The Half-Back Part 14

"I've changed my room, and haven't seen Cloud since to speak to," he said. And so Cloud's name was omitted from discussion.

"I'm sorry," said Clausen, "that I made such a dunce of myself when you were trying to get me out. I don't believe I knew what I was doing. I don't remember it at all."

"I'm sure you didn't," answered Joel. "I guess a fellow just naturally wouldn't, you know. But I was glad when you let go!"

"Yes, you must have been. The fellows all say you were terribly plucky to keep at it the way you did. When they got you it was all they could do to make you let go of me, they say."

"The queerest thing," said West, with a laugh, "was to see Post standing on sh.o.r.e and trying to throw a line to you all. It never came within twenty yards of you, but he kept on shouting: 'Catch hold--catch hold, can't you? Why don't you catch hold, you stupid apes?'"

"And some one told me," said Sproule, "that Whipple took his shoes, sweater, and breeches off, and swam out there with his nose-guard on."

"Used it for a life-preserver," suggested West.--"Did you get lectured, Clausen?"

"Yes, he gave it to me hard; but he's a nice old duffer, after all. Said I had had pretty near punishment enough. But I've got to keep in bounds all term, and can't go on the river again until I learn how to swim."

"Shouldn't think you'd want to," answered Sproule.

"Are you still on probation, March?" asked Clausen.

"Yes, and it doesn't look as though I'd ever get off. If I could find out who cut that rope I'd--I'd--"

"Well, I must be going back," exclaimed Clausen hurriedly. "I wish, March, you'd come and see me some time. My room's 16 Warren. I'm in with a junior by the name of Bowler. Know him?"

Joel didn't know the junior, but promised to call, and West and Clausen said good-night and stumbled down the stairway together.

The next morning Joel dashed out from his history recitation plump into Stephen Remsen, who was on his way to the office.

"Well, March, congratulations! I'm just back from a trip home and was going to look you up this afternoon and shake hands with you. I'll do it now. You're a modest-enough-looking hero, March."

"I don't feel like a hero, either," laughed Joel in an endeavor to change the subject. "I'm just out from Greek history, and if I could tell Mr. Oman what I think--"

"Yes? But tell me, how did you manage--But we'll talk about that some other time. You're feeling all right after the wetting, are you?" And as Joel answered yes, he continued: "Do you think you could go to work again on the team if I could manage to get you off probation?"

"Try me!" cried Joel. "Do you think they'll let up on me?"

"I'm almost certain of it. I'm on my way now to see Professor Wheeler, and I'll ask him about you. I have scarcely any doubt but that, after your conduct the other day, he will consent to reinstate you, March, if I ask him. And I shall be mighty glad to do so. To tell the truth, I'm worried pretty badly about--well, never mind. Never cross a river until you come to it."

"But, Mr. Remsen, sir," said Joel, "do you mean that he will let me play just because--just on account of what happened the other day?"

"On account of that and because your general conduct has been of the best; and also, because they have all along believed you innocent of the charge, March. You know I told you that when Cloud and Clausen were examined each swore that the other had not left the room that evening, and accounted for each other's every moment all that day. But, nevertheless, I am positive that Professor Wheeler took little stock in their testimony. And as for Professor Durkee, why, he pooh-pooed the whole thing. You seem to have made a conquest of Professor Durkee, March."

"He was very kind," answered Joel thoughtfully. "I don't believe, Mr.

Remsen, that I want to be let off that way," he went on. "I'm no less guilty of cutting the bell rope than I was before the accident on the river. And until I can prove that I am not guilty, or until they let me off of their own free wills, I'd rather stay on probation. But I'm very much obliged to you, Mr. Remsen."

And to this resolve Joel adhered, despite all Remsen's powers of persuasion. And finally that gentleman continued on his way to the office, looking very worried.

The cause of his worry was known to the whole school two days later when the news was circulated that Wesley Blair was on probation. And great was the consternation. The football game with St. Eustace Academy was fast approaching, and there was no time to train a satisfactory subst.i.tute for Blair's position at full-back, even had one been in reach. And Whipple as temporary captain was well enough, but Whipple as captain during the big game was not to be thought of with equanimity.

The backs had already been weakened by the loss of Cloud, who, despite his poor showing the first of the season, had it in him to put up a rattling game. And now to lose Blair! What did the faculty mean? Did it want Hillton to lose? But presently hope took the place of despair among the pupils. He was going to coach up and pa.s.s a special exam the day before the game. Professor Ludlow was to help him with his modern languages and Remsen with his mathematics, while Digbee, that confirmed old grind, had offered to coach him on Greek. And so it would be all right, said the school; you couldn't down Blair; he'd pa.s.s when the time came!

