CHAPTER XXIITHE SCRUB DISBANDS
Neither Clif nor Tom had more than a glimpse of Loring until late Sunday afternoon. Then Wattles found them both in Tom’s room and announced that Loring would like to see them in front of East Hall.
“Have his folks gone, Wattles?” asked Tom.
“No, sir, not yet. I think Mister Loring wishes you to meet them, sir.”
Tom exchanged glances with Clif and then grabbed his brushes and smoothed his hair into place. “We’ll be right down, Wattles,” he said. Wattles departed and Clif seized the brushes that Tom had abandoned in favor of a whisk. Finally, a trifle awed, they set forth. But neither Mr. Deane nor Mrs. Deane proved formidable. Loring’s father was a tall, rather thin gentleman with a closely cropped gray mustache and pink cheeks, who looked more like an army man than the popular conception of a multimillionaire. He had a way of half closing his eyes when he smiled that was most engaging. Loring looked more like his mother, who, as Tom enthusiastically confided to Clif later, was “a pippin.” They were still in the handsome big car that had aroused Clif’s admiration several weeksbefore, and Loring sat between them. They had been to the shore for luncheon, Loring explained, and—
“Lobster,” said Mr. Deane, squinting his eyes in his funny way and sighing. “They were good, weren’t they, Lory? Um-m!”
“My dear,” chided Mrs. Deane, “do you think it’s kind to gloat over lobster before Clif and Tom? You don’t mind if I call you Clif, do you?” She smiled apologetically on Tom. “Loring speaks so often of you, you know.”
“No, ma’am,” stammered Tom.
“Perhaps Clif does, though,” laughed Loring. “You’ve got them mixed, mother.”
“Have I? Well, that’s your fault, Loring. Your introduction was so sketchy! Which of you is it who plays football so nicely?”
“Both of us, Mrs. Deane,” replied Clif daringly. “But I’m the one you had in mind.”
“Huh-huh,” chuckled Mr. Deane appreciatively. Mrs. Deane dimpled and then sighed.
“I’m afraid you’re making fun of me. Anyway, you’re both gorgeous looking boys, and I like you both for being so nice to my boy. And I’m coming up next Saturday—it is Saturday, isn’t it?—to see you play.”
“I hope you will,” said Tom intensely. “We won’t be playing, but it’s going to be a corking game, Mrs. Deane.”
“But I want to seeyouplay,” she demurred. “And you.” She included Clif in her glance. “Perhaps, just as a favor to me, you will, won’t you?”
Tom’s mouth opened, but he didn’t seem to be able to find anything to say. Then his eyes, wandering from Mrs. Deane, encountered Loring’s grin and he got very red and made a choking sound. Clif came to his rescue. “We’ll do our best,” he laughed. “You see, we’re only on the Scrub Team, Mrs. Deane, and it’s the First Team that plays Wolcott. I hope you will come, too, sir.”
“Eh?” said Loring’s father. “Well, now, I don’t know.”
“I wish you would, dad,” begged Loring.
“Well, I’ll see, Lory. It seems to me, though, I’ve got something on Saturday.”
“Not a thing but a game of golf,” said Mrs. Deane, “and if Loring wants you to come—”
“Yes, yes, my dear! Of course!” He winked slyly at Clif. “I dare say it will rain Saturday, anyway.”
“It wouldn’t be the first time you’d golfed in the rain,” responded his wife severely. “But next Saturday, rain or shine, you are coming up here with me.”
“Yes, my dear,” he chuckled, “I’m sure I am. Boys, take the advice of a wise old man and don’t marry a tyrannical wife!”
“No, sir,” answered Tom promptly and earnestly. Whereat every one laughed and Wattles lifted Loring out and the big car rolled away.
Eager to hear what Loring had learned at Cotterville the day before, Clif and Tom hurried over to his room after supper. But only Wattles was there. Mister Loring, he explained, was visiting Mr. Babcock.Wattles’s tone was rather impressive. Since that visit to Wolcott yesterday he had carried himself with added dignity, for was not he, too, concerned in matters of deep moment? Had he not taken a part, though a humble one, in diplomatic affairs? Always a model of discretion, to-night Wattles was discreeter than ever, and when Tom asked: “Did he find out anything, Wattles?” he glanced toward windows and doors before, lowering his voice to a confidential murmur, he answered: “Yes, sir. Something extremely important, Mister Kemble, but I am not at liberty to mention it, sir.”
“Oh, roll your hoop,” grumbled Tom. “I guess he will tell us, all right.”
“Oh, yes, sir,” agreed Wattles. “Quite so, sir.”
But they didn’t learn very much from Loring, after all, for “Cocky” had advised against it. He did tell them about the journey to Cotterville, in the same antiquated but efficient vehicle that had brought Tom back from Danbury, and how Wattles, learning something of the mission, had advised stopping en route and securing disguises, Wattles favoring for himself a voluminous beard. But as to what he had actually observed at the Wolcott game Loring was vague and reticent. Tom got a trifle huffy and said he guessed Loring hadn’t found out anything much, anyway, if you askedhim!
