EDDIE APPLIES THE BRAKE
I think the experiences of the past week had cleared the air in Myron's
case. Perhaps Andrew's curtain lecture at the hotel that Sunday morning
had its effect. Perhaps, too, the knowledge that Joe and Andy had cared
enough to go to all that scheming and effort to bring him back and
save him from his own folly bucked him up. At all events, he went to
work hammer-and-tongs and by Wednesday night had Steve Kearns looking
worried. Chas, viewing events interestedly, chuckled to himself. Things
were working his way. Not only was he secretly aiding and abetting
the career of Myron, but there were three others among the first and
second choice fellows who were under his care and who, willingly or
unwillingly, followed his instructions. Had Chas cared to he could have
taken a pencil and paper and written down the line-up for next season's
first important contest. Needless to say, against the position of left
guard would have been the name of Cummins.
Chas was not without his qualms of uneasiness, though, for Brodhead was
now pushing him hard for his place. Attending to the duties of next
year's captain in anticipation somewhat detracted from his playing
qualities, and when, on Thursday, he found himself left on the bench
while Brodhead was sent into the game against the second at left guard,
he realised dismayedly that he would have to let next season look after
itself for the present and reinstate himself in the coach's good graces.
Chas' plans revolved on his election to the captaincy, and it wasn't
usual to elect to that position a fellow who had not played in the big
game. Chas studied his scarred knuckles thoughtfully and wondered to
just what extent Mr. Driscoll would let his personal feelings rule when
it came to a choice between him and Brodhead for the Kenwood game. Chas
knew perfectly well that the coach, without disliking him, held it in
for him on one or two scores, and one must allow for a certain amount of
human nature, he reflected, in even a football coach! Mentally he shook
his head and acknowledged that he would have to mend his ways. He wasn't
certain, for that matter, that it was not already too late, that, to use
his own expression, he had not already "spilled the beans"!
That Thursday Myron got himself talked about. He went in at full-back
in the second half, vice Kearns, and showed himself a remarkably
proficient player at that position. Coach Driscoll watched him in
genuine surprise, although, as usual, he hid his feelings. "He's just
about four times as good as he was before he was laid off," he said
to himself, "and at least twice as good as I ever thought he would
be. Why, the chap's a born full-back! Give him a few more pounds for
line-bucking and he will size up with any of them. Next year he ought
to be All-American material, by Jupiter! But I mustn't spoil him. He's
too good. And if he gets to knowing how good he is, he's likely to get
fond of himself and fizzle out. I think he's the sort to do that. No,
I guess we'll keep your spurs trimmed down pretty close, Foster, my
lad!" And in furtherance of that plan the coach strode across to the
first team backfield and metaphorically ripped Myron up the back, to
the bewilderment of Myron and the puzzlement of Jud and Joe and Katie
and some others! Myron ended the game in a chastened mood, conscious of
having made two touchdowns, one by a wide run behind good interference
and one by downright grit from the four yards when the advance had
seemed at an end, but equally conscious that he had not done as well as
he should have. He had Coach Driscoll's word for the latter, although
the coach had somehow failed to specify very exactly wherein Myron had
failed. There had been talk about "getting low" and "using your legs,"
but Myron didn't really see how he could have struck the line much lower
without going into it on his head or how he could have got another
ounce of push out of those wearied legs of his. In the end, having
been refreshed with food and having listened to hearty praise from his
friends, he decided that coaches were strange persons not always to
be taken seriously. But he didn't get a swelled head over the day's
performance, which was what the coach had guarded against.
There was no practice on Friday for the first team players, and so when
Myron found a note in the mail that morning signed Maurice Millard
saying that the writer would be in Warne that noon and asking Myron to
meet him at the hotel at two o'clock, the latter was able to promise
himself an enjoyable afternoon. Unfortunately, he had a recitation
at two, but he left a note for Millard at the hotel in the forenoon
postponing the meeting until a quarter to three. He recalled Millard
very pleasantly and was glad he was to meet him again. He liked that
name, too, Maurice Millard: it had a swing to it, he thought, even if
it did sound rather like the name of a moving-picture artist! He wished
that Millard had chosen to look him up at his room, for he would have
liked to introduce him to Joe. Joe had seemed somehow rather sceptical
as to Millard's charms. But he could bring the visitor to Sohmer later
on, for of course he would want to see the school and visit the football
field and so on.
But, rather strangely--or so Myron thought,--Millard declared in favour
of taking a drive into the country. "We can look around the school when
we get back," he explained. "It's a wonderful day for a drive and I'm
much fonder of the country than I am of towns. And we can have a jolly
chat, too, and you won't have to interrupt yourself every ten seconds to
say 'That's Smith Hall, built in 1876 and used by General Washington as
headquarters during the football game between Parkinson and Kenwood,' or
some other such dope."