But Remsen--and Blair himself, had the truth been known--were not so hopeful. And Remsen went to West and besought him to induce Joel to allow him (Remsen) to ask for his reinstatement. And this West very readily did, bringing to bear a whole host of arguments which slid off from Joel like water from a duck's back. And Remsen groaned and shook his head, but always presented a smiling, cheerful countenance in public. Those were hard days for the first eleven. Despair and discouragement threatened on all sides, and, as every thoughtful one expected, there was such a slump in the practice as kept Remsen and Whipple and poor Blair awake o' nights during the next week. But Whipple toiled like a Trojan, and Remsen beamed contentment and scattered tongue-las.h.i.+ngs alternately; and Blair, ever armed with a text-book, watched from the side-line whenever the chance offered.

Joel seldom went to the field those days. The sight of a canvas-clad player made him ready to weep, and a soaring pigskin sent him wandering away by himself along the river bluff in no enviable state of mind. But one day he did find his way to the gridiron during practice, and he and Blair sat side by side, or raced down the field, even with a runner, and received much consolation in the sort of company that misery loves, and, deep in discussion of the faults and virtues of the players, forgot their troubles.

"Why, it wouldn't have mattered if you were playing, March," said Blair.

"For there's no harm in telling you now that we were depending on you for half the punting. Remsen thinks you are fine and so do I. 'With March to take half the punting off your hands,' said he one day, 'you'll have plenty of time to run the team to the Queen's taste.' Why, we had you running on the track there, so you would get your lungs filled out and be able to run with the ball as well as kick it. If you were playing we'd be all right. But as it is, there isn't a player there that can be depended on to punt twenty yards if pushed. Some of 'em can't even catch the ball if they happen to see the line breaking! St. Eustace is eight pounds heavier in the line than we are, and three or four pounds heavier back of it. So what will happen? Why, they'll get the ball and push us right down the field with a lot of measly ma.s.s plays, and we won't be able to kick and we won't be able to go through their line. And it's dollars to doughnuts that we won't often get round their ends. It's a hard outlook! Of course, if I can pa.s.s--" But there Blair stopped and sighed dolefully. And Joel echoed the sigh.

The last few days before the event of the term came, and found the first eleven in something approaching their old form. Blair continued to burn the midnight oil and consume page after page of Greek and mathematics and German, which, as he confided despondently to Digbee, he promptly forgot the next moment. Remsen made up a certain amount of lost sleep, and Whipple gained the confidence of the team. Joel studied hard, and refound his old interest in lessons, and dreamed nightly of the Goodwin scholars.h.i.+p. West, too, "put in some hard licks," as he phrased it, and found himself climbing slowly up in the cla.s.s scale. And so the day of the game came round.

The night preceding it two things of interest happened: the eleven and subst.i.tutes a.s.sembled in the gymnasium and listened to a talk by Remsen, which was designed less for instruction than to take the boys' mind off the morrow's game; and Wesley Blair took his examination in the four neglected studies, and made very hard work of it, and finally crawled off to a sleepless night, leaving the professors to make their decision alone.

And as the chapel bell began to ring on Thanksgiving Day morning, Digbee entered Blair's room, and finding that youth in a deep slumber, sighed, wrote a few words on a sheet of paper, placed this in plain sight upon the table, and tiptoed noiselessly out.

And the message read:

"We failed on the Greek. I'm sorrier than I can tell you.--Digbee."

CHAPTER XIII

THE GAME WITH ST. EUSTACE.

There is a tradition at Hillton, almost as firmly inwrought as that which credits Professor Durkee with wearing a wig, to the effect that Thanksgiving Day is always rainy. To-day proved an exception to the rule. The sun shone quite warmly and scarce a cloud was to be seen. At two o'clock the grand stand was filled, and late arrivals had perforce to find accommodations on the gra.s.s along the side-lines. Some fifty lads had accompanied their team from St. Eustace, and the portion of the stand where they sat was blue from top to bottom. But the crimson of Hillton fluttered and waved on either side and dotted the field with little spots of vivid color wherever a Hilltonian youth or ally sat, strolled, or lay.

Yard and village were alike well-nigh deserted; here was the staid professor, the corpulent grocer, the irrepressible small boy, the important-looking senior, the shouting, careless junior, the giggling sister, the smiling mother, the patronizing papa, the crimson-bedecked waitress from the boarding house, the--the--band! Yes, by all means, the band!

There was no chance of overlooking the band. It stood at the upper end of the field and played and played and played. The band never did things by halves. When it played it played; and, as Outfield West affirmed, "it played till the cows came home!"

There were plenty of familiar faces here to-day; Professor Gibbs's, old "Peg-Leg" Duffy's, Professor Durkee's, the village postmaster's, "Old Joe" Pike's, and many, many others. On the ground just outside the rope sat West and a throng of boys from Hampton House. There were Cooke and Cartwright and Somers and Digbee--and yes, Wesley Blair, looking very glum and unhappy. He had donned his football clothes, perhaps from force of habit, and sat there taking little part in the conversation, but studying attentively the blue-clad youths who were warming-up on the gridiron. A very stalwart lot of youngsters, those same youths looked to be, and handled the ball as though to the manner born, and pa.s.sed and fell and kicked short high punts with discouraging ease and vim.

