CHAPTER VIIMR. BABCOCK TAKES HOLD
Saturday noon Clif stood on the steps of West Hall and filled his lungs with air. Room G, in Middle, had been more than usually stuffy, and a stiff session with “The Turk” had left the boy feeling rather limp. Generally algebra went fairly smoothly for Clif, but to-day he had floundered badly. It had seemed that Mr. Way, possessed of uncanny power, had surmised Clif’s condition and had malignantly, relentlessly exposed it. Yet, although there had been some bad moments, and “The Turk” had displayed his ability for sarcasm, Clif had got through not too disastrously. Retiring from the blackboard, dusting chalk from his fingers, perspiring gently, he had found the boy in the wheel chair regarding him sympathetically from across the room. There had been, too, a twinkle in the chap’s eyes that had seemed to say, “Good work! He didn’t floor you, anyhow!”
Easing the two books he carried to his other arm, Clif gave a final look at the sunlit lawn that stretched away to the distant tree-bordered street, took a last breath of the warm, fresh air, and turned to reënter the building. But at that moment a big, shining car, standing further along the drive, beyond East Hallentrance, came to life and rolled noiselessly forward, and came to a stop at the steps. At about the same instant a group of four persons emerged from the further entrance: a slim, beautifully dressed woman, a black-clothed man in a square-crowned derby hat carrying without evident exertion the boy who, but a few minutes before, had flashed congratulations to Clif across the recitation room, and, lastly, a small Junior School youth. The woman—even at the distance Clif could see that she was remarkably pretty—entered the car, the man in black deposited his burden beside her, the small Junior ensconced himself rather diffidently in the corner, and the derby hat placed itself beside the plum-colored cap of the chauffeur. Then the car moved forward again, gathered speed, and purred softly past West and down the shaded driveway, the poised figure above the radiator glinting in the sunlight. As the car passed the single occupant of the West Hall steps, Loring Deane leaned across the younger boy beside him and waved. Clif waved back, but too late to be seen.
He watched the car out of sight, approving the speckless luster of its long, sleek body, its smooth, almost soundless progress. Even the blue and white number plate at the rear shone immaculately, seeming to proclaim not only that the owner was a resident of New York, but that he was the possessor of great wealth, since, or so Clif had long since concluded, only those of great wealth were able to drive about in cars as immaculate as this one! The lady was, he supposed,Deane’s mother. Since Saturday was a half-holiday she was probably taking him home for a visit. He found himself envying the small Junior who, tucked into the corner, hadn’t looked as though he was half appreciating his luck.
But Clif’s guess proved wrong later. When the game with Freeburg High School began at three o’clock the big dark blue car was standing at the farther side of the gridiron, beyond the running track. The Junior was no longer in it. Mrs. Deane and Loring were the sole occupants, Loring’s attendant and the chauffeur being seated together on the grass a short distance away. Clif drew Tom’s attention to the car and Tom said: “Gosh! It’s one of those English whatyoucallems, isn’t it? Say, that’s some cart, if you want to know! You say that’s Mrs. Deane? What’s she like?”
“Awfully pretty,” said Clif emphatically. “I wasn’t very close to them, but she looked corking.”
“Yes, but if you have plenty of money you can look like—like Venus herself, I guess,” answered Tom pessimistically. “Maybe close to she wouldn’t look so wonderful.”
“Yes, she would,” said Clif stoutly. “I’ll bet you anything—”
But as Freeburg kicked off just then the conversation ended abruptly.
