The Half Back - Ralph Henry Barbour
Joel got safely by Dutton, and fooled the sprightly Prince, but very
nearly ran into the arms of Kingdon, who missed his tackle by a bare six
inches. Then the race began. Joel's path lay straight down by the side
line. The field followed him at a distance, and the most he could hope
for was a touch-down near the corner of the field, which would require
a punt-out.
"Ain't that Joel?" cried Mr. March, forgetting his grammar and his
dignity at one and the same moment, and jumping excitedly to his feet.
"Ain't that Joel there running? Hey? They can't catch him. I'll lay Joel
to outrun the whole blame pack of 'em. Every day, sir. Hey? What?"
"I think he's all right, sir, for a touch-down," answered West gayly.
"Hello, there's Blair leaving the bunch. Tally-Ho!"
"I don't care if it's a steam-engine," shouted Mr. March, "he can't--I
don't know but as he's gaining a little, that fellow. Eh?"
"Looks like it," answered West, while Mrs. March, with her hand on her
husband's arm, begged him to sit down and "stop acting so silly."
"Geewhillikins!" cried Mr. March, "Joel's caught! No, he's
not--yet--Eh?--Too bad, too bad. Run, Joel, he's got ye!" Suddenly Mr.
March, who had almost subsided on his seat, jumped again to his feet.
"Here! Stop that, you fellow! Hi!" He turned angrily to Outfield, his
eyes blazing. "What'd he knock him down for? Eh? What's he sitting on my
boy for? Is that fair? Eh?"
West and Mrs. March calmed him down and explained that tackling was
quite within the law, and that he only sat on him to prevent him from
going on again; for Blair had cut short Joel's triumph fifteen yards
from the goal line, and the spectators of the soul-stirring dash down
the field were slowly settling again in their seats. Mr. March was
presently relieved to see Joel arise, shake himself like a dog coming
out of water, and trot back to his position.
Another five minutes, during which the scrub tried desperately to force
the ball over the Varsity's goal line, but without success, and the
match was over, and Briscom was happy; for the Varsity had scored but
once, and that on a fumble by the scrub quarter-back. Joel trotted off
with the teams for a shower and a rub-down, and West conducted his
parents back to the gate, where they awaited him. On the way Mr. March
confided to West that "football wasn't what he'd call a parlor game, but
on the whole it appeared to be rather interesting."
In the evening the quartet went into town to the theater and Joel's
mother cried happily over the homely pathos of The Old Homestead, and
Outfield laughed uproariously upon the slightest provocation, and every
one was extremely happy. And afterward they "electriced" back to
college, as West put it, and the two boys stayed awake very, very late,
laughing and giggling over the humors of the play and Joel's
broken finger.
Mr. and Mrs. March left the next day at noon, and Joel accompanied them
to the depot, West having a golf engagement which he could not break.
And when good-by had been said, and the long train had disappeared from
sight, Joel returned to college on foot, over the long bridge spanning
the river, busy with craft, past the factories noisy with the buzz of
wheels and the clang of iron, and on along the far-stretching avenue
until the tower of the dining hall loomed above the tops of the autumn
branches, entering the yard just as the two o'clock bell was ringing.
CHAPTER XIX.
A VARSITY SUB.
Give a boy the name of being a hero and it will stick. Joel was still
pointed out by admiring Hillton graduates to their friends at Harwell as
"March, the fellow who kicked the winning goal-from-field in the St.
Eustace game two years ago." And while Joel had performed of late no
doughty deed to sustain his reputation for valor, the freshman class
accepted him in all faith as a sort of class hero, off duty for the
moment, perchance, but ever ready to shed glory upon the class by some
soul-stirring act.
Consequently when it was told through college that Joel March had been
taken on to the Varsity Eleven as substitute left half-back no one was
surprised, unless it was Joel himself. The freshman class wagged its
head knowingly and said: "I told you they couldn't get on without
March," and held its head higher for that one of its members was a
Varsity player. It is not a frequent thing to find a freshman on the
Varsity team, even as substitute, and Joel's fame grew apace and many
congratulations were extended to him, in classroom and out. Blair was
one of the first to climb the stairs of Mayer and express pleasure at
the event. He found Joel seated in the window, propped up with half a
dozen crimson pillows, attempting to sketch the view across the yard to
send home to his sister. West was splicing a golf shaft and whistling
blithely over the task.
