stand up straight, thatmeans the play is going right through there. Remember that—"
He was still talking earnestly when the whistle blew, with Buck, his face stolid, staring steadily at the ground and scraping marble rings in the dust with his right shoe-toe.
"Ready, Lakeville!" shouted the captain; and the game was on again.
A lucky fumble brought the ball into the home team's hands, and Bunny punted out of danger. After that, steadily and surely, with all the advantages of weight and experience, the Grant eleven began to grind its way down the field. Desperately, Lakeville crouched and set itself; still more desperately, Grant City ploughed onward. The formations were slow and deliberate; the visitors risked no fumble or error. Often the gains were only a foot or two, but each fourth down found another ten yards covered. Rodman realized that some keen brain was directing the team, balancing time against gains, and playing for one touchdown that would turn the threatened defeat into a victory.
"Curtains!" groaned Specs somewhere in the background, quite loudly enough for Rodman to hear. "Curtains! Hold 'em, fellows! Hold 'em!"
"Three minutes to play!" announced Horace Hibbs.
"If we can only hold them from that goal!" muttered Coach Leland.
"Grant's ball! First down; ten yards to gain!"
A plunge through center netted three of them; a wriggling half eeled around right end for another two; the same play on the other side brought the total to eight. Lakeville was fighting gallantly, but superior weight was beginning to tell.
"Fourth down; two yards to gain."
Already the ball was in the very shadow of the goal posts. If this final attack succeeded, it meant a touchdown. Rodman Cree shivered in his blanket. Suppose they tried the trick play now. Would Buck—
"What's the matter, Billy?" "Ready there, Chick!" "Signal!" "What's the signal?" "Never mind!" "Hold her!"
The right tackle and guard of the Grant City team straightened up.
"Signal?" called a bewildered voice.
Rodman gripped his fists tight. Was it to go through, even after he had warned Buck? But suddenly, hard and high above the din from the Grant line, the Lakeville captain's voice rang clear:
"Get down, Bi! On the job, Kiproy! They're coming through you! It's the right half! Everybody together now!Stop him!"
The ball was snapped. Like a battering-ram, the right half of the Grant team, pocketed in perfect interference, catapulted against the Lakeville line,—against Bi and Kiproy, backed by Peter Barrett and Buck Claxton. For just the fraction of a second, the line wavered, threatening to snap. Then it tautenedinto a stone wall, against which the runner crashed and fell back. There was no gain. The trick had failed. It was Lakeville's ball almost on her goal line.
Bunny punted out of danger. Grant City had just time to line up for one weak charge before the whistle announced the end of the game. By checking that one play, Lakeville had prevented a touchdown and had won, 3 to 0.
In the minds of the victorious players, there was no doubt as to the fellow who deserved the credit. Scouts and all, they hoisted Buck to their shoulders, cheering him as they marched around the field.
From where he stood, Rodman Cree could see Molly leaning from the car and waving her pennant. On the side lines, Clarence Prissler was executing a war dance of his own. In the midst of a group of girls, Marion Genevieve Chester was leading the school cheer. And it was all for Buck!
Nobody knew what Rodman had done, of course, except the coach and Buck; and evidently they weren't going to tell. For a bitter moment, Rodman argued with himself. Should he go on with the thankless job?
Across his brain flashed the memory of a sentence he had read in the Scouts' "Handbook", "A Scout is loyal." It was one of the twelve laws; it meant him, too, whether he was a Scout or not. It was a law that applied to everybody all over the world. He didn't have to be a Scout to keep that law.
With a stiffening of his shoulders, he lifted his head, as if to stare all Lakeville in the face.
"I'm going to keep on," he said, "whether anybody knows what I am doing or not. I may not be a Scout, but I'm as loyal as any one of them. I am loyal to the school, and to the team, and to everybody who has a claim on me. Yes, and I am going to keep on being loyal."
They were giving three cheers for Buck now, with Specs, clad in his street clothes, leading them all. Before he knew it, Rodman was adding his voice to the praise.
"And I wouldn't be anything else," he said suddenly. "I wouldn't be anything else."