The Half Back - Ralph Henry Barbour
He received one day a letter forwarded from Marchdale which bore the
signature of the captain of the Harwell Varsity Football Eleven. It
asked him to keep in practice during the summer, and, if convenient, to
report on the field two days before the commencement of the term.
Remsen's name was mentioned and Joel knew that he had him to thank for
the letter.
The friends had decided to take a room together, and had applied for one
in the spring. Much to their gratification they were given a third floor
room in Mayer, one of the best of the older college dormitories. When
the time came for going East both West and Joel were impatient to be on
the way. Mrs. West accompanied the boys, and the little party reached
the old, elm-embowered college town four days before the opening of the
term. Agreeably to the request of the football captain, Joel reported on
the field in football togs the day after reaching town, and was given a
cordial welcome. Captain Button was not there, but returned with the
Varsity squad from a week's practice at a neighboring village two
days later.
Mrs. West meanwhile toiled ceaselessly at furnishing the boys' room, and
the result was a revelation to Joel, to whom luxurious lounges and
chairs, and attractive engravings, were things hitherto admired and
longed for from a distance. And then, bidding a farewell to the lads,
Outfield's mother took her departure for home, and they were left
practically rulers of all they surveyed, and, if the truth were told, a
trifle sobered by the suddenness of their plunge into independence.
And one warm September day the college bell rang for chapel and the two
lads had begun a new, important, and to them exciting chapter of
their lives.
CHAPTER XVII.
THE SACRED ORDER OF HULLABALOOLOO.
Picture a mild, golden afternoon in early October, the yellowing green
of Sailors' Field mellow and warm in the sunlight, the river winding its
sluggish way through the broad level marshes like a ribbon of molten
gold, and the few great fleecy bundles of white clouds sailing across
the deep blue of the sky like froth upon some placid stream. Imagine a
sound of fresh voices, mellowed by a little distance, from where, to and
fro, walking, trotting, darting, but ever moving like the particles in a
kaleidoscope, many squads of players were practicing on the football
field. Such, then, is the picture that would have rewarded your gaze had
you passed through the gate and stood near the simple granite shaft
which rises under the shade of the trees to commemorate the little
handful of names it bears.
Had you gone on across the intervening turf until the lengthened shadow
of the nearest goal post was reached you would have seen first a
squad--a veritable awkward squad--arranged in a ragged circle and
passing a football with much mishandling and many fumbles. Further along
you would have seen a long line of youths standing. Their general
expression was one of alertness bordering on alarm. The casual observer
would have thought each and every one insane, as, suddenly darting from
the line, one after another, they flung themselves upon the ground,
rolled frantically about as though in spasms, and then arose and went
back into the rank. But had you observed carefully you would have
noticed that each spasm was caused by a rolling ball, wobbling its
erratic way across the turf before them.
Around about, in and out, forms darted after descending spheroids, or
seized a ball from outstretched hands, started desperately into motion,
charged a few yards, and then, as though reconsidering, turned and
trotted back, only to repeat the performance the next moment. And
footballs banged against broad backs with hollow sounds, or rolled about
between stoutly clad feet, or ascended into the air in great arching
flights. And a babel of voices was on all sides, cries of warning, sharp
commands, scathing denouncements.
"Straighten your arm, man; that's not a baseball!" "Faster, faster! Put
some ginger into it!" "Get on your toes, Smith. Start when you see the
ball coming. This isn't a funeral!" "Don't stoop for the ball; fall on
it! The ground will catch you!" "Jones, what _are_ you doing? Wake up."
"No, _no_, NO! Great Scott, the ball won't _bite_ you!"
The period was that exasperating one known as "the first two weeks,"
when coaches are continually upon the border of insanity and players
wonder dumbly if the game is worth the candle. To-day Joel, one of a
squad of unfortunates, was relearning the art of tackling. It was Joel's
first experience with that marvelous contrivance, "the dummy." One after
another the squad was sent at a sharp spurt to grapple the inanimate
canvas-covered bag hanging inoffensively there, like a body from a
gallows, between the uprights.
There are supposed to be two ways to tackle, but the coach who was
conducting the operations to-day undoubtedly believed in the existence
of at least thrice that number; for each candidate for Varsity honors
tackled the dummy in a totally different style. The lift tackle is
performed by seizing the opponent around the legs below the hips,
bringing his knees together so that further locomotion is an
impossibility to him, and lifting him upward off the ground and
depositing him as far backward toward his own goal as circumstances and
ability will permit. The lift tackle is the easiest to make. The dive
tackle pertains to swimming and suicide. Running toward the opponent,
the tackler leaves the ground when at a distance of a length and a half
and dives at the runner, aiming to tackle a few inches below the hips. A
dive tackle well done always accomplishes a well-defined pause in the
runner's progress.
