During the busy October week Dink found little time to vent thebrewing mischief within him. The afternoons were given over to the dogged pursuit of the elusive pigskin. In the evenings he resolutely turned his back on all midnight spreads or expeditions to the protecting shadows of the woods to smoke the abhorrent cigarette, for the joy of the risk run. At nine o'clock promptly each night he dove into bed, wrapped the covers about his head and, leaving the Tennessee Shad deep in the pages of Dumas, went soaring off into lands where goals are kicked from the center of the field, winning touchdowns scored in the last minute of play and bonfires lighted for his special honor. He was only end on the scrub, eagerly learning the game; but with the intensity of his nature that territory, which each afternoon he lined up to defend, was his in sacred trust; and he resolved that the trust of his captain should not be misplaced if it lay in his power to prevent it.
However, the busy mind was not entirely inactive. With the memory of his financial disappointment came the resolve to square himselfwith The Roman and turn the tables on Doc Macnooder.
The opportunity to do the first came in an unexpected way.
One evening P. Lentz came in upon them in great agitation.
"Why, King," said Dennis, who was lolling around, "you're excited, very, very much excited!"
"Shut up!" said the King of the Kennedy, who was in anything but a good humor. "It's the deuce to pay. I've had a first warning."
At this every one looked grave, and Dink, the loyalist, said:
"Oh, King, how could you!"
For another warning meant banishment from the football team and all the devastation that implied.
"That would just about end us," said Dennis. "Might as well save Andover the traveling expenses."
"I know, I know!" said P. Lentz furiously. "I've had it all said to me. Beautifully expressed, too. Question is, what's to be done? It's all the fault of old Baranson. He's been down on me ever since we licked the Woodhull."
"We must think of something," said the Tennessee Shad.
"How about a doctor's certificate?"
"Rats!"
"We might get up a demonstration against Baranson."
"Lot's of good that'll do me!"
Various suggestions were offered and rejected.
"Well, King," said the Tennessee Shad at last, "I don't see there's anything to it but you'll have to buckle down and study."
"Study?" said P. Lentz. "Is that the best you can produce?"
"It seems the simplest."
"I came here for consolation," said P. Lentz, who thereupon departed angrily.
"Still, it'll come to that," said the Tennessee Shad.
"P. Lentz study?" said Finnegan contemptuously. "Can a duck whistle?"
"Then we'll have to tutor him."
"What says Dink?"
"Don't bother me, I'm thinking."
"Gracious, may I watch you?"
"Shad," said Stover, ignoring Dennis, "did it ever occur to you how unscientific this whole game is?"
"What game?"
"This chasing the Latin root, wrestling with the unknown equation, and all that sort of thing."
"Proceed."
"Why are we smashed up? Because we are discouraged all fighting alone, unscientifically. Does the light dawn?"
"Very slowly," said the Tennessee Shad. "Keep dawning."
"I am thinking of organizing," said Stover impressively, "The Kennedy Co-operative Educational Institute."
"Aha!" said the Tennessee Shad. "Video, je vois, I see. All third-formers in the house meet, divide up the lesson and then fraternize."
"Where do I come in?" said Finnegan, who was two forms below.
"A very excellent idea," said the Tennessee Shad in final approval.
"I've a better one now," said Stover.
"Why, Dink!"
"It begins by chucking the Co-operative idea."
"How so?"
"There's no money in that," said Stover. "We must give the courses ourselves, see?"
"Give?" said the Tennessee Shad. "We two shining marks!"
"No," said Stover contemptuously. "We hire the lecturers and collect from the lectured."
"Why, Shad," said Finnegan, in wide-eyed admiration, "our boy is growing up!"
"He is, he certainly is. I love the idea!"
"Why, I think it's pretty good myself," said Dink.
"It has only one error—the lecturers."
"Why, that's the finest of the fine," said Dink indignantly. "You see what I do. Here's Beekstein and Gumbo Binks been laying around as waste material and the whole house kicking because we've been stuck with two midnight-oilers. Now what do I do? I utilize them. I make them a credit to the house, useful citizens."
"True, most true," said the Tennessee Shad. "But why pay? Never pay any one anything."
Stover acknowledged the superior financial mind, while Finnegan remained silent, his greatest tribute.
"I suppose we might lasso them," said Stover, "or bring them up in chains."
"That's only amateurish and besides reprehensible," said the Tennessee Shad. "No, the highest principle in finance, the real cream de la crème, is to make others pay you for what you want them to do."
Stover slowly assimilated this profound truth.
"We'll charge twenty-five cents a week to students and we'll make Beekstein and Gumbo disgorge half a plunk each for letting us listen to them."
"I am ready to be convinced," said Dink, who still doubted.
"I'll show you how it's done," said the Tennessee Shad, who, going to the door, called out: "Oh, you Beekstein!"
"Profound, profound mind," said Dennis de Brian de Boru Finnegan. "Doc Macnooder is better on detail, but when it comes to theory the Tennessee Shad is the Willie Keeler boy every time!"
"I've another idea," said Stover, "a way to get even with The Roman, too."
"What's that?"
"To signal the gerund and the gerundive."
"Magnificent and most popular!" said the Tennessee Shad. "We'll put that in as a guaranty. Who'll signal?"
"I'll signal," said Stover, claiming the privilege. "It's my right!"
Beekstein, who might be completely described as a pair of black-rimmed spectacles riding an aquiline nose, now shuffled in with his dictionary under his arm, his fingers between the leaves of a Cicero to which he still clung.
"Mr. Hall," said the Tennessee Shad with a flourish, "take any chair in the room."
Beekstein, alarmed by such generosity, sat down like a ramrod and cast a roving, anxious glance under the beds and behind the screen.
