CHAPTER XIIITHE CONSULTING COACH
Clif’s father was to have visited him Sunday, but the morning brought a telegram stating that a sudden journey to Boston necessitated a postponement of the Freeburg trip to the following Sunday. Clif’s disappointment was not lasting. In the afternoon he and Tom and Loring went for a walk. That is, he and Tom walked and took turns pushing Loring’s chair, long since mended by the local carpenter. Wattles was left behind, delighted by the prospect of two hours of browsing in the school library but uneasy at intrusting his charge to the two boys.
The day was fair and, for the latter part of October in that region, quite warm. Along Oak Street many of the residents were on their porches, and the sight of the boy in the wheel chair created much interest and curiosity. Clif was conscious of the craning necks and low-voiced comments, but Loring seemed not to be aware of them. Perhaps, Clif thought, you got used to that sort of thing after a while. They went through the village and then westward and came to a halt at last beside the little river where the end of the old covered bridge offered a sheltered, sunny nook. Clif and Tom climbed to the top of a fence. Loring, suppliedwith a willow wand at his request, trimmed it with his knife and whittled contentedly while conversation roamed from one subject to another. They were on a little-traveled road and the only vehicle to rattle across the bridge during their sojourn was an old buggy drawn by a fat gray horse and occupied by a roly-poly old man who gave them a cheerful “Afternoon, boys,” and painstakingly forbore to stare at Loring. Loring’s gaze followed the retreating figure and he smiled.
“He wanted so much to take a good look, too,” said Loring. “Nice old codger. I almost wanted to tell him I didn’t mind.”
“I guess you’re pretty used to it,” Tom mused. “Say, how long have you been this way?”
Clif looked startled, but Loring only smiled as he answered: “Sixteen years and seven months, Tom.”
“Six—you meanalways?”
“Ever since I was born.”
“Gosh! Can’t they do anything? What’s it like?”
Clif thought the questions in rather poor taste and looked apologetic on his friend’s behalf, but Loring didn’t appear to mind. “They haven’t done much yet,” he answered. “I’ve been treated by a lot of doctors, here and abroad, but nothing much has come of it. My leg bones don’t pick out the right food to grow on, it seems. They’re too fond of lime. Calcification the doctors call it. That and a lot of other things. Usually each one has his own pet name for it. Anyway, there’s too much chalk in those bonesdown there, and if I ever got mad with you, Tom, and kicked you, you’d have the laugh on me because I’d break my leg. They’re so brittle they’re no use at all as legs. Sometimes I think it would be better to get rid of them and save the price of shoes and stockings, but no one else seems to. The doctor father is supporting now makes believe I’ll be able to use the silly things some day; says that as I get older the bone structure will get more sense. I don’t know, though.”
“But don’t you do anything for it?” asked Clif.
“Oh, yes, I’m on a funny diet, for one thing. You’d be surprised, fellows, to know what perfectly innocent looking things contain lime! And this doctor’s working on the theory that if I don’t give the bones enough lime to suit them they’ll get discouraged and use something else. Then poor old Wattles has to take me to walk every morning and night.”
“Take you to walk!” exclaimed Tom incredulously.
“That’s what he calls it,” laughed Loring. “We’re doing an eighth of a mile now twice a day; a two-twenty-yard dash, you know! You see, they won’t let me use my legs myself, so Wattles does it for me. He massages the pesky things and works all the joints—as carefully as if they were made of glass—and has a jolly good time of it. Wattles is really a brick. He had to put in a week or more at the hospital and take a course of instruction before he could get the job, and I believe he honestly thinks now that he’s an authority on bone diseases. He’s a conscientious chap, too, andif the house caught on fire while he was ‘exercising’ me I’ll bet he wouldn’t get out until I’d had my full thirty minutes!”
“But couldn’t you use crutches?” asked Tom.
“Yes, but they won’t let me do it. Too much chance of an accident, they say. I’m not even allowed to cross my legs! Not that I’m at all sure I could do it, for it’s so long since I tried that I honestly believe I’ve forgotten how.” He turned to smile at Clif. “That was a pretty close call the other day, you know. I dare say that if that car had dumped me out of the chair Wattles would have had to sweep my legs up into a dustpan!”
