The Half Back - Ralph Henry Barbour
"Thanks," gasped West at length. "I suppose I'd have broke my silly neck
if you hadn't given me a hand just when you did."
The other nodded. "You're welcome, of course; but I don't believe you'd
have been very much hurt. What's that thing?" nodding toward the
brassie, still tightly clutched in West's hand.
"A bras--a golf club. I was knocking a ball around a bit, and it went
over the cliff here."
"I should think golf was a rather funny sort of a game."
"It isn't funny at all, if you know anything about it," replied West a
trifle sharply. The rescuer was on dangerous ground, had he but
known it.
"Isn't it? Well, I guess it is all in getting used to it. I don't
believe I'd care much for tumbling over cliffs that way; I should think
it would use a fellow up after a while."
"Look here," exclaimed West, "you saved me an ugly fall, and I'm very
much obliged, and all that; but--but you don't know the first thing
about golf, and so you had better not talk about it." He made an effort
to gain his feet, but sat down again with a groan.
"You sit still a while," said the boy in the straw hat, "and I'll drop
down and get that ball for you." Suiting the action to the word, he
lowered himself over the ledge, and slid down the bank to the beach. He
dropped the golf ball in his pocket, after examining it with deep
curiosity, and started back. But the return was less easy than the
descent had been. The bank was gravelly, and his feet could gain no
hold. Several times he struggled up a yard or so, only to slip back
again to the bottom.
"I tell you what you do," called West, leaning over. "You get a bit of a
run and get up as high as you can, and try and catch hold of this stick;
then I'll pull you up."
The other obeyed, and succeeded in getting a firm hold of the brassie,
but the rest was none so easy. West pulled and the other boy struggled,
and then, at last, when both were out of breath, the straw hat rose
above the ledge and its wearer scrambled up. Sitting down beside West he
drew the ball from his pocket and handed it over.
"What do they make those of?" he asked.
"Gutta percha," answered West. "Then they're molded and painted this
way. You've never played golf, have you?"
"No, we don't know much about it down our way. I've played baseball and
football some. Do you play football?"
"No, I should say not," answered West scornfully. "You see," more
graciously, "golf takes up about all my time when I haven't got some
lesson on; and this is the worst place for lessons you ever saw. A chap
doesn't get time for anything else." The other boy looked puzzled.
"Well, don't you want to study?"
West stared in amazement. "Study! Want to? Of course I don't! Do you?"
"Very much. That's what I came to school for."
"Oh!" West studied the strange youth dubiously. Plainly, he was not at
all the sort of boy one could teach golf to. "Then why were you trying
for the football team awhile ago?"
"Because next to studying I want to play football more than anything
else. Don't you think I'll have time for it?"
"You bet! And say, you ought to learn golf. It's the finest sport
going." West's hopes revived. A fellow that wanted sport, if only
football, could not be a bad sort. Besides, he would get over wanting to
study; that, to West, was a most unnatural desire. "There isn't half a
dozen really first-class players in school. You get some clubs and I'll
teach you the game."
"That's very good of you," answered the boy in the straw hat, "and I'm
very much obliged, but I don't think I'll have time. You see I'm in the
upper middle, and they say that it's awfully hard to keep up with.
Still, I should really like to try my hand at it, and if I have time
I'll ask you to show me a little about it. I expect you're the best
player here, aren't you?" West, extremely gratified, tried to conceal
his pleasure.
"Oh, I don't know. There's Wesley Blair--he's captain of the school
eleven, you know--he plays a very good game, only he has a way of
missing short puts. And then there's Louis Whipple. The only thing about
Whipple is that he tries to play with too few clubs. He says a fellow
can play just as well with a driver and a putter and a niblick as he can
with a dozen clubs. Of course, that's nonsense. If Whipple would use
some brains about his clubs he'd make a rather fair player. There are
one or two other fellows in school who are not so bad. But I believe,"
magnanimously, "that if Blair had more time for practicing he could beat
_me_." West allowed his hearer a moment in which to digest this. The
straw hat was tilted down over the eyes of its wearer, who was gazing
thoughtfully over the river.
"I suppose he's kept pretty busy with football."
"Yes, he's daft about it. Otherwise he's a fine chap. By the way,
where'd you learn to kick a ball that way?"
"On the farm. I used to practice when I didn't have much to do, which
wasn't very often. Jerry Green and I--Jerry's our hired man--we used to
get out in the cow pasture and kick. Then I played a year with our
grammar-school eleven."