"Beekstein," said the Tennessee Shad, to reassure him, "we have just organized the KennedyEducational Quick Lunch Institute. The purpose is fraternal, patriotic and convivial. It will be most exclusive and very secret." He explained the working scheme and then added anxiously: "Now, Beekstein, you see the position of First Grand Hot Tamale will be the real thing. He will be, so to speak, Valedictorian of the Kennedy and certainly ought to be elected secretary of the house next year. Now, Beekstein, what we got you here for is this. What do you think of Gumbo for the position? Well, what?"
Beekstein, in his agitation, withdrew his finger from the Orations of Cicero.
"What's the matter with me?" he said directly. "Gumbo is only a second-rater."
"He's very strong in mathematics."
"That's the only thing he beats me on!"
"Yes, but, Beekstein, there is another thing—a delicate subject. I don't know how to approach it. You see, we don't know how you're fixed for the spondulix," said the Tennessee Shad, who knew perfectly well the other's flourishing condition. "You see, this is not only educational, but a very select body, quite a secret society,—with a midnight spread now and then. Of course there are dues, you see. It would cost you a half a week."
"Is that all?" said Beekstein, who had neverbelonged to a secret society in his life. "Here's the first month down. Right here."
"I don't know how far we are committed to Gumbo," said the Tennessee Shad, not disdaining to finger the two-dollar bill. "But I'll do everything I can for you."
Gumbo Binks, being consulted as to the qualifications of Beekstein, fell into the same trap. He was a monosyllabic, oldish little fellow, whose cheeks had fallen down and disturbed the balance of his already bald head. He had but one emotion and one enthusiasm, a professional jealousy of Beekstein, who was several points ahead of him in the race for first honors. Under these conditions the Tennessee Shad proceeded victoriously. Having made sure of each, he next informed them that, owing to a wide divergence of opinion, a choice seemed impossible. Each should have two months' opportunity to lecture before the Quick Lunchers before a vote would be taken.
Under these successful auspices the Institute met enthusiastically the following day, both the lecturers and the lectured ignoring the financial status of the others. It was found on careful compilation that, by close and respectful attention to Professors Beekstein and Gumbo, twenty minutes would suffice for the rendering of the Greek and Latin test; while only ten minutesextra were needed to follow the requirements of mathematics.
The clause in the constitution which pledged defiance to The Roman and guaranteed protection on the gerund and gerundive was exceedingly popular. The signals were agreed upon. Absolute rigidity on Stover's part denounced the gerund, while a slight wriggling of his sensitive ears betrayed the approach of the abhorrent gerundive.
In his resolve to destroy forever the peace of mind of The Roman, Dink sat an extra period under Beekstein, stalking and marking down the lair of these enemies of boykind.
On the following morning The Roman lost no time in calling up P. Lentz, who, to his amazement, recited creditably.
"Dear me," said The Roman, quite astonished, "the day of miracles is not over—most astounding! Bring your book to the desk, Lentz—hem! Everything proper! Profuse apologies, Lentz, profuse ones! The suspicion is the compliment. I'm quite upset, quite so. First time such a thing has happened." He hesitated for a moment, debating whether to allow him to retire with the honors, but his curiosity proving strong he said: "And now, Lentz, third line, second word—gerund or gerundive?"
"Gerundive, sir," said P. Lentz promptly, observingStover's ears in a state of revolution.
"Fortunate youth! Next line, third word, gerund or gerundive?"
"Gerund, sir."
"Still fortunate! Once more, make your bet, Lentz, red or black?" said The Roman, smiling, believing Lentz was risking his fortunes on the alternating system. "Once more. Sixth line, first word, gerund or gerundive?"
"Gerund, sir."
"Is it possible—is it possible?" said The Roman. "Have I lived to see it! Sit down,Mr.Lentz, sit down."
He sat silent a moment, his lips twitching, his eyebrows alternately jumping, gazing from the text to P. Lentz and back.
Stover, in the front row, was radiant.
"Gee, that's a stiff one for him to swallow!" he said, chuckling inwardly. "P. Lentz, of all muts!"
As luck would have it the next boy called up, not being from the Kennedy, flunked and somewhat restored The Roman's equanimity.
"Now he feels better," thought Dink. "Wait till the next jolt comes, though!"
"Lazelle," said The Roman.
The Gutter Pup rose, translated fluently and, with his eyes on Dink's admonitory ears, grappledwith the gerund and threw the gerundive.
"Mead," said The Roman, now thoroughly alert.
Lovely, with a show of insouciance, bagged three gerunds and one gerundive.
The Roman thought a moment and, carefully selecting the experts, sent Beekstein, Gumbo Binks, the Red Dog and Poler Fox to the blackboards. Having thus removed the bird dogs, The Roman called up Fatty Harris.
Stover, struggling to maintain his seriousness, grudgingly admired the professional manner with which The Roman attacked the mystery, the more so as it showed the wisdom of his own planning; for, had the signals been left with either Beekstein or Gumbo, the plot would have been instantly exposed.
As it was, The Roman, to his delighted imagination, at each successful answer seemed to rise under an electric application.
Stover went out radiant, to receive the delighted congratulations of the Institute and the recognition of those who were not in the secret.
"We've got him going," he said, skipping over the campus arm in arm with the Tennessee Shad. "He's nervous as a witch! It's broken him all up. He won't sleep for a week."
"He'll spot it to-morrow," said the Tennessee Shad.
"I'll lay a bet on it."
The next day The Roman, at the beginning of the lesson, ordered all the books to the desk and fruitlessly examined them. Macnooder, as spokesman for the justly indignant class, at once expressed the pain felt at this evidence of suspicion and demanded an explanation. This highly strategic manœuver, which would have tripped up a younger master, received nothing but a grim smile from The Roman who waved them to their seats and called up P. Lentz.
"Gerund or gerundive?" he began directly, at the same time rising and scanning the front ranks.
"Why, gerund, sir," said P. Lentz instantly.
"What, again?" said The Roman, who then called upon Stover.
Dink arose, watched with some trepidation by the rest; for being in the front row he could receive no signal.
