BEHIND THE STAND
"You mean to tell me," said Coach Driscoll incredulously, "that you
talked about the team to a perfect stranger, Foster, to a fellow met on
a station platform?"
"Not so much the first time, sir," answered Myron miserably. "It was
when he came here. He didn't seem like a stranger then, and I thought he
was what he said he was."
"You did, eh? Why, he has prep school written all over him! I simply
can't understand it, Foster!" The coach looked helplessly to Jud
Mellen and from Jud to Farnsworth and Chas and Katie. Myron had run
Mr. Driscoll to earth at last in the gymnasium, in consultation with
the trainer, and now they were in the little office of Mr. Tasser, the
physical director. The others had been summoned from the locker room
downstairs, being the only players then in the building. Having produced
them, Billy Goode had discreetly closed the door behind them and retired
to the entrance, where Myron could see him now through the glass
partition, his purple and white sweater radiant in the sunlight that
flooded through the doorway. Myron rather preferred looking at Billy to
meeting the accusing gaze of the coach. He was not having a very happy
time of it.
"Cooke's crafty," offered Katie. "I guess he could easily make you
believe he was a travelling salesman if he wanted to try, and you didn't
know him."
Chas nodded, scowling, but the coach said impatiently: "What of it? Even
if Foster thought he was that, he shouldn't have talked. A travelling
man is the last person on earth to tell secrets to! Didn't it even occur
to you, Foster, that the fellow might repeat what you said?"
"No, sir, it didn't. He seemed such a--a decent sort, Mr. Driscoll!"
"Let's get this right," said Jud impatiently. "Tell us again just what
you told him, as near as you can remember."
Myron did so. His recollection of the two conversations was none too
clear, however, and he faltered several times.
"And then he brought in the subject of signals?" prompted the coach.
"Can you remember what you told him then?"
"I don't think I told him anything of--of consequence," answered Myron.
"He said he thought that simple signals were best and told a lot of
stories about games where the players had got the signals wrong because
they were too complicated. And he told about some team a long while ago
where they used to use words instead of numbers. I said our signals were
simple enough, and he said he supposed we numbered the openings and the
players from right to left; or maybe he said left to right. And I told
him we didn't; that we began at the ends and numbered in; and then Eddie
Moses stopped the cab quick and threw us off the seat."
"Eddie appears to deserve a medal and resolutions of thanks," observed
the coach drily. "You're quite certain that was all you told him,
Foster? It was at the point you speak of that the jolt came?"
"Yes, sir. I think I had started to say something else, but I didn't
have time."
There was a moment of thoughtful silence. Myron looked about the circle
of troubled faces and wished himself at the bottom of the ocean. At last
Chas spoke. "Well, say, folks, I don't see that there's been much harm
done. Foster didn't tell that fox anything Kenwood didn't know already,
I guess, except about the signals. They've seen us play all fall and
know just about as much about our players and the way they play as we
do."
"That's so," murmured Farnsworth. "They had three scouts at the
Chancellor game."
"What about the signals, though?" asked Mr. Driscoll, frowning. "How
much could Cooke make of what Foster so kindly informed him?"
"Mighty little, I'd say," answered Katie. "There are just as many ways
of numbering from the ends to the middle as there are from one end to
the other, or from the middle out. Seems to me this Eddie boy put the
brakes on at about the right minute!"
"Eddie ought to get a season ticket," said Chas.
"Well, the fat's in the fire and there's no use trying to pull it out
now," said the coach resignedly. "If we find they're on to our signals
we'll have to switch. I guess we'd better arrange a new code before the
game, Cater."
"That's easy, Coach. Just change about and number from the centre out."
"Wouldn't do, Cater. The fellows would get balled up unless they had a
good hour's drill first. We'll have to think up some simpler method."
"Double the odd numbers," suggested Chas. "Call 1, 11, 2, 22; and so on.
They did that last year on the second and we couldn't get it at all
till they told us after the season."
"That might do," agreed the coach, and the rest nodded. "That would make
outside left end 99," he reflected. "Sound all right to you, Cater?"
"Sure! That's easy enough, but what about 11, 13 and 15? Call them 111,
113 and 115?"
"I think so. We'll have to change the sequence call, though. We'll make
it any even number over 100."
"Your friend Cooke wouldn't approve, though, Foster," said Farnsworth.
"He'd say they were too complicated."
Myron flushed, but made no answer.
"Get the team together as soon as you can, Cap," said the coach, "and
let Cater go over the new signals with them a couple of times. Mind,
though, we don't change unless it's evident that Kenwood is solving the
plays. That's all, you fellows. Just a minute, Foster, please."
The rest hurried out and down the stairs. Myron leaned back again in the
chair with a sigh. Mr. Driscoll viewed him coldly.
"I suppose you realise that you've made rather a mess of things," said
the coach. Myron assented in silence. "The things you let out to this
Kenwood spy may mean just the difference to us between winning and
losing. I hope they won't, but they may. I don't believe in hitting a
man when he's down, Foster, and so I won't say any more about it. I
suppose you're feeling rather rotten yourself." The boy's glance was
answer enough. "I was going to have you start the game at full." He
paused and Myron's heart sank. "I've changed my mind. There may be a
chance for you before the game's over, but don't count on it. If you
should by any possibility get in, Foster, I shall expect you to try
very hard to make up for any mischief you've caused with that tongue
of yours. That's all. You'd better hustle down and go through those
signals."
When Myron had gone Mr. Driscoll frowned. "I wonder," he muttered, "if
that was the right thing. Sort of tough on him, too. And if he should
get sore--Well, we'll see." Lifting the telephone beside him, he called
the locker room. "Hello! Who is this? Oh, Mistley? Well, ask Farnsworth
to come up here a minute, please."
