The Half Back - Ralph Henry Barbour
"You're not so bad, Out," said Joel as they hurried up the street. "You
have _moments_ of almost human intelligence!"
CHAPTER XXI.
THE DEPARTURE.
The backs and substitute backs, together with Story, the quarter,
Captain Dutton, and one or two assistant coaches, including Stephen
Remsen, were assembled in Bancroft 6. The head coach was also present,
and with a long pointer in one hand and a piece of chalk in the other
was going through a sequence for the benefit of the backs, who had been
called a half hour ahead of the rest of the Eleven. The time was a half
hour after dinner.
On the blackboard strange squares and lines and circles confronted the
men in the seats. The head coach placed the tip of the pointer on a
diagram marked "No. 2. Criss-Cross."
"This is the second of the sequence, and is an ordinary criss-cross from
left half-back to right half-back. If you don't understand it readily,
say so. I want you to ask all the questions you can think of. The halves
take positions, as in the preceding play, back of the line behind the
tackle-guard holes. The ball goes to left half, who runs just back of
quarter. Right half starts a moment after the ball is put in play, also
going back of quarter and outside of left half and receiving the ball
at a hand pass from the latter, and continuing on through the hole
between left end and tackle. Right end starts simultaneously with left
half, taking the course indicated, in front of quarter and close to the
line, and interfering through the line for the runner."
[Illustration: 2nd PLAY]
"Left end blocks opposing end outward. Quarter clears the hole out for
the runner. Full-back does not start until the pass from quarter to left
half is made. He must then time himself so as to protect the second
pass. In case of a fumble the ball is his to do the best he can with
through the end-tackle hole. If the pass is safe he follows left half
through, blocking opposing left end long enough to keep him out of
the play.
"You will go through this play to-morrow and you will get your slips
to-morrow evening here. Now is there anything not clear to you?"
Apparently there was a great deal, for the questions came fast and
furious, the coaches all taking a hand in the discussion, and the
diagram being explained all over again very patiently by the head. Then
another diagram was tackled.
[Illustration: 3rd PLAY]
"The third of this sequence is from an ordinary formation," began the
head coach. "It is intended to give the idea of a kick, or, failing
that, of a run around left end. It will very probably be used as a
separate play in the last few minutes of a half, especially where the
line-up is near the side line, right being the short side of the field.
You will be given the signal calling this as a separate play
to-morrow evening.
"Full-back stands as for a kick, and when the signal is given moves in a
step or two toward quarter as unnoticeably as possible; position 2 in
the diagram. He must be careful to come to a full stop before the ball
is snapped back, and should time himself so that he will not have to
stay there more than a second. The instant the ball is snapped full-back
runs forward to the position indicated here by 3, and receives the ball
on a short pass from quarter. Left half starts at the same instant, and
receives the ball from full as he passes just behind him, continuing on
and around the line outside of right end. It is right half's play to
make the diversion by starting with the ball and going through the line
between left tackle and guard; he is expected to get through and into
the play on the other side. Left end starts when the ball is snapped,
and passing across back of the forwards clears out the hole for the
runner. Quarter interferes, assisted by full-back, and should at all
costs down opposing half. Right end helps right tackle throw in opposing
end. Much of the success of this play depends on the second pass, from
full-back to left half, and it must be practiced until there is no
possibility of failure. Questions, fellows."
After the discussion of the last play a half hour's talk on
interference was given to the rest of the Eleven and substitutes, who
had arrived meanwhile. Remsen and Joel left Bancroft together and
crossed the yard toward the latter's room. The sky was bright with
myriads of stars and the buildings seemed magnified by the wan radiance
to giant castles. Under the shadow of University Remsen paused to light
his pipe, and, without considering, the two found themselves a moment
later seated on the steps.
From the avenue the clang-clang of car gongs sounded sharp and clear,
and red and white and purple lights flitted like strange will-o'-wisps
through the half light, and disappeared into the darkness beyond the
common. The lights in the stores beamed dimly. A green shade in Pray's
threw a sickly shaft athwart the pavement. But even as they looked a
tall figure, weariness emanating from every movement, stepped between
window and light, book in hand, and drew close the blinds.
