The Half Back - Ralph Henry Barbour
"Ah, he comes! The Professor comes!" shouted West.
"He tears himself from his studies and joins us in our frivolity,"
declaimed Cooke.
"That's something you'll never have a chance of doing, Tom," answered
Cartwright, as Joel was hauled on to the truck. "You'll never get near
enough to a study to have to be torn away."
"Study, my respected young friend," answered Cooke gravely, "is the
bane of the present unenlightened age. In the good old days when
everybody was either a Greek or a Roman or a barbarian, and so didn't
have to study languages, and--"
"Shut up! here's the train," cried West. "Now every fellow cheer, or
he'll have me to fight."
"Hooray! hooray! hooray!" yelled Cooke.
"Somebody punch him, please," begged West, and Somers and another
obliging youth thrust the offender off the truck and sat on his head.
The train slowed down, stopped, and a porter appeared laden with a huge
valise. This was the signal for a rush, and the darkey was instantly
relieved of his burden and hustled back grinning to the platform.
Then Joel caught sight of a gentleman in a neat suit of gray tweed
descending the steps, and saw the pupils heave and push their ways
toward him; and for a sight the arrival was hidden from view. Then the
cheers for "Coach!" burst enthusiastically forth, the train was speeding
from sight up the track, the band was playing Hilltonians, and the
procession took up its march back to the Academy.
When he at last caught a fair sight of Stephen Remsen, Joel saw a man of
about twenty-eight years, gayly trudging at the head of the line, his
handsome face smiling brightly as he replied to the questions and
sallies of the more elderly youths who surrounded him. Joel's heart went
out to Stephen Remsen at once. And neither then nor at any future time
did he wonder at it.
"That," thought Joel, "is the kind of fellow I'd like for a big brother.
Although I never _could_ grow big enough to lick him."
CHAPTER V.
A RAINY AFTERNOON.
The following day Joel arrived on the football field to discover the
head coach in full charge. He was talking earnestly to Wesley Blair. His
dress was less immaculate than upon the preceding afternoon, although
not a whit less attractive to Joel. A pair of faded and much-darned
red-and-black striped stockings were surmounted by a pair of soiled and
patched moleskin trousers. His crimson jersey had faded at the shoulders
to a pathetic shade of pink, and one sleeve was missing, having long
since "gone over to the enemy." In contrast to these articles of apparel
was his new immaculate canvas jacket, laced for the first time but a
moment before. But he looked the football man that he was from head to
toe, and Joel admired him immensely and was extremely proud when, as he
was passing, Blair called him over and introduced him to Remsen. The
latter shook hands cordially, and allowed his gaze to travel
appreciatingly over Joel's five feet eight inches of bone and muscle.
"I'm glad to know you, March," he said, "and glad that you are going to
help us win."
The greeting was so simple and sincere that Joel ran down the field a
moment later, feeling that football honors were even more desirable than
before. To-day the throng of candidates had dwindled down to some forty,
of whom perhaps twenty were new men. The first and second elevens were
lined up for the first time, and Joel was placed at left half in the
latter. An hour of slow practice followed. The ball was given to the
first eleven on almost every play, and as the second eleven were kept
entirely on the defensive, Joel had no chance to show his ability at
either rushing or kicking. Remsen was everywhere at once, scolding,
warning, and encouraging in a breath, and the play took on a snap and
vim which Wesley Blair, unassisted, had not been able to introduce.
After it was over, Joel trotted back with the others to the gymnasium
and took his first shower bath. On the steps outside was West, and the
two boys took their way together to the Academy Building.
"Did you hear Remsen getting after Bart Cloud?" asked West.
"No. Who is Cloud?"
"He plays right half or left half, I forget which, on the first eleven,"
answered West, "and he's about the biggest cad in the school. His
father's an alderman in New York, they say, and has lots of money; but
he doesn't let Bart handle much of it for him. He played on the team
last year and did good work. But this season he's got a swelled head and
thinks he doesn't have to play to keep his place; thinks it's mortgaged
to him, you see. Remsen opened his eyes to-day, I guess! Whipple says
Remsen called him down twice, and then told him if he didn't take a big
brace he'd lose his position. Cloud got mad and told Clausen--Clausen's
his chum--that if he went off the team he'd leave school. I guess few of
us would be sorry. Bartlett Cloud's a coward from the toes up, March,
and if he tries to make it unpleasant for you, why, just offer to knock
him down and he'll change his tune."
