FALSE COLOURS
The preliminary season came to an end the next day with the St. Luke's
Academy game. Football affairs had become fairly hectic now and the
school marched to the field behind a strident brass band, cheering and
singing. Mass-meetings had been held twice weekly ever since the Warne
High School contest, and songs had been practised and cheers rehearsed,
and today Parkinson was in fine voice and filled with enthusiasm. St.
Luke's was not a formidable opponent, and for that reason had been
chosen to fill in the last date before the Kenwood game. A wise coach
selects the semi-final adversary with care and deliberation, and a wrong
selection may work much harm to his charges. St. Luke's was warranted by
past experience to give Parkinson a good battle without requiring any
extraordinary exertions on the latter's part. Usually the score was one
or two touchdowns to none, although not so long ago the generally docile
St. Luke's had kicked over the traces in the annual event and thrown a
healthy scare into Parkinson. On that historic occasion the final score
had been 17 to 10 in the home team's favour.
The Brown line-up was exactly as at the start of the Chancellor game,
with a single exception. The name of Foster appeared as full-back
instead of Kearns. Whether he had been put in to save Kearns for the
Kenwood game or whether he was there on his merits, Myron couldn't
decide. But he played a good game while he remained in the line-up.
The cheering was fine and put heart into them all, and Myron felt that
afternoon as though he could "lick his weight in wild-cats," as Joe
might have put it. He wasn't called on for many punts, which was perhaps
fortunate, for his punting still lacked control. If he got distance he
was likely to send the pigskin to the wrong place, while if he obtained
direction he was liable to kick short. But in the other departments he
showed up strongly. He was a big addition to the backfield on defence,
using his weight very knowingly, and more than one St. Luke's gain was
nipped in the bud by him. Speed aided him at line plunges, and his runs,
of which he got off three during the time he played, together netted
nineteen yards against clever ends. Altogether, he was a success, and
coach and school recognised the fact, and when, five minutes after the
beginning of the second half, he got rather the worst of a mix-up with
the St. Luke's left half and was taken out in favour of Kearns, he got a
hearty cheer as he walked none too steadily to the bench.
Myron was not the only player who deserved praise that afternoon, for
every fellow on the team was good. If the perfection exhibited in the
Chancellor game was not quite duplicated it was possibly because the
incentive was lacking. St. Luke's was outweighed by several pounds and
was slower than she should have been. And she seemed, too, to lack plays
adapted to her style of football. Parkinson failed to score in the
first quarter, ran up eleven points in the second, seven more in the
third and, in the last period, with a line consisting almost entirely
of substitutes, and with second-string backs behind it, added a field
goal by way of good measure. Every one, even Coach Driscoll, appeared
perfectly satisfied with the afternoon's performance, and Parkinson's
stock soared high that evening. It looked very much as if the season was
to glide smoothly and uneventfully to a satisfactory close. But a week
still intervened, and in a week much may happen.
On Monday, Norris, right end, started the programme of events by
breaking a bone in his right ankle. He did it by falling over a pail on
the stairs in Williams Hall. It wasn't a serious disaster, but it might
easily impair his playing ability five days later. Tuesday, Grafton,
first-choice substitute for Captain Mellen, came down with laryngitis,
and Snow, who was due to take Cantrell's place at centre in the event of
that player's retirement, was called home to Illinois because of serious
illness in the family. Coach Driscoll smiled grimly and wondered what
further misfortunes could happen in the remaining three days. Coach
Driscoll, it may be said, was never designed for the peaceful life. He
was more contented when he was facing difficulties. Jud Mellen, himself
worried by the ill-luck, remarked almost resentfully Tuesday evening:
"Gee, Coach, any one would think you'd got news that the whole Kenwood
team was down with the sleeping sickness, you look so bright and merry.
I'm sick!"
"No use pulling a long face, Cap," replied Mr. Driscoll. "After all,
we've come through the season remarkably. Something was bound to go
wrong, and I felt it. I guess I'm rather relieved to find out what it
is. And it might have been worse."
"Yes, we might have lost the whole team," responded Jud sarcastically.
"Oh, I suppose we can pull through if nothing worse happens, but I'm
expecting Katie to fall off a roof or Brown to get kicked by a mule
tomorrow. This has got me going for fair!"
