Right End Emerson

by Ralph Henry Barbour

  CHAPTER XXIII

  A MEMBER OF THE TEAM

  Afterwards Russell believed that he didn’t get his breath again until,at ten o’clock that night, he put the light out and crawled into hisbed. Things had happened swiftly after the reading of that note fromthe first team manager. There had been dinner at the training table inthe corner of the dining hall, a dinner of which Russell ate little.His appearance had evoked only few greetings and had been acceptedin a surprisingly matter-of-fact fashion. Coach Cade was absent fromtable and it had been Johnson who had indicated his chair and brieflyexplained matters, talking across Rowlandson in an aside that probablyreached the entire table.

  “Crocker’s out of the game to-morrow, Emerson,” said Johnson, “andwe’re shy an end. Wouldn’t be surprised if you had a shot at the enemybefore the game’s over.”

  “I’d be surprised if he didn’t,” growled Rowlandson, entering withoutapology into the conversation. “Seen you play, Emerson. You’re good.Pass the beets, some one.”

  “Well, anyway, you be out at two-thirty this afternoon,” went on themanager.

  “I’ve got a class at two,” said Russell.

  “That’s all right. They’ve allowed cuts to-day.”

  Jimmy came over from the other table where the substitutes sat whileRussell was still toying with a large helping of tapioca pudding andsank into the chair at Russell’s left, recently vacated by Longstreth.“Hail, hail, the gang’s all here!” whispered Jimmy joyously. “Welcometo the Brotherhood of Hard Boiled Eggs, Rus! Say, accept it from yourstruly, this is great! When did they nab you? What happened to Crocker?I heard he was out on bail and the old man had shipped him to SouthAmerica.”

  The afternoon was a hectic nightmare for Russell. He went through aslow but grueling signal practice with the third squad, conducted aboutthe second team gridiron by Neirsinger, made innumerable mistakes, wasscolded bitterly by all hands--who couldn’t, it seemed, make allowancefor one who, only a few hours ago, had been a complete stranger tofirst team methods--and passed a very miserable, blundering fortyminutes. Followed some throwing and catching with seven other youths,and here Russell regained a measure of his self-respect. Coach Cade hada good word for him as he came back to the bench, and Russell held uphis head again. At a quarter to four they went back to the gymnasiumand took possession of the floor, driving out a few thin-limbed younggentlemen who had been performing aerial feats on the rings. The doorswere locked, benches were dragged noisily from the walls, the bigblackboard was pushed out under the light and Mr. Cade, chalk in onehand and pointer in another, began to talk. Russell was pulled onto abench between Jimmy and Harley McLeod. They seemed anxious to make himfeel at home, and he was grateful. The chalk made dots and rings andfigures and lines on the board and Mr. Cade’s voice went on and on.Russell tried to understand, but he found his mind and gaze wandering.Before him, his broad shoulders rounded as he sat hands between legs,was Paul Nichols, the center. Beside him on the right was Ned Richards,two-thirds his size, his scarred hands clasped behind his tousledhead. Harmon, Alton’s best half-back in several years, came next. Andthen Putney and Stimson and Butler. Captain Proctor was at Russell’sleft, further along the roughly curving row, with Browne, whose big,long legs stretched far under the bench before him. Russell couldn’tbelieve yet that he was really there, that he was one of this silentcongregation of the school’s elect. A member of the Alton FootballTeam! Maybe he would wake up presently and find that he was dreaming!

  He did wake up, but not with that result. Mr. Cade, noting hiswandering glance, had shot a question at him. “Emerson, what’s thecount on this play?” demanded the coach sharply.

  Russell, startled, shook his head miserably. “I--I don’t know, sir,” hesaid.

  “And you never will if you don’t listen! Kindly give me your attentionnow.”

  After that Russell managed to concentrate his gaze and his mind andbegan to understand. Presently they were up, eleven of them, walkingslowly through a play. Twice this was done. Then: “All right,” saidthe coach. “Now speed it!” A confused mingling of bodies and a rushhalf-way down the long floor followed. Then eleven more players wentthrough the same antics, and, finally, eleven more. Then back to thebenches, and the coach went on. The shadows deepened under the balconyand the white light from the windows and skylight no longer reflectedfrom the shiny floor. Manager Johnson switched the electricity on. Theclock at the end of the hall indicated twenty minutes to six. Mr. Cadetossed down the fragment of chalk and dusted his hands.

  “That’s all,” he said. “Eight o’clock promptly, please.”

  They filed out and down the stairs to showers and street clothes. Atsix they began to assemble again at the table for supper. To-night Mr.Cade was in his place at the end of the board and conversation wasgeneral and cheerful and laughter frequent. Some of the sixteen fellowswho lined both sides of the long table didn’t laugh; some scarcelytalked; and Russell was of the latter number. He was feeling strangelyapprehensive. To-morrow he might--indeed, if he was to believe some,undoubtedly would--be called on to play against Kenly Hall, and therealization was decidedly unnerving. Going up against the first teamwas one thing; that held no terrors; but facing the school enemy, theredoubtable wearers of the Cherry-and-Black, gave him a sort of sickfeeling in his stomach. There were periods when he longed for hiserstwhile obscurity with all his heart!

