CHAPTER XVIII
NOT IN THE GAME
Sunday morning at school is always a time of reckoning. On Saturdayevents are likely to succeed each other too swiftly to give one timefor reflection or realization, and when bedtime comes sleep arrivesquickly to a tired body. But Sunday is different. There is that addedhalf-hour of slumber, the later and more leisurely breakfast at whichone eats a little more heartily than on weekday mornings, the followingperiod of repletion and calm, and, subsequently, a long day interruptedby few duties. Under such circumstances even the least thoughtful aregiven to thought, even to introspection. Yesterday’s events, the eventsof the week, present themselves to the mind, pleasurably or otherwise,insisting on consideration. Even consciences have been known to stir onSunday morning!
This particular day of reckoning brought one realization to each andevery fellow at Alton, which was that the football situation wasdesperate. Some phrased it one way, some another, but that was whatthey meant. The team was variously described as “punk,” “shot fullof holes” and “sunk without trace.” Certain morbid youths took tofiguring the size of the score that Kenly Hall School would roll upagainst her helpless opponent. The figures ran all the way from 10 to 0to 36 to 3. The youth accountable for the latter prediction explainedthat 3 by stating that even so implacable an enemy as Kenly would letMart Proctor put over a field-goal under such circumstances, seeingthat it was Mart’s last game and everything! But there were many whofelt that the youth in question was unjustifiably optimistic.
How Coach Cade felt about the situation I don’t know. No one did know,probably, unless, possibly, it was Captain Mart. The coach never worehis heart on his sleeve, and his sharp dark eyes saw much more thanthey told. It was no secret that there was a conference in the coach’sroom that Sunday night that lasted well after ten o’clock, but thosewho attended it gave out no news. Rumors, of course, were rife. MartProctor had resigned the captaincy after a falling-out with Johnny.Coach Cade had resigned after a row with Captain Proctor. They weregoing to scrap the first team, all but one or two fellows, and play thesecond against Oak Grove and Kenly. Hurry calls had been sent to allquarters of the East for assistant coaches. Ned Richards and Mart wereat outs because the latter had taken the running of the team away fromNed in the last quarter yesterday. These were some of the wild rumorsthat circulated through the school on Sunday and Monday. There wereothers, but they were less sensational, and so less popular.
On Monday, however, things looked much as usual on the field. Therewere no cuts allowed, even those who had sustained injuries being out.The hospital list was also in evidence to a man; Neirsinger, with hisneck swathed in bandages, Nichols with his left shoulder under leather,Harmon with a right ankle sporting much silk elastic, Smedley lookingsad and pale after a ten-day bout with bronchitis; and one or twoothers. But they were all there, and while a few did no more than lookon most of them performed at least some slight labor. There had beena short but earnest talk in the dressing room before practice and themembers of the team had worn more serious countenances than usual whenthey had reached the field.
Contrary to the usual procedure, the second team was called across athalf-past four and lined up against a first eleven consisting largelyof second-string players. They looked easy to the scrubs, and thelatter visioned another jolly massacre, but something went wrong withtheir vision. With Coach Cade and Captain Mart driving as mercilesslyas in a mid-week scrimmage, that patched-up first eleven got togetheras no first eleven had for a fortnight and gave the scrubs the fight oftheir lives.
Russell had no difficulty that afternoon in following Coach Gaston’sinjunction and forgetting that the opponents were Altonians. Butler,who played left tackle in Proctor’s place, erased all mercifultendencies from Russell’s mind shortly after the first clash when hesent a none too heavily padded elbow against the opposing end’s face,an all-encompassing attention that set his head ringing, almost jarredhis teeth loose and, proceeding further, put his nose temporarily outof plumb. Of course, it was quite accidental. That is to say, Butlerheld no personal animosity toward Russell. He would have done the sameno matter who had been playing scrub end. Perhaps Russell should havetaken that into consideration and felt better about it. But therewasn’t much time for judicial consideration of anything, and so,occasionally removing the sanguine evidence with a sleeve, he forgotthat Butler was a school-mate, a neighbor in Upton Hall, a brothermember of the Debating Society and a good fellow generally, and, infootball parlance, proceeded to “smear” him. So successful was hethat Appel soon stopped sending plays at that end--greatly to Wells’chagrin, a chagrin he didn’t hesitate to voice--and the two deadlyopponents did more glaring than battling. That was a pretty strugglewhile it lasted, and it was watched enjoyably by non-combatants andapprovingly by Coach Gaston. When the trouble began again after thefirst no-score period and a five-minute breathing spell it was MartProctor who occupied left tackle position on the first and Russell’ssupremacy was at an end. Not that he allowed Mart to walk over himoften, however. Russell played real football that Monday afternoon,and his deeds were respectfully spoken of afterwards. He and thepassionate-spoken Wells formed on defense an outer guard that turnedback most invasions.