"Thank you for telling me," responded Joel, "but I don't expect to have
much to do with him; I don't like his looks. I know the boy you mean,
now. He's the fellow that called me names--'Country,' you know, and
such--the first day we had practice. I heard him, but didn't let on. I
didn't mind much, but it didn't win my love." West laughed uproariously
and slapped Joel on the back.
"Oh, you're a queer sort, March. I'd have had a fight on the spot. But
you--Say, you're going to be an awful grind, March, if you keep on in
your present terrible course. You won't have time for any fun at all.
And I was going to teach you golf, you know. It's not nice of you, it
really isn't."
"I'll play golf with you the first afternoon we don't have practice,
West, honestly. I'm awfully sorry I'm such a crank about lessons, but
you see I've made up my mind to try for the--the--what scholarship
is that?"
"Carmichael?" suggested West. Joel shook his head.
"No, the big one." West stared.
"Do you mean the Goodwin scholarship?"
"Yes, that's the one," answered Joel. West whistled.
"Well, you're not modest to hurt, March. Why, man, that's a terror! You
have to have the Greek alphabet backward, and never miss chapel all term
to get a show at that. The Goodwin brings two hundred and
forty dollars!"
"That's why I want it," answered Joel. "If I win it it will pay my
expenses for this year and part of next."
"Well, of course I hope you'll make it," answered West, "but I don't
believe you have much show. There's Knox, and Reeves, and--and two or
three others all trying for it. Knox won the Schall scholarship last
year. That carries two hundred even."
"Well, anyhow, I'll try hard," answered Joel resolutely.
"Of course. You ought to have it; you need it. Did I tell you that I won
a Masters scholarship in my junior year? Yes, I did really. It was forty
dollars. I remember that I bought two new putters and a jolly fine
caddie bag."
"You could do better than that if you'd try, West. You're awfully
smart."
"Who? Me?" laughed West. "Pshaw! I can't do any more than pass my exams.
Of course I'm smart enough when it comes to lofting out of a bad lie or
choosing a good club; but--" He shook his head doubtfully, but
nevertheless seemed pleased at the idea.
"No, I mean in other ways," continued Joel earnestly. "You could do
better than half the fellows if you tried. And I wish you would try,
West. You rich fellows in Hampton House could set such a good example
for the youngsters if you only would. As it is, they admire you and envy
you and think that it's smart to give all their time to play. I know,
because I heard some of them talking about it the other day. 'You don't
have to study,' said one; 'look at those swells in Hampton. They just go
in for football and golf and tennis and all that, and they never have
any trouble about passing exams.'" West whistled in puzzled amazement.
"Why, March, you're setting out as a reformer; and you're talking just
like one of those good boys in the story books. What's up?" Joel smiled
at the other boy's look of wonderment.
"Nothing's up, except that I want you to promise to study more. Of
course, I know it sounds cheeky, West, but I don't mean to meddle in
your business. Only--only--" Joel hesitated.
"Only what? Out with it!" said West. They had reached the Academy
Building and had paused on the steps.
"Well, only--that you've been very kind to me, West, and I hate to see
you wasting your time and know that you will wish you hadn't later, when
you've left school, you know. That's all. It isn't that I want to
meddle--" There was a moment of silence. Then:
"The idea of your caring!" answered West. "You're a good chap, March,
and--I tell you what I'll do. I _will_ go in more for lessons, after
next week. You see there's the golf tournament next Saturday week, and
I've got to put in a lot of hard practice between now and then. But
after that I'll try and buckle down. You're right about it, March, I
ought to do more studying, and I will _try_; although I don't believe
I'll make much of a success as a 'grind.' And as to the--the--the rest
that you said, why, I haven't been extraordinarily kind; I just sort of
took to you that day on the campus because you looked to be such a
plucky, go-ahead, long-legged chap, you know. I thought I'd rescue you
from the ranks of the lowly and teach you golf and make a man of you
generally. Instead of that"--West gave one of his expressive
whistles--"instead of that, why, here you are turning me into a regular
'Masters Hall grind.' Thus do our brightest dreams fade. Well, I'm oil.
Don't forget the upper middle class meeting to-night. They're going to
vote on the Class Crew question, and we want all the votes we can get to
down the fellows that don't want to pay the assessment. Good-night."
And Outfield West took himself off toward his room, his broad shoulders
well back, and his clear, merry voice singing the school song as he
strode along. Joel turned into the library, feeling well satisfied with
the result of his meddling, to pore over a reference book until
supper time.