"Poor devil!" sighed Remsen. "Three hours more of work, I dare say,
before he stumbles, half blind, into bed. And all for what, Joel? That
or--that?" He pointed with his pipe-stem to where Jupiter shone with
steady radiance high in the blue-black depths; then indicated a faint
yellow glow that flared for an instant in the darkness across the yard
where a passer had paused to light his pipe.
"We can't all be Jupiters, Remsen," answered Joel calmly. "Some of us
have to be little sticks of wood with brimstone tips. But they're very
useful little things, matches. And, after all, does it matter as long
as we do what we have to do as well as we can? Old Jupiter up there is a
very fine chap undoubtedly, and if he shirked a minute or two something
unpleasant would probably occur; but he isn't performing his task any
better than the little match performed his. 'Scratch--pouf' and the
match's work's done. But it has lighted a fire. Can you do better,
Mr. Jupiter?"
Remsen made no reply for a moment, but Joel knew that he was smiling
there beside him. A little throng of students passed by, humming softly
a song in time with their echoing footsteps, and glanced curiously at
the forms on the steps. Then Remsen struck a match on the stone.
"'Scratch--pouf!'" he said musingly, relighting his pipe. In the act of
tossing the charred splinter away he stopped; then he laid it beside him
on the step. "Good little match," he muttered. Joel laughed softly.
"March," asked Remsen presently, "have you changed your mind yet about
studying law?"
"No; but sometimes I get discouraged when I think of what a time it will
take to arrive anywhere. And sometimes, too, I begin to think that a
fellow who can't talk more readily than I ought to go into the hardware
business or raise chickens for a living instead of trying to make a
lawyer out of himself."
"It isn't altogether talk, March," answered Remsen, "that makes a good
lawyer. Brains count some. If you get where you can conduct a case to a
successful result you will never miss the 'gift o' the gab.' Talking's
the little end of the horn in my profession, despite tradition.
"I asked for a reason, March," he went on. "What do you say to our
forming a partnership? When you get through the Law School you come to
me, if you wish, and tell me that you are ready to enter my office, and
I'll answer 'I'm very glad to have you, Mr. March.' Of course we could
arrange for a regular partnership a year or so later. Meanwhile the
usual arrangement would be made. It may be that you know of some very
much better office which you would prefer to go to. If you do, all
right. If you don't, come to me. What do you say?"
"But--but what good would I do you?" Joel asked, puzzled at the offer.
"I'd like it very much, of course, but I can't see--"
"I'll tell you, March. I have a good deal of faith in your future, my
boy. You have a great deal of a most valuable thing called application,
which I have not, worse luck. You are also sharp-witted and level-headed
to a remarkable degree. And some day, twenty or thirty years from now,
you'll likely be _hard_-headed, but I'll risk that. By the time you're
out of college I shall be wanting a younger man to take hold with me.
There will be plenty of them, but I shall want a good one. And that is
why I make this offer. It is entirely selfish, and you need not go
searching for any philanthropy in it. I'm only looking a bit ahead and
buttering my toast while it's hot, March. What do you say? Or, no, you
needn't say anything to-night. Think it over for a while, and let me
know later."
"But I don't want to think it over," answered Joel eagerly. "I'm ready
to sign such a partnership agreement now. If you really believe that I
would--could be of use to you, I'd like it mightily. And I know all
about your 'selfishness,' and I'm very grateful to you for--for
buttering your toast."
Later, when they arose and went on, Remsen consented to accompany Joel
to his room, bribed thereto with a promise of hot chocolate. They found
Outfield diligently poring over a Greek history. But he immediately
discarded it in favor of a new book on the Royal Game which lay in his
lap hidden under a note book.
"You see," he explained, "old Pratt has taken a shine to me, and I
expected him to call this evening. And I thought at first that you were
he--or him--which is it? And of course I didn't want to disappoint the
old gentleman; he has such a fine opinion of me, you know."
While Outfield boiled the water and laid bare the contents of the
larder, Joel told him of Remsen's offer. A box of biscuits went down
with a crash, and Outfield turned indignantly.
"That's all very fine," he exclaimed. "But where do I come in? How about
Mr. West? Where does he get his show in this arrangement? You promised
that if I studied law, too, Joel, you'd go into partnership with _me_.
Now, didn't you?"
"But it was all in fun," protested Joel, distressedly. "I didn't
suppose you meant it, you know."