Joel was having hard work of it. Time and again he launched himself at
the swaying legs, bringing the canvas man to earth, but always picking
himself up to find the coach observing him very, very coldly, and to
hear that exasperating gentleman ask sarcastically if he (Joel) thinks
he is playing "squat tag." And then the dummy would swing back into
place, harboring no malice or resentment for the rough handling, and
Joel would take his place once more and watch the next man's attempt,
finding, I fear, some consolation in the "roast" accorded to the latter.
It was toward the latter part of the second week of college. Joel had
practiced every day except Sundays, and had just arrived at the
conclusion that football as played at Harwell was no relation, not even
a distant cousin to the game of a similar name played at Hillton. Of
course he was wrong, since intercollegiate football, whether played by
schoolboys or college students, is still intercollegiate football. The
difference lies only in the state of development. At Hillton the game,
very properly, was restricted to its more primary methods; at Harwell it
is developed to its uttermost limits. It is the difference between whist
over the library table and whist at the whist club.
But all things come to an end, and at length the coach rather
ungraciously declared he could stand no more and bade them join the rest
of the candidates for the run. That run was two miles, and Joel finally
stumbled into the gymnasium tuckered out and in no very good temper just
as the five o'clock whistle on the great printing house sounded.
After dinner in the dining hall that evening Joel confided his doubts
and vexations to Outfield as they walked back to their room. "I wouldn't
care if I thought I was making any progress," he wailed, "but each day
it gets worse. To-day I couldn't seem to do a start right, and as for
tackling that old dummy, why--"
"Well, you did as well as the other chaps, didn't you?" asked Outfield.
"I suppose so. He gave it to us all impartially."
"Well, there you are. He can't tell you you're the finest young tacklers
that ever happened, because you'd all get swelled craniums and not do
another lick of work. I know the sort of fellow he is. He'll never tell
you that you are doing well; only when he's satisfied with you he'll
pass you on. You see. And don't you care what he says. Just go on and do
the best you know how. Blair told me to-day that if you tried you could
make the Varsity before the season is over. What do you think of that?
He says the coaches are puzzling their brains to find a man that's fit
to take the place of Dangfield, who was left-half last year."
"I dare say," answered Joel despondently, "but Durston will never let me
stop tackling that dummy arrangement. I'll be taking falls out of it all
by myself when the Yates game is going on. Who invented that
thing, anyhow?"
But, nevertheless, Joel's spirits were very much better when the two
lads reached the room and West had turned on the soft light of the
argand. And taking their books in hand, and settling comfortably back in
the two great cozy armchairs, they were soon busily reading.
Hazing has "gone out" at Harwell, and so, when at about nine the two
boys beard many footfalls outside their door, and when in response to
West's loud "Come" five mysterious and muffled figures in black masks
entered they were somewhat puzzled what to think.
"March?" asked a deep voice.
"Yes," answered Joel with a wondering frown.
"West?"
"Yep. What in thunder do you want? And who in thunder are you?"
"Freshies, aren't you?" continued the inexorable voice. The maskers had
closed and locked the door behind them, and now stood in rigid
inquisitorial postures between it and the table.
"None of your business," answered West crossly. "Get out, will you?"
"Not until our duties are done," answered the mask. "You are freshies,
nice, new, tender little freshies. We are here to initiate you into the
mysteries of the Sacred Order of Hullabalooloo. Stand up!" Neither
moved; they were already standing, West puzzled and angry, Joel
wondering and amused.
"Well, sit down, then," commanded the voice. Joel looked meaningly at
Outfield, and as the latter nodded the two rushed at the members of the
Sacred Order of Hullabalooloo. But the latter were prepared. Over went
the nearest armchair, down from the wall with a clatter came a rack of
books, and this way and that swayed the forms of the maskers and the
two roommates. The battle was short but decisive, and when it was done,
Joel lay gasping on the floor and Outfield sprawled breathless on
the couch.
"Will you give up?" asked the first mask.
"Yes," growled West, and Joel echoed him.
"Then you may get up," responded the mask. "But, mind you, no tricks!"