The following morning Joel awoke to find a cold rain falling from a
dull sky. The elms in the yard were dripping from every leaf and branch,
and the walks held little gray pools that made the trip to breakfast a
series of splashes. In the afternoon Joel got into his oldest clothes
and tramped over to Hampton House. The window of West's room looked
bright and cheerful, for a big wood fire was blazing on the hearth
within. Joel kicked the mud from his shoes, and passing through the
great white door with its old-fashioned fanlight above, tapped at West's
room. A faint response from beyond the portal summoned him in.
The owner of the room was sandpapering a golf shaft before the fire, and
a deep expression of discontent was on his face. But his countenance
lighted up at sight of his visitor, and he leaped to his feet and drew a
second armchair before the hearth.
"You're a brick, March! I was just wishing you roomed near enough so
that I could ask you to come over and talk a bit. Isn't it a
horrible day?"
"It's awfully wet; but then it has to rain sometimes, I suppose,"
answered Joel as he took off his overcoat.
"Yes, but it doesn't have to rain just when a fellow has fixed to
practice golf, does it?" West growled. Joel laughed.
"I thought the real, simon-pure golfer didn't mind the weather."
"He doesn't as long as he can get over the ground, but the links here is
like a quagmire when it rains. But never mind, we'll have a good chummy
afternoon. And I've got some bully gingersnaps. Do you like
gingersnaps?" Joel replied in the affirmative, and West produced a box
of them from under the bed.
"I have to keep these kinds of things hid, you know, because Blair and
Cooke and the rest of the fellows would eat them all up. By the way, I
made up a list of the things you'll have to get if you're going in for
golf. Here it is. Of course, I only put down one of each, and only a
dozen balls. I'll get the catalogue and we'll reckon up and see how much
they come to."
"But I don't think I can afford to buy anything like this, West,"
answered Joel doubtfully.
"Nonsense! you've got to! A fellow has to have _necessities_! What's the
first thing on the list? Read 'em off, will you?"
"Driving cleek," read Joel.
"Yes, but never mind the clubs. There are seven of them on the list and
you can get pretty fair ones for a dollar and a half each. What's next?"
"But that makes ten dollars and a half," cried Joel.
"Of course it does. And cheap enough, too. Why, some of mine cost three
dollars apiece! What's next?"
"One dozen Silvertowns."
"Correct; four dollars. Mark it down. Next?"
"Caddie bag," responded Joel faintly.
"A dollar and a half. Next."
"But, West, I can't afford these things."
"Nonsense, March! Still--well, you can call the bag a dollar even;
though the dollar ones aren't worth much. Mine cost five."
"But you have coat and trousers down. And shoes, and--"
"Well, you can leave the shoes out, and get some hobnails and put them
on the soles of any good heavy shoes. Then there's gloves. They cost
about a dollar and a half. As for trousers, you _can_ do with ordinary
ones, but--you've got to have a coat, March. A chap can't swing a club
in a tight-fitting jacket like the one you've got on. Now let's
reckon up."
"There's no use in doing that, West," laughed Joel. "I can't buy one of
these things, to say nothing of the whole list. I'm saving up for my
football togs, and after I have those I sha'n't be able to buy anything
else for months."
West settled his chin in his hand and scowled at the flames. "It's too
bad, March; and I put your name up for the Golf Club, too. You will join
that, won't you? You must, now that I've put you up. It's only a dollar
initiation fee and fifty cents dues."
"Very well, then, I'll join the club," answered Joel. "Though I don't
see what use there is in it, since I haven't anything to play with and
wouldn't know how to play if I had."
"Well, I'm going to teach you, you know. And as for clubs and things,
why, I've got some oldish ones that will do fairly well; a beginner
doesn't need extra good ones, you see. And then, for clothes--well, I
guess fellows _have_ played in ordinary trousers and coat; and I've
played myself in tennis shoes. And if you don't mind cold hands, why,
you needn't have gloves. So, after all, we'll get on all right." West
was quite cheerful again and, with a wealth of clubs--divers, spoons,
bulgers, putters, baps, niblicks, and many other sorts--on the rug
before him, chattered on about past deeds of prowess on the links until
the room grew dark and the lamps in the yard shone fitfully through the
rain, by which time a dozen clubs in various states of repair had been
laid aside, the gingersnaps had been totally demolished, and West had
forgotten all about the meanness of the weather and his lost practice.