"You look after Number One," advised the coach. "The best way to kill a
trouble is to laugh it to death!"
Jud expressed incredulous surprise when Wednesday passed without further
misfortunes. There was a monster meeting that night and a march through
town and a speech by the Principal from the porch of his residence and
much enthusiasm and noise. Myron did not take part in the observances,
for the players were now required to remain in their rooms evenings as
far as possible and to be in bed promptly at ten o'clock. So far, Myron
had felt no nervousness, nothing approaching stage-fright, but when
Thursday arrived and the field was well surrounded with cheering youths
and townsfolk and the band that was to play on Saturday was adding to
the din and there was only light signal work, followed by punting and
catching for the backs, instead of the relief of a good, hard scrimmage,
why, then he felt a trifle fluttery about the heart. It meant so much
to all those eager-eyed, laughing but secretly earnest boys about him,
that hoped-for victory, and he was chosen to aid in the securing of
it! The realisation of responsibility sobered him and then left him a
trifle panic-stricken. Suppose he failed them, the coach and Captain
Mellen and the school! For the moment it seemed that in such an event
he would not have the courage to stay on and face them all. He almost
wished that Coach Driscoll would let Kearns play instead! But that wish
didn't last long, and the panic was short-lived, too. There was still a
vague uneasiness disturbing him, however, and that uneasiness was due
to remain with him during his waking hours until the whistle blew on
Saturday.
The second team, its usefulness at an end, cheered and was cheered and
performed a dignified ceremony behind the east goal, to which, since
the first team players had trotted back to the gymnasium, the audience
flocked. Gravely, reverently, torn jerseys, worn-out pants, shoes beyond
aid and various other disreputable articles of football attire and use
were piled on the jumping pit. Then a football rules book was laid on
top of all, a gallon of kerosene applied and around the blazing pyre the
members of the second team slowly circled with joined hands, chanting a
strange jumble of atrocious Latin and scarcely more acceptable English.
Gradually the pace grew faster and the pæan brisker until, presently,
the scene was a ludicrous whirl of bodies amidst a wild shriek of song
and a cloud of smoke. In such manner the second team disbanded, at the
end, spent with laughter and breathless from their exertions, giving
three feeble groans for Kenwood and "nine long Parkinsons"!
Friday was a long and gloomy day. There was little use trying to do
anything at recitations if you were on the team, and not much more if
you weren't. You just bluffed, if you could, or threw yourself on the
mercy of the instructors, trusting that they would prove human enough
to be lenient. They usually were, for long experience had proved to the
Parkinson faculty that for a week before the big game and for several
days after it normal members of the student body were incapable of
interest in studies. To make matters more dismal on Friday, it rained.
It didn't rain in a cheerful, whole-souled way, but drizzled and stopped
and sulked and drizzled again, and you wanted to be outdoors if you
were in and wanted to be back again as soon as you were out. There was
blackboard work for the players in the afternoon and signal drill in
the evening. Afterwards Myron and Joe and Andrew chatted in Number 17
until bedtime, while from over in front of Parkinson Hall the cheers of
some five hundred youths arose to the cloudy sky. Then came ten o'clock,
and Andy went, and the room-mates got thoughtfully out of their clothes
and crept beneath the covers, each a trifle more silent than usual. To
Myron's surprise, sleep came after a very short time, and when he awoke
the sun was bright in a crisp November world and there were roystering
sounds from the bath-rooms down the corridor.
The first Kenwood invaders appeared well before noon, and every hour
after that brought more until by two o'clock the streets of the town,
already fairly impartially arrayed as to shop windows with the blue
and the brown, wore a decidedly cerulean hue. For the team, dinner was
served at twelve instead of one, and after that there remained a long
hour and a half before they could find relief from inaction. They were
at liberty to do as they liked within reasonable limits, and Myron
and Joe and Chas wandered across the campus and down School Street in
search of diversion. Chas was, in his own language, "too old a bird to
have nerves," and he didn't intend that either of the others should
either. He was bubbling over with good spirits and kept Myron and Joe
laughing from the time the three of them left the campus. Perhaps his
cheerfulness was largely due to the fact that, at the eleventh hour,
Coach Driscoll had chosen him over Brodhead for left guard. And perhaps
the coach had never intended to do anything else. Chas never knew as to
that. But he did know that had things turned out differently for him
his plans for next season would have been of as much interest as a last
year's bird's nest!