Joel thought he heard the sound of muffled laughter from one of the
masks as he arose and arranged his damaged attire. "Freshman March will
favor us with a song," announced the mask.
"I can't sing a word," answered Joel.
"You must. Hullabalooloo decrees it."
"Then Hullabalooloo can come and make me," retorted Joel stubbornly.
"What," asked the mask in a deep, grewsome voice, "what is the penalty
for disobedience?"
"Tossed in the blanket," answered the other four in unison.
"You hear, Freshman March?" asked the mask. "Choose."
"I'll sing, I guess," answered Joel, with a grin. But West jumped up.
"Don't you do it, Joel! They can't make you sing! And they can't make me
sing; and the first one that comes in reach will get knocked down!"
"Oh, well, I don't mind singing," answered Joel. "That is, I don't mind
trying. If they can stand it, I can. What shall I sing?"
"What do you know?"
"I only know one song. I'll sing that, but on one condition."
"Name it?" answered the mask.
"That you'll join in and sing the chorus."
There was a moment of hesitation; then the masks nodded, and Joel
mounted to a chair and with a comical grimace of despair at West, who
sat scowling on the couch, he began:
"There is a flag of crimson hue,
The fairest flag that flieth,
Whose folds wave over hearts full true,
As nobody denieth.
Here's to the School, the School so dear;
Here's to the soil it's built on!
Here's to the heart, or far or near,
That loves the Flag of Hillton.'"
Joel was not much of a singer, but his voice was good and he sang as
though he meant it. Outfield sat unresponsive until the verse was nearly
done; then he moved restlessly and waited for the chorus, and when it
came joined in with the rest; and the strains of Hilltonians rang
triumphantly through the building.
"Hilltonians, Hilltonians, your crimson banner fling
Unto the breeze, and 'neath its folds your anthem loudly sing!
Hilltonians, Hilltonians, our loyalty we'll prove
Beneath the flag, the crimson flag, the bonny flag we love!"
The Knights of the Sacred Order of Hullabalooloo signified their
approval and demanded the next verse. And Joel sang it. And when the
chorus came the maskers lost much of their dignity and waved their arms
about and shouted the refrain so loud that doors up and down the hall
opened and wondering voices shouted "Shut up!" or "More! M-o-r-e!" for
two minutes after. As the last word was reached Joel leaned quickly
forward toward an unsuspicious singer, and, snatching the mask from his
face, revealed the countenance of Louis Whipple.
And then, amid much laughter, the other masks were slipped off, and the
remaining members of the Sacred Order of Hullabalooloo stood revealed as
Blair, Cartwright, Somers, and Cooke.
And Outfield, joining in the laugh at his own expense, was seized by
Cooke and waltzed madly around the table, while the rest once more
raised the strains of Hilltonians:
"Hilltonians, Hilltonians, your crimson banner fling
Unto the breeze, and 'neath its folds your anthem loudly sing!
Hilltonians, Hilltonians, we stand to do or die,
Beneath the flag, the crimson flag, that waves for victory!"
CHAPTER XVIII.
VISITORS FROM MARCHDALE.
Despite Joel's dark forebodings, he was at last released from tackling
practice. And with that moment he began to take hope for better things.
Under the charge of Kent, one of the coaches and an old Harwell half,
Joel was instructed in catching punts till his arms ached and his eyes
watered, and in kicking until he seemed to be one-sided. Starting with
the ball he no longer dreaded, since he had mastered that science and
could now delight the coach by leaping from a stand as though shot from
the mouth of a cannon.
Signals he had no trouble with. His memory was excellent, and he
possessed the faculty of rapid computation; though as yet his brain had
been but little taxed, since the practice code was still in use. At the
end of the third week both Varsity and scrub teams were at length
selected, and Joel, to his delight, found himself playing left-half on
the latter. Two match games a week was now the rule for the Varsity, and
Joel each Wednesday and Saturday might have been found seated under the
fence dividing the gridiron from the grand stand wrapped nearly from
sight, if the afternoon was chilly, in a great gray blanket, and
watching the play with all the excited ardor of the veriest schoolboy on
the stand behind.
One Saturday Prince, the Varsity left-half, twisted his ankle, and Joel
was taken on in his place. They were playing Amherst, and Joel has ever
since held that college in high esteem, for that it was against its
Eleven he made his _debut_ into Harwell football life. And how he
played! The captain smiled as he watched him prance down the field after
a punt, never content to be there in time, but always striving to get
there first, and not seldom succeeding. Once he succeeded too well.
