CHAPTER XCLIF GOES FOR A PAPER
The First Team played its game away from home on Saturday, meeting Minster High School at Minster, and so, at three o’clock, the Scrub lined up against Freeburg High School on the First Team gridiron. A goodly portion of the student body had followed the school eleven, but enough fellows had remained at home to form, with a large delegation of high school boys and girls, a very respectable audience. Doctor Wyndham attended and remained until the third period was well along, and the issue had been definitely settled. Others of the faculty graced the occasion, too, and Mr. McKnight and Mr. Connover joined “Cocky” on the bench. The cold spell had passed, and the weather, clear and moderately warm, with almost no breeze, was ideal for football.
The First Team had beaten the local high school by the score of 19 to 7, and “Cocky’s” charges were certain of their ability to triumph, although none predicted better than a close victory. Mr. Babcock started Adams, Ames, Howlett, Ridgway, Henning, Coles and Bingham in the line, and Jackson, Kemble, Gillespie and Thayer in the backfield. It was evident almostfrom the first that the Scrub was by far the better team, with a sturdier defense, and a harder and more varied attack. Thayer went over for the first touchdown less than six minutes after play had begun, subsequent to a straight march down the field in which the Scrub opened wide gaps in the High School line, ran the ends for good gains and pulled off one forward-pass, Kemble to Bingham. Later, the Scrub started a second advance, after an exchange of punts had gained a few yards for the home team, and had reached High School’s twenty-five-yard line when the whistle blew. Scrub lost the ball on the seventeen, when play had been resumed, by Thayer’s failure to find an opening. Two inches more would have won a first down. High School rushed once and then punted to Jackson in midfield and Sim scampered back sixteen yards before he was stopped. Scrub took up its journey again and pushed the ball across near the corner of the field, Kemble carrying it. Sim had missed the first try-for-point, but he succeeded this time and the Scrub had the game 13 to 0.
The half ended with no more scoring and with High School still on the defensive.
Gosman went in for Adams when the third period began, and Ike Patch took Clif’s place at the other end. Later, other changes were made until “Cocky’s” complete roster had seen service. Duval, who played quarter in the last period, handled the team so well that Sim Jackson looked distinctly anxious! High School threatened once in the third quarter, gettingthe ball to Scrub’s twenty-one, but the home team stiffened and High School’s attempt at a field-goal was knocked down by “Babe” and captured on the thirty-four yards by McMurtry. Scrub worked back to the enemy’s thirty-three with two good forward-passes, a long run by Stiles, back at right half, and some good line plunging by Hoppin and Kemble. But on the thirty-three Stiles fumbled and, although he recovered the ball, Scrub was set back twelve yards. Three tries, one of them a forward-pass that grounded, gained but six yards and Tom punted over the line.
High School kept the ball from the twenty-yard line to midfield where a long forward-pass was intercepted by “Wink” Coles, and carried to the enemy’s thirty-eight. “Wink” got knocked breathless in the proceeding, and time was called. Heard took his place. The quarter ended after the next play. In the last period Scrub again nearly secured a touchdown, but down on High School’s twelve yards some one mixed the signals and a four-yard loss resulted. On the subsequent play Scrub was off-side and the pigskin again went back. Finally, with five yards to go on third down, Tom tried a forward heave to Stiles that grounded behind the line. That was the final threat by either side and some fifteen minutes later the last whistle sounded, the score still 13 to 0.
Over at Minster the First had won a somewhat hollow victory to the tune of 26 to 6, and so Wyndham could crow that Saturday evening. The First Team, arriving in the dining hall practically in a body somefifteen minutes after supper had begun, received a salvo of hand-clapping as it made its way to the two training tables at the end of the room. The Scrub, distributed here and there about the hall, received no applause, but every member of it knew where glory really belonged! Hadn’t they completely shut out a team that had scored on the First, but a fortnight ago? They had! Well, then!
Besides, if Charlie Duval hadn’t called for a pass over the line that time, if he had let Kemble shoot the ball over the end, why, it was dollars to doughnuts they’d have had another score. Or if Stiles hadn’t fumbled on High School’s thirty-three before that— Why, any one could see that Scrub’s total ought really to have been 19, at least; maybe 20; and 19 was all that the First had been able to make against High School! Then just because the First ran up a 26 to 6 score against a weak team over at Minster every one had to go crazy about it! Huh!