“What was that?” demanded Tom. “I didn’t hear about it.”
“Didn’t Clif tell you?” asked Loring. Then he laughed. “Sorry, Clif. I thought he knew.”
“He does know. That is, I told him all he needed to know,” muttered Clif.
“You never did! Whatever it is, you didn’t say a word about it.”
“Didn’t I tell you about meeting Loring in the village last Sunday? Well, then!”
“Sure, but you didn’t say anything about Loring being dumped out of his chair!”
“He wasn’t dumped out of his chair. All that happened—”
“Better let me tell it,” said Loring.
“Go ahead,” answered Clif. “There’s nothing to tell, anyway. You were coming across the street—”
“Shut up!” Tom commanded sternly. “No one wants to hear from you. Go ahead, Loring.”
So Loring went ahead and gave a perfectly truthful and not at all sensational account of the affair, and Tom viewed Clif accusingly during the narrative and, when it was finished, exclaimed disgustedly: “Of all the tight mouthed, secretive vipers! Loring, I’ve watched over that guy ever since he came here. I was the first one to befriend him. Without me, he—he wouldn’t be anywhere to-day. And look at the way he repays me! Goes out and makes a silly hero of himself saving people from being trampled underfoot by rampageous automobiles and never says a word about it! And he calls that friendship, I suppose!”
“You make me tired, both of you,” grumbled Clif. “There wasn’t much danger, anyway, and all I did was give a yank to the chair. The fellow in the car would have missed him even if I hadn’t touched it. And if you go and tell this to any one else, Tom, I’ll make you wish you hadn’t!”
“Oh, shut up,” said Tom good-naturedly. “You might have known I wouldn’t spill it, Clif. Next time you come right home, like a good little boy, and tell daddy all about it.”
“There won’t be any next time,” answered Clif emphatically.
“Not with me,” chuckled Loring. “Wattles will never give me another chance to congest traffic. The poor chap had nightmares so badly that night that I had to wake him up twice!”
“It’s a wonder he let you go without him to-day,” marveled Clif.
“I was surprised myself,” agreed Loring. “I more than half expected to find him tagging along behind, keeping a watchful eye on me. You don’t happen to see a black derby sticking up behind a bush anywhere, do you?”
Going back, Tom, trundling the chair, broke a silence of several minutes with: “Look here, Loring, I wish you’d do something for me. I mean for us, for the Scrub Team.”
“I will if I can. What is it?”
“Well, you’ve been looking on at practice and scrimmage almost every day, and you know a lot about football and how it ought to be played, and I’ve been thinking that a fellow on the side-line sees a good deal that gets by those on the field.”
“Well—”
“Now what I’d like you to do is this. You watch how things go; watch the fellows play; size up the whole performance, you know, and then you tell me afterwards what’s wrong. Of course the Scrub’s just the Scrub, but I’m captain of it and I’d like to see the old outfit make a good showing. You’ve got some pretty good ideas about the game, Loring, and I guess if you sort of kept an eye on us and then we had a talk afterwards, why—”
“That’s the most sensible remark you ever got off,” said Clif. “I call that a corking good idea!”
“I’ll be glad to try,” said Loring. “I’d like to immensely,fellows, but, after all, my football’s just what you might call theory, and it seems rather cheeky for a chap who has never played a lick to—to set up as a critic!”
“No, it doesn’t,” answered Tom firmly. “Critics are always like that. The good ones, I mean. I don’t have to be a baker to know when a pie is punk! You just watch us play, Loring, and see where we fall down. I’m not throwing off on ‘Cocky.’ He’s a dandy coach. But he isn’t on the outside looking in, and he’s got a lot of stuff to think about all at once. Things might easily get by him—little things especially—just because he’s right on top of the play. Then there’s strategy, too. There’s a whole lot in that, Loring, and you’ve sort of studied that end of it. So, if it wouldn’t be too much of a bother, I wish you’d help us out, Loring.”
“Of course I will! Why, it’ll be a lot of fun for me, Tom. Almost like playing football myself!”
“Done! Here, you push awhile, you lazy beggar!”