Their progress through the unusually thronged streets was frequently
interrupted while Chas greeted an acquaintance, generally one of the
enemy. In front of the hotel quite a crowd had collected to peer through
doors and windows at the Kenwood heroes, who, having eaten dinner, were
herded in the lobby about coach and trainer and rubbers. The three
pushed into the throng until they could glimpse their adversaries,
and Chas pointed out several of the notables to the others: Leeds,
captain and right tackle; the much-respected McAfee, left half-back;
Odell, full-back and goal kicker extraordinary; Garrity, the Blue's
clever quarter. "And the others I don't know the names of," said Chas,
"although that whaling big, pop-eyed monster must be Todd, their centre.
He's a new one this year. Wonder which of the bunch is Lampley, the chap
I'm up against."
"And I wonder which is my man," said Joe. "I hope he's like his name!"
"Frost, isn't it?" asked Chas. "They say he's good, but you'll know more
about him along toward four-thirty."
"Who are the fellows over there by the desk?" asked Myron.
"The tall one's their coach, and I guess the others are the Board of
Strategy, which is a fancy name for a bunch of fellows who travel around
with the team and get their expenses paid out of the travelling fund. I
think the short fellow is Whitely, their manager, but I'm not certain.
Come on, we'll see enough of them before the afternoon's over!"
In the act of turning, Myron's gaze encountered a rather tall youth
in the lobby whose face became for the first time visible to him at
that moment. Surely it was Maurice Millard, he thought. And yet it
couldn't be, since Millard would never be hob-nobbing with the Kenwood
coach. Resisting Chas' tug at his sleeve, he gazed at the object of his
speculations while a vague uneasiness took possession of him. It was
Millard! He knew him now. It was Millard in a long fuzzy brown ulster
and a derby hat, Millard looking far less carefree and cordial than he
remembered him. Myron seized the departing Chas and literally dragged
him back through the crowd.
"Who's the tall, good-looking fellow in the brown coat?" he demanded
anxiously.
"Where is he? I don't see any good, tall-looking fellow in--Oh, yes!
That's What's-his-name, the Kenwood third baseman. He's a pill. He's
played with them two years. Know him?"
"I think so," answered Myron, "a--a little. His name's Millard, isn't
it?"
"Mill-ah? No, it isn't Mill-ah; it's Cooke, Arthur Cooke. Come along
home and stop annoying the animals."
Myron looked again, but there was no chance for doubt. He turned and
made his way through the group of loiterers in the wake of Chas and Joe.
When he had overtaken the former he asked earnestly: "Are you quite
certain his name is Cooke, Cummins?"
"Sure I am! Why not? He's the blow-hard that was going to do all sorts
of things to Liddell last spring, if you believe the papers. He is a
pretty fair batter, and that's no joke, but Liddell had him swinging
like a gate and as mad as a hornet. He got a scratch single, and that's
all he did get, the big boob!"
"And--and he's--he's one of the Kenwood Board of Strategy, as you call
it?" asked Myron faintly.
"Yes, sort of. He scouts for them, I guess. Anyway, I heard they caught
him snooping around the grounds of Chancellor last year and mighty near
tore his shirt off. Kenwood has a fine old spy system, Foster, but it
never gets her anywhere except back home!"
Myron set the pace for the rest on the way back, his thoughts appearing
to affect his feet. It was still only a little after a quarter past
one and they were not due at the gymnasium until two. In that scant
three-quarters of an hour, reflected Myron sickeningly, he must find
Coach Driscoll and make his humiliating confession. Whether he had given
Millard, or Cooke, enough information to affect the game, Myron didn't
know, but he did know that the manly and honest thing to do was to
tell the coach all about it and let him decide that question. That Mr.
Driscoll would let him play on the team after his confession had been
made was highly improbable, but there was no help for that. In front of
Parkinson Hall he made some sort of confused excuse to the others and
hurried away.