THE PLAN
There was hard practice that afternoon in preparation for the Musket
Hill Academy game, and the second squad, in process of becoming the
second team, with a coach and signals of its own, was sent against the
first for three long periods. Myron found himself with the third squad,
as usual, however, and ended practice with a half-hour scrimmage against
the substitutes. Perhaps Cummins' words had made an impression, for he
certainly played good, hard ball today and ran rings around the opposing
ends and backs. As they played on the second team gridiron, while the
first team was battling, his performance was not noted by the coach.
But Keene, an end who was off with a bad ankle and who refereed the
scrimmage, saw and casually made mention of Myron's work to Jud Mellen
later.
"That chap Foster played a nifty game today," said Keene. "He might bear
watching, Jud."
"Foster? Yes, he's not half bad. If we didn't have so many good halves
he might be useful. Best we can do for him, though, is to carry him
over for next year, I guess."
"Well, he's a pretty player. It seems too bad to waste him. How would he
fit at end?"
"Looking for a chance to retire?" laughed Jud. "What would we do with
another end, Larry? Have a heart, man!"
"Well, but he ought to be tried somewhere, just the same, Jud. He plays
so blamed smooth!"
"I wonder if he'd make a quarter." Jud paused in the act of lacing a
shoe and stared speculatively at a grated and dusty window. Then he
shook his head. "I guess we're good enough at quarter. We'll know better
after Saturday's game, though. How's the foot getting on? Going to be
able to play a bit?"
"Sure! It's coming on fine. I'll be good for the whole game."
"Yes, you will, son! A couple of quarters is about your stunt, I guess.
Driscoll wants to give O'Curry a show, anyway. Know what I think? Well,
I think Musket Hill's going to give us a tough old tussle. They've got
almost every lineman they had last year and the same quarter; and you
know what the score was last time."
"Twelve to ten, wasn't it?"
"Yes, and it ought to have been turned around, for they played us to
a standstill in the second half. Driscoll's firm for starting with a
second-string line, but I don't like it. That Musket Hill coach is a
fox. If they get a score on us in the first quarter we'll be lucky to
pass them."
"They play hard ball, and that's no joke," agreed Keene. "I hope he
pulls me out before Grafton gets in."
"What's the matter with Graf?"
"I don't know, but I can't seem to get on with him. I think he plays too
much for the centre of the line. There's always a hole there and I get
about two yards more of territory to look after. You keep your place,
but Grafton sort of wanders in."
"Glad you spoke of it," answered Jud. "I'll watch him. Going over?"
Up to a half-hour after supper Myron was convinced that he had no
intention of visiting Cummins that evening. Cummins was a lot more
decent than he had thought him, in fact a rather likable fellow, but
he had a disagreeable way of saying things that--well, didn't need
to be said. Besides, there was something almost indecent in telling
another that you liked him and asking him to be pals! Even if Cummins
had taken a fancy to him, as he declared, at least he might have kept
it to himself. But when supper was over and Myron had turned on the
steam in Number 17--the evenings were getting decidedly chilly now--and
settled himself to write a letter home, Cummins' freckled countenance
insisted on obtruding itself between him and the sheet of grey,
yellow-monogrammed paper. Joe had not returned to the room and, when the
letter was written and he had brushed up on Latin and math., he would
be pretty well bored, he supposed. He got as far as "Dear Mother and
Father: I didn't get this letter written yesterday because I was very
busy----" Then, after trying to recall what he had been busy with and
fiddling with the self-filling device on his pen for a good ten minutes,
he gave it up. He guessed he'd walk over and hear what Cummins' plan
was. Not that it interested him any, but he didn't feel like writing
just now.
Cummins himself answered Myron's knock, although the battered door
of Number 16 bore not only his card but that of "Guy Henry Brown,"
to the end of which name some facetious person had added the letters
"D.D." Brown, who played right half on the first team, was not at home,
however, and Cummins, stretched out along the window-seat, was the sole
occupant of the room. The room served as study and chamber both, and a
narrow, white-enamelled bed stood against the wall on each side. The
rest of the furnishings were nondescript and had evidently seen long
service. A few posters adorned the painted walls and the carpet was
so threadbare in places that one had to guess at the original pattern
and hue. Nevertheless, there was a comfortable and home-like look to
Number 16 which Myron acknowledged. Cummins tore himself from the book
he was reading with unflattering deliberateness and indicated a shabby
automatic rocking-chair.
"Try the Nerve Dispeller," he invited. "So called because when used your
own nerves leave you and go to the other chap, who has to watch you
rock. It's all right; it won't go over; that's just its playful way."
"What were you reading?" asked Myron, by way of conversation.
Chas held the book up and the visitor was surprised to see that it was
what he mentally called "a kid's story."
"Oh," he murmured.
Chas grinned. "I know, but I like them. They're easy to understand and
there's generally something doing all through; and you can't say that
for these novels some of the fellows pretend to read. I tried to wade
through one last summer. Nothing happened until I got to page 112, and
then the hero changed his shoes. Maybe he changed back again later, but
I ducked. Well, how are you tonight?"
"Me? All right, thanks." Myron wondered why he had said "Me," and then
realised that he had caught the trick from Joe. "I had a letter to
write, but I couldn't seem to get at it, and so I thought I'd drop over
and see--hear----"
"That plan? Well, it's a good one. Put your feet up here, will you, and
keep that thing still? Do you mind? It pretty nearly sets me crazy to
talk to any one who's bobbing back and forth like one of those china
mandarins! I'd have chucked that chair long ago, only Guy hates it worse
than I do. Do you know him, by the way? Guy Brown: plays right half on
the first."