As to its being a wonderful day for driving, Myron had his doubts,
for summer had returned and the weather was decidedly hot in spite of
the fact that November was two weeks old. Still, driving might be
pleasanter than walking, and the guest had the right to choose his
entertainment, and Myron capitulated. To find a conveyance, however,
was not so easy, for no Jehus slept along the curb in front of the
little hotel when they went in search of one. Myron suggested walking
to the station, only a block or so distant, and Millard consented. The
difficulty was solved before they got that far, however, for a new,
highly varnished taxi-cab darted toward them from a side street and a
dimly remembered youth on the driver's seat hailed Myron by name. He
proved to be the fellow who had conveyed Myron to Sohmer that first
day of school, and by the time the latter had ended negotiations for
the hiring of the cab by the hour he remembered that the sandy-haired
young man was named Eddie Moses. The cab appeared to be brand-new and
was certainly a vast improvement over the former one. They went briskly
out of the town toward Sturgis, and, with all windows open, the drive
promised to be as enjoyable as Millard had predicted.
The visitor was as smartly, if quietly, dressed as when Myron had seen
him last, and Myron was secretly glad that he had gone to extra pains in
the matter of his own attire. Myron asked about business and Millard
reported everything fine, and said that he had managed to get a small
order from the local dealer in athletic supplies that morning. "Not
much, you know, but enough to let us show him that we have the goods
he wants and can sell to him cheaper than that New York house. It's a
wedge, Foster."
In spite of Millard's expressed love of the country, he didn't seem to
pay much attention to its beauties. Before they had gone a mile he had
switched the conversation from athletic goods to football, of which he
appeared to know a great deal. Myron wondered if he had played when
at school, and what that school had been, but somehow he never got
around to asking. He was glad enough to talk about football, and he
managed before long to let Millard know that he was now a member of the
Parkinson first team. Millard was clearly delighted with his friend's
good fortune, and congratulated him warmly.
"I'll bet anything you'll make good, too, Foster, when you fellows meet
Kenwood. I hear they've got only a fair team over there this year. I was
talking to a fellow from there only a couple of days ago. 'We aren't
telling it around, Art'--my name's Maurice Arthur, you know, and some
fellows call me Art," he explained parenthetically. "'We aren't telling
it around, but between you and me we've got a pretty punk outfit this
year. We're trying to keep Parkinson guessing, but if they play the sort
of game they played against Chancellor they'll have us on the run from
the beginning.' Maybe I oughtn't to tell this to a Parkinson fellow, but
he didn't tell me not to, and you and I are friends, so I guess there's
no harm. Besides, I'd like mighty well to see you fellows lick that
Kenwood bunch. They're too stuck-up for me."
"I won't say anything about it to any one," said Myron virtuously.
"Probably your friend wouldn't want it to get to our team."
"Oh, never mind what he wants. If telling your fellows'll do them any
good, you go ahead and tell them. I'll stand for it. How is the team
getting along, by the way? That was certainly a peach of a licking you
gave Chancellor. I was reading about it in the paper last Sunday."
Myron replied that the team was getting on famously, and went into
rather intimate details to prove it. Millard was flatteringly interested
and encouraged Myron to talk, which Myron was nothing loath to do since
he was on a subject that appealed to him vastly. Millard had many
questions to ask, questions which showed conclusively that he had a
close understanding of football and a wide acquaintance among players.
With such a listener Myron found it easy to pursue his subject. Millard
introduced debate by throwing doubt on the ability of the Parkinson
ends. He said he thought Cousins and Leeds, the Kenwood ends, would have
the better of the argument, and was only convinced to the contrary after
Myron had very thoroughly explained Stearns' and Norris' methods, both
on offence and defence. There was simply no end to Millard's interest
in football, and once--they were running through the town of Sturgis at
the moment--when Myron feared that he was boring the other, in spite of
apparent willingness to listen, and sought to change the subject, it was
Millard who soon brought it back again.
How the matter of signals came up, Myron didn't afterward recall, but
it did, and it was exhaustively dealt with. Millard spoke of a case he
knew of where the intricacy of the signals had lost an important game
for a certain high school team. "I always think that the more simple
the signal system is the better it is. You take the big colleges, now,
Foster. They don't ball the men all up with double numberings and
'repeats' and all those silly tricks. They select a simple system,
one that's easy to learn and remember. Why, I've seen quarter-backs
stutter and fumble around for whole minutes trying to get their signals
straightened out. And as for the number of times that backs have spoiled
a play because they didn't get the signals right----" Millard whistled
eloquently.
