Left Half Harmon

by Ralph Henry Barbour

  CHAPTER XX

  EVIDENCE

  Coach Cade was pleased with Saturday's game, and said so. So, too,was the school in general. In fact, it seemed that the school foundmore encouragement than was warranted. One heard a good deal on Sundayabout what Alton was going to do to Kenly when the time came. Doubtlessmuch of this optimism was due to the arrival of Felix McNatt in thebackfield, which, with the placing of Proctor at left tackle, appearedto round out the team remarkably. Certainly there was little inSaturday's victory over a palpably weaker opponent to account for allthe enthusiasm which spread over the school like a contagion.

  Sunday afternoon, walking across to Academy Hall to post a letter,Willard encountered McNatt bent on a similar errand. McNatt showedevidences of having played football recently, for three strips ofadhesive plaster formed a star over one cheek-bone. Having droppedtheir letters in the box beside the entrance, the two boys stood for afew minutes and talked. McNatt was evidently a trifle discouraged abouthis mission of reforming football on a more scientific basis.

  "Mr. Cade says there's a good deal in it, but thinks the--ah--impetusshould come from the colleges. Now I don't agree with him there,Harmon-- By the way, is your name Harmon or Brand? I heard some of theplayers calling you Brand yesterday."

  "Harmon. Brand's just a nickname."

  "I see. Well, as I was saying, I don't think Mr. Cade is right. Ibelieve that if we fellows at this school developed the game along thelines that you and I have discussed so frequently, others would follow.There--there'd be a movement, Harmon. If we look to the colleges tomake the start we'll have to wait a long time, I fear. In my opinioncolleges are extremely conservative in the matter of football,especially the larger ones, the--ah--the leaders. Of course I realizethat the season is so far advanced that any extreme changes now wouldpossibly militate against the team's success. Nevertheless, I am hopingthat Mr. Cade will decide to experiment in a small way. I have spokento quite a number of the players and they all appeared most interested.In fact, I don't recall that any of them offered a serious criticism."

  "I guess it'll take time," murmured Willard. "Great ideas generallyhave to--to overcome a good deal of opposition, don't you think? Howdoes it seem to be playing again, McNatt?"

  The full-back's face lighted. "Splendid," he replied. "Do you know,Harmon, I didn't suppose I could find so much pleasure in the gameagain. Of course I realize that I'm still rather stale, but it's comingback to me, it's coming back." McNatt nodded gravely. "I make mistakesand I'm frightfully slow, but with practice I'll improve. At least, Ihope to," he corrected modestly. "It's possible, though, that I shan'tdo as well as I should. The fact is, Harmon, I'm conscious of thevariance of thought that exists between those in charge of the team andme. I approach the problem confronting us scientifically. They approachit in the old hit-or-miss style. I strive not to let the lack of--shallI say?--harmony trouble me, but I fear it does at times. So often, whenthe quarter-back signals one play, I know that the situation calls foranother, and I fear that the absence of a sympathetic approval of theplay demanded sometimes--ah--unconsciously reduces my enthusiasm forit. And, really, one must be thoroughly convinced of the propriety ofa play before one can go into it wholeheartedly, just as one must beconvinced as to any other act. You see what I mean, Harmon?"

  "Oh, absolutely," answered Willard, "absolutely! But, really, McNatt,I wouldn't trouble much about that. Seems to me you've been playing amighty sweet game."

  "You think so?" asked the other doubtfully. "I don't know. If only itwas possible to give reasoning thought to the conduct of the game! Butit will come, I'm certain of that. Meanwhile I shall do the best I can."

  "I'm sure of that," said Willard earnestly.

  "There's just one thing that might happen," resumed McNatt as theystrolled away from Academy, knitting his brows. "Some time thatquarter-back--is his name Tarbox?"

  "Tarver, Gilbert Tarver," replied Willard gravely.

  "I think I've called him Tarbox several times. Well, as I was saying,there is a possibility that some time he may call a play that I shallsubconsciously rebel against and, under a certain mental condition, itmight be that I would--ah--spill the beans."