"Meant it!" answered Outfield indignantly. "Of course I meant it. Don't
you expect I appreciate level-headedness and sharp-wittedness and
applicationousness just as much as Remsen? Why, I had it all fixed. We
were to have an office fitted with cherry railings and revolving
bookcases near--near--"
"A good links?" suggested Remsen smilingly.
"Well, yes," admitted Outfield, "that wouldn't be a half bad idea. But
now you two have gone and spoiled it all."
"Well, I tell you, West," suggested Remsen, "you come in with us and
supply the picturesque element of the business. You might look after the
golf cases, you know; injuries to bald-headed gentlemen by gutties;
trespassing by players; forfeiting of leases, and so forth. What do
you say?"
"All right," answered Outfield cheerfully. "But it must be understood
that the afternoons belong to the links and not to the law."
So Stephen Remsen and Joel March sealed their agreement by shaking
hands, and Outfield grinned approval.
One afternoon a few days later Outfield pranced into the room just as
dusk was falling brandishing aloft a silver-plated mug, and uttering a
series of loud cheers for "Me." Joel, who had returned but a moment
before from a hard afternoon's practice, and was now studying in the
window seat by the waning light, looked languidly curious.
"A trophy, Joel, a trophy from the links!" cried West. "Won by the great
Me by two holes from Jenkins, Jenkins the Previously Great, Jenkins the
Defeated and Devastated!" He tossed the mug into Joel's lap.
"I'm very glad, Out," said the latter. "Won't it help you with the
team?"
"It will, my discerning friend. It will send me to New York next month
to represent Harwell. And Lapham says I must go to Lakewood for the open
tournament. Oh, little Outie is some pumpkins, my lad! It was quite the
most wonderful young match to-day. Jenkins led all the way to the
fifteenth hole. Then he foozled like a schoolboy, and I holed out in one
and went on to the Cheese Box in two."
"I'm awfully glad," repeated Joel, smiling up into the flushed and
triumphant face of his chum. "If you go to New York it will be after the
big game, and, if you like, I'll go with you and shout." Outfield West
executed a war-dance and whooped ecstatically.
"Will you, Joel? Honest Injun? Cross your heart and hope to die? Then
shake hands, my lad; it's a bargain! Now, where's my chemistry?"
The days flew by and the date of the Yates game rapidly approached. The
practice was secret every afternoon, and the coaches lost weight eluding
the newspaper reporters. Prince disappointed Joel by returning to the
Varsity with his ankle apparently as well as ever, although he was
generally "played easy," and Joel often took his place in the second
half of the practice games.
And at last the Thursday preceding the big game arrived, and the team
and substitutes, together with the trainer and the manager and the head
coach and two canine mascots, assembled in the early morning in the
square and were hustled into coaches and driven into town to their
train. And half the college heroically arose phenomenally early and
stood in the first snow storm of the year and cheered and cheered for
the team individually and collectively, for the head coach and the
trainer, for the rubbers and the mascots, and, between times, for
the college.
The players went to a little country town a few miles distant from the
seat of Yates University, and spent the afternoon in practicing signals
on the hotel grounds. The next day, Friday, was a day of rest, save for
running through a few formations and trick plays after lunch and taking
a long walk at dusk. The Yates Glee Club journeyed over in the evening
and gave an impromptu entertainment in the parlor, a courtesy well
appreciated by the Harwell team, whose nerves were now beginning to make
themselves felt. And the next morning the journey was continued and the
college town was reached at half past eleven.
The men were welcomed at the station by a crowd of Harwell fellows who
had already arrived, and the Harwell band did its best until the team
was driven off to the hotel. There for the first time the men were
allowed to see the line-up for the game. It was a long list, containing
the names, ages, heights, and weights of thirty-six players and
substitutes, and was immediately the center of interest to all.
"Thunder!" growled Joel ruefully, as he finished reading the list over
Blair's shoulder, "it's a thumpin' long ways down to _me!_"
CHAPTER XXII.
BEFORE THE BATTLE.
"Harwell, Harwell, Harwell! Rah-rah-rah, Rah-rah-rah, Rah-rah-rah,
Harwell!"
The lobby grew empty on the instant, and outside on the steps and on the
sidewalk the crowd spread itself. The procession had just turned the
corner, the college band leading.
"The freshmen won!" cried a voice on the edge of the throng, and the
news was passed along from man to man until it swept up the steps,
through the lobby and to the dining room upstairs where the football men
of the Varsity team were impatiently awaiting lunch. "A good omen," said
the head coach.