"First paragraph, third word, gerund or gerundive, Stover?"
Dink took a long time, shifting a little as though trying to glance from side to side, and finally named haltingly:
"Gerund, sir."
"Next line, first word, gerund or gerundive? Look in front of you, Stover. Look at me."
Dink purposely called it wrong, likewise the next; thereby completing the mystification ofThe Roman, who now concentrated his attention on Macnooder and the Tennessee Shad, as being next in order of suspicion. The day ended victoriously.
"He won't live out the week," announced Dink. "There are circles under his eyes already."
"Better quit for a day or two," said the Tennessee Shad.
"Never!"
Now the advantage of Dink's method of signaling was in its absolute naturalness. For the growing boy wiggles his ears as a pup tries his teeth or a young goat hardens his horns. Moreover, as Dink held to his plan of judicious flunking, The Roman's suspicions were completely diverted. For three days more the lover of the gerund and the gerundive sought to localize and detect the sources of information without avail.
Finally on the sixth day The Roman arrived with a briskness that was at once noted and analyzed. P. Lentz was called and translated.
"We will now take up our daily recreation," said The Roman, in a gentle voice. "It has been a matter of pleasure to me—not unmixed with a little surprise, incredulous surprise—to note the sudden affection of certain members of this class for those elusive forms of Latin grammar knownas the gerund and the gerundive. I had despaired, in my unbelief I had despaired, of ever satisfactorily impressing their subtle distinctions on certain, shall we say athletic, imaginations. It seems I was wrong. I had not enough faith. I am sorry. It is evident that these Scylla and Charybdis of prosody have no longer any terrors for you, Lentz. Am I right?"
"Yes, sir," said P. Lentz hesitatingly.
"So—so—no terrors? And now, Lentz, take up your book, take it up. Direct your unfailing glance at the first paragraph, page sixty-two. Is it there?"
"Yes, sir."
"Pick out the first gerund you see."
P. Lentz, beyond the aid of human help, gazed into the jungle and brought forth a supine.
"Is it possible, Lentz?" said The Roman. "Is it possible? Try once more, but don't guess. Don't guess, Lentz; don't do it."
P. Lentz closed the book and sat down.
"What! A sudden indisposition? Too bad, Lentz, too bad. Now we'll try Lazelle. Lazelle won't fail. Lazelle has not failed for a week."
The Gutter Pup rose in a panic, guessed and fell horribly over an ordinary participle.
"Quite mysterious!" said The Roman, himself once more. "Sudden change of weather. Mead, lend us the assistance of your splendidfaculties. What? Unable to rise? Too bad. Dear me—dear me—quite the feeling of home again—quite homelike."
The carnage was terrific, the scythe passed over them with the old-time sweep, laying them low. Once maliciously, when Fatty Harris was on his feet, The Roman asked:
"Top of page, fifth word, gerund or gerundive?"
"Gerund," said Harris instantly.
"Ah, pardon——" said The Roman, bringing into play both eyebrows. "My mistake, Harris, entirely my mistake. Go down to the next paragraph and recognize a gerundive. No? Sit down—gently. Too bad—old methods must make way for new ideas. Too bad, then you did have one chance in two and now, where in the whole wide world will you find a friend to help you? Class is dismissed."
"I told you you couldn't beat The Roman," said the Tennessee Shad.
"I made him change his system, though," said Dink gloriously, "and he never caught me."
"Well, if you have, how are you going to spot the gerund and the gerundive?"
"I don't need to; I've learned 'em," said Dink, laughing.
The Kennedy House Educational Quick Lunch Institute broke up in wratha week later when an innocent inquiry of Beekstein's for the passwords revealed the direction of the club's finances.
Meanwhile, true to his resolve, Dink, with the assistance of Finnegan and the Tennessee Shad, had started the fad of souvenir toilet sets; which, like all fads, ran its course the faster because of its high qualities of absurdity and uselessness. Dink's intention of recouping himself by selling his own set of seven colors at a big advance was cut short by a spontaneous protest to the Doctor from the house masters, whose artistic souls were stirred to wrath at the hideous invasion. The subject was then so successfully treated from the pulpit, with all the power of sarcasm that it afforded, that the only distinct artistic movement of New Jersey expired in ridicule.
Dink took this check severely to heart and, of course, beheld in this thwarting of his scheme to dispose of the abhorrent set with honor afresh demonstration of the implacability of The Roman.
He wandered gloomily from Laloo's and Appleby's to the Jigger Shop; where, after pulling his hat over his eyes, folding his arms inconsolably, he confided his desires of revenge on Doc Macnooder to the sympathetic ears of the guardian of the Jigger.
"Why not get up a contest and offer it as a prize?" said Al.
"Have you seen it?" said Dink, who then did the subject full justice.
Al remained very thoughtful for a long while, running back dreamily through the avenues of the past for some stratagem.
"I remember way back in the winter of '88," he said at last, "there was a slick coot by the name of Chops Van Dyne, who got strapped and hit upon a scheme for decoying the shekels."
"What was that?" said Dink hopefully.
"He got up a guessing contest with a blind prize."
"A what?"
"A blind prize all done up in tissue paper and ribbons, and no one was to know what was in it until it was won. It certainly was amazing the number of suckers that paid a quarter to satisfy their curiosity."
"Well, what was inside?" said Dink at once.
"There you are!" said Al. "Why, nothing, of course—a lemon, perhaps—but the point is, every one just had to know."
"Not a word!" said Dink, springing up triumphantly.
"Mum as the grave," said Al, accepting his handshake.
Dink went romping back like a young spring goat, his busy mind seizing all the ramifications possible from the central theory. He found the Tennessee Shad and communicated the great idea.
"I don't like the guessing part," said the Tennessee Shad.
"Nor I. We must get up a contest."
"A championship."
"Something devilishly original."
"Exactly."
"Well, what?"
"We must think."