At Wyndham you made an arrangement with a citizen of Greek birth named—well, no one could pronounce his name in its entirety, but you called him “Poppy,” which was about a quarter of the whole—for your Sunday paper. “Poppy” delivered it, along with some forty others, at the entrance. After breakfast—before if you had time—you went and got it. “Poppy,” however, didn’t attempt to mark each subscriber’s name on his paper. He merely delivered the required assortment, and let you do your own selecting. Nine times out of ten you got a paper. Sometimesit wasn’t the one you had ordered, but it was better than none, and after you had read it you exchanged with some one else for the one you preferred. But on the Sunday morning following the Scrub’s glorious victory over Freeburg High School, a victory he had talked over the evening before until his throat had become dry, Clif found only two papers left, one a Boston publication, and the other, boasting not even a colored supplement, a stingy thing from the state capital.
“I might have known I’d get left if I came down this late,” mourned Clif. He had tarried upstairs to collect his laundry, and make out the list, a duty generally put off until later in the morning. He picked up the Boston paper tentatively, shook his head, and laid it down again just as its rightful owner appeared, viewing Clif with deep suspicion. There was plenty of time to go to the village if he could get permission, and he ascended the stairs again and sought Number 19. There Mr. McKnight, after politely offering Clif the use of his own New YorkTimes, signed his name to a gray slip of paper and Clif started for the village.
It was quite warm this morning, much warmer than yesterday, and the sun turned the yellowing maples and birches to pure gold. The elms along the drive were already littering the gravel with their rusty brown leaves. It was a lazy sort of a day, and Clif’s steps, once he was in the fuller sunlight of Oak Street, grew slower and slower, until he was fairly dawdling along. He was still dawdling when he crossed Hubbard Streetand passed the Inn, before which several visiting automobiles were parked. His thoughts went back to a week ago, and his father’s visit, and the drive to Cotterville, and he was almost to State Street, beyond which, on the other side of Oak, “Poppy’s” combined fruit, candy, and news emporium stood, when something claimed his interest, and brought his thoughts back to the present.
The something was a wheel chair which was being slowly propelled along the sidewalk by its occupant. At the distance of half a block Loring Deane was easily recognizable and Clif wondered at finding the boy alone so far from the school. Evidently he, too, had been to “Poppy’s” for the sunlight shone garishly on the colored outer section of the paper in his lap. Approaching, although on the opposite side of Oak Street, Clif considered offering his assistance again. It was a long way back to school, and he didn’t see how Deane could manage the curbings. But he did see a moment later, for the wheel chair came to a place where the sidewalk sloped to meet the street level at the entrance of a narrow alley, and the occupant turned his vehicle to the right, eased it down the short descent, and headed obliquely toward the State Street intersection and Clif.
“I guess I’ll offer to push him back,” thought Clif. “He won’t mind waiting while I get my paper.” He had already started to put the thought to action when an automobile came charging eastward through State Street. Involuntarily Clif drew back from the curbing.Then a motion of the arms grasping the wheel of the car sent Clif’s heart into his throat. The driver was going to swing south, had already slowed slightly and was turning the steering wheel hard to the right. Squarely in the middle of the street was the wheel chair. Its occupant, unaware of the danger an instant before, now heard, and saw the car lurching around the corner scarcely forty feet away. For a moment irresolution stayed the hands on the wheels. Then, bending forward, Loring strove desperately to roll the chair to safety.
All this Clif saw ere he dashed forward. As he raced toward the boy in the chair, he was aware of the throbbing of the big automobile almost beside him, heard a spasmodic blast from the horn, and the screeching of hastily applied brakes. Then he had reached the chair and seized one arm of it, dragging it frantically toward the sidewalk. Almost simultaneously something huge and black rushed past, the wheel chair was almost wrenched from his grasp, there was a sharp report, and the metallic sound of crashing glass and silence!
Coming swiftly, the car had been unable to make the turn abruptly, and had swung well toward the left side of Oak Street. The building on the corner had obscured the driver’s view of what lay ahead until he had started to turn. Then he had desperately avoided the wheel chair by swerving hard to the right, grazing the object in passing and, in spite of brakes, had swung onto the sidewalk, demolishing an iron hitchingpost—perhaps Freeburg’s last reminder of the Horse Age—and plunged obliquely into the front of “Poppy’s” emporium! When, dazedly, Clif looked, the farther sidewalk was strewed with papers and oranges and shattered glass, and splintered boxes and “Poppy” himself, white-faced but voluble, was shaking a huge fist in the face of the scared driver.
Two minutes before it would have been difficult to count a dozen persons on the whole length of Oak Street. Now thrice that many were gathered about the scene of the accident and every instant saw the number increase. Clif’s gaze dropped to Loring Deane. The latter was looking up at him questioningly. His face was pale, but he was smiling bravely enough.