"Hello, Sophy," cried that youth, "have you come to initiate us into the
Sacred Order of Hullabalooloo? Dump those books off the chair and be
seated. March is such a beastly untidy chap," he sighed; "he _will_
leave his books around that way despite all I can say!"
"These books, Out," replied Blair, "bear the name of one West on their
title pages, and, in fact, on a good many other pages, too. What say
you?" A look of intense surprise overspread the face of Outfield.
"How passing strange," he muttered. "And is there a chemistry note-book
among them?"
"I think so. Here is one that contains mention of C2H6O, H2SO4, and
other mystic emblems which appear very tiresome; it also contains
several pages filled with diagrams of the yard and plans of Pompeii
before the devastation."
"Yes," answered West, "that's my chem. note-book. It's been missing ever
since Tuesday. But those are not diagrams of the yard, my sophomoric
friend; they're plans of the golf course."
"Well, just as you say. Catch! Say, March, I've just heard that you've
made the Varsity. I'm most splendidly glad, my young friend. You make
three Hillton fellows on the team. There's Selkirk, and you, and yours
tenderly; and we'll show them what's what when Yates faces us. And I'll
tell you a little fact that may interest you. Prince won't last until
the Yates game, my lad. He's going silly in his ankle. But don't say I
told you, for of course it's a dead secret. And if he gives out you'll
get the posish. And then if you can make another one of those
touch-downs in the Yates game--"
"Shut up, please, Blair!" groaned Joel.
"Nonsense, you're all right. I heard Button saying last week that
nothing short of a ten-story house could have stopped you that day."
"He must think me an awful fool," responded Joel. "The idea of not
remembering that I was off-side!"
"Pshaw; why, the first time I played against Eustace at Hillton I
tackled the referee in mistake for the man with the ball! And threw him,
too! And sat on his head!" West grinned.
"And they _did_ say, Blair, that you were feeling aggrieved against that
referee because he had called you down for holding. And I _have_ heard
that you weren't such a fool as you looked."
"Nothing in it, my boy," answered Wesley Blair airily. "Mere calumny. Am
I one to entertain feelings of anger and resentment against my fellow
men? Verily, very much not. But he put me off, did that referee chap.
He was incapable of accepting the joke. What is more depressing than a
fellow who can't see a joke, March?"
"Two fellows who can't see--et cetera," answered Joel promptly.
"Wrong, very wrong. I don't know what the answer is, but I'm quite
certain it isn't that. Well, I must be going. _I_ have studies. _I_
don't waste the golden moments in idleness. I grind, my young and
thoughtless friends, I grind. Well, I only came up to congratulate you,
Mr. March, of Maine. I have done so. I now depart. Farewell! Never allow
the mere fact of being off-side interfere with--"
Blair slammed the door just in front of a whizzing golf ball and
clattered downstairs. Presently he appeared on the walk beneath the
window and wiggled his fingers derisively with the thumb against a
prominent feature of his face. But at the first squeak of the window
being pushed up he disappeared around the corner.
Joel's days were now become very busy ones. Every morning he was
awakened at seven, and at eight was required to be on hand at the
training table for breakfast. The quarters were at Old's, a boarding
house opposite the college yard, and here in a big, sunny front room the
two long tables were laid with numerous great dishes of oatmeal or
hominy, platters of smoking steak, chops or crisp bacon, plates of
toast, while potatoes, usually baked, flanked the meat. The beverage was
always milk, and tall pitchers of it were constantly filled and emptied
during this as well as the other meals. And then there were eggs--eggs
hard boiled, eggs soft boiled, eggs medium, eggs poached--until, at the
end of the season, the mere mention of eggs caused Joel's stomach to
writhe in disgust.
During breakfast disabilities were inquired after, men who were known to
have nerves were questioned as to their night's rest, and orders for the
day were given out. This man was instructed to see the doctor, another
to interview the trainer, a third to report to the head coach. The meal
over, save for a half hour of practice for the backs behind the
gymnasium the men were free to give all their energies to lessons, and
so hurried away to recitation hall or room.
At one o'clock the team assembled again for lunch, with books in hand,
and at break-neck speed devoured the somewhat elaborate repast, each man
rushing in, eating, and rushing out, with no attempt at sociability or
heed to the laws of digestion.