It was in the second half. Blair--it was his first year on the team--was
playing full-back. On a first down he punted the ball a long and rather
low kick into Amherst's territory. Joel bowled over an Amherst end who
was foolish enough to get in the way and started down the field like an
Indian warrior on the war path. The Harwell ends were a little in
advance but off to the sides, and Joel sprinted hard and easily passed
them both. Kingdon, the right half, gave him a good run, but he too was
passed, and Joel reached the Amherst full-back just as that gentleman
turned for the ball, which had passed unexpectedly over his head. The
goal line was but thirty yards distant. Joel saw only the full-back, the
ball, and the goal line. He forgot everything else. A small cyclone
struck the full, and when he picked himself up it was to see a
crimson-legged player depositing the pigskin back of goal and to hear a
roar of laughter from the seats!
Then he yelled "Off side!" at the top of his lungs and tore down on
Joel, and, much to that young gentleman's surprise, strove to wrest the
ball from him. It was quite uncalled for, and Joel naturally resented it
to the extent of pushing violently, palms open, against the Amherst
man's jacket, with the result that the Amherst gentleman sat down
backward forcibly upon the turf at some distance. And again the stands
laughed. But Joel gravely lifted the ball and walked back to the
thirty-yard line with it. The center took it with a grin, and, as the
five yards of penalty for off side was paced, Joel was rewarded for his
play with the muttered query from the captain:
"What were you doing, you idiot?"
But too great zeal is far more excusable than too small, and Joel was
quickly forgiven, and all the more readily, perhaps, since Amherst was
held for downs, and the ball went over on the second next play. But Joel
called himself a great many unpleasant names during the rest of the
game, and for a long while after could not think of his first touch-down
without feeling his cheeks redden. Nevertheless, his manner of getting
down the field under kicks undoubtedly impressed the coaches favorably,
for when the scrub was further pruned to allow it to go to training
table Joel was retained.
One bright October day Joel and Outfield went into town to meet the
former's parents at the station; for Mr. and Mrs. March had long before
made up their minds to the visit, and the two boys had been looking
forward to it for some time. It was worth going a long way to see the
pleasure with which the old farmer and his wife greeted the great
long-legged youth who towered so far above them there on the station
platform. Joel kissed his mother fondly, patted his father patronizingly
but affectionately on the back, and asked fifty questions in as many
minutes. And all his mother could do was to gaze at him in reverent
admiration and sigh, over and over:
"Land sakes, Joel March, how you do grow!"
It must not be thought that West was neglected. Farmer March, in
especial, showed the greatest pleasure at meeting him again, and shook
hands with him four times before the street was reached and the car that
was to carry them to the college town gained. The boys conducted the
visitors to their room, and made lunch for them on a gas stove, Outfield
drawing generously on his private larder, situated under the foot of his
bed. Then the four hunted up a pleasant room in one of the student
boarding houses, and afterward showed the old people through
the college.
There was a good deal to see and many questions to answer, since Joel's
father was not a man to leave an object of interest until he had learned
all there was to be told about it. The elms in the yard were fast losing
their yellow leaves, but the grass yet retained much of its verdancy,
and as for the sky, it was as sweetly blue as on the fairest day in
spring. Up one side of the yard and down the other went the sightseers,
poking into dark hallways, reading tablets and inscriptions, the latter
translated by West into the most startling English, pausing before the
bulletins to have the numerous announcements of society and club
meetings explained, drinking from the old pump in the corner, and so
completing the circuit and storming the gymnasium, where at last Joel's
powers of reply were exhausted and Outfield promptly sprang into the
breech, explaining gravely that the mattresses on the floor were used by
Doctor Major, the director of the gymnasium, who invariably took a
cat-nap during the afternoon, that the suspended rings were used to
elevate sophomores while corporeal punishment was administered by
freshmen, and that the queer little weights in the boxes around the
walls were reserve paper weights.
Then the line of march was taken up toward Sailors' Field, where they
arrived just in time to see the beginning of the practice game between
the Varsity and the scrub. Joel had been excused from attendance that
day, and so he took his seat beside the others on the grand stand and
strove to elucidate the philosophy of football.
"You see the scrubs have the ball. They must get it past the Varsity
down to the end of the field, where they can either put it down over the
line or kick it over that cross-piece there. That's center, that fellow
that's arranging the ball. He kicks off. There it goes, and a good kick,
too. Sometimes the center-rush isn't a good kicker; then some one else
kicks off. Blair has the ball. Look, see him dodge with it. He gained
ten yards that time."