The manager appeared promptly and behind the closed glass door the two
spoke briefly with heads close together. Then Farnsworth arose and sped
out, an expression of unholy glee on his countenance, and the coach,
tapping the ashes from his pipe, dropped it into his pocket and went
downstairs.
Across the campus a clock struck two.
* * * * *
The teams that faced each other that afternoon were fairly matched in
weight and, as events proved, closely matched in skill. Neither the
Brown nor the Blue found herself until the first fifteen-minute period
was nearly over. Each seemed to lack confidence, and those who hoped
to see one team or the other take the lead at the start were doomed
to disappointment. There was much punting in that first quarter, some
half-hearted rushing that soon slowed down, several fumbles and not a
little bad judgment. Each team appeared more intent on watching her
opponent than on playing the game, and it was not until the very end
that Parkinson awoke from her lethargy and got into her stride.
A fortunate forward-pass started her up, and from her own forty-two
yards to the enemy's thirty-four she took the ball on line attacks
varied by one wide, swinging run by Meldrum. But the Blue was also awake
now and her line steadied and Parkinson was forced to punt. Kenwood
plunged twice and returned the punt and Cater caught and was downed in
his tracks. Kearns made a scant yard at guard on the right of the line
and time was called.
Starting again from near Parkinson's forty-yard line, the ball went
across the centre and back again. Cater was nailed when he attempted a
quarter-back run to the left and Brown made four yards in two tries.
Keith fell back and punted out of bounds at the twenty-five. No
advantage accrued to either team for the next five minutes. Parkinson
was set back for holding and Kenwood was twice penalised for off-side.
The spectators' hearts went into their throats when a Kenwood back
misjudged a punt, and it looked for an instant as if the Brown was to
score. But Norris missed the ball and the Kenwood quarter fell on it
eight yards from the goal-line. The Blue promptly punted out of danger.
Parkinson failed to gain at the Blue line and made a forward which
grounded. She then punted to the enemy's thirty yards. The half ended
with the pigskin in Parkinson territory near the middle of the field and
in Kenwood's possession.
Neither team had shown ability to gain consistently at her opponent's
line. Parkinson had made two first downs and Kenwood one. At punting
Kenwood had outdistanced the Brown by some five yards on each kick,
but had not gained any advantage by it, since Stearns and Norris were
playing the game of their lives. In short, it was still anybody's
game. During half-time the rivals contended with cheers and songs, the
contest going to Parkinson by reason of a slight advantage in numbers
and the possession of a brass band. It was about the middle of that
fifteen-minute intermission that a small youth in the attire of a
messenger boy came wandering along the edge of the Kenwood stand. "Mr.
Cooke!" he droned. "Message for Mr. Cooke!"
In response a youth in a fuzzy brown overcoat arose from the group on
the nearly deserted players' bench. "All right, kid!" he called. "Here I
am! Let's have it!"
"You Mr. Cooke?" asked the boy suspiciously.
"Yes, A. M. Cooke. Is it for me?"
"Yeah, that's right: A. M. Cooke. Well, you're wanted at the telephone."
"Where is it?" asked Cooke, vaulting the rope into the passage. The boy
waved a thumb over his shoulder.
"Out there," he said vaguely. "I'll show you."
Cooke followed, winding his way through the crowd about the entrance.
At the gate he spoke to one of the ticket takers. "Let me have a check,
will you?" he asked. "I'm coming back."
The boy presiding at the box smiled mysteriously. "That'll be all
right," he said. "You won't need any check."
Afterwards, Cooke concluded that it was at that moment that suspicion
began to creep in. But the messenger led on and he followed around
the back of the stand and into the presence of four grim-looking and
extremely athletic first class fellows. Cooke saw no telephone, and a
frown gathered on his classic brow. The messenger was speaking. "Here he
is," he said. "I got him. Where's me half?"
A coin changed hands. Cooke looked on curiously, a question trembling
on his lips. But he didn't need to ask that question. Suddenly the
four youths encompassed him closely and he felt no further interest in
telephones.
"Is your name Cooke?" asked the spokesman.
Cooke wanted very much to deny it, but knew that denial would be futile.
So he said yes, and the other went on as follows:
"Well, Cooke, we don't like your sort. There's a train that will take
you to Kenwood leaving our station in fifteen minutes. If I were you I'd
try mighty hard to get it. It won't be healthy for you around here after
it's gone."
Cooke moistened his lips. "Why should I?" he demanded in a weak attempt
at bluster. "I paid to see this game----"
"That's all right. You'll get your money back. We've bought your train
ticket, and there's eighteen cents change coming to you. You can walk to
the station comfortably in twelve minutes." The speaker looked at his
watch. "You've just got twelve if you start now. These chaps are going
with you to show the way and see that you don't change your mind."
Cooke looked at the faces surrounding him, bit his lip, laughed weakly
and shrugged. "I suppose you think you're frightfully clever," he said,
"but you're not worrying me any. I don't care to see the game, anyhow.
We'll beat you, so what's it matter?"
"Eleven minutes," was the reply. "You'll have to run if you don't start
quick."
"Suppose I don't choose to go?" asked Cooke defiantly.
"Why, that would be very unhealthy for you," answered the other, a smile
threatening his gravity. Cooke looked up at the stand. There were plenty
of friends there, but there seemed to be no way of reaching them. At
the top a few occupants of the last row were looking down curiously,
but they appeared quite unsuspicious of the indignity being visited on
their schoolmate. Cooke yielded.
"All right," he muttered.
"And, one thing more, Cooke," said the spokesman of the little
committee, "it will be better if you don't come over here with the
baseball team next spring. In fact, if I were you, I'd take good care to
stay away from here. We don't like spies."