The day was passed in fruitless searching but the next morning brought the answer in the following manner: Dink and the Tennessee Shad—as the majority of trained Laurentians—were accustomed to wallow gloriously in bed until the breakfast gong itself. At the first crash they would spring simultaneously forth and race through their dressing for the winning of the stairs. Now this was an art in itself and manyrecords were claimed and disputed. The Tennessee Shad, like most lazy natures, when aroused was capable of extraordinary bursts of speed and was one of the claimants for the authorized record of twenty-six and a fifth seconds from the bed to the door, established by the famous Hickey Hicks who—as has been related—had departed to organize the industries of his country. Of a consequence Stover was invariably still at his collar button when the thin shadow of the Shad glided out of the door. But on the present morning, the shoe laces of the Tennessee Shad snapping in his hand, Dink reached the exit a bare yard in advance. Suddenly he stopped, clasped the Tennessee Shad by the middle and flung him toward the ceiling.
"I have it," he cried. "We'll organize the dressing championship of the school!"
That very evening a poster was distributed among the houses, thus conceived:
FIRST AMATEUR DRESSING CHAMPIONSHIP
OF THE SCHOOL
under the management of that well-known
Sporting Promoter
MR. DINK STOVER
For the Belt of the School
and
A Sealed Mysterious Prize
Guaranteed to be Worth Over $3.50
Entrance Fee 25c Books Close at 6 P. M.
To-morrow
For Conditions and Details Consult
Mr. Dennis de B. de B. Finnegan, Secretary.
While the announcement was running like quicksilver through the school the souvenir toilet set was encased in cotton, packed in the smallest compass, stowed in a wooden box, which was then sewed up in a gunny sacking. This in turn was wrapped in colored paper, tied with bows of pink ribbon and sealed with blue sealing wax stamped with the crest of the school—Virtus Semper Viridis. The whole was placed on a table at the legs of which were grouped stands of flags.
By noon the next day one-half of the school had passed around the table, measuring the mysterious package, touching the seals with itching fingers and wanting to know the reason for such secrecy.
"There are reasons," said Stover, in response to all inquiries. "Unusual, mysterious, excellent reasons. We ask no one to enter. We only guarantee that the prize is worth over three dollars and fifty cents. No one is coaxing you.No one will miss you. The entrance list is already crowded. We are quite willing it should be closed. We urge nobody!"
Macnooder came among the first, scratching his head and walking around the prize as a fox about a tainted trap. Stover, watching from the corner of his eye, studiously appeared to discourage him. Macnooder sniffed the air once or twice in an alarmed sort of way, grunted to himself and went off to try to pump Finnegan.
Finally, just before the closing of the entries, he shambled up with evident dissatisfaction and said:
"Here's my quarter. It's for the championship, though, and not on account of any hocus pocus in the box."
"Do I understand?" said Dink instantly, "that if you win you are willing to let the prize go to the second man?"
"What are you making out of this?" said Doc hungrily, disdaining an answer.
The contest, which began the next afternoon with thirty-one entries, owing to certain features unusual to athletic contests, produced such a furor of interest that the limited admissions to the struggle brought soaring prices.
Everything was conducted on lines of exact formality.
Each contestant was required to don upperand lower unmentionables, two socks, two shoes, which were to be completely laced and tied, a dickey—formed by a junction of two cuffs, a collar and one button—one necktie, one pair of trousers and one coat. Each contestant was required satisfactorily to wash and dry both hands and put into his hair a recognizable part.
The contestants were allowed to arrange on the chair their wearing apparel according to their own theories, were permitted to fill the wash basin with water, leaving the comb and towel on either side. In order to prevent the formation of two classes, pajamas were suppressed and each contestant, clothed in a nightshirt, was inducted under the covers and his hair carefully disarranged.
Time was taken from the starting gun to the moment of the arrival of the fully clothed, reasonably washed and apparently brushed candidate at the door. Each time was to be noted and the two lowest scores were to compete in the finals. A time limit of forty-five seconds was imposed, after which the contestant was to be ruled out.
The first heat began with the Triumphant Egghead in the bed for the Dickinson, Mr. Dennis de Brian de Boru Finnegan on the stop watch, Mr. Dink Stover as master of ceremoniesand Mr. Turkey Reiter, Mr. Cheyenne Baxter and Mr. Charlie DeSoto as jurors.
The entries were admitted by all to be the pick of the school; while the champions most favored, were the Tennessee Shad for the Kennedy, Doc Macnooder for the Dickinson and the White Mountain Canary for the Woodhull.
A certain delay took place on the third heat owing to Susie Satterly, of the Davis House, refusing to compete unless there was less publicity, and being peremptorily ruled out on a demand for a screen.
"The next on the program," said Stover, as master of ceremonies, "is the champion of the Dickinson, the celebrated old-clothes man, Doctor Macnooder."
Macnooder gracefully acknowledged the applause which invariably attended his public performances and asked leave to make a speech, which was unanimously rejected.
"Very well, gentlemen," said Macnooder, taking off his coat and standing forth in a sudden blaze of rainbow underwear. "I will simply draw attention to this neat little bit of color that I have the honor to present to your inspection. It is the latest thing out in dainty fancies and I stand ready to fill all orders. It is rather springy, but why fall when you can spring? Don't applaud—you'll wake the baby.It is light, it is warm, it gives a sense of exhilaration to the skin. It endears you to your friends, and not even a Lawrenceville suds-lady would bite a hole in it——"
"If you don't get into bed," said Dink, "I'll rule you out."
Macnooder, thus admonished, hastened to his post, merely remarking on the distinction of his garters and impressionistic socks and the fact that he had incurred great expense to afford his schoolmates an equal opportunity.
"Are you ready?" said Turkey Reiter, for the indignant jury.
"One moment."
Macnooder, in bed, glanced carefully at the preparations without, turned on his side and brought his knees up under his chin.
"All ready?"