“What happened?” he asked.
“Plenty,” answered Clif grimly. He swung the chair around so that its occupant could see for himself. The driver of the badly damaged car had alighted, but in the rear seat two frightened women were staring strainedly about them. The town constable, stiffly attired for church, had arrived, and his thin, indignantly high-pitched voice was to be heard above the excited chatter of the throng. “You was goin’ too fast! I seen you! You was goin’ too fast!”
“I’m very sorry,” said Loring. “It was my fault.”
“No, it wasn’t,” Clif protested. “That man came around the corner at twenty miles an hour, easy. He was hitting thirty until he started to turn! It’s a wonder he didn’t get you, Deane. He’s smashed the handles clean off.” Clif retrieved the broken partfrom the asphalt. It didn’t look to be of any further use, however, and he tossed it into the gutter.
“He was driving too fast,” Loring was saying, “but I shouldn’t have gone into the street alone. I told Wattles I’d stay there until he got back.”
“Wattles? Is that the man who pushes you around? Well, what’s become of him?”
“I don’t know.” Loring shook his head perplexedly. It wasn’t like the faithful Wattles to remain away at such a time. “He went across to the drug store. Perhaps he’s over there.” Loring nodded across the street.
“I’ll see if I can find him.” Clif wasn’t averse to seeing how the car had fared, and how badly “Poppy’s” store had suffered. “I’ll pull you up on the sidewalk first, though.” He did so, not without difficulty, and started away. “I’ll be back in a second,” he called. “If I can’t find him I’ll push you home.”
“Thanks, but he’s sure to be here soon,” answered Loring.
Clif had to push hard to get within viewing distance of the car since by now all Freeburg—at least, all of male Freeburg—had reached the scene. The car’s driver and the constable and “Poppy” were in consultation. “Poppy” was calmer, but there was that in his handsome, brigandish countenance which told Clif that he would suffer no financial loss by reason of the accident. Underfoot Sunday papers ruffled, and golden oranges and glistening apples were being salvaged by willing hands. “Poppy’s” front and sidewindows were ruins, for the heavy car had struck fairly at the angle of sidewalk and entrance. The car itself was sadly damaged, although on close inspection Clif decided that it had got off pretty well. Collision with the iron post had simultaneously demolished post, and car bumper, and the subsequent impact had crumpled in the radiator, and torn away one mudguard. Also one wheel was broken. The constable began to look for witnesses and Clif edged swiftly toward the outer rim of the throng. The missing Wattles was not to be seen. He hurried back across the street, now fairly choked by automobiles, and saw a man in a black brilliantine coat conversing with Loring Deane.
“I wonder if you’d mind pushing me back to the drugstore,” said Loring as Clif joined him. “Poor old Wattles has fainted, he says.”
The drug clerk assented, his gaze darting curiously across the street. “Yeah, he was just going out when the smash came, and he dropped in a heap. We got him ’round all right in a jiffy, but he’s still sort of wobbly. I’ll run across and see what’s happened.”
Wattles was a woebegone looking object when they reached the drug store. Seated decorously erect in a chair, his derby clasped fixedly on his knees, he was the color of yellow parchment and his long face was the unhappiest thing Clif had ever seen. Even when the wheel chair rolled toward him Wattles’s gloom failed to lighten. He moistened his lips with an effort and:
“You oughtn’t to have done it, Mister Loring,” he croaked. “You ought never to have done it. What would I have said to your father, sir, if—if—”
“Quite right,” agreed Loring soothingly. “I shouldn’t have done it, Wattles. How are you feeling now?”
“Better, sir, thanks. But, Mister Loring, when I looked up the street, and saw that automobile right atop of you, like, I—I had a frightful shock, sir! I really did! I just went right off!”
“Too bad, Wattles. I’m beastly sorry. Look here, you’d better not try to walk back. Bingham here will look after me. I’ll see if we can’t get a lift for you.”
But Wattles arose superbly, even majestically—if also somewhat unsteadily—and placed his hat determinedly on his head. “Oh, no, sir, I’m quite all right now! It was merely—merely momentary, sir. The air will quite restore me, Mister Loring.”