Afternoon practice was at four o'clock. Individual practice was followed
by team practice against an imaginary foe, and this in turn gave place
to a line-up against the second eleven. Two stiff twenty-minute halves
were played. Then again individuals were seized on by captain and
coaches and put through paces to remedy some fault or other. And then
the last player trots off the field, and the coaches, conversing
earnestly among themselves, follow, and the day's work is done. There
are still the bath and the rub-down and the weighing; but these are
gone through with leisurely while the day's work is discussed and the
coaches, circulating among the fellows, inflict an epilogue of criticism
and instruction.
There remained usually the better part of an hour before dinner, and
this period Joel spent in his room, where with the lamp throwing its
glow over his shoulder, he strove to take his mind from the subject of
tackling and starting, of punting and passing, and fix it upon his
studies for the morrow.
For life was far from being all play that fall--if hard practice and
strict training can be called play!--and Joel found it necessary to
occupy every moment not taken up by eating, sleeping, and practicing on
the gridiron with hard study. It can scarcely be truthfully asserted
that Joel's lessons suffered by reason of his adherence to athletics,
though a lecture now and then was slighted that he might use the time in
pursuing some study that lack of leisure had necessitated his
neglecting.
But a clear head, a good digestion, and racing blood render studying a
pleasure rather than a task, and Joel found that, while giving less time
than before to lessons, he learned them fully as well. One thing is
certain: his standing in class did not suffer, even when the coaches
were more than usually severe. Joel's experience that fall, and many a
time later, led him to conclude that the amount of outdoor athletics
indulged in and the capability for study are in direct ratio.
West, too, was a most studious young gentleman that term, and began to
pride himself on his recently discovered ability to learn. To be sure,
golf was a hard taskmaster, but with commendable self-denial he did not
allow it to interfere with his progress in class. Both he and Joel had
earned the name of being studious ere the end of the fall term, and
neither of them resented it.
Unlike the preceding meal, dinner at the training table was a sociable
and cheerful affair, when every man at the board tried his best to be
entertaining, and when "shop," either study or football, was usually
tabooed. The menu was elaborate. There were soup, two or three kinds of
meat, a half dozen vegetables, sauces, the ever-present toast, pudding
or cream, and plenty of fruit; and for drinkables, why, there was the
milk, and sometimes light ale in lesser quantities. At one end of the
table--whether head or foot is yet undecided--sat the captain, at the
other end the head coach. Other coaches were present as well, and the
trainer sat at the captain's left.
There was always lots of noise, for weighty things were seldom touched
upon in the conversation, and jokes were given and taken in good part.
When all other means of amusement failed there were still the potatoes
to throw; and a butter chip, well laden, can be tossed upward in such a
manner that it will remain stuck more or less securely to the ceiling.
This is a trick that comes only with long practice, but any one may try
it; and the ceiling above the training table that year was always well
studded with suspended disks of crockery. Bread fights--so named because
the ammunition is more likely to be potatoes--were extremely popular,
and the dinner often came to an end with a pitched battle, in which
coats were decorated from collar to hem with particles of that clinging
vegetable.
His evenings usually belonged to Joel to spend as he wished, though not
unfrequently a blackboard talk by the head coach or a lecture by some
visiting authority curtailed them considerably. He had always to be in
bed by ten o'clock.
But sleep sometimes, especially after a day of hard practice, did not
readily come, and he often laid awake until midnight had sounded out on
the deep-toned bell in the old church tower thinking over the events of
the day, and wondering what fate, in the person of the head coach, held
in view for him. And one night he awoke to find Outfield shaking him
violently by the shoulder.
"Wh-what's the row?" he asked sleepily.
"You," answered Outfield. "You've been yelling '4, 9; 5, 7; 8, 6' for
half an hour. What's the matter with you, anyhow?"
"The signals," muttered Joel, turning sleepily over, "that's a
run around left end by left half-back. And don't forget to start
when the ball's snapped. And jump high if you're blocked.
And--don't--forget--to--" Snore--snore! "Well," muttered West as he
stumbled against an armchair and climbed into bed, "of all
crazy games--"
But West was not in training and so possessed the faculty of going to
sleep when his head struck the pillow. As a consequence the rest of his
remark was never heard.
CHAPTER XX.
AN OLD FRIEND.
"MARCH! Joel March!"