"Oh!" It was Joel's mother who exclaimed. "Why, Joel, that other man
threw him down."
"That's part of the game, mother. He did that to keep Blair from getting
the ball any nearer the scrub's goal. He isn't hurt, you see."
"And do you mean that they do that all the time?"
"Pretty often."
"And do _you_ get thrown around that way, Joel?"
"Sometimes, mother; when I'm lucky enough to get the ball."
"Well, I never."
"Football's not a bad game, Mr. March," West was saying. "But it doesn't
come up to golf, you know. It's too rough."
"It does look a little rough," answered Mr. March. "Do they often get
hurt? Seems as though when a boy had another fellow on his head, and
another on his stomach, and another on his feet, and the whole lot of
them banging away at once, seems like that boy would be a little
uncomfortable."
West laughed.
"Sometimes a fellow has his ankle sprained or a knee twisted, or a
shoulder-bone bust, or something like that. But it isn't often anything
worse occurs."
"Well, I suppose it's all right then. Only when I was a boy we never
went round trying to get our ankles sprained or our collar-bones broke;
you young fellows are tougher than we were, I guess."
"I shouldn't wonder, sir. I believe Joel has been feeling pretty bad for
a long time because he's got nothing worse than a broken finger."
"What? Broke his finger, did he? Eh? He didn't write anything about it;
what's he mean, getting broken to pieces and not telling his parents
about it?" West glanced apprehensively at Joel, but the latter had
missed the conversation, being busy following the progress of Barton, of
the scrub, who was doing a long run along the side line.
"Well, it wasn't much of a break, sir. It's all right now, and I think
he thought you'd be worried, you know. I'm sure if it had been anything
important he would have written at once."
"Humph," grunted Joel's father. "If he's going to break himself in
pieces he'd better stop football. I won't have him taking risks. I'll
tell him so!"
The fifteen-minute half had come to an end, and the players were either
resting on the ground or going through some pass or start under the
tuition of a coach. Suddenly Joel looked down to see Briscom, the scrub
captain, climbing the seats. He ducked his bare head to the others and
sank into the seat at Joel's side.
"Look here, March, can you help us out the next half? They've taken
Webster on the Varsity, and"--he lowered his voice to a confidential
roar--"we want to make a good showing to-day."
"Of course," answered Joel, "I'll come at once. Can I get some togs from
some fellow?"
"Yes. I'll ask Whitman to find some. I'm sorry to take you away from
your folks, but it's only fifteen minutes, you know."
So when the whistle blew Joel was at left half-back on the scrub,
attired in borrowed plumage that came far from fitting him. And Mrs.
March was in a tremor of dismay lest some one should throw Joel down as
she had seen Blair thrown. Mr. March had not quite recovered from his
resentment over his son's failure to apprise him of the broken finger,
which, after all, was only broken in West's imagination, and viewed his
advent on the field with disfavor.
Outfield began to wonder if his pleasant fiction regarding Joel's finger
was to lead to unpleasant results, when Mr. March relieved his mind
somewhat by suddenly taking interest in the career of his son, who was
trying to make an end run inside Dutton with half the scrub hauling,
pushing, pulling, shoving him along.
"Er--isn't that likely to be bad for that finger of his?"
"Oh, no, sir," answered West. "He looks out for his finger all right
enough. There, he made the distance. Bully work. Good old Joel."
"Did he do well then, Mr. West?" asked Joel's mother. "Of course he
did, mother," answered Mr. March disdainfully. "Didn't you see him
lugging all those fellows along with him? How much does that
count, West?"
"Well, that doesn't score anything, but it helps. The scrub has to pass
that line down there before it can score. What they're trying to do now
is to get down there, and Joel's helping. You watch him now. I think
they're going to give him the ball again for another try around end."
West was right in his surmise. Kicks were barred to-day save as a last
resort, and the game was favoring the scrub as a consequence. The ball
was passed to the right half-back; Joel darted forward like an arrow,
took the ball from right, made a quick swerve as he neared the end of
the line, and ran outside of the Varsity right end, Captain Dutton, who
had been playing pretty well in, in the expectation of another try
through tackle-end hole. As Joel got safely by it is more than likely
that he found added satisfaction in the feat as he recalled that remark
of Dutton's the week before: "What were you doing, you idiot?"