Monday morning Mr. Wyatt detained Tom after class and said: “At my suggestion, Kemble, the Faculty has released you from restrictions.” If he had expectedTom to exhibit delight he was disappointed. Tom said “Thank you, sir,” in a listless voice and looked a trifle bored.
“I hope,” said the instructor, “the news hasn’t displeased you?”
“Sir?” Tom viewed him questioningly. “Oh, no, sir.” Then, recollecting that the removal of restrictions would enable him to see the Wolcott game, he added with a touch of animation: “It’s great, Mr. Wyatt. I thought, maybe, I wouldn’t get to Cotterville Saturday.”
“I see. And, of course, you can play football again, Kemble.”
“Not much use, sir. The team gets through Wednesday.”
“Gets through? To be sure. So it does. Hm. I’d forgotten that.” Mr. Wyatt looked so puzzled that Tom wondered. Tom didn’t know, of course, that Mr. Babcock had dropped in on “Alick” last evening and that his, Tom’s, affairs had come up for discussion; nor that Mr. Wyatt’s puzzlement had to do with “Cocky’s” efforts to secure the removal of restrictions from a boy whose football usefulness was practically at an end! “Well,” continued the instructor, “I trust that hereafter—er—we shall not have to—” His thoughts returned to Mr. Babcock— “Hm, that will be all, Kemble.”
“Yes, sir,” said Tom, glad of release.
Coincidences do sometimes happen outside of fiction. Less than thirty seconds later, having reached the footof the stairway, Tom almost collided with a hurrying figure.
“Hello!” said Mr. Babcock. “Almost had—is that Kemble?” He stopped abruptly in his long stride. “Look here, are you square with the Office?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good! Report to me this afternoon then.”
“You mean—” Tom swallowed. “Yes, sir!”
“Come ready to play, Kemble.” “Cocky’s” voice came back from well down the corridor. “May be able to use you, young fellow!”
Well, things were happening strangely these days, thought Tom!
They went on happening that way at intervals, too. Tom joined the First Team squad on Monday. On Tuesday he played left half against his former companions of the Scrub, putting in almost as much time at that job as did Whitemill and getting off the one long forward-pass that secured any ground for the First. What it all meant Tom could guess as little as any one, with the probable exceptions of “Cocky” and Captain Dave. But the cat was out of the bag on Wednesday, and the heavens fell. I realize that the metaphors don’t belong together, but each is satisfyingly apt.
On Wednesday the truth about “Big Bill” Fargo became known. He had been sent home Saturday on the advice of the school physician and now he was stretched out flat in some hospital with one knee entirely surrounded by plaster of Paris! Oh, he would be backin a week or two, but there wouldn’t be any more football or basketball or hockey for “Big Bill” this winter. The fact that he would be back in a fortnight or less interested the School not a particle just then. Later it would consider that fact with gratification, but just now all that occupied its mind was that the Team had lost its best fullback in years, the one player who never got hurt, the man around whom the Team’s attack had been carefully constructed! So when I say that the heavens fell I’m choosing my metaphor very carefully.
Until then Wyndham had still hoped to defeat her rival. The loss of Coach Otis had been a severe blow, but victory had remained a possibility in the judgment of most. But now—why, it wasn’t worth talking about! That game was as good as played! Might just as well cheer Wolcott to-day and have it over with!
There were some who advocated forfeiting the game while there was still time, but this idea didn’t meet with general approval, not even while the stunning effect of the blow was yet at its height. No, they’d play Wolcott and do the best they could. That was only sportsmanly. And maybe the poor, decrepit old Team would crawl out of the contest still recognizable to its closest friends! In any case, defeat was honorable if not desirable!
There was a good deal of talk during Wednesday and Thursday about Honor in Defeat, and the Last Ditch, and Going Through With It. Wednesday night’s mass meeting was truly pathetic. “ShadowedWalls” sounded like a dirge when it was sung, and “Win! Win! Wyndham,” for all of its volume, was less a cheer than an intoned elegy. It suggested renunciation but not defiance. Mr. Babcock’s gravely cheerful remarks were applauded politely. The School appreciated his efforts but was not to be deluded. There were other speakers, too, and they wasted a lot of words, in the judgment of their hearers. What was the good of being hopeful when there wasn’t any hope left?
But on Thursday evening the meeting was different. Though defeat was still accepted as inevitable, the notion of taking it lying down was no longer popular. The sentiment to-night favored getting in just as many good, hard licks as was possible before being counted out. There was still a strong “We who are about to die salute you” savor to proceedings, but the salutation was distinctly defiant. A courteous letter from the Wolcott Academy Athletic Association deploring the unfortunate loss to Wyndham of its Head Coach was read and almost moved the hearers to tears. Somehow, there seemed something quite touching in the idea of the lion sympathizing with its victim before devouring him! Wyndham cheered that letter to the echo.