Joel was striding along under the shadow of the chapel on his way from a
recitation to Mayer and his room. The familiar tones came from the
direction of the library, and turning he saw Stephen Remsen trotting
toward him with no regard for the grass. Joel hurdled the knee-high wire
barrier and strode to meet him. The two shook hands warmly, almost
affectionately, in the manner of those who are glad to meet.
"March, I'm delighted to see you again! I was just going to look you up.
Which way were you going?"
"Up to the room. Can't you come up for a while? When'd you arrive? Are
you going to stay now?"
"Third down!" laughed Remsen. "No gain! What a fellow you are for
questions, March! I got in this morning, and I'm going to stay until
after the Yates game. They telegraphed me to come and coach the tackles.
Instead of going to your room let's go to mine. I've taken a suite of
one room and a closet at Dixon's on the avenue. I haven't unpacked my
toothbrush yet. Come over with me and take lunch, and we'll talk it
all over."
So Joel stuck his books under his arm and the two crossed the yard,
traversing the quadrangle in front of University and debouching on to
the avenue near where the tall shaft of the Soldiers' Monument gleams in
the sunlight. But they did not wait until Remsen's room was gained to
"talk it all over." Joel had lots to tell about the Hillton fellows whom
he had not lost sight of: of how Clausen was captain of the freshman
Eleven and was displaying a wonderful faculty for generalship; how West
was still golfing and had at last met foemen worthy of his steel; how
Dicky Sproule was in college taking a special course, and struggling
along under popular dislike; how Whipple and Cooke were rooming together
in Peck, the former playing on the sophomore class team and going in for
rowing, and the latter still the same idle, good-natured ignoramus, and
liked by every fellow who knew him; how Digbee was grinding in Lanter
with Somers; how Cartwright had joined the Glee Club; and how Christie
had left college and gone into business with his father.
"And Cloud?" asked Remsen. "Have you seen him?"
"Yes, once or twice. I've heard that he was very well liked when he left
St. Eustace last year. I dare say he has turned over a new leaf since
his father died."
"Indeed? I hadn't heard of that."
"West heard it. He died last spring, and left Cloud pretty near
penniless, they say. I have an idea that he has taken a brace and is
studying more than he used to."
"The chap has plenty of good qualities, I suppose. We all have our bad
ones, you know. Perhaps it only needed some misfortune to wake up the
lad's better nature. They say virtue thrives best on homely fare, and,
like lots of other proverbs, I guess it's sometimes true."
Then Remsen told of his visit to Hillton a few weeks previous. The
Eleven this year was in pretty good shape, he thought; Greene, an upper
middle man, was captain; they expected to have an easy time with St.
Eustace, who was popularly supposed to be in a bad way for veteran
players. That same Greene was winning the golf tournament when he was
there, Remsen continued, and the golf club was in better shape than ever
before, thanks to the hard work of West, Whipple, Blair, and a few
others in building it up.
The two friends reached the house, and Remsen led the way into his room,
and set about unpacking his things. Joel took up a position on the bed
and gave excellent advice as to the disposal of everything from a pair
of stockings to a typewriter.
"It's a strange fact," said Remsen as he thrust a suit of pajamas under
the pillow, "that Outfield West is missed at Hillton more than any
fellow who has graduated from there for several years past. Perhaps I
don't mean exactly strange, either, for of course he's a fellow that
every one naturally likes. What I do mean is that one would naturally
suppose fellows like Blair or Whipple would leave the most regrets
behind them, for Blair was generally conceded to be the most popular
fellow in school the last two years of his stay, and Whipple was surely
running him a close second. And certainly their memories are still
green. But everywhere I went it was: 'Have you heard from Outfield
West?' 'How's West getting on at college?' And strange to say, such
inquiries were not confined to the fellows alone. Professor Wheeler
asked after West particularly, and so did Briggs, and several others of
the faculty; and Mrs. Cowles as well.
"But you are still the hero there, March. The classic history of Hillton
still recounts the prowess of one Joel the First, who kicked a goal from
field and defeated thereby the hosts of St. Eustace. And Professor
Durkee shakes his head and says he will never have another so attentive
and appreciative member of his class. And now tell me, how are you
getting on with Dutton?"
So Joel recited his football adventures in full, not omitting the
ludicrous touch-down, which received laughing applause from his
listener, and recounting his promotion to the position of Varsity
substitute.