  Willard went off into a gale of laughter. McNatt viewed him in mildsurprise. "I'm afraid," he said, gently reproving, "the result wouldbe far from humorous. It is conceivable that it might, happening at acrucial moment in the contest, even prove disastrous to our fortunes!"

  "I--I wasn't laughing at that," moaned Willard, wiping his streamingeyes. "I was laughing at--at your slang!"

  "Slang? Oh!" McNatt smiled. "I dare say it did sound queer. I pick upquite a good deal of slang from Winfred. Well, I must get back. I'mworking on a plan that will, I think, produce more certainty of resultto the kick-off. You may have noticed how seldom the team in possessionof the ball at the kick-off is able to concentrate defensively in thelocality of the catch. My idea, if it proves practical--and I think itwill--would enable the team to know where the ball would descend and soconcentrate on that point. Well, I'll see you again, Harmon."

  Willard reported the conversation to Martin, who was doing his besttoday to convince himself that what had every appearance of a cold inthe head was merely a touch of hay fever, and Martin mixed laughterwith his sniffles. "The poor nut," he said. "He'd try to introducescience into eating a fried egg if he thought of it! How the dickenscan the team know where a kick-off is going to land when the fellow whokicks the ball doesn't know himself half the time? I suppose his ideais to have the ball brought back if it doesn't go where it's expectedto! Say, Brand, remind me to get a Darlington paper tomorrow, will you?There ought to be something about last night's job in it. I'll betthose fresh chumps over at Hillsport are hopping mad today!"

  "That's a safe bet," laughed Willard. "I only hope they're not madenough to raise a row about it."

  "How could they?" asked Martin indignantly. "Didn't they do the samething to us last fall? Much good it would do 'em if they did get sore!I guess faculty would have a pretty good comeback, son! Anyhow, youshould worry. You didn't have anything to do with it. Any more than Idid," added Martin after a moment.

  Willard laughed. "It sounds fine the way you say it, Mart," heanswered, "but I guess faculty would have a lot of trouble getting yourpoint of view. We were right there, old chap, and we even kept watchwhile the--the nefarious deed was perpetrated."

  "Where do you get that talk?" demanded Martin, punctuating the questionwith three mighty sneezes. "You'd better keep away from McNatt, son.You're catching it! Brand, just so long as my conscience is at restI care naught for what faculty may say or do. And I've got what isprobably the most restful conscience in captivity!"

  "Well, I guess Hillsport's too good a sport to make a howl," repliedWillard. "Cal's clothes are simply covered with paint, Bob says. And hedoesn't dare wear them for fear faculty might notice and get a line onwhat happened. He's going to smuggle them over to the tailor's and have'em cleaned."

  "Well, he would have a hand in it," said Martin complacently. "Youdidn't see me begging to be allowed to desecrate the walls of the dearold town, did you? I knew better. Paint always spatters, especiallywhen you try to put it on bricks. I could have told Cal that, but he'sso blamed knowing that he wouldn't have paid any attention to me."Martin sneezed again and shook his head. "It was coming over in thatold trolley that gave me this cold. I guess I got worse than a spoiledsuit out of the adventure. If I don't manage to break this up tonightI'll be out of football for days! I know these colds of mine."

  "I thought you said it was hay-fever," remarked Willard innocently.

  Martin growled. "It's more than a month too late for hay-fever, Iguess." He seized his handkerchief, opened his mouth and twitched hisnose. Nothing happened, however, and he relapsed again, with a dismalshake of his head. "It's getting worse all the time," he muttered. "Isthere a window open anywhere?"

  "No, but I'll open one," answered Willard obligingly.

  "Don't be a silly ass," requested the other
. "If you had this grippeyou wouldn't be so plaguey comic!"

  "It's growing fast," laughed Willard. "An hour ago it was justhay-fever. Then it was a cold. Now it's grippe. Better see a doctor,Mart, before pneumonia sets in!"

  "Oh, shut up! What time is it?"

  "Almost time for supper. What shall I bring you? Do you care formilk-toast?"

  "I do not! And I'll look after my own supper. I guess maybe some foodwill do me good. If it turned out to be influenza I'd be all the betterfor having lots of strength. It's weakened constitutions that cause somany fatalities. A fellow wants power of resistance, I guess."