Below in the street admonitory thumps upon the great drum, with its
college coat-of-arms on the head, were heard, and a moment later the
shouts of the exuberant freshmen and their allies were drowned in the
first strains of the college song. Off came the silk hats of the
frock-coated graduates and the plaided golf caps of the students, and
side by side there in the sun-swept street they lifted their voices in
the sweet, measured strains of the dear familiar hymn. And stout,
placid-faced men of fifty, with comfortable bank accounts and incipient
twinges of gout, felt the unaccustomed dimming of the sight that
presages tears, and boyish, carefree students, to whom the song was as
much an everyday affair as D marks and unpaid bills, felt strange
stirrings in their breasts, and with voices that stumbled strangely over
the top notes sang louder and louder. And upstairs in the dining room
many a throat grew hard and "lumpy" as the refrain came in at the
open windows.
But, as the trainer muttered presently, it was only the freshmen who had
won, and the real battle of the day was yet to come. And soon the band
and the shouting parade wheeled away from beneath the windows and swung
off up the street to make known far and wide the greatness of Harwell,
her freshmen, and the grandeur of their victory over the youngsters of
Yates. And, as the last cheer floated up from the procession as it
disappeared around a far corner, lunch was served, and player and coach,
trainer and rubber, substitute and mascot, drew up to the last meal
before--what? Victory or defeat?
It was not a merry repast, that lunch before the fray. Some men could
not bring themselves to eat at all until the coaches commanded with dire
threats. Others, as though nothing out of the ordinary was about to take
place, ate heartily, hungrily, of everything set before them. At the far
end of the room Joel March played with his steak and tried to delude
himself into thinking he was eating. He felt rather upset, and weak in
the joints, and as for the lad's stomach it had revolted at sight of the
very first egg. But luckily the last meal before a game has little
effect one way or the other upon the partaker, since he is already keyed
up, mentally and physically, to a certain pitch, and nothing short of
cold poison can alter it.
In the streets below, for blocks in all directions, the crowds surged up
and down, and shouts for Harwell and yells for Yates arose like
challenges in the afternoon air. Friends met who had not done so for
years, enemies accorded enemies bows of recognition ere they remembered
their enmity. The deep blue and the deeper crimson passed and
counterpassed, brushed and fluttered side by side, and lighted up the
little college city till it looked like a garden of roses and violets.
And everywhere, over all, was the tensity that ever reigns before a
battle.
The voices of the ticket speculator and of the merchant of "Offish'l
Score Cards" were heard upon every side. The street cars poked their
blunt noses through the crowd which closed in again behind them like
water about the stern of a ship. Violets blossomed or crimson
chrysanthemums bloomed upon every coat and wrap, or hung pendant from
the handle of cane and umbrella. The flags of Harwell and Yates, the
white H and white Y, were everywhere. Shop windows were partisan to the
blue, but held dashes of crimson as a sop to the demands of hospitality
and welcome.
At one o'clock the exodus from town began. Along the road that leads to
the football field hurried the sellers of rush cushions and badges, of
score cards and pencils, of blue and crimson flags and cheap canes, of
peanuts and sandwiches, of soda water and sarsaparilla, bent upon
securing advantageous stands about the entrance. A quarter of an hour
later the spectators were on the way. The cars, filled in and out with
shouting humanity, crept slowly along, a bare half block separating
them. Roystering students swung arm in arm in eccentric dance from side
to side across the street. Ladies with their escorts hurried along the
sidewalks. Carriages, bright with fluttering flags, rolled by. Bicycles
darted in and out, their riders throwing words of salutation over their
shoulders to friends by the way. In the windows along the route was
displayed the bravery of blue banners. A window in a college hall was
piled high with great comfortable-looking pillows, each bearing a great
challenging Y in white ribbon or embroidery. And overhead the sky arched
a broad blue expanse from horizon to horizon.
In this manner on some fair morning, centuries ago, did all Greece wend
its way to the Stadium and the Games of Olympia.
In the hotel the lunch was over and that terrible age between it and the
arrival of the coaches was dragging its weary length along. Joel and
Blair were standing by the window talking in voices that tried to be
calm, cool and indifferent, but which were neither.
"They're offering bets of ten to nine downstairs that Yates wins,"
remarked Blair with elaborate composure.