"Yes, I saw in the paper last week that you had been placed on the sub
list of the Varsity. I hope you'll have a chance to play against Yates,
although I don't wish Prince any harm. He's a good fellow and a hard
worker. Hello, it's one-fifteen. Let's get some lunch."
A half hour later they parted, Joel hurrying off to recitation and
Remsen remaining behind to keep an appointment with a friend. After this
they met almost every day, and Remsen was a frequent caller at Joel's
room, where he with Joel and Outfield held long, cosy chats about every
subject from enameling golf balls to the Philosophy of Kant and the
Original Protoplasm.
Meanwhile the season hurried along. Harwell met and defeated the usual
string of minor opponents by varying scores, and ran up against the red
and blue of Keystone College with disastrous results. But one important
contest intervened between the present time and the game with Yates, and
the hardest sort of hard work went on daily inside the inclosed field. A
small army of graduates had returned to coach the different players, and
the daily papers were filled, according to their wont, with columns of
sensational speculation and misinformation regarding the merits of the
team and the work they were performing. Out of the mass of clashing
"facts" contained in the daily journals but one thing was absolutely
apparent: to wit, the work of the Harwell Eleven was known only to the
men and the coaches, and neither would tell about it.
At last, when chill November had been for a few days in the land, the
game with the red and white clad warriors from Ithaca took place on a
wet and muddy field, and Joel played the game through from start to
finish, Prince being engaged in nursing his treacherous ankle, which had
developed alarming symptoms with the advent of wet weather. The game
resulted in a score of twenty-four to five, the Ithacans scoring a neat,
but inexcusable, goal from field in the first half. Joel played like a
Trojan, and went around the left end of the opposing line time and again
for good gains, until the mere placing of the ball in his hands was
accepted by the spectators as equal to an accomplished gain.
Wesley Blair made a dashing charge through a crowded field for twelve
yards and scored a touch-down that brought the onlookers to their feet
cheering. Dutton, the captain, played a steady brilliant interfering
game, and Kingdon, at right half-back, plunged through the guard-tackle
holes time and again with the ball hugged to his stomach, and kept his
feet in a manner truly marvelous until the last inch had been gained.
But critics nevertheless said unkind things of the team work as they
wended their way back over the sodden turf, and shook their heads
dubiously over the field-goal scored by the opponents. There would be a
general shaking up on the morrow, they predicted, and we should see what
we should see. And the coaches, too, although they dissembled their
feelings under cheerful countenances, found much to condemn, and the
operations of bathing, dressing, and weighing that afternoon were less
enjoyable to the breathless, tattered men.
The next day the team "went into executive session," as Joel called it,
and the predicted shake-up took place. Murdoch, the left guard, was
deemed too slight for the place, and was sent to the side line, from
where he presently crawled to a seat on the great empty stand, and
hiding his blanketed head wept like a child. And there were other
changes made. Joel kept his place at left half, pending the bettering of
Prince's ankle, and Blair was secure at full. But when the practice game
began, many of the old forms were either missing or to be seen in the
second Eleven's line, and the coaches hovered over the field of battle
with dark, forbidding looks, and said mean things whenever the
opportunity presented itself, and were icily polite to each other, as
men will be when they know themselves to be in the right and every one
else in the wrong. And so practice that Thursday was an unpleasant
affair, and had the desired effect; for the men played the game for all
that was in them and attended strictly to the matter in hand, forgetting
for the time the intricacies of Latin compositions and the terrors of
coming examinations. When it was over Joel crawled off of the scale with
the emotions of a weary draught horse and took his way slowly toward
home. In the square he ran against Outfield, who, armed with a monstrous
bag of golf requisites, had just leaped off a car.
"Hello, Joel," he cried. "What's happened? Another off-sider? Have you
broken that finger again? Honest Injun, what's up?"
"Nothing, Out; I'm just kind of half dead. We had two thirty-minute
halves, with forty-'leven coaches yelling at us every second, and a
field like a turnip patch just before seeding. Oh, no, there's nothing
the matter; only if you know of any quiet corner where I can die in
peace, lead me there, Out. I won't keep you long; it will soon be over."
"No, I don't, my flippant young friend, but I know something a heap
better."
"Nothing can be better any more, Out. Still--well, what is it?"
"A couple of hot lemonades and a pair of fat sandwiches at Noster's.
Come along."