The Scrub did not disband on Wednesday, according to custom, although Wednesday witnessed the final real game between it and First. At Mr. Babcock’s direction the Scrub postponed dissolution for twenty-four hours and on Thursday lined up opposite the big team for some twenty minutes while the latter put the polishingtouches on several plays, among them Number 30. Tackling was prohibited, and the somewhat ludicrous spectacle of Billy Desmond and Al Greene scowling darkly at each other without once coming to grips was presented. The captaincy of the Scrub had fallen to Johnny Thayer on Monday, and it was Johnny who gathered the team about him in the early twilight that Thursday afternoon and led the cheer.
“Win, win, Wyndham! Win, win, Wyndham! Win, win, Wyndham! Scrub!Scrub!SCRU-U-UB!”
The First cheered then, and after that the Scrub cheered the First, and the audience cheered the Scrub and the Scrub cheered Mr. Connover, and Mr. Connover cheered—no, that isn’t right! But there was a good deal of cheering and noise; and a good deal of laughter as the Scrub formed in line and, eighteen strong, marched off abreast behind a long strip of white oilcloth bearing the inscription in large black letters: THE FIGHTING SCRUB—The Team That Put the “Win” in Wyndham—Scrub 13; F. H. S. 0—Scrub 26; T. A. 9—Scrub 13; W. 2nd 12—WE WERE GOOD AND WE ACKNOWLEDGE IT!
Clif held his breath and turned the cold full on, shivered deliciously as the icy water peppered his glowing body and broke into song:
“Whoop it up for Wyndham! Whoop it up loud!Here we come on the run! Same old crowd!What we did before, boys, we can do again!W—Y—N—D—H—A—M!”
“Whoop it up for Wyndham! Whoop it up loud!Here we come on the run! Same old crowd!What we did before, boys, we can do again!W—Y—N—D—H—A—M!”
“Whoop it up for Wyndham! Whoop it up loud!
Here we come on the run! Same old crowd!
What we did before, boys, we can do again!
W—Y—N—D—H—A—M!”
Then he turned the shower off, reached for his towel and dried himself, avoiding the still trickling sprinkler above. Well, that was over! No more football until next fall. It was a sort of relief, too. There had been just about enough of it. Of course he would feel horribly lost for a week or so, but there were compensations. For instance, eats! For six weeks and more he hadn’t had a piece of pie, and the pie at Wyndham wasgood! To-morrow he wouldn’t have to pass his piece across to Crosby. No, sir. And he wouldn’t have to think whether he ought to eat this, that and the other. No, sir, he’d justeatit!
There wasn’t much drying necessary, and after a moment Clif wrapped the damp towel about him and padded his way along the wet tile floor to the locker-room. And there was Johnny Thayer, disgracefully unadorned, striding toward him and grinning like a catfish, and holding him with a glittering eye. Clif knew that something portentous was about to happen. He had one of Tom’s “hunches.” Johnny stayed him with two hands against his bare chest and spoke in hoarse elation.
“You and ‘Wink’ and I go to the First! What do you know?”
“Ice-cold water on the head is good,” replied Clif. But his levity was strained, for he knew that Johnny was talking true talk.
“It’s gospel! ‘Cocky’ just told me. Ask ‘Wink.’ He’s over there.”
“Did he say me, too?” asked Clif, conscious of thefact that his heart was thumping as if he had just completed an eighty-yard run. Johnny nodded vigorously.
“The three of us, old ruffian! Ain’t it great? Gee, they have to come to the Fighting Scrub when they want real talent!”
“But, I don’t see— What’s the big idea? Where do I fit in? You and ‘Wink,’ sure, but me—”
“Oh, ‘Cocky’’ll find a use for you, Clif. Trust that old bird! Say, I’m tickled to death! Gee, why, we’ll get our letters, anyway; all three of us probably! What price me with a big blue W on my tummy?”
“Well, I don’t know, Johnny. We mightn’t. There’s a lot of fellows on that First Team squad now. I don’t see what he’s going to do with us all!”
“Feed us to Wolcott one at a time. Maybe ‘Cocky’s’ idea is to give Wolcott indigestion, eh? Anyway, I should concern myself. All I want is a chance at some of those big stiffs. That and my letter!”
Johnny strode gloriously on toward the showers and Clif mingled with the crowd that filled the locker-room. Oddly, no one took any notice of him; just as if he hadn’t been joined up with the First at all! But, he consoled himself, they probably hadn’t heard yet. He sought out Tom with his eyes and waved a brown stocking at him. Tom waved back, but it was evident that he didn’t know. His wave had been too casual. Clif chuckled and hurried his dressing. He would wait for Tom and tell him the thrilling news on the way to Hall!