Clif and Tom watched the game from the ground beside the track. There was no room for them on the benches, nor for a dozen more equally unimportant members of the squad, and so they spread their blueblankets on the grass and sat cross-legged while the battle raged. As a football contest that first game of the Wyndham schedule didn’t amount to very much, but since it gave the School its first opportunity to see their heroes in action, it secured a full attendance. Freeburg presented a light team which tried to make speed atone for weight, and didn’t quite succeed, as the final score attested. Both coaches used the occasion to try out a long list of substitutes and the game was considerably slowed up because of the constant changes. Wyndham’s line contained four veterans, and her backfield two when the game began. Captain Lothrop, playing his third season at Wyndham, was at left guard, Archer at left end, Higgs at center, Stoddard at quarter, Jensen at right half and Fargo at full back. These men constituted the nucleus on which the coaches hoped to build a winning team, and there appeared to be no reason why they shouldn’t succeed. Beside the real veterans there were at least another half-dozen candidates who had served last year either as First Team substitutes or Second Team players. And there were, of course, a considerable number of less experienced youths from the class teams, or, like Clif and Tom, from outside. Coach Otis did not appear to lack material, even though the first grand total of something over sixty had now been reduced to about fifty. Before the Freeburg game was at an end—ten-minute periods were played—“G.G.” had watched no fewer than thirty-one candidates perform. Sad to relate, however, neither Clif nor Tom were among thenumber. They were allowed to sit undisturbed throughout the contest.
The playing was fairly ragged on both sides, and the game lacked interest. The day was much too warm for football, and the home team and the visitors alike suffered. The Dark Blue held to a tackle-to-tackle offense, and only twice offered anything in the way of aerial attack. Then two short passes over the end of the line were tried with negative results. Most of Wyndham’s gains were made between the opposing guards and tackles. Once or twice the Freeburg center was battered down, but the youth who occupied the pivotal position for the visitors was extremely capable and turned back most of the plays directed against him. The Dark Blue put over one touchdown in the first period, and hung up seven points. In the next quarter a second touchdown was added, but Stoddard missed the try-at-goal. Freeburg forced the fighting after half-time, and produced the only thrilling incident of the performance when her quarter got loose with the ball near his own forty-yard line, and ran to Wyndham’s seven. There he was pulled down by Ogden, playing right half for Jensen, and the exultant shouts of the Freeburg rooters were cut short. But they broke forth again some two minutes later when, following two unsuccessful tries at the Dark Blue line, a fleet-footed substitute was shot into the visitor’s line-up, and took the pigskin on a wide run around his left end, placing it a scant twelve inches from the goal line. With one down remaining, Freeburg concentratedon Quinlan, at left guard, and smashed through for a score. A minute afterwards she turned the 6 into a 7. Just before that third period ended the Dark Blue hammered her way across the enemy goal-line for a third touchdown from which, again, no goal resulted. The final quarter witnessed the introduction of practically two fresh teams but produced no scoring. Wyndham chalked up a 19 to 7 victory to start the season’s schedule.
Talking the game over that evening, Clif and Tom arrived almost simultaneously at the same conclusion, which, as Tom put it, was this: “You and I, old son, have about as much chance to make the team this year as I have to win the Condon Prize for English! Why, heck, no one knows we’re on the squad! That coach doesn’t even see us.”
“You’re right, I guess,” Clif agreed sadly. “That bunch is too big and too heavy for us to associate with. What we’d better do is quit and put in our time beefing up.”
“It isn’t only that, because some of the fellows who played to-day—or tried to—weren’t so blamed big, but that Otis dumb-bell can’t see any fellow outside the little bunch he’s nursed from last year. The trouble with us is we’re outsiders, Clif. What we need is advertising, I guess. Say, that’s an idea! Let’s put an ad in next week’sLantern. Something like this: ‘Mr. Clifton Bingham and Mr. Thomas Kemble present their compliments to the Football Committee, and Coaches, and solicit their patronage.’ Hold on, though.This is better: ‘Experienced end and clever half-back want positions on Football Team. Interview arranged. Address “Neglected,” careLantern.’ How’s that?”
“I don’t believe the Committee ever reads theLantern,” said Clif.
“They ought to, for it’s a very truthful publication. Like last week when it said that sixty-something candidates were ‘frying for the Team.’ Maybe it meant to say ‘trying,’ but, considering the weather, it was dead right. Well, the best we can expect, Clif, is to make the Second; and we may get left there!”