"Well, that was great work. If you could only drive a golf ball like
that! Say, what's your name?"
"Joel March."
"Mine's Outfield West. The fellows call me 'Out' West. My home's in
Pleasant City, Iowa. You come from Maine, don't you?"
"Yes; Marchdale. It's just a corner store and a blacksmith shop and a
few houses. We've lived there--our family, I mean--for over a
hundred years."
"Phew!" whistled West. "Dad's the oldest settler in our county, and he's
been there only forty years. Great gobble! We'd better be scooting back
to school. Come on. I'm all right now, though I _was_ a bit lame after
that tumble."
The two boys scrambled up the bank and set out along the river path. The
sun had gone down behind the mountains, and purple shadows were creeping
up from the river. The tower of the Academy Building still glowed
crimson where the sun-rays shone on the windows.
"Where's your room?" asked West.
"Thirty-four Masters Hall," answered Joel March; for now that we have
twice been introduced to him there is no excuse for us to longer
ignore his name.
"Mine's in Hampton House," said West. "Number 2. I have it all to
myself. Who's in with you?"
"A fellow named Sproule."
"'Dickey' Sproule? He's an awful cad. Why didn't you get a room in the
village? You have lots more fun there; and you can get a better room
too; although some of the rooms in Warren are not half bad."
"They cost too much," replied March. "You see, father's not very well
off, and can't help me much. He pays my tuition, and I've enough money
of my own that I've earned working out to make up the rest. So, of
course, I've got to be careful."
"Well, you're a queer chap!" exclaimed West.
"Why?" asked Joel March.
"Oh, I don't know. Wanting to study, and earning your own schooling, and
that sort of thing."
"Oh, I suppose your father has plenty of money, hasn't he?"
"Gobs! I have twenty dollars a month allowance for pocket money."
"I wish I had," answered March. "You must have a good deal saved up by
the end of the year." West stared.
"Saved? Why, I'm dead broke this minute. And I owe three bills in town.
Don't tell any one, because it's against the rules to have bills, you
know. Anyhow, what's the good of saving? There's lots more." It was
March's turn to stare.
"What do you spend it for?" he asked.
"Oh, golf clubs and balls, and cakes and pies and things," answered West
carelessly. "Then a fellow has to dress a little, or the other fellows
look down on you."
"Do they?" March cast a glance over his own worn apparel. "Then I guess
I must try their eyes a good deal."
"Well, I wouldn't care--much," answered West halfheartedly. "Though of
course that hat--"
"Yes, I suppose it is a little late for straws." West nodded heartily.
"I was going to get a felt in Boston, but--well, I saw something else I
wanted worse; and it was my own money."
"What was it?" asked West curiously.
"A book." West whistled.
"Well, you can get a pretty fair one in the village at Grove's. And--and
a pair of trousers if you want them."
March nodded, noncommittingly. They had reached the gymnasium.
"I'm going in for a shower," said West. "You'd better come along." March
shook his head.
"I guess not to-night. It's most supper time, and I want to read a
little first. Good-night."
"Good-night," answered West. "I'm awfully much obliged for what you did,
you know. Come and see me to-morrow if you can; Number 2 Hampton.
Good-night."
Joel March turned and retraced his steps to his dormitory. He found his
roommate reading at the table when he entered Number 34. Sproule looked
up and observed:
"I saw you with Outfield West a moment ago. It looks rather funny for a
'grind,' as you profess to be, hobnobbing with a Hampton House swell."
"I haven't professed to be a 'grind,'" answered Joel quietly, as he
opened his Greek.
"Well, your actions profess it. And West will drop you quicker than a
hot cake when he finds it out. Why, he never studies a lick! None of
those Hampton House fellows do."
March made no answer, but presently asked, in an effort to be sociable:
"What are you reading?"
"The Three Cutters; ever read it?"
"No; what's it about?"
"Oh, pirates and smuggling and such."
"I should think it would be first rate."
"It is. I'd let you take it after I'm through, only it isn't mine; I
borrowed it from Billy Cozzens."
"Thanks," answered Joel, "but I don't believe I'd have time for it."
"Humph!" grunted Sproule. "There you are again, putting on airs. Just
wait until you've been here two or three months; I guess I won't hear so
much about study then."