"Go!"
With a circular kick, something like the flop of a whale's tail, Macnooder drove the covers from him and sprang into the doubled trousers.
A cheer went up from the spectators.
"Gee, what a dive!"
"Faster, Doc!"
"Wash carefully!"
"Behind the ears!"
"Don't forget the buttons!"
"That's the boy!"
"Come on, Doc, come on!"
"Oh, you Dickinson!"
"Hurray!"
"Time—twenty-seven seconds flat," said Dennis de Brian de Boru Finnegan. "Best yet. Twenty-seven and four-fifths seconds, next on the list, made by the White Mountain Canary and the Gutter Pup."
"Next contestant," said Dink, in sing-song, "is the champion of the Rouse, Mr. Peanuts Biddle."
But here a difficulty arose.
"Please, sir," said the candidate, who as a freshman was visibly embarrassed at the ordeal before him—"Please, sir, I don't part my hair."
Every eye went to the pompadour, cropped like a scrubbing brush, and recognized the truth of this assertion.
"Please, sir, I don't see why I should have to touch a comb."
A protest broke forth from the other candidates.
"Rats!"
"Penalize him!"
"Why part my hair?"
"I always do that with my fingers when I'm skating down the stairs."
"Why wash till afterward?"
"No favoritism!"
The jury retired to deliberate and announced amid cheers that to equalize matters Mr. Peanuts Biddle would be handicapped two-fifths of a second. The candidate took this ruling very much to heart and withdrew.
The Tennessee Shad, closing the list of entries, slouched up to the starting-line amid great excitement to better the record of Doc Macnooder.
He first inspected the washstand, filling the basin higher than customary and exchanging the stiff face towel for a soft bath towel, which would more quickly absorb the moisture.
Doc Macnooder, who followed these preparations with a hostile eye, protested against this last substitution, but was overruled.
The Tennessee Shad then divested himself of his coat and undergarments amid cries of:
"Oh, you ribs!"
"What do they feed you?"
"Oh, you wish-bones!"
"Oh, you shad-bones!"
Macnooder then claimed that the undershirt was manifestly sewed to the coat. The allegation was investigated and disproved, without in the slightest ruffling the composure of the Tennessee Shad, who continued his calculations while making a toothpick dance through his lips. By means of safety pins, he next fastened theback and one wing of his collar to his coat, so that one motion would clothe his upper half.
"I protest," said Doc Macnooder.
"Denied," said Turkey Reiter, as foreman of the jury.
The Tennessee Shad, donning the nightshirt, carefully unloosened the laces of his low shoes, drew them off and arranged the socks inside of them so as to economize the extra movement.
"The socks aren't his!" said Macnooder. "They're big enough for P. Lentz."
"Proceed," said Turkey Reiter.
The Tennessee Shad then unloosened his belt and the trousers slipped down him as a sailor down a greased pole.
Macnooder once more protested and was squelched.
The Tennessee Shad arranged the voluminous trousers, cast a final glance, placed the toothpick on the table and went under the covers.
"All ready?" said Dink.
"Wait!" With the left hand he clutched the covers, with the right his nightshirt, just back of the neck. "Ready now."
"Go!"
With one motion the Tennessee Shad flung the covers from him, tore off his nightshirt and sprang from the bed like Venus from the waves.
The audience burst into cheers:
"Holy Mike."
"Greased lightning!"
"Oh, you Shad!"
"Gee, right through the pants!"
"Suffering Moses!"
"Look at him stab the shoes!"
"Right into the coat!"
"Go it, Shad!"
"Out for the record!"
"Gee, what a wash!"
"Come on, boy, come on!"
"Now for the part!"
"Hurray!"
"Hurrah!"
"Hurroo!"
"Time—twenty-six and one-fifth seconds," cried the shrill voice of Dennis de Brian de Boru. "Equalizing the world's unchallenged professional, amateur and scholastic record made by the late Hickey Hicks! The champion's belt is now the Tennessee Shad's to have and to hold. According to the program the champion and Doc Macnooder, second-best score, will now run another heat for the mysterious sealed prize, guaranteed to be worth over three dollars and fifty cents!"
Macnooder, adopting the Shad's theories of preparation, made an extraordinary effort and brought his record down to twenty-six and four-fifthsseconds. The Tennessee Shad then, according to the plan agreed upon with Stover, purposely broke a shoe-lace and lost the match.
Dink, in a speech full of malice, awarded the mysterious sealed prize to Doc Macnooder, with a request to open it at once.
Now, Macnooder, who had been busy thinking the matter over, had sniffed the pollution in the air and, perceiving a wicked twinkle in the eye of Stover, shifted the ground by carrying off the box despite a storm of protests to his room in the Dickinson, where strategically proving his title to Captain of Industry, he charged ten cents admission to all who clamored to see the clearing up of the mystery.
Having thus provided a substantial consolation against discomfiture and joined twenty other curiosity-seekers to his own fortunes, he opened the box and beheld the prodigal souvenir set. At the same moment Dink stepped forward and presented him with his own former bill for three dollars and seventy-five cents.
That night, after Stover had returned much puffed up with the congratulations of his schoolmates on the outwitting of Macnooder, the Tennessee Shad took him to task from a philosophical point of view.
"Baron Munchausen, a word."
"Lay on."
"You must come down to earth."
"Wherefor?"
"You must occasionally, my boy, just as a matter of safeguarding future ventures, start in and scatter a few truths."
"Pooh!" said Stover, with the memory of cheers. "Any fool can tell the truth."
"Yes, but——"
"It's such a lazy way!"
"Still——"
"Enervating!"
"But——"
"Besides, now they expect something more from me."
"True," said the Tennessee Shad, "but don't you see, Dink, if you do tell the truth no one will believe you."
Oh, we'll push her overOr rip the cover—Too bad for the fellows that fall!They must take their chancesOf a bruise or twoWho follow that jolly football.