“I don’t see how. They’ve got to have somebody for it, and if Mr. Otis makes another cut Monday, as they say he’s going to, there won’t be many left.”
“Huh! Maybe we’ll be among the—the cutees! Oh, well, never say die. Let’s go down and see what they’re getting on the radio.”
There was a brand-new notice on the board outside the locker room door on Monday when Clif reached the gymnasium, and his heart missed a beat as he stopped to read it. He was alone, since Tom had a late recitation, and he was glad of it just then. “Attention Football Candidates,” he read. “The following players will report to Coach Babcock on Second Team field at 3:30 Monday: Adams, Ames, Bingham—”
Clif drew a long breath. His feelings oddly combined disappointment and relief. For the first moment disappointment was uppermost, but then the realization that he had long since discounted being dropped from the First Team, and that as lately as Saturdayevening he had been doubtful of making the Second, produced a reaction. He guessed he was pretty lucky, after all. There were only some twenty names on this list, which meant that fully a dozen fellows had been dropped completely. Then his eyes hurried down the first column and across to the second. “Howlett, Jackson, Kemble—”
Good! Tom had made it, too! Then, as he went on into the locker room, it occurred to him that perhaps Tom wouldn’t be as gratified as he was. Perhaps Tom, in spite of his pessimistic utterances, had secretly expected to be retained on the First! But later in the afternoon Tom scouted the idea with convincing sincerity.
“I hadn’t the ghost of a chance, Clif, and I knew it the second day of practice. I can play football pretty well, but I haven’t had the experience fellows like Dave Lothrop and Billy Desmond and Pete Jensen and a lot more have had. And, of course, I’m light. No, sir, I’m satisfied to be here, old son. Besides, I’m going to get a lot of fun out of showing some of those First Team swelled-heads that they don’t know all the football there is, as good as they may be! Heck, I’m not kicking!”
And neither was Clif. In fact, after listening to Mr. Babcock’s talk to them on the old wooden baseball grand stand that had been moved aside to make room for the gridiron, he had begun to wonder whether being a member of so glorious a company as the Scrub wasn’t a far better thing than belonging to the FirstTeam! Of course common sense told him later that it wasn’t, but Mr. Babcock had almost made it seem so for the moment!
“Cocky” seemed to have left behind him in the gymnasium some of the brusqueness that awed his classes. To-day he acted and looked and spoke like a “regular fellow.” He had on a pair of old canvas football pants, a faded red sweater and two of the most disreputable gray woolen stockings ever seen out of a rag bag. Those stockings had been frequently and variously darned until there remained but very little of the original material; and despite all the mending they still cried out for help. “Cocky’s” sturdy calves were visible in wide areas in more places than one! “Cocky” wasn’t a handsome man, for his face was too square, his nose too blunt and his eyebrows too heavy. To be frank, Mr. Henry Babcock, B.A., looked rather like a retired gentleman pugilist; or, perhaps, like one’s idea of such a person. He was about thirty years old, affected very loose tweed suits and, between the hours of five and six, behind the closed door of Number 19 East Hall, played weird melodies on an English horn. Any one who has ever heard an English horn engaged in rendering a solo will understand why the door was closed!
“I’ve got a little speech to make, fellows,” said “Cocky,” spreading a pair of muscular arms along the edge of the seat behind him, “so you’d better sit down, and make yourselves comfortable for a few minutes. Now, then, you know what a Scrub Teamis for, but perhaps you don’t realize just how important it is. This School sets out every year at about this time to beat Wolcott. That’s what we all want to do; you and I, and Doctor Wyndham and Coach Otis and every fellow, big or little, who owes allegiance to Wyndham. To beat Wolcott we must have a whopping good team, a better team this year than last, maybe. We have a pretty stiff schedule arranged; eight games; three of them away from home; planned to bring us along slowly and surely to the final contest. When that comes along our team must be in top form, trained to the minute. That may sound easy, but it’s really pretty hard. It means lots of work, work that gets a little harder day by day; it means attention to diet, strict watch on the physical condition of every man, for it’s quite as easy to overtrain as to train too little; and it means putting into practice every day what you have learned the day before. That’s where we come in, fellows.