“Lazy yourself,” answered Clif as he took the other’s place. “I should think, though, you’d be glad to keep the job, Tom. It isn’t every day you get the chance to be chauffeur to the consulting coach!”
After they had consigned Loring to the care of a relieved Wattles and were returning to West, Clif said: “How did you happen to think of that scheme, Tom? I’ll bet he can give us some mighty good tips, eh?”
“Oh, well; it can’t do us any harm, I guess.”
“Any harm?”
Tom turned on his companion a look of mild perplexity. “For goodness’ sake, Clif,” he replied, “you don’t suppose I really meant all that guff!”
“What did you say it for, then?” asked Clif indignantly.
“Because,” Tom answered equably, “I wanted to give the poor chap a little more interest in life. Didn’t you see how pleased he was? Why, as he said, it will be almost like playing the game himself. I like that chap, old son, and I want to do anything I can to—to—”
“Oh, you do? Then why try to make a fool of him? Don’t you suppose he will find out quick enough that you don’t really want his advice?”
“No, why should he? And I haven’t said I didn’t want his advice. Of course I want it if it’s any good. I just don’t suppose it will be, that’s all. The big thing is to give him a better time here, don’t you see?”
“Yes,” answered Clif dubiously, “but, just the same, it seems sort of mean to fool him, Tom.”
“I’m not fooling him until he finds it out,” replied the other philosophically, “and he never will find it out unless you tell him.”
“I’d be likely to,” jeered Clif.
“Exactly. So that’s that. See you at supper, old timer.”
Coach Otis made several shifts in the First Team on Monday and it was late when the Scrub was called over. During one fifteen-minute session the First scored twotouchdowns, Whitemill making the first on a long run from midfield and Fargo going over for the second from the Scrub’s seven-yards. Tom’s team was on the defensive most of the time and, if truth must be told, played rather raggedly. On the First, Billy Desmond was displaced by Quinlan, and Couch and Williams held the ends. The First, nettled by Saturday’s defeat, played savage ball. Jimmy Ames, in tackling Jensen soon after the trouble started, sustained a bad wrench of his left knee and was out for the day and for many more days to follow. Clem Henning retired early, too, after some zealous First Team man had put his knee into him, but Clem’s injury was only temporary. On the whole, the Scrub got pretty well battered up during that brief session, and minor injuries were numerous.
That afternoon Loring watched the Scrub during its practice and then followed it across to the First Team field, and after supper, when Clif and Tom dropped in on him he was well primed with criticism. But the faults Loring had discovered were already known to coach and captain, and while Tom treated Loring’s disclosures with the utmost respect Clif knew quite well that he was not taking them seriously. Loring pointed out that several of the Scrub linemen were slow in starting, that “Wink” Coles played too high, that Stiles had a bad habit of slowing up before reaching the line and that Clif Bingham had missed two tackles! Loring also criticized Jackson for attempting a forward-pass on fourth down on his own thirty-eightyards, which attempt resulted in an interception by the First and brought about the latter’s second touchdown. Tom declared that he was glad to get the tips and that he would pass them on to “Cocky.”
“Of course some of it won’t be news to him, though. He’s been trying to speed up the forwards right along, for instance; and that stuff about Clif is old, too. He does miss too many tackles, and that’s no joke.”
“I don’t see why, either,” Clif complained. “I try hard enough.”
“I thought to-day that you triedtoohard,” said Loring. “That time you tried for Whitemill, Clif, you weren’t near enough when you grabbed, and you got only one hand on him. It’s possible that you’re too anxious, isn’t it? Hadn’t you better try getting closer to your man before tackling?”
“Maybe that’s it,” said Clif, glumly. “There’s something wrong. ‘Cocky’ has told me all along that I’m a punk tackler, and I guess I am.”
“Oh, you’re not as bad as that,” said Tom. “There are others!”
“Of course I didn’t think that I was telling you news,” said Loring. “You asked me to tell you what I saw, Tom, and that’s what I’ve done. I still say that it’s cheeky of me to set up as a football authority and critic, you know!”
“I don’t see it,” Tom answered. “You certainly got the dope on us to-day, didn’t you? You keep up the good work, old son. Unless we do a heap better than we did to-day we’re going to need all the help we can get!”