So sang the group on the Kennedy steps, heralding the twilight; and beyond, past the Dickinson, a chorus from the Woodhull defiantly flung back the challenge. For that week the Woodhull would clash with the Kennedy for the championship of the houses.
The football season was drawing to a close, only the final game with Andover remained, a contest awaited with small hopes of victory. For the season had been disastrous for the 'Varsity; several members of the team had been caught in the toils of the octopus examination and, what was worse among the members, ill-feeling existed due to past feuds.
Stover, in the long grueling days of practice, had won the respect of all. Just how favorable an impression he had made he did not himself suspect. He had instinctive quickness and nosense of fear—that was something that had dropped from him forever. It was not that he had to conquer the impulse to flinch, as most boys do; it simply did not exist with him. The sight of a phalanx of bone and muscle starting for his end to sweep him off his feet roused only a sort of combative rage, the true joy of battle. He loved to go plunging into the unbroken front and feel the shock of bodies as he tried for the elusive legs of Flash Condit or Charley DeSoto.
This utter recklessness was indeed his chief fault; he would rather charge interference than fight it off, waiting for others to break it up for him and so make sure of his man.
Gradually, however, through the strenuous weeks, he learned the deeper lessons of football—how to use his courage and the control of his impulses.
"It's a game of brains, youngster, remember that," Mr. Ware would repeat day after day, hauling him out of desperate plunges. "That did no good; better keep on your feet and follow the ball. Above all, study the game."
His first lesson came when, at last being promoted to end on the scrub, he found himself lined up against Tough McCarty, the opposing tackle. Stover thought he saw the intention at once.
"Put me against Tough McCarty, eh?" hesaid, digging his nails into the palms of his hands. "Want to try out my nerve, eh? I'll show 'em!"
Now McCarty did not relish the situation either; foreseeing as he did the long weeks of strenuous contact with the one boy in the school who was vowed to an abiding vengeance. The fact was that Tough McCarty, who was universally liked for his good nature and sociable inclination, had yielded to the irritation Stover's unceasing enmity had aroused and had come gradually into something of the same attitude of hostility. Also, he saw in the captain's assigning Stover to his end a malicious attempt to secure amusement at his expense.
For all which reasons, when the scrub first lined up against the 'Varsity, the alarum of battle that rode on Stover's pugnacious front was equaled by the intensity of his enemy's coldly-calculating glance.
"Here's where I squash that fly," thought McCarty.
"Here's where I fasten to that big stuff," thought Dink, "and sting him until the last day of the season!"
The first direct clash came when the scrubs were given the ball and Dink came in to aid his tackle box McCarty for the run that was signaled around their end.
Tough made the mistake of estimating Stover simply by his lack of weight, without taking account of the nervous, dynamic energy which was his strength. Consequently, at the snap of the ball, he was taken by surprise by the wild spring that Stover made directly at his throat and, thrown off his balance momentarily by the frenzy of the impact, tripped and went down under the triumphant Dink, who, unmindful of the fact that the play had gone by, remained proudly fixed on the chest of the prostrate tackle.
"Get off," said the muffled voice.
Stover, whose animal instincts were all those of the bulldog, pressed down more firmly.
"Get off of me, you little blockhead," said McCarty growing furious as he heard the jeers of his teammates at his humiliating reversal.
"Hurry up there, you Stover!" cried the voice of the captain, unheeded, for Dink was too blindly happy with the thrill of perfect supremacy over the hated McCarty to realize the situation.
"Stover!!!"
At the shouted command Dink looked up and at last perceived the play was over. Reluctantly he started to rise, when a sudden upheaval of the infuriated McCarty caught him unawaresand Tough's vigorous arm flung him head over heels.
Down went Dink with a thump and up again with rage in his heart. He rushed up to McCarty as in the mad fight under the willows and struck him a resounding blow.
The next moment not Tough, but Cockrell's own mighty hand caught him by the collar and swung him around.
"Get off the field!"
"What?" said Dink, astounded, for in his ignorance he had expected complimentary pats on his back.
"Off the field!"
Dink, cold in a minute, quailed under the stern eye of the supreme leader.
"I did sling him pretty hard, Garry," said Tough, taking pity at the look that came into Dink's eyes at this rebuke.
"Get off!"
Dink, who had stopped with a sort of despairing hope, went slowly to the side-lines, threw a blanket over his head and shoulders and squatted down in bitter, utter misery. Another was in his place, plunging at the tackle that should have been his, racing down the field under punts that made the blood leap in his exiled body. He did not understand. Why had he been disgraced? He had only shown hewasn't afraid—wasn't that why they had put him opposite Tough McCarty, after all?
The contending lines stopped at last their tangled rushes and straggled, panting, back for a short intermission. Dink, waiting under the blanket, saw the captain bear down upon him and, shivering like a dog watching the approach of his punishment, drew the folds tighter about him.
"Stover," said the dreadful voice, loud enough so that every one could hear, "you seem to have an idea that football is run like a slaughterhouse. The quicker you get that out of your head the better. Now, do you know why I fired you? Do you?"
"For slugging," said Dink faintly.
"Not at all. I fired you because you lost your head; because you forgot you were playing football. If you're only going into this to work off your private grudges, then I don't want you around. I'll fire you off and keep you off. You're here to play football, to think of eleven men, not one. You're to use your brains, not your fists. Why, the first game you play in some one will tease you into slugging him and the umpire will fire you. Then where'll the team be? There are eleven men in this game on your side and on the other. No matter what happens don't lose your temper, don't be so stupid, so brainless—do you hear?"
"Yes, sir," said Dink, who had gradually retired under his blanket until only the tip of the nose showed and the terror-stricken eyes.