"Guess we won't have any trouble that way," answered Myron complacently.
"Our system's as simple as simple."
"That so? Holes and players numbered from left to right, eh?"
"No, we begin at the ends."
"Yes, that's a better scheme. Left end is 1, left tackle, 3, and so on,
I suppose."
"No, we don't number the players that way. The openings----"
The taxi-cab stopped so suddenly that Myron bit his tongue over the
last word as he pitched forward. Of course Millard described much the
same gymnastic feat, but it is doubtful if Millard heard, or thought
he heard, what Myron did in the brief instant that his head protruded
through a front window, for Eddie Moses' neck stayed Myron's forward
flight and Eddie's mouth was but a few inches from Myron's ear. And
in the part of a second that it remained there it got the impression
that some one, presumably Eddie, had distinctly said: "_Shut up!_" That
impression did not register on his brain, however, until he was back in
his seat and Eddie had released his emergency brake. Then, while Eddie,
in reply to Millard's somewhat incensed question, was apologetically
explaining something about a dog that had run almost under the wheels,
he stared startledly at the back of Eddie's head. That told him
nothing, though, and he harked back to the interrupted conversation
to discover what could have brought such a fiercely voiced admonition
from the driver, if, indeed, that admonition had not been imagined. The
shaking-up, however, had jostled memory as well as body, and it was
Millard who supplied the information he sought.
"I didn't see any dog," he said huffily to Eddie. "Guess you imagined
it. Now, then, Foster, you were explaining about that numbering."
"What numbering?" asked Myron blankly.
"Forgotten?" laughed Millard. "Why, we were talking about signals, don't
you remember?"
"Oh, yes," answered Myron thoughtfully. "So we were. How would it do to
take the Princeville Road back, Eddie? That'll give us more of a drive."
As a matter of fact, it would do nothing of the sort, and Myron knew
it, and Eddie Moses knew it when he added cheerfully, "All right, boss!"
Only Millard didn't know it, although it is likely that he suspected it
later when, in far less time than it had taken them to reach Sturgis,
they were back again in Warne. During that journey back, made at a
greater speed than the trip away, Millard tried vainly to swing the
conversation back to the topic of football, and football signals in
particular, but Myron seemed to have suddenly wearied of the subject and
wouldn't stay put a minute. He pointed out features of the landscape
for Millard's admiring observation and invented quite a few interesting
legends about passing houses or farms. After a while Millard managed to
display some enthusiasm for nature and for the legends and was quite
the entertaining and charming youth he had been before that shaking-up.
But Myron thought that there had been a quarter of an hour subsequent
to it when the visitor had sounded out of patience and even a trifle
short-tempered. He might have simply imagined it, though. They were
back in town long before five, and Millard's train didn't leave until
after six, and there was plenty of time to visit the school, but Millard
recalled a forgotten appointment at the hotel and was set down there
accordingly. He was most apologetic and thanked Myron for a good time
and begged to be allowed to go halves on the cab bill. This privilege
Myron indignantly denied. Millard promised to look Myron up again
shortly.
"I want to see the school and all that, you know, Foster," he declared.
"Wish I could run up there now, but I'll be tied up until train time.
The next time I come you must come down and have dinner with me."
They shook hands and parted, Myron returning to the cab and bidding
Eddie drive him to Sohmer. But out of sight of the hotel Myron leaned
over and addressed the back of Eddie's freckled neck. "Did you say
anything to me the time I went through the window?" he asked.
"Yeah, I said 'Shut up!' You was doing a lot of fancy talking to that
guy, seemed to me. 'Course, he might be a friend of yours and all, but
you was telling him things about the football team that you hadn't ought
to, see? That's why I jammed on the 'mergency. There wasn't no dog at
all!"
"Oh," murmured Myron, "I see. Maybe you're right. Anyway, I'm much
obliged. Of course, Millard is perfectly square, but he might talk."
"Yeah, he might," agreed Eddie. "Or he might let some one else do the
talking. Here you are, sir! Sohmer Hall, home of the rude rich! Thank
you, sir." Eddie winked knowingly. "I'm not talking any. Don't you worry
about me, sir. So long!"
Myron made his way up the steps of the dormitory, under the envious
regard of three third class youths, and climbed the stairs somewhat
thoughtfully. Certainly, Maurice Millard was all right, but he was
awfully glad that Eddie had imagined that dog. Millard had repeated
what the Kenwood chap had told him about the Kenwood team, information
plainly not intended for publicity, which showed that he was not exactly
close-mouthed. On the whole, decided Myron, he had come horribly near to
making an utter fool of himself. He decided to say nothing about it to
Joe. Joe must already have a good enough opinion of his common sense!