Behind the line Part 8

"Well, I guess he was in better trim then," answered Cowan. "Besides, he's built well, you see--most of his weight below his waist; when a chap's that way it's hard to pull him over. I remember last year in the game with Erstham I got through their tackle on a guard-back play, and--"

But Neil had already heard that story of heroic deeds, and so lent a deaf ear to Cowan's boasting. When they reached Main Street a window full of the first issue of the college weekly, The Erskine Purple, met their sight, and they went in and bought copies. On the steps of the laboratory building they opened the inky-smelling journals and glanced through them.

"Here's an account of last night's election," said Cowan. "That's quick work, isn't it? And you can read all about Livingston's brilliant career, Gale. By the way, have you met him yet?"

Paul shook his head. "No, and I'm bearing up under it as well as can be expected."

"You're not missing much," said Cowan. "h.e.l.lo, here's the football schedule! Want to hear it?" Paul said he did, Neil muttered something unintelligible, and Cowan read as follows:

"E.C.F.B.A.

"SCHEDULE OF GAMES

"Oct. 12. Woodby at Centerport.

" 16. Dexter at Centerport.

" 23. Harvard at Cambridge.

" 26. Erstham at Centerport.

Nov. 2. State University at Centerport.

" 6. Arrowden at Centerport.

" 9. Yale at New Haven.

" 16. Artmouth at Centerport.

" 23. Robinson at Centerport."

"By Jove!" said Cowan. "We've got seven home games this year! That's fine, isn't it? But I'll bet we'll find Woodby a tough proposition on the 12th. Last year we played her about the 1st of November, and she didn't do a thing to us. And look at the game they've got scheduled for a week before the Robinson game! That'll wear us out; Artmouth will put just about half of our men on the sick-list. And--h.e.l.lo!" he said, dropping his voice; "talk of an angel!"

A youth of apparently nineteen years was approaching them. He was of moderate height, rather slimly built, with dark eyes and hair, and clean-cut features. He swung a note-book in one hand, and was evidently in deep thought, for he failed to see the group on the steps, and would have pa.s.sed without speaking had not Cowan called to him. Housed from his reverie, Fanwell Livingston glanced up, and, after nodding to Cowan and Neil, turned in at the gate.

"I suppose you want congratulations," said Cowan. "Well, you can have mine."

"And mine," added Neil. "And Gale here will extend his as soon as he's properly introduced. Mr. Gale--Mr. Livingston."

"Victory--Defeat," added Cowan with a grin. The two candidates for the freshman presidency shook hands, Paul without enthusiasm, Livingston heartily.

"Congratulations, of course," murmured the former.

"Thank you," answered the president. "You're very generous. After all, I dare say you've got the best of it, for you'll have the satisfaction of knowing that if the fellows had chosen you you would have done much better than I shall. However, I hope we'll be friends, Mr. Gale."

Livingston's smile was undeniably winning, and Paul was forced to return it.

"You're very good," he answered quite affably. "I hope we will."

Livingston nodded, smiled again, and turned to Cowan.

"Well, they tell me you fellows are in for desperate deeds this year,"

he said.

"How's that?" asked Cowan.

"Aren't you in on the soph.o.m.ore councils? Why, I'm told that if the freshmen don't give up the dinner plan I'm to be kidnaped."

"How'd you hear--" began Cowan. Then he paused with some confusion. "Who told you that rot?" he asked with a laugh.

"Oh, it came in a roundabout way," answered Livingston. "I dare say it's just talk."

"Some freshman nonsense," said Cowan. "I guess we'll do our best to keep you fellows from eating too much, but--" He shrugged his big shoulders.

Livingston, observing him shrewdly, began for the first time since intelligence of the supposed project had reached him to give credence to it. But he laughed carelessly as he turned away.

"Oh, well, we have to keep you fellows amused, of course, and if you like to try kidnaping you may."

"I wish the sophs would try it," said Neil warmly. Cowan turned to him.

"Well, if they did--_if_ they did--I guess they'd succeed," he drawled.

"Well, if they do--_if_ they do," answered Neil, "I'll bet they won't succeed."

"You'd stop us, perhaps?" sneered Cowan.

"Easily," answered Neil, smiling sweetly; "there are only a hundred or so of you."

"There's no one like a week-old freshman for self-importance," Cowan said, laughing in order to hide his vexation.

"Unless it's a third-year soph.o.m.ore," Neil retorted.

"Oh, well," Paul interposed, "it's all poppyc.o.c.k, anyhow."

"That's all," said Livingston.

"Of course," agreed Cowan.

Neil was silent.

CHAPTER VII

THE GENTLE ART OF HANDLING PUNTS

Life now was filled with hard work for both Neil and Paul. Much of the novelty that had at first invested study with an exhilarating interest had worn off, and they had settled down to the daily routine of lectures and recitations just as though they had been Erskine undergrads for years instead of a week. The study and the adjoining bed-room were at last furnished to suit; The First Snow was hung, the "rug for the wash-stand" was in place, and the objectionable towel-rack had given way to a smaller but less erratic affair.

Every afternoon saw the two boys on Erskine Field. Mills was a hard taskmaster, but one that inspired the utmost confidence, and as a result of some ten days' teaching the half hundred candidates who had survived the first weeding-out process were well along in the art of football.

The new men were coached daily in the rudiments; were taught to punt and catch, to fall on the ball, to pa.s.s without fumbling, to start quickly, and to run hard. Exercise in the gymnasium still went on, but the original twenty-minute period had gradually diminished to ten. Neil and Paul, with certain other candidates for the back-field, were daily instructed in catching punts and forming interference. Every afternoon the practise was watched by a throng of students who were quick to applaud good work, and whose presence was a constant incentive to the players. There was a strong sentiment throughout the college in favor of leaving nothing undone that might secure a victory over Robinson. The defeat of the previous year rankled, and Erskine was grimly determined to square accounts with her lifelong rival. As one important means to this end the college was searched through and through for heavy material, for Robinson always turned out teams that, whatever might be their playing power, were beef and brawn from left end to right. And so at Erskine men who didn't know a football from a goal-post were hauled from studious retirement simply because they had weight and promised strength, and were duly tried and, usually, found wanting. One lucky find, however, rewarded the search, a two-hundred-pound soph.o.m.ore named Browning, who, handicapped at the start with a colossal ignorance regarding all things pertaining to the gridiron, learned with wonderful rapidity, and gave every promise of turning himself into a phenomenal guard or tackle.

On the 5th of October a varsity and a second squad were formed, and Neil and Paul found themselves at left and right half respectively on the latter. Cowan was back at right-guard on the varsity, a position which he had played satisfactorily the year before. Neil had already made the discovery that he had, despite his Hillton experience, not a little to learn, and he set about learning it eagerly. Paul made the same discovery, but, unfortunately for himself, the discovery wounded his pride, and he accepted the criticisms of coach and captain with rather ill grace.

"That dub Devoe makes me very weary," he confided to Neil one afternoon.

"He thinks he knows it all and no one else has any sense."

"He doesn't strike me that way," answered his chum. "And I think he does know a good deal of football."

"You always stick up for him," growled Paul. "And for Mills, too--white-haired, freckle-faced chump!"