Loring looked doubtful and turned to Clif for an opinion, but Clif had been engaged in conversation by Mr. Burger, the proprietor, eager to learn about the accident, and whether any one had been injured. So Loring consented to Wattles’ return afoot and, after thanking the proprietor, the three departed. Wattles’ return to normal was instant when he had reached the sidewalk, and may have been due to any one of three things or a combination of all; the interesting spectacle across the street, the revivifying influence of fresh air or the shocking discovery that the handle-bar,by which he had so long manipulated the chair, was totally missing. Personally I think it was the latter, for Wattles seemed absolutely unable to reconcile himself to the loss of the handle, and propelled the chair in such an erratic, zig-zag fashion that Clif insisted on taking his place. Wattles, murmuring feeble, embarrassed protests, gave way and Clif became the motive power.
Fortunately public interest was so entirely centered about the battered car, and more battered store that no one paid heed to the disappearance of two of the most important witnesses to the affair. For his part, Clif had no desire to be called on to testify against the driver of the car. The latter had undeniably been at fault, but Clif was pretty certain that to-day’s lesson would cure him of taking blind corners at high speed. After he had paid for “Poppy’s” store, and for reckless driving, and for repairs to his car, he would be, Clif concluded, both a poorer and a wiser man. Thought of “Poppy’s” emporium recalled to mind the fact that he was returning to school minus the object of his expedition, the Sunday paper, and when, just then, he discovered that what he had sought lay spread across Loring Deane’s knees, on top of the ever-present dark plaid robe, he chuckled.
“I guess you’ll have to lend me your paper, Deane, when you’re through with it,” he said. “That’s what I went to the village for, but ‘Poppy’s’ stock was pretty well shop-worn by the time I got there!”
“I’d like you to read it first,” answered Loring. “Infact, I don’t care if I don’t see it at all. I get it more for Wattles than myself.”
“Oh, no, thanks, but I would like to see it when you’ve finished. There won’t be much chance for papers, anyway, before dinner, for it’s pretty close to church time now.”
“Well, but I’d rather you took it first,” Loring insisted. “You know—you know, Bingham, you saved my life, I guess.”
“Rot! You’d have made it all right even if I hadn’t butted in. Well—” and this was to switch the conversation from so embarrassing a subject—“I’ll take it first, if you’re sure you won’t mind. I’ll give it back to you this afternoon. You’re in that room of Mr. Clendenin’s, aren’t you, on the first corridor in East?”
“Yes, between his office and the game room. Doctor Wyndham let me have it because it’s rather hard to get up and down the stairs so often. By the way, Wattles, you’d better see about a new chair the first thing in the morning.”
Wattles, walking slightly in the rear, had, it appeared, already given thought to the subject. “I think, Mister Loring, we can rent a chair temporarily while this is being repaired. I understand there’s a very capable cabinet maker in the town, sir.”
“All right,” laughed Loring, “but seems to me what we need is a carriage maker, Wattles. Anyhow, you see what you can do. We may have to telegraph to New York, you know.”
Clif yielded the chair to Wattles at the West Hall entrance, and, much to his confusion, since a half-dozen fellows were looking on over the tops of their papers, Loring held his hand out. Clif took it, uncomfortably aware of the curious stares of the audience, and discovered that Loring Deane, whatever his physical disabilities might be, had plenty of strength in his fingers. Loring smiled, but rather gravely, and “Thanks, Bingham,” he said simply.
“Shucks, that’s all right,” said Clif hastily, and got his hand back feeling rather as if it had been just drawn from a vise. “I don’t believe I helped much. Well, see you later. I’ll bring this back by three, sure.”
“Keep it as long as you want,” answered Loring. “Don’t return it at all unless you want to, although I hope you will because I’d like to have a visit from you.”
“Why, I—sure, I’ll be around.”
Wattles pushed the chair on toward East Hall, and Clif, swinging the paper ostentatiously, picked his way up the steps, nodding here and there, certain that as soon as he was beyond hearing the group would join in an effort to find an explanation of that ceremonious hand shake. Going to his room Clif wished impatiently that Deane hadn’t staged that silly scene out there. There’d be all sorts of crazy stories around the Hall as a result. School was a gossipy hole, anyway. But by the time he had triumphantly tossed the paper into Walter’s lap he had become more lenient.After all, he had helped Deane out of a pretty awkward situation, even if he hadn’t actually saved the chap’s life, as the silly ass insisted he had, and it was only natural that Deane should have wanted to show some gratitude. And the beggar had kept pretty steady, too, with that car bearing down on him like a—a Jug—a Jug—
“Say, Walt, what’s that thing the Indian guys used to haul around so’s folks could throw themselves under the wheels? You know; Jug o’ nuts, or something.”
“Juggernaut? That what you mean?”
“Yes, Juggernaut. I couldn’t think of it. Throw me the football section, will you?”