Joel received this taunt in silence, and, burying his head in his hands,
tackled the story of Cyrus the Younger. Joel had already come to a
decision regarding Richard Sproule, a decision far from flattering to
that youth. But in view of the fact that the two were destined to spend
much of their time together, Joel recognized the necessity of making the
best of his roommate, and of what appeared to be an unsatisfactory
condition. During the two days that Joel had been in school Sproule had
nagged him incessantly upon one subject or another, and so far Joel had
borne the persecution in silence. "But some day," mused Joel, "I'll just
_have_ to punch his head!"
Richard Sproule was a member of the senior class, and monitor for the
floor upon which he had his room. He had, perhaps, no positive meanness
in him. Most of his unpleasantness was traceable to envy. Just at
present he was cultivating a dislike for Joel because of the latter's
enviable success at lessons and because a resident of Hampton House had
taken him up. Sproule cared nothing for out-of-door amusements and hated
lessons. His whole time, except when study was absolutely compulsory,
was taken up with the reading of books of adventure; and Captain Marryat
and Fenimore Cooper were far closer acquaintances than either Cicero or
Caesar. Richard Sproule was popularly disliked and shunned.
In the dining hall that evening Joel ate and relished his first hearty
meal since he had arrived at Hillton. The exercise had brought back a
naturally good appetite, which had been playing truant.
The dining hall takes up most of the ground floor of Warren Hall. Eight
long, roomy tables are arranged at intervals, with broad aisles between,
through which the white-aproned waiters hurry noiselessly about.
To-night there was a cheerful clatter of spoons and forks and a loud
babel of voices, and Joel found himself hugely enjoying the novelty of
eating in the presence of more than a hundred and fifty other lads.
Outfield West and his neighbors in Hampton House occupied a far table,
and there the noise was loudest. West was dressed like a young prince,
and his associates were equally as splendid. As Joel observed them, West
glanced across and saw him, and waved a hilarious greeting with a soup
spoon. Joel nodded laughingly back, and then settled in his chair with
an agreeable sensation of being among friends. This feeling grew when,
toward the end of his meal, Wesley Blair, in leaving the hall, saw him
and stopped beside his chair.
"How did you get on this afternoon?" Blair asked pleasantly.
"Very well, thanks," Joel replied.
"That's good. By the way, go and see Mr. Beck to-morrow and get
examined. Tell him I sent you. You'll find him at the gym at about
eleven. And don't forget to show up to-morrow at practice."
The elder youth passed on, leaving Joel the center of interest for
several moments. His left-hand neighbor, a boy who affected very red
neckties, and who had hitherto displayed no interest in his presence,
now turned and asked if he knew Blair.
"No," replied Joel. "I met him only to-day on the football field."
"Are you on the 'Leven?"
"No, but I'm trying for it."
"Well, I guess you'll make it; Blair doesn't often go out of his way to
encourage any one."
"I hope I shall," answered Joel. "Who is Mr. Beck, please?"
"He's director of the gym. You have to be examined, you know; if you
don't come up to requirements you can't go in for football."
"Oh, thank you." And Joel applied himself to his pudding, and wondered
if there was any possibility of his not passing.
Apparently there was not; for when, on the following day, he presented
himself at the gymnasium, he came through the ordeal of measurement and
test with flying colors, and with the command to pay special attention
to the chest-weights, was released, at liberty to "go in" for any
sport he liked.
Despite his forebodings, the studies proved not formidable, and at four
o'clock Joel reported for football practice with a comforting knowledge
of duties performed. An hour and a half of steady practice, consisting
of passing, falling, and catching punts, left the inexperienced
candidates in a state of breathless collapse when Blair dismissed the
field. West did not turn up at the gridiron, but a tiny scarlet speck
far off on the golf links proclaimed his whereabouts.
On the way back to the grounds a number of youthful juniors, bravely
arrayed in their first suits of football togs, loudly denounced the
vigor of the practice, and pantingly made known to each other their
intentions to let the school get along as best it might without their
assistance on its eleven. They would be no great loss, thought Joel, as
he trudged along in the rear of the procession, and their resignation
would probably save Blair the necessity of incurring their dislikes when
the process of "weeding-out" began.
Although no special attention had been given to Joel during practice,
yet he had been constantly aware of Blair's observation, and had known
that several of the older fellows were watching his work with interest.
His feat of the previous day had already secured to him a reputation
throughout the school, and as the little groups of boys passed him he
heard himself alluded to as "the country fellow that punted fifty yards
yesterday," or "the chap that made that kick." And when the three long,
steep flights of Masters confronted him he took them two steps at a
time, and arrived before the door of Number 34 breathless, but as happy
as a schoolboy can be.