Coach Cade whipped and spurred and the first fought as it hadn’t foughtfor two weeks and more. One by one the substitutes were withdrawnwhenever possible and first-string men took their places, and therewas a last whirlwind, breathless five minutes that took the ball halfthe length of the field and landed it under the scrub’s goal. There,spurning half-measures, Ned Richards, who had replaced Appel, sought todrive across. A field-goal would have been possible, easily possiblefrom the eighteen-yard line, but a touchdown was still something thatthe first was incapable of against a team which, like the scrubs, hadbeen fed for a fortnight on victory. Coach Cade stormed and thundered,Captain Mart shouted encouragement, Ned Richards scolded and goaded,and each time the second team gave back grudgingly, growlingly a scantyard or two yards. It was fourth down on the thirteen yards, with fiveto go, and Ned took matters into his own hands. A fake forward byLinthicum, standing well back of the line, the ball to Ned instead,a moment of delay and concealment, and then a lightning dash insidetackle on the right. It was Goodwin who stopped the runner barelyon the eight yards. There was doubt about the distance and talk ofmeasuring, but the second team captain pushed the hesitant officialaside.
“Let ’em have it!” he said hoarsely, defiantly. “Sure, they made it!”He silenced a protest from the red-headed Reilly sharply. “Now let’ssee ’em get over! Come on, Second! Show ’em who we are! They don’tknow they’re up against the _real_ team!” There was insult in thatemphasis, and the first growled angrily. But the second laughed proudlyand exultantly and lined up inside the eight yards and drew in theirbreaths deeply. Then came the onslaught once more. Mawson tried toget through Captain Falls and made less than a yard. Moncks tried theother guard position and made nothing. The first snapped into a shiftand Linthicum edged back up the field. The second crossed to meet it.Russell went out and back. The ball passed, was gone from sight. Asudden massing of the scrubs at the left of center. A muddy helmet waslifted above the mêlée, was poised there an instant and went back anddown. The scrubs pushed in. A whistle blew.
“Fourth down!” panted the referee. “About ten to go!”
First had lost its scant gain!
Second howled raucous derision, taunted as it dug its cleats again.But first team had shot its bolt. A field-goal or a forward pass aloneremained to her, and she tried the latter. It was Russell who tookthat pass five yards behind his goal-line and under the nose of thedesperate Crocker, and it was Russell who sank gently down on the swardand, with the ball carefully beneath him, stifled a groan. For thedisappointed Crocker had signified his feelings by a quick, hard blowto Russell’s already damaged nose.
In the tense excitement of the instant the blow had gone unseen, orunrealized, by most. But Wells had seen it and Wells acted quickly.Billy Crocker m
easured his length beside the goal-post, while firstand second players rushed up, expostulating, threatening, eager fortrouble. For the moment none remembered Russell, and that youthpresently crawled to his feet with the ball, dabbed ineffectually athis bleeding nose and became aware of the fact that internecine strifewas threatening a few yards away. But the coaches and the managers andthe captains and one or two other exponents of peace dug their way intothe group and begged and commanded and threatened, pushing and shovinghere and there, and war was averted. Above all other voices could beheard the strident tones of the indignant and blood-thirsty Wells.
“He poked Emerson square in the nose, the dirty bounder! I saw him doit! Let him come over here and try it on me! Yah, you’d better get himaway, Mart!”
Then Coach Cade and one or two more were questioning Russell andRussell was shaking his head negatively. “I’m sure it was an accident,”he asserted. “I’m satisfied.”
“He’s lying!” shouted the irrepressible Wells, struggling between hiscaptors. “He’s lying!”
So the scrimmage ended.
Russell didn’t go over to the Sign of the Football that afternoon whenhe left the gymnasium. Jake had rendered first aid to his swollen andextremely painful nose, but Russell didn’t quite fancy parading thatdisfigured feature in public. Stick appeared slightly peeved when hegot back to the room, but a glimpse of his friend’s countenance seemedto restore his good humor, or so, at any rate, Russell thought. Stickreceived a brief and bald narrative of the affair, voiced as muchsympathy as he ever voiced over the misfortunes of any one but himselfand put the matter aside.
“Kincaid was in this afternoon,” he announced. Mr. Kincaid was thePhysical Instructor. “Wanted prices on a lot of gymnasium stuff;dumb-bells, eight pairs of clubs, a punching-bag--quite a lot ofthings. I brought the list back. Told him we’d let him know to-morrow.”
“But you could have figured the prices easily enough with thecatalogue,” protested Russell troubledly. “He will think we’re a funnybunch if we have to hold a conference before we quote him prices!”