  "Well, I don't know about that, but a clean handkerchief wouldn't hurt!"

  Monday introduced real November weather. The sky was overcast whenWillard piled out of bed in the morning, and a cold breeze was blowingfrom the east. Radiators were sizzling and the bath-robed, gossipinggroups were noticeably absent from the corridor when he set forth forthe lavatory. Winter was in the air, and the coffee at breakfast nevertasted so good.

  It was just before ten that Willard received the disturbing messagefrom the school office. Mr. Wharton, the secretary, desired to see himimmediately after twelve. Oddly, perhaps, Willard failed to connect thesummons with the Hillsport episode for some time. All during his teno'clock recitation he subconsciously tried to think of some neglectedstudy or duty that would account for the secretary's desire for hiscompany, and it wasn't until he had disposed of that explanation bythe slow process of elimination that Saturday night's affair obtrudeditself.

  He didn't allow that to alarm him, though. After all, a mere prank ofthat sort, common wherever there were boys' schools, couldn't be takenvery seriously. In any case, he would get off with a reprimand. Whatbothered him more was the question of how Mr. Wharton had managed toassociate him with the affair, and he wondered whether Martin and theothers were wanted at the office also. He hoped to run across one orthe other of them and compare notes, but luck was against him, and assoon as he was released from classroom at twelve he set forth a trifleuneasily down the corridor to the office.

  He had to wait several minutes while the secretary heard and denied afreckle-faced freshman's request for leave of absence over the nextSunday and then he made his identity known and received a distinctshock when Mr. Wharton jerked a thumb over his shoulder and said:"Doctor McPherson."

  The thumb indicated a closed door across the width of the outer office.Although Willard had never passed through that portal, he knew that itadmitted to the Principal's sanctum. His confidence waned as he openedthe gate in the railing, heard it click behind him and hesitated beforethe blank portal.

  "You needn't knock," said the secretary, over his shoulder. "The Doctorexpects you."

  Willard thought the latter sentence sounded horribly grim!

  The Principal's office, unlike the outer room, was large andspacious, with a flood of pale light entering by three big windowsthat overlooked the Green. A half-dozen mahogany armchairs stoodabout the room, a wide bookcase almost filled one wall space and ahuge table-desk, remarkably free from books or papers occupied thegeometrical center of the soft green rug. At the desk, his back towardthe windows, sat Doctor Maitland McPherson, a man of well under fiftyyears, thin-visaged, clean-shaven, somewhat bald. He laid aside thebook he had been reading at Willard's entrance, slipping an ivorymarker between the pages before he closed it, and nodded pleasantly.

  "Harmon?" he asked.

  "Yes, sir."

  "Bring one of those chairs here, please, and be seated."

  Willard followed instructions and then looked inquiringly across thefew feet of shining mahogany and green blotting pad to the countenanceof the Principal. This was his first close view of Doctor McPherson,although he had seen him at least once every day. Usually the lengthof the assembly hall separated them, and just now Willard wishedmightily that it still separated them. Not that the Doctor looked veryformidable, for he didn't. He wasn't a large man, and his strength andvigor were evidently that of the mind rather than of the body. Hisbrown eyes, rather golden brown, were soft and kindly, and two deepcreases that led from the corners of his short, straight nose to theends of his rather wide mouth suggested that he preferred smiling tofrowning. Even now there was a smile on the Doctor's face, although itwasn't a smile that encouraged the caller to emulate it.

  "I presume," said the Doctor, "that you know why I sent for you,Harmon."

  "No, sir," answered Willard, honestly enough.

  "Really?" The Doctor's grizzled brows went up in faint surprise.Leisurely, he swung his chair a little and opened the upper left-handdrawer beside him. Then he laid something midway between him and Willard,something that by its appearance seemed to desecrate the immaculatenessof the mahogany on which it rested. It was a crumpled object, white inplaces, black in other places, smeared and stiffened. In brief, it wasa white handkerchief befouled with black paint.

  "Have you ever seen that before, Harmon?" asked the Doctor.