  There was an hour or longer of respite after supper, but it didn’t helpRussell much to regain his courage and peace of mind. The school talkedfootball incessantly. No other subject was for the moment acknowledgedto exist. Long before it was time for him to accompany Jimmy to thegymnasium the fellows were flocking to the Assembly Hall for thefinal cheer meeting. Football songs sounded on all sides. Fellows whocouldn’t sing them, whistled. They just wouldn’t let you forget for aminute, thought Russell resentfully.

  Back in the gymnasium, Mr. Cade and the blackboard came again intoaction, but now there was a veritable “quiz,” and the players werecalled on to answer questions that, as it seemed to the new member ofthe team, might have floored the inventor of football himself! Signalpractice once more followed, several plays were again run through andthen “Johnny” put aside his pedagogic manner, pushed the blackboardaside and talked to them very quietly for ten minutes during whichtime a dropping pin would have caused a stampede of alarm. What hesaid doesn’t matter. Coaches all say pretty much the same thing allover this broad land on the eve of the big battle. But “Johnny” got itacross, and grave faces looked back at him and told him things thattongues couldn’t have put in words. And then there was a sudden silencebroken at last by Captain Mart.

  “Three cheers for Mr. Cade, fellows!” cried Mart passionately. “Comeon! _Come on!_” Then there was a cheer for Alton, and they went outrather silently and sought their rooms. Overhead a star-pricked skypromised a fair day for the supreme test. Russell fell asleep at lastjust after midnight had sounded.

  Russell was not late for chapel the next morning only because Stick, inspite of all protests and pleas, pulled him bodily from bed. The bellwas ringing as they went tumbling down the stairs and they reached thegoal just as the final stroke sounded. Doctor McPherson, as was hisyearly custom, added to the prayer an intercession for the footballteam. “For those of us who do contend this day in manly sport we praythy countenance. If in thy sight they be deserving, give them, O Lord,strength of soul and of body that they may attain their goal.”

  Breakfast was a melancholy meal, for under the pretense of merrimentand nonchalance lay dubiety and dread. To Russell it seemed that hehad awakened to a Roman holiday for which he was cast in the rôle ofthe Christian Martyr. After breakfast, with a long two hours ahead ofthem, he and Jimmy walked over to the Sign of the Football. Stick wasalready busy, for trade was brisk to-day, and promised to be brisker.The counter was fairly piled with pennants of Alton and Kenly colors,with small gray-and-gold megaphones and with arm-bands of the rivalhues. Russell took his place behind the counter with his part
ner andmanaged to forget for a short time the impending fate. But after he hadmade the wrong change twice he decided to let Stick manage alone. Jimmyhad gone to the back of the store where Mr. J. Warren Pulsifer seemedunusually busy and unusually cheerful. Out on the street again, Jimmychuckled and, in reply to Russell’s unspoken question, said:

  “Well, J. Warren’s got his release, and the old boy’s as happy as alark!”

  “His release?” echoed the other.

  “Yes, he’s going out of business, Rus. Packing up right now. Mondayyou’ll have the place to yourself.”

  “But, how--why--”

  “That’s what I wanted to know,” chuckled Jimmy. “Well, J. Warren saysthat what happened Thursday night settled it. Says he thought it allover carefully and decided that Aunt Mary--or whatever her namewas--wouldn’t want him to continue the business after it had becomedangerous. Aunt Mary, he says, was very tender-hearted, and he knowsthat she wouldn’t approve of his getting beaten up merely to keep tothe terms of the will. It sounds sort of weak to me, but he’s perfectlysatisfied with his reasoning, and he’s the doctor! Funny, isn’t it?”

  Russell laughed for the first time that day. “Funny? I should say so!”Then he sobered suddenly. “Look here, though, Jimmy, that puts thewhole place on us! What about the rent?”

  “Well, J. Warren’s lease isn’t up until the first of the year, so youfellows will have six weeks, nearly, to look around. But if it was me,I’d take the whole premises, Rus.”

  Russell was thoughtfully silent for several minutes. Then he noddedresolutely. “That’s what we’ll do, Jimmy,” he declared. “Somethingtells me that the Sign of the Football is going to be a success. Ofcourse, it will mean nearly twice as much rent, and we’ll have to signa lease for a whole year, but--still--”

  “Nothing venture, nothing have,” said Jimmy gayly. “The store’s goingto be a winner, Rus. Accept that from yours truly. You’ve tied the canto old Crocker, and he won’t trouble you again, I’ll bet. From now onyou’ll have clear sailing, old son. Such is the prediction of James W.Austen. The W, Rus, stands for Wisdom!”