"And don't forget this. You don't count. It isn't the slightest interest to the team whether some one whales you or mauls you! It isn't the slightest interest to you, either. Mind that! Nothing on earth is going to get your mind off following the ball, sizing up the play, working out the weak points—nothing. Brains, brains, brains, Stover! You told me you came out here because we needed some one to be banged around—and I took you on your word, didn't I? Now, if you're going out there as an egotistical, puffed-up, conceited individual who's thinking only of his own skin, who isn't willing to sacrifice his own little, measly feelings for the sake of the school, who won't fight for the team, but himself——"
"I say, Cap, that's enough," said Dink with difficulty; and immediately retired so deep that only the mute, pleading eyes could be discerned.
Cockrell stopped short, bit his lip and said sternly: "Line up now. Get in, Stover, and don't let me ever have to call you down again. Tough, see here." The two elevens ran out. The captain continued: "Tough, every chance you get to-day give that little firebrand a jab, understand? So it can't be seen."
The 'Varsity took the ball and for five minutesDink felt as though he were in an angry sea, buffeted, flung down and whirled about by massive breakers. Without sufficient experience his weight was powerless to stop the interference that bore him back. He tried to meet it standing up and was rolled head over heels by the brawny shoulders of Cheyenne Baxter and Doc Macnooder. Then, angrily, he tried charging into the offenses and was drawn in and smothered while the back went sweeping around his unprotected end for long gains.
Mr. Ware came up and volunteered suggestions:
"If you're going into it dive through them, push them apart with your hands—so. Keep dodging so that the back won't know whether you're going around or through. Keep him guessing and follow up the play if you miss the first tackle."
Under this coaching Dink, who had begun to be discouraged, improved and when he did get a chance at his man he dropped him with a fierce, clean tackle, for this branch of the game he had mastered with instinctive delight.
"Give the ball to the scrubs," said the captain, who was also coaching.
Stover came in close to his tackle. The third signal was a trial at end. He flung himself at McCarty, checked him and, to his amazement,received a dig in the ribs. His fists clenched, went back and then stopped as remembering, he drew a long breath and walked away, his eyes on the ground; for the lesson was a rude one to learn.
"Stover, what are you doing?" cried the captain, who had seen all.
Dink, who had expected to be praised, was bewildered as well as hurt.
"What are you stopping for? You're thinking of McCarty again, aren't you? Do you know where your place was? Back of your own half. Follow up the play. If you'd been there to push there'd been an extra yard. Think quicker, Stover."
"Yes, sir," said Stover, suddenly perceiving the truth. "You're right, I wasn't thinking."
"Look here, boy," said the captain, laying his hand on his shoulders. "I have just one principle in a game and I want you to tuck it away and never forget it."
"Yes, sir," said Dink reverently.
"When you get in a game get fighting mad, but get cold mad—play like a fiend—but keep cold. Know just what you're doing and know it all the time."
"Thank you, sir," said Dink, who never forgot the theory, which had a wider application than Garry Cockrell perhaps suspected.
"You laid it on pretty strong," said Mr. Ware to Cockrell, as they walked back after practice.
"I did it for several reasons," said Garry; "first, because I believe the boy has the makings of a great player in him; and second, I was using him to talk to the team. They're not together and it's going to be hard to get them together."
"Bad feeling?"
"Yes, several old grudges."
"What a pity, Garry," said Mr. Ware. "What a pity it is you can only have second and third formers under you!"
"Why so?"
"Because they'd follow you like mad Dervishes," said Mr. Ware, thinking of Dink.
Stover, having once perceived that the game was an intellectual one, learned by bounds. McCarty, under instructions, tried his best to provoke him, but met with the completest indifference. Dink found a new delight in the exercise of his wits, once the truth was borne in on him that there are more ways of passing beyond a windmill than riding it down. Owing to his natural speed he was the fastest end on the field to cover a punt, and once within diving distance of his man he almost never missed. He learned, too, that the scientific application of his one hundred and thirty-eight pounds,well timed, was sufficient to counterbalance the disadvantage in weight. He never loafed, he never let a play go by without being in it, and at retrieving fumbles he was quick as a cat.
Meanwhile the house championships had gone on until the Woodhull and the Kennedy emerged for the final conflict. The experience gained in these contests, for on such occasions Stover played with his House team, had sharpened his powers of analysis and given him a needed acquaintance with the sudden, shifting crises of actual play.
Now, the one darling desire of Stover, next to winning the fair opinion of his captain, was the rout of the Woodhull, of which Tough McCarty was the captain and his old acquaintances of the miserable days at the Green were members—Cheyenne Baxter, the Coffee-colored Angel and Butsey White. This aggregation, counting as it did two members of the 'Varsity, was strong, but the Kennedy, with P. Lentz and the Waladoo Bird and Pebble Stone, the Gutter Pup, Lovely Mead and Stover, all of the scrub, had a slight advantage.
Dink used to dream of mornings, in the lagging hours of recitation, of the contest and the sweet humiliation of his ancient foes. He would play like a demon, he would show them, Tough McCarty and the rest, what it was tobe up against the despised Dink—and dreaming thus he used to say to himself, with suddenly tense arms:
"Gee, I only wish McCarty would play back of the line so I could get a chance at him!"
But on Tuesday, during the 'Varsity practice, suddenly as a scrimmage ended and sifted open a cry went up. Ned Banks, left end on the 'Varsity, was seen lying on the ground after an attempt to rise. They gathered about him with grave faces, while Mr. Ware bent over him in anxious examination.
"What is it?" said the captain, with serious face.
"Something wrong with his ankle; can't tell yet just what."
"I'll play Saturday, Garry," said Banks, gritting his teeth. "I'll be ready by then. It's nothing much."
The subs carried him off the field with darkened faces—the last hopes of victory seemed to vanish. The gloom spread thickly through the school, even Dink, for a time, forgot the approaching hour of his revenge in the great catastrophe. The next morning a little comfort was given them in the report of Doctor Charlie that there was no sprain but only a slight wrenching, which, if all went well, would allow him to start the game. But the consolation was scant.What chance had Banks in an Andover game? There would have to be a shift; but what?
