A CHANCE ENCOUNTER
The team left for North Lebron at eleven o'clock the next forenoon. The
town that had the honour of containing Musket Hill Academy was not so
far away in distance, but those who had arranged the train service had
not consulted the Parkinson School Football Team, and as a result of
this oversight there was an hour and a half to be spent at a junction
that boasted, besides a decrepit station, only a blacksmith's shop, a
general store and eight assorted dwellings. Myron knew that there were
eight dwellings because he counted them twice. There wasn't much of
anything else to do.
He was not journeying to North Lebron in any official capacity, for
his name had not been amongst those announced yesterday by Manager
Farnsworth. He was going along, with some sixty other "fans," mostly
because Chas Cummins had insisted on his doing so. Privately, he had
entertained the thought up to an hour after breakfast that, not having
been invited to attend the contest as a member of the team, it would be
the part of dignity to remain away. But Chas wasn't greatly concerned
with dignity, and he had a masterful way with him, and the result was
that at a little before nine o'clock Myron was in possession of the
knowledge that he was going to North Lebron at eleven-four.
At twelve he was seated on an edge of the platform at the junction,
juggling three pebbles in his hand and boredly wondering what it
would be like to have to live in the fifth dwelling; the one with the
blue-green blinds and the sagging porch and the discarded wagon-seat
serving as a porch settle. The day was positively hot for October and
few of the travellers had elected to remain inside the coaches. Some
of the school fellows were adorning the platform, like Myron, others
were strolling about the adjacent landscape in search of adventures,
and a merry handful were exercising the baggage truck up and down
the planks to the restrained displeasure of the sad-looking station
agent. Coming over, Myron had shared a seat with a stranger, a lad of
fourteen or so, and had managed to pass the time in conversation on
various subjects, but now the youngster had disappeared and no one else
appeared to care about taking his place. Joe and Chas were with the
football crowd in the forward car, and Myron had seen neither of them
to speak to since leaving Warne. Andrew Merriman had not been able to
come. In consequence, Myron had no one to talk to and was fast reaching
the decision that he would have had more pleasure had he remained at
home. Even the assurance that he was irreproachably arrayed in a suit
of cool grey flannel, with a cap to match, a cream-coloured shirt and
patriotic brown tie and stockings didn't mitigate his boredom. Of late
he had been deriving less satisfaction than of yore from his attire.
Somehow, whether his tie and stockings matched or whether his trousers
were smoothly pressed seemed of less consequence to him. Several times
of late he had forgotten his scarf-pin!
His discontented musings were interrupted by the arrival beside him of
a youth of perhaps nineteen. Myron had glimpsed him once on the train
and been struck by his good looks and by the good taste of his attire.
He wore blue serge, but it was serge of an excellent quality and cut to
perfection. And there was a knowing touch to the paler blue scarf with
its modest moonstone pin and something pleasantly exceptional in the
shape of the soft collar. Myron felt a kindred interest in the tall,
good-looking youth, and determined to speak to him. But the stranger
forestalled him, for, as soon as he had seated himself nearby on the
platform edge, he turned, glancing at Myron and remarked: "Hot, isn't
it?"
The stranger's tone held just the correct mixture of cordiality and
restraint. Myron, agreeing, felt flattered that the well-dressed youth
had singled him out. The weather, as a subject of conversation, soon
failed, but there were plenty of other things to discuss, and at the end
of ten minutes the two were getting on famously. The stranger managed
to inform Myron without appearing to do so that he was interested in
a sporting goods house in New Haven, that he had been in Hartford on
business and that, having nothing better to do today, he had decided
to run over to North Lebron and see the game between Musket Hill and
Parkinson. "I fancy you're a Parkinson fellow?" he said questioningly.
And when Myron acknowledged the fact: "A fine school, I've heard. I've
never been there. Warne's off my territory. I've been thinking, though,
that some day I'd run over and see if I could do any business there. I
suppose you chaps buy most of your athletic supplies in New York."
"I think so. There's one store in Warne that carries a pretty fair line
of goods, though."
"I think I'll have to try your town. Parkinson's rather a big place,
isn't it?"
"We have over five hundred fellows this year."
"Is that so? Why, there ought to be some business there for my house. I
suppose you chaps go in for most everything: football, baseball, hockey,
tennis? How about track athletics?"
"There's a track team," answered Myron, "but this is my first year and I
don't know much about it yet."
"I see." The other looked appraisingly and, Myron thought, even
admiringly over his new acquaintance. "I say, you look as if you ought
to be playing football yourself, old man. Or is baseball your game?"
"Football, but I'm not on the first. It's hard work breaking in at
Parkinson."
"Good guess of mine, wasn't it?" laughed the other. "Thought you had
the build for a good football man. I meet a good many of them, you see.
How's this team you've got ahead there? Going to lick Musket Hill this
afternoon?"