Then Cooke and Somers demanded admission, to the annoyance of both West
and Joel, and the lamps were lighted, and Joel said good-night and
hurried back to his room in order to secure a half hour's study ere
supper time.
CHAPTER VI.
THE PRACTICE GAME.
"First and second Eleven rushes and quarters down the field and practice
formations. Backs remain here to kick!" shouted Wesley Blair.
It was a dull and cold afternoon. The last recitation was over and half
the school stood shivering about the gridiron or played leapfrog to keep
warm. Stephen Remsen, in the grimiest of moleskins, stood talking to the
captain, and, in obedience to the command of the latter, some fifteen
youths, clad for the coming fray, were trotting down the field, while
eight others, backs and substitute backs on the two teams, passed and
dropped on the pigskin in an endeavor to keep warm.
The first and second elevens were to play their first real game of the
season at four o'clock, and meanwhile the players were down for a stiff
thirty minutes of practice. Joel March shivered with the rest of the
backs and waited for the coach and the captain to finish their
consultation. Presently Blair trotted off down the field and Remsen
turned to the backs.
"Browne, Meach, and Turner, go down to about the middle of the field
and return the balls. Cloud, take a ball over nearer the side-line and
try some drop-kicks. Post, you do the same, please. And let me see, what
is your name?" addressing a good-looking and rather slight youth. "Ah,
yes, Clausen. Well, Clausen, you and Wills try some punts over there,
and do try and get the leg swing right. March, take that ball and let me
see you punt."
Then began a time of sore tribulation for Joel; for not until ten
minutes had passed did the ball touch his toe. His handling was wrong,
his stepping out was wrong, and his leg-swing was very, very wrong! But
he heard never a cross word from his instructor, and so shut his lips
tight and bore the lecture in good-humored silence.
"There," announced Remsen finally, "that's a lot better. Now kick." Joel
caught the ball nicely, and sent it sailing far down the field.
"That's a good kick, but it would have been better had you landed higher
up on your foot. Try and catch the ball just in front of the arch of the
foot. You take it about on the toe-cap. Remember that the broader the
surface that propels the ball the greater will be the accuracy--that is,
the ball has less chance of sliding off to one side when the striking
surface is large. Here's your ball coming. Now try again, and remember
what I have said about the swing at the hip. Forget that you have any
joints at all, and just let the right side of you swing round as
it will."
Then Remsen passed on to the next man and Joel pegged away, doing
better and better, as he soon discovered, every try, until a whistle
blew from the middle of the field and the players gathered about the
captains on the fifty-five-yard line. Joel was down to play left half on
the second eleven, and beside him, at right, was Wills, a promising
lower middle boy, who was an excellent runner, but who, so far, had
failed to develop any aptitude for kicking. Cloud and Clausen occupied
similar positions on the first eleven, and behind them stood Wesley
Blair, the best full-back that Hillton Academy had possessed for many
years. The full-back on the second eleven was Ned Post, a veteran
player, but "as erratic as a mule," to use the words of Stephen Remsen.
The first eleven was about six pounds heavier in the line than the team
captained by Louis Whipple, who played at quarter, and about the same
weight behind the line. It was a foregone conclusion that the first
would win, but whether the second would score was a mooted point. Joel
felt a bit nervous, now that he was in his first game of consequence,
but forgot all about it a moment later when the whistle blew and Greer,
the big first eleven center, tore through their line for six yards,
followed by Wallace Clausen with the ball. Then there was a delay, for
the right half when he tried to arise found that his ankle was strained,
and so had to limp off the ground supported by Greer and Barnard, the
one-hundred-and-sixty-pound right tackle. Turner, a new player, went
on, and the ball was put in play again, this time for a try through left
tackle. But the second's line held like a stone wall, and the runner was
forced back with the loss of a yard. Then the first eleven guards fell
back, and when the formation hit the second's line the latter broke like
paper, and the first streamed through for a dozen yards. And so it went
until the second found itself only a few yards from its goal line.
There, with the backs pressed close against the forwards, the second
held and secured the ball on downs, only to lose it again by a fumble on
the part of Post. Then a delayed pass gained two yards for the first and
a mass at left tackle found another. But the next play resulted
disastrously, for when the ball was passed back there was no one to take
it, and the quarter was borne back several yards before his own
astounded players could come to his assistance.