"Turkey Reiter will have to go from tackle to end," said Dink, that afternoon, as in football togs they gathered on the steps before the game, "and put a sub in Turkey's place."
"Who?"
"I don't know."
"I guess you don't."
"Might bring Butcher Stevens back from center."
"Who'd go in at center?"
"Fatty Harris, perhaps."
"Hello—here's Garry Cockrell now," said P. Lentz. "He don't look particular cheerful, does he?"
The captain, looking indeed very serious, arrived, surveyed the group and called Stover out. Dink, surprised, jumped up, saying:
"You want me, sir?"
"Yes."
Cockrell put his arm under his and drew him away.
"Stover," he said, "I've got bad news for you."
"For me?"
"Yes. I'm not going to let you go in the Woodhull game this afternoon."
Stover received the news as though it had been the death of his entire family, immediateand distant. His throat choked, he tried to say something and did not dare trust himself.
"I'm sorry, my boy—but we're up against it, and I can't take any risks now of your getting hurt."
"It means the game," said Dink at last.
"I'm afraid so."
"We've no one to put in my place—no one but Beekstein Hall," said Stover desperately. "Oh, please, sir, let me play; I'll be awfully careful. It's only a House game."
"Humph—yes, I know these House games. I'm sorry, but there's no help for it."
"But I'm only a scrub, sir," said Stover, pleading hard.
"We're going to play you at end," said Cockrell suddenly, seeing he did not understand, "just as soon as we have to take Banks out; and Heaven only knows when that'll be."
Dink was aghast.
"You're not going—you're not going——" he tried to speak, and stopped.
"Yes, we've talked it over and that seems best."
"But—Turkey Reiter—I—I thought you'd move him out."
"No, we don't dare weaken the middle; it's bad enough now."
"Oh, but I'm so light."
The captain watched the terror-stricken look in his face and was puzzled.
"What's the matter? You're not getting shaky?"
"Oh, no, sir," said Dink, "it's not that. It—it seems so awful that you've got to put me in."
"You're better, my boy, than you think," said Cockrell, smiling a little, "and you're going to be better than you know how. Now you understand why you've got to keep on the side-lines this afternoon. You're too fragile to take risks on."
"Yes, I understand."
"It comes hard, doesn't it?"
"Yes, sir, it does; very hard."
When the Kennedy and the Woodhull lined up for play an hour later little Pebble Stone was at end in place of Stover, who watched from his post as linesman the contest that was to have been his opportunity. He heard nothing of the buzzing comments behind, of the cheers or the shouted entreaties. Gaze fixed and heart in throat, he followed the swaying tide of battle, imprisoned, powerless to rush in and stem the disheartening advance.
The teams, now more evenly matched, both showed the traces of tense nerves in the frequent fumbling that kept the ball changing sides and prevented a score during the first half.
In the opening of the second half, by a lucky recovery of a blocked kick, the Kennedy scored a touchdown, but failed to kick the goal, making the score four to nothing. The Woodhull then began a determined assault upon the Kennedy's weak end. Stover, powerless, beheld little Pebble Stone, fighting like grim death, carried back and back five, ten yards at a time as the Woodhull swept up the field.
"It's the only place they can gain," he cried in his soul in bitter iteration.
He looked around and caught the eye of Captain Cockrell and sent him a mute, agonizing, fruitless appeal.
"Kennedy's ball," came the sharp cry of Slugger Jones, the umpire.
Dink looked up and felt the blood come back to his body again—on the twenty-five yard line there had been a fumble and the advance was checked. Twice again the battered end of the Kennedy was forced back for what seemed certain touchdowns, only to be saved by loose work on the Woodhull's part. It was getting dark and the half was ebbing fast—three minutes more to play. A fourth time the Woodhull furiously attacked the breach, gaining at every rush over the light opposition, past the forty-yard line, past the twenty-yard mark and triumphantly, in the last minute of play, over the goalfor a touchdown. The ball had been downed well to the right of the goal posts and the trial for goal was an unusually difficult one. The score was a tie, everything depended on the goal that, through the dusk, Tough McCarty was carefully sighting. Dink, heartbroken, despairing, leaning on his linesman's staff, directly behind the ball, waited for the long, endless moments to be over. Then there was a sudden movement of McCarty's body, a wild rush from the Kennedy and the ball shot high in the air and, to Stover's horror, passed barely inside the farther goalpost.
"No goal," said Slugger Jones. "Time up."
Dink raised his head in surprise, scarcely crediting what he had heard. The Woodhull team were furiously disputing the decision, encouraged by audible comments from the spectators. Slugger Jones, surrounded by a contesting, vociferous mass, suddenly swept them aside and began to take the vote of the officials.
"Kiefer, what do you say?"
Cap Kiefer, referee, shook his head.
"I'm sorry, Slugger, it was close, very close, but it did seem a goal to me."
"Tug, what do you say?"
"Goal, sure," said Tug Wilson, linesman for the Woodhull. At this, jeers and hoots broke out from the Kennedy.
"Of course he'll say that!"
"He's from the Woodhull."
"What do you think?"
"Justice!"
"Hold up, hold up, now," said Slugger Jones, more excited than any one. "Don't get excited; it's up to your own man. Dink, was it a goal or no goal?"
Stover suddenly found himself in a whirling, angry mass—the decision of the game in his own hands. He saw the faces of Tough McCarty and the Coffee-colored Angel in the blank crowd about him and he saw the sneer on their faces as they waited for his answer. Then he saw the faces of his own teammates and knew what they, in their frenzy, expected from him.
He hesitated.
"Goal or no goal?" cried the umpire, for the second time.
Then suddenly, face to face with the hostile mass, the fighting blood came to Dink. Something cold went up his back. He looked once more above the riot, to the shadowy posts, trying to forget Tough McCarty, and then, with a snap to his jaws, he answered:
"Goal."