"I don't know. I hope so. I have an idea that our coach rather expects a
hard game, though. I've heard that Musket Hill is further along than we
are."
"Those fellows play good football," said the stranger. "I've seen them
in action once or twice. I hope you chaps get away with the game, but my
opinion is that you'll have to go some to do it. Got some good men on
your team?"
Myron was quite willing to sing the praises of Parkinson, and during
the ensuing half-hour the stranger was treated to quite a fund of
information regarding the school, the football team and Myron Warrenton
Foster. Football, though, seemed to interest the tall youth most of
all, and several times Myron was turned back to that subject by polite
questions. When the train from the south pulled in the two were still
conversing and it was but natural that they should share a seat for
the remainder of the journey. The stranger could talk interestingly
himself and the last part of the trip was occupied with absorbing and
even startling adventures met with by him in his business trips. More
than once Myron's credulity was severely taxed, but a glance at the
narrator's frank and pleasing countenance dispelled all suspicions of
mendacity. Myron found this chance acquaintance so interesting that he
rather hoped they might witness the game together, but when North Lebron
was reached the stranger announced that he had one or two errands to
attend to before going up to the field.
[Illustration: _The stranger was treated to quite a fund of information_]
"Maybe I'll run across you there--er--What's the name, by the way?"
"Foster."
"Mine's Millard. I haven't a card with me. Wish I had. But, I say,
Foster, if you don't mind I'd like to look you up if I get to Warne.
Those little towns are dull holes if you don't know any one in them."
"I wish you would!" said Myron. "You'll find me in 17 Sohmer Hall. Can
you remember that?"
"Sohmer, you said? Number 17? I'll remember, Foster. Awfully glad to
have met you. It's jolly nice to run across a chap who's--well, a
chap who has your own views on things, if you get me." He shook hands
cordially, evidently regretfully. "I'll try to find you at the game, old
man. If I don't, look for me in your burg before long. I'm going to have
a go at that dealer you spoke of."
"I'll try and save a seat for you if you think you're likely to find
me," offered Myron.
But the other waved a hand. "Don't bother. I can squeeze in. And I may
be rather late in getting there. Good-bye and good luck. Hope you beat
'em!"
That encounter restored both Myron's self-esteem and good humour, and
he enjoyed the sandwich and pie and milk which he ate in company
with half a hundred other youths at the little lunch-room on the way
uptown. Later, wandering by himself through the leaf-strewn streets
about the school campus, he came across Joe and Paxton Cantrell, the
latter a sturdy, wide-shouldered youth who was playing his second--and
last--season at centre. Cantrell left them a minute or two later to
speak to an acquaintance and Myron and Joe walked on to the school
gymnasium together.
"They fed us at a hotel down there by the station," said Joe sadly, "and
I want to tell you that not one of us over-ate. Everything came to us in
bird baths and you needed a microscope to find the contents. Norris lost
his roast beef and didn't find it until he was through dinner, and where
do you suppose it was?"
"In his lap, I guess."
"No, sir, it had slipped under his thumb-nail!"
Myron told of the stranger encountered at the junction and was quite
full of his subject, but Joe didn't seem to find it interesting and
soon interrupted to point out a building. "What do you suppose that
is?" he asked. "Looks like a factory of some sort, don't it? Only it
ain't--hasn't got any chimneys, as far as I can see."
"Maybe it's a hospital or something," replied Myron. "He says he's
coming to Warne pretty soon and will look me up. I'd like to have you
meet him, Joe."
"Who's this?"
"Why, Millard, the chap I was speaking of," answered Myron disgustedly.
"Oh! Glad to know him. Which street do we take now?"
They parted at the gymnasium and Myron joined the throng pressing toward
the field, a short block away. He looked for Millard, but didn't see
him. Later, during the intermission, he thought he caught sight of him
in the throng behind the Musket Hill bench, but others intervened and he
was not able to make certain.
The game started at half-past two, by which time the morning heat had
been somewhat abated by a fresh breeze that blew across the oval field
and fluttered the big maroon banner above the covered stand that held
the Musket Hill rooters. Parkinson's sixty odd supporters, grouped
together on the other side of the field, did valiant service with their
voices, but to Myron it seemed that their contribution to the din that
prevailed as the two teams trotted on together was very slight. He was
wedged in between a stout youth named Hollis, whom he instinctively
disliked because of his high-pitched voice, and a studious-appearing boy
in spectacles whose name he didn't know. Hollis had vindicated Myron's
verdict before the teams had finished warming up by showing himself
to be one of those cock-sure, opinionated and loud-talking youths of
which every school is possessed. His neighbour at his left elbow proved
inoffensive and only once during the game uttered any sound that Myron
could hear. Then, while every one else was on his feet, shouting and
gesticulating, the spectacled youth smiled raptly and murmured, "Oh,
bully indeed!"