"That about settles Cloud," whispered Post to Joel, as they hurried up
to take the new position. "That was his signal to take the leather
through right end, and he was fast asleep. Remsen's laying for him."
But the advantage to the second was of short duration, for back went the
first's guards again, and down came the ball to their goal line with
short, remorseless gains, and presently, when their quarter knelt on the
last white line, the dreaded happened, and Blair lay between the posts
with half the second eleven on top of him, but with the ball a yard over
the line. An easy goal resulted, and just as the teams trotted back to
mid-field the whistle sounded, and the first twenty-minute half
was done.
The players wrapped themselves warmly in blankets and squatted in the
protection of the fence, and were immediately surrounded by the
spectators. Remsen and Blair talked with this player and that,
explaining his faults or saying a good word for his work. In the second
half many of the second eleven went into the first, the deposed boys
retiring to the side-lines, and several substitutes were put into the
second. Joel went back to full, Ned Post taking Clausen's place at right
half on the first eleven and Turner becoming once more a spectator.
It was the second eleven's ball, and Joel raced down the field after the
kick-off as far as their twenty-yard line, and there caught Blair's
return punt very neatly, ran three yards under poor interference, and
was then seized by the mighty Greer and hurled to earth with a shock
that completely took the breath out of him for a moment. But he was soon
on his feet again, and Whipple gave him an encouraging slap as he
trotted back to his place. The next play was an ordinary formation with
the ends back, and the ball passed to left end for a run back of quarter
and through the line outside of guard. It worked like a charm, and left
end sped through with Joel bracing him at the turn and the left half
going ahead. Four yards were netted, Meach, the substitute left half,
being tackled by Post. In the mix-up that followed Joel found himself
sprawling over the runner, with Cloud sitting astride the small of his
back, a very uncomfortable part of the body with which to support a
weighty opponent. But he would not have minded that alone; but when
Cloud arose his foot came into violent contact with Joel's head, which
caused that youth to see stars, and left a small cut back of his ear.
"That wasn't an accident," muttered Joel, as he picked himself up and
eyed Cloud. But the latter was unconcernedly moving to his position, and
Joel gave his head a shake or two and resolved to forgive and forget. A
play similar to the last was next tried with an outlet on the other
side, outside tackle. But it resulted in a loss of a yard, and at the
next down the ball was thrown back to Joel, who made a poor catch and
followed it with a short high punt to the opponent's forty yards.
"Your head's cut, March," said Wills, as they took up the new position.
Joel nodded. "Cloud," he answered briefly.
"Punch him," answered Wills. "He's mad because he made such a bull of
his play in the other half. If he tries tricks with me--"
"If he does, let him alone, if you want to stay on the team," said Joel.
"That sort of thing doesn't help. Watch your chance and spoil a play of
his. That's the best way to get even."
The next ten minutes were spent in desperate attack on the part of the
first and an equally desperate defense by the second eleven. Twenty
yards of gain for the former was the result, and the half was nearly up.
On a first down Blair ran back and Joel, whispering "Kick!" to himself,
turned and raced farther back from the line. Then the ball was snapped,
there was a crossing of backs, and suddenly, far out around the right
end came Cloud with the pigskin tightly clutched, guarded by Post and
the left end. It was an unexpected play, and the second's halfs saw it
too late. Meach and Wills were shouldered out of the way, and Cloud ran
free from his interference and bore down on Joel, looking very big
and ugly.
It was Cloud's opportunity to redeem himself, and with only a green
full-back between him and the goal line his chances looked bright
indeed. But he was reckoning without his host. Joel started gingerly up
to meet him. The field was streaming down on Cloud's heels, but too far
away to be in the running. Ten yards distant from Joel, Cloud's right
arm stretched out to ward off a tackle, and his face grew ugly.
"Keep off!" he hissed as Joel prepared for a tackle. But Joel had no
mind for keeping off; that cut in his head was aching like everything,
and his own advice to Wills occurred to him and made him grin. Cloud
swerved sharply, but he was too heavy to be a good dodger, and with a
leap Joel was on him, tackling hard and true about the runner's hips.
Cloud struggled, made a yard, another, then came to earth with Joel's
head snugly pillowed on his shoulder. A shout arose from the crowd. The
field came up and Joel scrambled to his feet. Cloud, his face red with
chagrin and anger, leaped to his feet, and stepping toward Joel aimed a
vicious blow at his face. The latter ducked and involuntarily raised his
fist; then, ere Greer and some of the others stepped between, turned and
walked away.