CHAPTER IV.
THE HEAD COACH.
"Upper Middle Class: Members will meet at the gym at 2.15, to march to
depot and meet Mr. Remsen."
"Louis WHIPPLE, _Pres't_."
This was the notice pasted on the board in Academy Building the morning
of Joel's fifth day at school. Beside it were similar announcements to
members of the other classes. As he stood in front of the board Joel
felt a hand laid on his shoulder, and turned to find Outfield West
by his side.
"Are you going along?" asked that youth.
"I don't believe so," answered Joel. "I have a Latin recitation at two."
"Well, chuck it! Everybody is going--and the band, worse luck!"
"Is there a band?" West threw up his hands in mock despair.
"Is there a _band? Is_ there a band! Mr. March, your ignorance surprises
and pains me. It is quite evident that you have never heard the Hillton
Academy Band; no one who has ever heard it forgets. Yes, my boy, there
_is_ a band, and it plays Washington Post, and Hail Columbia, and
Hilltonians; and then it plays them all over again."
"But I thought Mr. Remsen was not coming until Saturday?"
"That," replied West, confidentially, "was his intention, but he heard
of a youngster up here who is such an astonishingly fine punter that he
decided to come at once and see for himself; and so he telegraphed to
Blair this morning. And you and I, my lad, will March--see?--with the
procession, and sing--"
"'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!'"
And, seizing Joel by the arm, West dragged him out of the corridor and
down the steps into the warm sunlight of a September noon, chanting the
school song at the top of his voice. A group of boys on the Green
shouted lustily back, and the occupant of a neighboring window threw a
cushion with unerring precision at West's head. Stopping to deposit this
safely amid the branches halfway up an elm tree, the two youths sped
across the yard toward Warren Hall and the dinner table.
"You sit at our table, March," announced West. "Digbee's away, and you
can have his seat. Come on." Joel followed, and found himself in the
coveted precincts of the Hampton House table, and was introduced to five
youths, who received him very graciously, and invited him to partake of
such luxuries as pickled walnuts and peach marmalade. Joel was fast
making the discovery that to be vouched for by Outfield West invariably
secured the highest consideration.
"I've been telling March here that it is his bounden duty to go to the
station," announced West to the table at large.
"Of course it is," answered Cooke and Cartwright and Somers, and two
others whose names Joel did not catch. "The wealth, beauty, and fashion
will attend in a body," continued Cooke, a stout, good-natured-looking
boy of about nineteen, who, as Joel afterward learned, was universally
acknowledged to be the dullest scholar in school. "Patriotism
and--er--school spirit, you know, March, demand it." And Cooke helped
himself bountifully to West's cherished bottle of catsup.
"This is Remsen's last year as coach, you see," explained West, as he
rescued the catsup. "I believe every fellow feels that we ought to show
our appreciation of his work by turning out in force. It's the least we
can do, I think. Mind you, I don't fancy football a little bit, but
Remsen taught us to win from St. Eustace last year, and any one that
helps down Eustace is all right and deserves the gratitude of the school
and all honest folk."
"Hear! hear!" cried Somers.
"I'd like very well to go," said Joel, "but I've got a recitation at
two." Cooke looked across at him sorrowfully.
"Are you going in for study?" he asked.
"I'm afraid so," answered Joel laughingly.
"My boy, don't do it. There's nothing gained. I've tried it, and I speak
from sad experience."
"But how do you get through?" questioned Joel.
"I will tell you." The stout youth leaned over and lowered his voice to
a confidential whisper. "I belong to the same society as 'Wheels,' and
he doesn't dare expel me."
"I wish," said Joel in the laugh that followed, "that I could join that
society."
"Easy enough," answered Cooke earnestly. "I will put your name up at our
next meeting. All you have to do is to forget all the Greek and Latin
and higher mathematics you ever knew, give your oath never to study
again, and appear at chapel two consecutive mornings in thigh boots and
a plaid ulster."
Despite West's pleas Joel refused to "cut" his recitation, promising,
however, to follow to the station as soon as he might.
"It's only a long mile," West asserted. "If you cut across Turner's
meadow you'll make it in no time. And the train isn't due until three.
You'll see me standing on the truck." And so Joel had promised, and
later, from the seclusion of the schoolroom, which to-day was well-nigh
empty, had heard the procession take its way down the road, headed by
the school band, which woke the echoes with the brave strains of the
Washington Post March.