"Are they?" responded Joel absent-mindedly, thinking the while of the
signal for the second sequence. "I thought the odds were even."
"They were until the news about Chesney's shoulder got about."
"But there isn't really anything the matter with his shoulder, is
there?"
"No. No one knows how the story got out. Whipple was taking all he could
get a while ago."
"Some one wants to see you at the door, March," called the trainer, and
Joel found Outfield West, smiling and happy, waiting there.
"How are you?" he whispered. "All right? How are the rest? Great Gobble,
Joel, but these Yates Johnnies are so sure of winning that they can't
keep still! There's a rumor here in the lobby that Yates's center is
sick. Know anything about it?" Joel shook his head. "Well, I'll see you
out at the field. We're going out now; Cooke, and Caldwell, and some of
the others. So long, my valiant lad. Keep a stiff upper lip and never
say die, and all that, you know. Adios!"
There was a cheer below, and Blair, at the window, announced the
arrival of the conveyances. Instantly the lethargy of a minute before
was turned to excited bustle and confusion. Pads and nose-guards,
jerseys and coats, balls and satchels were seized and laid aside and
grabbed up again. Cries for missing apparel and paraphernalia were heard
on every side, and only a loud, peremptory command to "Shut up!" from
the head coach restored order and quietude. Then the door was thrown
open and down the narrow stairs they trooped, through the crowded lobby
where friends hemmed them about, patting the broad backs, shouting words
of cheer into their ears, and delaying them in their passage.
Into the coaches they hurried, and as the crowd about the hotel burst
into loud, ringing cheers, the whips were cracked and the journey to the
field began. The route lay along quiet, unfrequented streets where only
an occasional cheer from a college window met their advent. Restraint
had worn off now, and the fellows were chatting fast and furiously. Joel
looked out at the handsome homes and sunny street, and was aware only of
a longing to be in the fray, an impatient desire to be doing. Briscom,
the substitute centre, a youth of twenty-one summers and one hundred and
ninety-eight pounds, sat beside him.
"I was here two years ago with the freshman team," he was saying. "We
didn't do a thing to them, we youngsters, although the Varsity was
licked badly. And all during the afternoon game we sat together and
cheered, until at five o'clock I couldn't speak above a whisper. That
was a great game, that freshman contest! It took three hours and a half
to settle it. At the beginning of the second half there were only three
men on our team who had played in the first. I was one of them. I was
playing left guard. Story there was another. He gave up before the game
was through, though. I held out and when the whistle sounded, down I
went on the grass and didn't stir for ten minutes. We had two referees
that day. The first chap got hurt in a rush, and it took us half an hour
to find a fellow brave enough to take his place. That _was_ a game.
Football's tame nowadays."
Across the coach Rutland, the right guard, a big bronze-haired chap of
one hundred and ninety-six, was deep in a discussion with "Judge" Chase,
right end, on an obscure point of ruling.
"If you're making a fair catch and a player on the other side runs
against you intentionally or otherwise, you're interfered with, and the
rules give your side fifteen yards," declared Rutland.
"Not if the interference is accidental and doesn't hurt your catch,"
replied Chase. "If the other fellow is running and can't stop in time--"
"Shut up, you fellows," growled Captain Button. "You play the game, and
the referee will look after the rules for you."
"If you go on," said Briscom, "you must be careful about holding. De
Farge (the referee) is awfully down on holding and off-side plays. Last
year he penalized us eight times during the game. But he's all right,
just the same. He's the finest little ref that ever tossed a coin."
"I fear I won't get a show," mourned Joel.
"You can't tell," answered Briscom knowingly. "Last year there were two
fellows ahead of me and I got on for twenty minutes of the last half.
Trueland bent his ankle, Chesney hurt his knee, and Condon got whacked
on the head. Watch the game every minute of the time, March, and learn
how the Yates halves play the game. Then if you do go on you won't be in
the dark."
The coaches rolled up to the players' entrance to the field, and the
fellows hopped out and disappeared into the quarters.
The time was two o'clock. The gates were still thronged, although to the
people already on the stands it was a puzzle where the newcomers were
going to find seats. On the east side of the field Yates held open
house. From end to end, and overflowing half way around both north and
south stands, the blue of Yates fluttered in the little afternoon breeze
till that portion of the field looked like a bank of violets.