“Our business is to beat Wolcott, just as it is the First Team’s business. We do it—if we succeed—by helping the First to learn how. There’s glory in that, fellows, lots of glory. I want you to realize it. I want you to start in with the conviction that you are doing your share to secure a Wyndham victory over Wolcott. I want you to be just as proud of being a Second Team player as you’d be of belonging to the First. When the big day comes the cheers won’t be for you, maybe, but you’ll know in your hearts that you deserve a share of them, and you’ll be satisfiedwith what you’ve done, and proud of your team, the team that showed the big team how to win!
“I’ve handled this team for four years, fellows, and I’ve always enjoyed it, always taken pride in it, always felt a mighty lot of satisfaction, when the season was done, over my part in the victory or the defeat that came to us. Because you mustn’t think, any of you, that there isn’t honor in defeat. The team that plays cleanly, gallantly, fights its hardest when Luck turns its back, is downed and won’t stay downed, wins honor indeed. Well, now, here we are. Twenty of us. ‘Mr. Babcock’s Team,’ the ‘Second’ or the ‘Scrub.’ Call yourself what you like. It doesn’t make much difference what we’re called or what we call ourselves, so long as we do what’s expected of us with all our might. So let’s get together, fellows, and show Wyndham the finest, fightingest Second Team it has ever seen! Remember this, too. You’re not only helping to win the Wolcott game this year, you’re training yourself for next year. You Second Team fellows will be First Team fellows next fall. Most of you, anyhow. It isn’t unlikely that one or two of you will get to the big team this season. Just show Mr. Otis that you’ve got something the First Team needs, and you won’t stay here long!
“Just so that it won’t be all work and no play, I’ve arranged three outside games for you. We’ll play Freeburg High School a week from next Saturday, Minster High School on November third, and the Wolcott Second Team on November tenth. We couldhave more games if we were permitted to play away from home. But we aren’t, and I think three will be enough, anyhow. So now you know what’s ahead of you, Scrub. A lot of steady, grinding work, a little play, and virtue more or less its own reward. Who’s for it?”
It was evident that all were. A shout went up from twenty throats that carried as far as the diamond and aroused interest and conjecture there. Having joined his voice with the others, Clif turned and looked rather pityingly toward the First Team field. Those poor chaps over there didn’t realize what they were missing! Mr. Babcock was speaking again. He was on his feet now, and in response to the suggestion of his movement the fellows were leaving the seats.
“We’ll have the first scrimmage with the other gang about Friday. That gives us four days to get ready. I’d suggest that before the Freeburg game you elect a captain. But don’t do it just yet. Wait until you’ve played together awhile. Until you choose a leader for yourself you’ll need some one in authority, though, and so I’ll appoint Henning temporary captain.”
“Cheer for Captain Clem!” laughed some one.
Clement Henning grinned sheepishly. He was a big First Class fellow who had played guard for two years on scrub teams. He was steady, hard working, good-natured and slow. Last season, for a brief and glorious fortnight, he had been transferred to the big team, but he couldn’t hold down his job there, and had returned, untroubled, it appeared, to the Scrub. Clemcould play football to a certain point, but he never could get beyond that point. It is probable that all the coaches in the country, working together on him in relays, would have failed to make Clem play any better than he had played last year or would play this. But if he lacked football genius he was long on popularity. Every one knew Clem Henning and every one liked him.
The cheer wasn’t given, but the selection met with sounds of approval from all. “Cocky” went on, briskly now:
“We’re going to start right at the very bottom, fellows. No one who can’t make a good tackle or handle the ball properly is good enough for this outfit. We’ll have some passing now to warm up, and as soon as the First is through with the dummy we’ll go down there, and eat some dirt. We’ll divide the squad, Captain Henning, and you’ll take half and I’ll take half. All right, let’s have those balls, Hoppin. Over here, a bunch of you. Now then, Scrub, let’s get going!”