To-day the Aeneid lost much of its interest, and when the recitation was
over Joel clapped his new brown felt hat on his head--for West had
conducted him to the village outfitter the preceding day--and hurried up
to his room to leave his book and pad. "Dickey" Sproule was stretched
out upon the lounge--a piece of personal property of which he was very
proud--reading Kenilworth.
"Hello!" cried Joel, "why aren't you over at the lab? Isn't this your
day for exploding things?" Sproule looked up and yawned.
"Oh, I cut it. What's the good of knowing a lot of silly chemistry stuff
when you're going to be an author?"
"I should say it might be very useful to you; but I've never been an
author, and perhaps I'm mistaken. Want to go to the station?"
"What, to meet that stuck-up Remsen? I guess not. Catch me walking a
mile and a half to see him!"
"Well, I'm going," answered Joel. An inarticulate growl was the only
response, and Joel took the stairs at leaps and bounds, and nearly upset
Mrs. Cowles in the lower hall.
"Dear me, Mr. March!" she exclaimed, as together they gathered up a load
of towels, "is it only you, then? I thought surely it was a dozen boys
at least."
"I'm very sorry," laughed Joel. "I'm going to the station. Mr. Remsen
is coming, you know. Have I spoiled these?"
"No, indeed. So Mr. Remsen's coming. Well, run along. I'd go myself if I
wasn't an old woman. I knew Mr. Remsen ten years ago, and a more
bothersome lad we never had. He had Number 15, and we never knew what to
expect next. One week he'd set the building on fire with his
experiments, and the next he'd break all the panes in the window with
his football. But then he was such a nice boy!" And with this seemingly
contradictory statement the Matron trudged away with her armful of
towels, and Joel took up his flight again, across the yard to Academy
Road, and thence over the fence into Turner's meadows, where the hill
starts on its rise to the village. Skirting the hill, he trudged on
until presently the station could be seen in the distance. And as he
went he reviewed the five days of his school existence.
He remembered the strange feeling of loneliness that had oppressed him
on his arrival, when, just as the sun was setting over the river, he had
dropped down from the old stage coach in front of Academy Hall, a
queer-looking, shabbily dressed country boy with a dilapidated leather
valise and a brown paper parcel almost as big. He remembered the looks
of scorn and derision that had met him as he had taken his way to the
office, and, with a glow at his heart, the few simple, kindly words of
welcome and the firm grasp of the hand from the Principal. Then came the
first day at school, with the dread examinations, which after all
turned out to be fairly easy, thanks to Joel's faculty for remembering
what he had once learned. He remembered, too, the disparaging remarks of
"Dickey" Sproule, who had predicted Joel's failure at the "exams.". "Who
ever heard," Sproule had asked scornfully, "of a fellow making the upper
middle class straight out of a country grammar school, without any
coaching?" But when the lists were posted, Joel's name was down, and
Sproule had taken deep offense thereat. "The school's going to the
dogs," he had complained. "Examinations aren't nearly as hard as they
were when _I_ entered."
The third day, when he had kicked that football down the field, and,
later, had made the acquaintance of Outfield West, seemed now to have
been the turning point from gloom to sunshine. Since then Joel had
changed from the unknown, derided youth in the straw hat to some one of
importance; a some one to whom the captain of the school eleven spoke
whenever they met, a chum of the most envied boy in the Academy, and a
candidate for the football team for whom every fellow predicted success.
But, best of all, in those few days he had gained the liking of
well-nigh all of the teachers by the hearty way in which he pursued
knowledge; for he went at Caesar as though he were trying for a
touch-down, and tackled the Foundations of Rhetoric as though that study
was an opponent on the gridiron. Even Professor Durkee, known
familiarly among the disrespectful as "Turkey," lowered his tones and
spoke with something approaching to mildness when addressing Joel March.
Altogether, the world looked very bright to Joel to-day, and when, as
presently, he drew near to the little stone depot, the sounds of singing
and cheering that greeted his ears chimed in well with his mood.
Truly "all Hillton" had turned out! The station platform and the trim
graveled road surrounding it were dark with Hilltonian humanity and gay
with crimson bunting. Afar down the road a shrill long whistle announced
the approach of the train, and a comparative hush fell on the crowd.
Joel descried Outfield West at once, and pushed his way to him through
the throng just as the train came into sight down the track. West was
surrounded on the narrow baggage truck by some half dozen of the choice
spirits from Hampton House, and Joel's advent was made the occasion for
much sport.