Myron purchased a score-card from a boy with a maroon band about his
arm, exchanging a bright ten cent piece for a flimsy, smoochy slip of
paper that, so far as the visiting team was concerned, was as untruthful
as it was unlovely. The card declared that "Mullen" would play left
tackle for Parkinson, that "Sawtrell" was her centre and that "Wildram"
was the name of her left half-back. Myron corrected these misstatements
when Captain Mellen had trotted his warriors out on the field, and some
others besides, for Coach Driscoll had sent five substitutes to the
fray, four linemen and a back. When Myron had got through making over
his score-card it looked like one of his corrected English compositions
and read as follows: Stearns, l.e.; Mellen, l.t.; Brodhead, l.g.;
Cantrell, c.; Dobbins, r.g.; Flay, r.t.; Grove, r.e.; Cater, q.b.;
Brounker, l.h.; Brown, r.h.; Kearns, f.b.
Myron was glad that Joe was to have his chance in a real game, and for
the first period watched his room-mate so closely that the general
aspect of the game was quite lost on him and he came to with a start
when the teams changed fields, realising that however nicely Joe had
played--and he had played well: there was no question about that--the
eleven as a whole had failed to show anything resembling real football.
While neither team had found its gait, Musket Hill had already
threatened the visitors' goal and only a sad fumble had held her away
from it. And now, with the second ten-minute period beginning, the ball
was again in the Maroon's possession on Parkinson's thirty-three yards.
Myron sat up and took notice, deciding to let Joe play his game unaided
by telepathic waves from the grandstand!
Musket Hill was a heavy team, although her players got their weight from
height rather than breadth. They were, almost without exception, tall,
rangey youths with an extremely knowing manner of handling themselves.
Myron's brow clouded as he watched that first play after the whistle.
Musket Hill used an open formation, with her backs side by side a full
pace further distant than usual. From this formation, with the quarter
frequently joining the line of backs at left or right, Musket Hill
worked a variety of plays: straight plunges at centre, delayed passes
sliding off tackle, quarter-back runs, even punts, the latter, thanks to
a steady bunch of forwards, never threatened with disaster. The Maroon
played a shifty game, changing her plays often, seldom attacking the
same place twice no matter what gains might result. Toward the end the
latter rule did not hold good, but for three full periods she observed
it rigorously, even to the impatience and protests of her supporters.
Before that second period was three minutes old she had settled down
into her stride and demonstrated the fact that, whatever favours of
fortune might occur, on the basis of ability alone she was more than a
match for her opponent.
The Maroon secured her first score less than three minutes from the
start of the second quarter as unexpectedly as deftly, and Myron
and his companions on the west stand had scarcely recovered from
their surprise by the time the goal was kicked! The ball had been on
Parkinson's forty-two yards, after Musket Hill had punted, caught again
and carried the pigskin four yards in two downs. The Maroon's trick of
punting from that three-man formation, and close to the line, had got
the enemy worried. The latter was never quite certain when an unexpected
kick would go over a back's head, for Musket Hill punted without rule
or reason, it seemed. To keep two men up the field at all times was
impossible, and so Parkinson compromised and put Brown midway between
the line and Cater. As Musket Hill had netted but four yards in two
downs, it was fair to assume that she was just as likely to kick on the
third down as to rush, and Brown edged further back at Cater's call. But
Musket Hill did the unexpected. There was a quick, dazzling movement
behind her line and then the ball arched away to her left. Somehow an
end was under it when it came down and, although Stearns almost foiled
him, caught it and reached the five-yard line before he was seriously
challenged by Brodhead. He had kept close to the side-line, and Brown,
playing well back, was his nearest foe when the twenty-five-yard line
was reached. But Brown never had a chance, for a Musket Hill youth
brought him low, while a second effectively disposed of Cater a moment
after. Brodhead alone stood for an instant between the Brown and
disaster--none ever knew how he had managed to get back to the five
yards--and for a heart-beat it seemed that the runner was doomed. But
Brodhead's tackle only spun the red-legged runner about and sent him
across the final white line like a top in its last gyrations.
A well-kicked goal added another point to the six, and the teams went
back to the centre of the field once more. To Myron it seemed then that
Parkinson realised defeat, for there was that in the attitudes and
movements of the players that had not been there before. It was not
dejection, but it might have been called the ghost of it. And yet for
the remainder of the period Parkinson took and held the upper hand and
the half ended with the ball in her possession on her forty-eight yards.
Myron wanted to talk over the game very badly, but the youth with
spectacles was doing what appeared to be an intricate problem in algebra
on the back of his score-card, while as for the stout boy on his other
side, he had heard enough of his conversation already. Just now he was
knowingly informing his companion that the trouble with Parkinson was
that she needed a decent coach. His brief glimpse of Millard--if it
really was Millard--distracted him for a moment or two, and after that
he listened to the joyful sounds from the Musket Hill side and felt
rather disappointed and lonesome.