“That’s all right, but we’ve got to remember that Crocker’s goteverything marked away down, Rus,” replied Stick placatingly. “If wewant to get this sale we’ll have to beat Crocker, I guess.”
“Do you think he went to Crocker’s, too?”
“I don’t know. He didn’t go that way when he left the store, but he mayhave been there first.”
“Well, we’ll give him the regular prices with the regular discounts,”said Russell. “Let’s see the list.”
Stick produced it and Russell ran his eye down the typewrittenmemorandum. The list was surprisingly long and represented a very neatprofit for the seller. Russell pulled a pad of paper to him and beganto figure tentatively, appealing to Stick at intervals when memoryfailed him. But Stick answered at random and seemed little interestedin what, three weeks ago, would have been a stupendous affair. Russellwondered. Had Stick informed him of the conversation on Saturday withMr. Crocker he might have understood his partner’s indifference, butStick had been very careful to make no mention of that.
After supper, a meal somewhat marred by many jocular allusions to hisnose, Russell hurried to West street, avoiding as much as possible thelighted stretches. Not for several weeks had he been to the store inthe evening, and when, expecting to find the premises dark, he saw adim light burning within, his first feeling was of uneasiness. Nor washis uneasiness lessened when he found the door locked. But once insidehe saw that there was no occasion for alarm. Behind the iron grillingof the desk sat Mr. Pulsifer, his startled countenance dimly illuminedby the single light.
“Hello,” greeted Russell cheerfully. “I didn’t expect to find you here,sir, and thought of burglars or something when I saw the light.”
“I--I sometimes come here at night,” answered the florist hesitantly.“I was--er--looking over my books.”
Russell went back of the counter and found the catalogue he had comefor, all the time aware that Mr. Pulsifer was following him with aperturbed gaze. Evidently, thought Russell, he was not wanted there,although it was hard to believe that Mr. Pulsifer’s occupation was soimportant as to cause him to resent intrusion. “If,” continued Russellto himself, “it was me, I’d be mighty glad to have some one come in tospeak to! The old chap looks sort of down on his luck to-night.”
When he had said good night and gone out, locking the door behind him,his thoughts continued with Mr. Pulsifer. “Queer old codger, anyway,”he reflected. As a matter of fact, the florist was not really old, buthe did give the impression of being so. “Wouldn’t be surprised if hewent flooey some day and we had to either move or take the whole store.He can’t be making any sort of a living. Wonder if he has a familyto support. Hope not. They must be starving, for all the money hisbusiness brings in. Well, I don’t wish him any hard luck, but I’d justas lief have a change of landlord. He sort of gives me the creeps!”
When he got back to the room Stick was gone, but Jimmy was awaitinghim. “Thought I’d drop around and ask after the jolly old proboscis,”said Jimmy. “How’s it feeling?”
“If,” replied Russell with dignity, “you are referring to my nose,it is feeling punk. How does it look?” He forgot his dignity and wasfrankly anxious. Jimmy viewed it from various angles, his head on oneside. Finally:
“Strange and--ah--quaint,” he answered. “It--it’s sort of spread, isn’tit?”
“Feels as if it was all over my face,” replied Russell, laughing.“Well, Jake says it will return to its usual graceful outlines in a dayor two.”
“Possibly,” murmured Jimmy, “possibly, but I can’t conceive it. Whathave you got there?” he added, nodding at the catalogue.
Russell explained. “You’re just the fellow I wanted, too, Jimmy. Sitdown over there and give me a hand with this. I’m going to get theseprices to Mr. Kincaid to-night.”
Jimmy sighed as he took the indicated place and accepted the cataloguefrom Russell. “I came to tender sympathy,” he said, “and remain totoil. All right. What’s the first item?”
Twenty minutes later Russell departed for Borden Hall and Mr. Kincaid,and, left to himself, Jimmy settled down on his spine and picked out inthe catalogue a great many articles that he meant some day to acquire,a favorite diversion of his in moments of leisure at the store. He knewthat catalogue quite thoroughly now, from end to end, but he stillfound it interesting. He had spent something over a hundred dollars,in imagination, by the time Russell was back, looking very pleased andsatisfied.
“Find him?” asked Jimmy, laying the catalogue down.
Russell nodded. “I guess we get the order, too, Jimmy. He didn’t sayso. Said he would have to consider the prices a bit. But he was awfullynice and said we deserved encouragement and--and all that.” Russellthrust his hands in his pockets and beamed down on Jimmy. “There’s morethan forty dollars of clear profit in that bill of goods!”
“Great! Say, do I get a raise of salary?”
“Yes, if we make that sale you get fifteen cents a week.”
“Gosh!” Jimmy was plainly awed. “What’ll I ever do with it?”