"Only to speak to. I'm not well acquainted amongst the ministry."
"Oh, that? Some fresh youth wrote that and a couple of days afterwards
Hale called--Do you have him in physics? He lives down the hall--and
said it was sacrilegious. But I told him it stood for 'Decent Dub' and
he calmed down. Say, Foster, can you keep a secret?"
"Yes, of course."
"There's no 'of course' about it," said Chas. "Lot's of fellows can't.
I'm not very good at it myself. But I guess you're one of the kind who
can. Well, here it is. I'm going to be captain next year."
"Are you? Captain of what?" asked Myron politely.
"Football, you chump! What did you think, the Tennis Team?"
"Oh!" Myron stared, wondering whether the other was joking. But Chas
appeared to be quite in earnest and returned Myron's gaze with an
expression of bland inquiry.
"Does that interest you?" he asked.
"It interests me to know how you know you are," said Myron.
"Of course. Remember that it's a secret. If you ever tell any one what
I've just said I'll draw and quarter you and frizzle you crisp in
boiling oil. I know it, old chap, because I'm after the job, and what
I go after I get. Unless some dark horse develops between now and the
Kenwood game I'm certain to get it. So we'll call that settled, shall
we?"
"Just as you say," laughed Myron. "If you want it, though, I hope you
get it."
"Thanks. Of course, I realise that it isn't usual to mention such
matters. You're not supposed to know that there is such a thing as a
captaincy. When you get it you nearly die of surprise. Well, that's not
me. I'm after it. Mean to get it, too. I wouldn't say this to every
fellow because most of them would be so shocked at my--my indelicacy
they'd never get over it. Besides which, they'd probably vote against
me." Chas chuckled. "So can you if you like, Foster. I'm not making a
bid for your vote."
"I'm not likely to have one," replied Myron drily.
"You will have if my plan works out. Now you listen. If I'm going to
captain next year's team--and I am, old chap; don't you doubt it!--I
want some players around me. I don't want to run up against Kenwood and
get licked. That might do when some other fellow's running things, but
not when I am. No, I want some real players with me, Foster. So I'm
building my team this fall."
Myron laughed. "Honest, Cummins, you're the craziest chump I ever met!
Are you--are you in earnest?"
"Why not? Good, practical scheme, isn't it? What's wrong with it?"
"Well, but--you're not captain! And how can you build up a team when
you're not?"
"How? You watch me. Take your case, old chap. Maybe you won't make good
this year. Mind, I say _maybe_. I think you will. But if you don't,
what?" Myron shook his head helplessly, signifying he gave it up and
that no matter what the answer proved to be he was beyond surprise!
"Why, you'll be A1 material for next--_if_ you keep your head up.
That's my game, to see that you keep going and learn all the football
you can and don't drop out of training after the season's over. I
think basket-ball will be a good thing for you to take up, Foster. Or
you might go in for the gymnastic team. But I won't have you playing
baseball, so don't get that bug in your bonnet. Baseball's spoiled a lot
of good football chaps. Track's all right if you don't overdo it. We'll
settle all that later, though."
"Very well," agreed Myron docilely. "Don't mind me."
Chas grinned. "Not going to--much. But you see the idea, don't you? What
do you think of it?"
"I think," returned Myron deliberately, "that it's one of the craziest
schemes I ever heard of."
Chas looked much pleased. "All right. And then what?"
"And I think it may work out beautifully."
"Sure it will! So that's why I went after you, old chap. You're a
'prospect.'"
"Oh," said Myron demurely, "I thought it was because you had taken a
violent fancy to me."
"That too! Don't make any mistake, old chap. I want fellows of the right
sort, and I want fellows that I like and who like me. I can do things
with that sort: they'll work for me. And I'll work for them: work my
fingers off if necessary. Now for the plan."
"I'm listening," said Myron.
"How'd you like to get on the first this fall, Foster?"
"Well, seeing that I'm black-and-blue pretty nearly all over, that seems
sort of--of idle!"
"Just getting black-and-blue isn't enough, old chap. Lots of dubs are
purple-and-green that'll be dropped next week. Now, look here. Who told
you you were a born half-back?"
"No one, of course. I've played that position, though, and know it. I
played end for a while too, but half seemed to be my place."
"Yes. Well, we've got exactly five good to middling half-backs this
year, Foster, and you're no better than about two of them and not nearly
so good as two more, Brown and Meldrum. So, you see, you're sort of up
against it. See that, don't you?"
"I suppose so. Just the same, if I had a chance I might beat Brounker
and Vance, and then, if Brown or Meldrum----"
"Broke his neck you'd get in?" asked Chas impatiently. "What's the
good of that sort of figuring? What you want to do, old chap, is to
go after something that shows a chance of success. That other game's
too much like waiting for dead men's shoes, as they say. You might get
into the big game for five minutes, or you might not. And I'm not so
dead sure that you could beat out those fellows. And, anyway, there's
still Robbins against you. Yes, I know he isn't such a wonder now, but
suppose he starts to come while you're coming? How do you know he won't
come just as fast, or a little bit faster? No, that's rotten planning,
Foster. You're all wrong. Forget that you're a half and go hard after a
job that's open to you."
"Where'll I find it?" asked Myron. "What other position is there?"
"Full-back," said Chas.