But one acquaintance at least was missing. Not Bartlett Cloud, for he sat with his sister and mother on the seats; not Clausen, for he sat among the subst.i.tutes; not Sproule, since he was present but a moment since. But Joel March was missing. In his room at Masters Hall Joel sat by the table with a Greek history open before him. I fear he was doing but little studying, for now and then he arose from his chair, walked impatiently to the window, from which he could see in the distance the thronged field, bright with life and color, turned impatiently away, sighed, and so returned again to his book. But surely we can not tarry there with Joel when Hillton and St. Eustace are about to meet in gallant if bloodless combat on the campus. Let us leave him to sigh and sulk, and return to the gridiron.

A murmur that rapidly grows to a shout arises from the grand stand, and suddenly every eye is turned up the river path toward the school. They are coming! A little band of canvas-armored knights are trotting toward the campus. The shouting grows in volume, and the band changes its tune to "Hilltonians." Nearer and nearer they come, and then are swinging on to the field, leaping the rope, and throwing aside sweaters and coats.

Big Greer is in the lead, good-natured and smiling. Then comes Whipple, then Warren, and the others are in a bunch--Post, Christie, Fenton, Littlefield, Barnard, Turner, Cote, Wills. The St. Eustace contingent gives them a royal welcome, and West and Cooke and Somers and others take their places in front of the seats and lead the cheering.

"Rah-rah-rah, rah-rah-rah, rah-rah-rah, Hillton!" The mighty chorus sweeps across the campus and causes more than one player's heart to swell within him.

"S-E-A, S-E-A, S-E-A, Saint Eustace!" What the cheer lacks in volume is atoned for by good will, and a clapping of hands from the hostile seats attests admiration. Hillton is warming for the fray. Greer and Whipple are practicing snapping-back, the latter pa.s.sing the ball to Warren, who seizes it and runs a few steps to a new position, where the play is repeated. The guards and tackles are throwing themselves on to the ground and clutching rolling footb.a.l.l.s in a way that draws a shudder of alarm from the feminine observer. Stephen Remsen is talking with the ends very earnestly under the goal posts, and Post and Wills are aiming b.a.l.l.s at the goal with, it must be acknowledged, small success.

Then a whistle blows, the two teams congregate in the center of the field, the opposing captains flip a coin, the referee, a Yates College man, utters a few words of warning, and the teams separate, St. Eustace taking the ball and the home team choosing the northern goal. Then the cheering lessens. St. Eustace spreads out; Cantrell, their center, places the ball; the referee's whistle sounds, the pigskin soars aloft, and the game is on.

In charity toward Hillton let us pa.s.s over the first half as soon as may be. Suffice to tell that the wearers of the crimson fought their best; that Whipple ran the team as well as even Remsen could desire; that Post made a startling run of forty yards, had only the St. Eustace full-back between him and the goal--and then ran plump into that full-back's arms; that Greer and Barnard and Littlefield stood like a stone wall--and went down like one; that Wills kicked, and Post kicked, and Warren kicked, and none of them accomplished aught save to wring groans from the souls of all who looked on. In short, it was St. Eustace's half from kick-off to call of time, and all because Hillton had never a youth behind the line to kick out of danger or gain them a yard. For St. Eustace was heavier in the line than Hillton and heavier back of it, and with the ball once in her possession St. Eustace had only to hammer away at center, guard, or tackle with "guards back" or "tandem," to score eventually. And that is what she did. And yet four times did Hillton hold St. Eustace literally on her goal-line and take the ball. And each time by hook or crook, by a short, weak punt or a clever, das.h.i.+ng run around end, did Hillton win back a portion of her lost territory, only to lose it again at the second or third attempt to advance the ball.

The halves were twenty-five minutes long, and in that first twenty-five minutes St. Eustace scored but once, though near it thrice that many times. Allen, St. Eustace's right half-back, had plunged over the line for a touch-down at the end of fifteen minutes of play and Terrill had missed an easy goal. Then the grand stand was silent save for one small patch, whereon blue flags went crazy and swirled and leaped and danced up and down as though possessed of life. And over the field sped, sharp and triumphant, the St. Eustace cheer. And the score stood: St. Eustace 5, Hillton O.

The first half ended with the leather but ten yards from the north goal, and a great murmuring sigh of relief went up from the seats and from along the side-lines when the whistle sounded. Then the Hillton players, pale, dirty, half defeated, trotted lamely off the field and around the corner of the stand to the little weather-beaten shed which served for dressing room. And the blue-clad team trotted joyfully down to their stage, and there, behind the canvas protections were rubbed down and plastered up, and slapped on the back by their delighted coach and trainer.