They talked over the afternoon’s events then. “You put up a corkinggame, Rus,” declared the visitor. “I was watching you and Butler, andI’ll say that Butler had nothing on you, son. Say, you’re playing lotsbetter football than you did last year, aren’t you?”
Russell reflected. “Yes, I think I am,” he answered. “Steve Gaston’sa crackajack coach, Jimmy. He has a way of showing you how to dothings that--oh, I don’t know, but he just says a couple of wordsand makes a motion and--and you get him! Yes, I really do thinkI’ve improved. Fact is, last year there didn’t seem to be any greatwhatyoucallit--incentive to do very much. You know that yourself. Wejust went over and let the first team whale us five days a week andthat’s all there was to it. This year it’s lots different. We--”
“I’ll say so! This year you just go over and whale the first! Well,I’ll acknowledge that you
guys have quite a team there. I’ll hand itto you. Also to Steve. He’s a regular, raging, rampageous tiger thesedays. Seems as if he’d like to get us all laid up in the hospital andthen die happy.”
“Steve says the harder we use you fellows the harder you’ll useKenly,” said Russell, grinning.
“Yes, and we’re going to use you fellows hard before we get to Kenly,”answered Jimmy warmly. “Believe me, Rus, there’s some kick in the oldteam yet, and in a day or two more you guys will be sorry you tookadvantage of our enfeebled condition--”
“Well, who enfeebled you?” laughed Russell. “It was the little oldsecond that put the skids under you.”
“Nothing of the sort,” answered Jimmy indignantly. “Look at thehospital list we had!”
“You didn’t have any hospital list until we gave you one!”
“Say, you fellows hate yourselves,” said Jimmy wearily. “Anyway, you’redue for an awful shock pretty quick!”
“Sooner the better,” replied the other, cheerfully. “Then we’ll knowthat all our toil hasn’t been in vain. I don’t mind saying thatteaching football to you mutts is pretty hard work, and I’ll be gladwhen it’s over.” Russell felt tenderly of his nose.
“I guess you’ll be looking on to-morrow,” said Jimmy, grinning.
“Oh, I don’t know. This thing will be a lot better by morning. Iwouldn’t wonder if I was back on the job again, giving a few morepointers to you fellows.”
“Looks to me as if the old pointer was a bit out of commission,” Jimmylaughed. Then: “Say, Rus, I wish Johnny’d swipe you for our team. Idon’t see why he doesn’t. You’re as good as that wild ass Crocker.Better, I believe. Or you would be if you were in fast company for aweek or so.”
“Fast company!” groaned Russell. “Oh, my sainted aunt!”
“That’s all right, son. We may be going a little slow just now, butwhen we go back into high--watch our dust!”
“Watch you _in_ the dust, you mean,” retorted Russell. “No, thanks,Jimmy, I get all the excitement that’s good for me now. And unless youfellows really take a brace in the next week it’s going to be a biggerthing to have been on this year’s second than on the first!”
“Something in that, too,” acknowledged Jimmy ruefully. “Say, what doyou take it is the matter with us, anyway?”
Russell shrugged and frowned. “Blessed if I know,” he said. “Youstarted out pretty well and went nicely until you struck Hillsport.That seemed to take all the starch out of you.”
“That’s right: we’re sort of rough-dried now. Maybe old Johnny can putthe starch back into us, though. I’d hate to finish out here with alicking by Kenly. I wouldn’t mind if I had another year.”
“I suppose you’ll play in the Kenly game,” said Russell.
Jimmy nodded. “Bound to for a while. Of course, it’s hard luck havingfellows like Harmon and Mawson on the same job, but Harmon won’t lastthe game; he plays too hard; and Mawson can’t punt much. Oh, yes,you’ll doubtless see little James rushed on in the last quarter to pullthe game out of the fire.”
“I wouldn’t mind being in that game,” said Russell reflectively.
“Of course you wouldn’t! Even if you lose you don’t forget that you’vebeen through one of the big hours of your life. Gosh, if somethinghappened and I didn’t get in I’d just lie down and die, Rus!”
“And if you do get in you’ll probably die just the same, only morepainfully! They say that Kenly’s got a rip-snorting team this year.”
Jimmy shrugged. “They say that every year--until we’ve licked them.Still, I do think they’re rather better than usual. And that’s sort ofrotten, for we’re about half the team we were last year. Between youand me, old son, I guess we’re in for a drubbing. It’s against ordersto say that, or even think it, but it’s my honest belief. Oh, well,we’ll make ’em work for it! And there’ll be some gorgeous and hecticmoments before the old Gray-and-Gold is counted out! Besides, ding bustit, you can’t always tell, Rus. The under dog has won the battle beforethis! Well, see you to-morrow.”
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