A CLASH
Ragged work, necessarily, marked the opening of the practice. The ball
was dropped, fumbled, fallen upon, lost, regained, tossed and kicked.
But it all served a purpose, and the coach and captain, with keen eyes,
watched the different candidates. Now and then they gave a word of
advice, cautioning some player about wrong movements, or suggesting a
different method.
Phil had been put in as quarter-back on one scrub team, and Tom, as
left-end, on the same. Phil found his opponent on the opposing eleven to
be none other than Langridge's friend, Gerhart. It did not need much of
an eye to see that Gerhart did not know the game. He would have done
well enough on a small eleven, but he had neither the ability nor the
strength to last through a college contest.
Several times, when it was his rival's turn to pass back the ball, Phil
saw the inefficient work of Gerhart, but he said nothing. He felt that
he was sure of his place on the 'varsity eleven, yet he called to mind
how Langridge had used his influence to keep Tom Parsons from pitching
in the spring.
There was no denying that Langridge had influence with the sporting
crowd, and it was possible that he might exert it in favor of his new
chum and against Phil. But there was one comfort: Langridge was not as
prominent in sports as he had been during the spring term, when he was
manager of the baseball team. He had lost that position because of his
failure to train and play properly, and, too, his uncle, who was his
guardian, had insisted that he pay more attention to studies.
"After all, I don't believe I have much to fear from him," thought Phil.
Then came a scrimmage, and he threw himself into the mass play to
prevent the opposing eleven from gaining.
The practice lasted half an hour, and at the close Coach Lighton and
Captain Cross walked off the field, talking earnestly.
"I wish I knew what they were saying," spoke Phil, as he and Tom
strolled toward the dressing-room.
"Oh, they're saying you're the best ever, Phil."
"Nonsense! They're probably discussing how they can induce you to play."
"Well, how goes it?" called a voice, and they looked back to see
Bricktop Molloy. He was perspiring freely from the hard practice he had
been through at tackle.
"Fine!" cried Tom. "We were just wondering if we would make the
'varsity."
"Sure you will," answered the genial Irish student, who was nothing if
not encouraging. Perhaps it was because he was sure himself of playing
on the first team that he was so confident.
"What did you think of Gerhart at quarter?" asked Tom, for the benefit
of his chum.
"I didn't notice him much," answered Bricktop, as he ruffled his red
hair. "Seemed to me to be a bit sloppy, though; and that won't do."
Phil did not say anything, but he looked relieved.
"Too bad you're not going to play, Sid, old chap," remarked Tom in the
room that night, when the three chums were together. "You don't know
what you miss."
"Oh, yes, I do," was the answer, and Sid looked up from the depths of
the chair, closing his Greek book. "The day has gone by when I want to
have twenty-one husky lads trying to shove my backbone through my
stomach. I don't mind baseball, but I draw the line at posing as a
candidate for a broken neck or a dislocated shoulder. Not any in mine,
thank you."
"You're a namby-pamby milksop!" exclaimed Phil with a laugh and a pat on
the back, that took all the sting from the words. "Worse than that,
you're a----"
"Well, I don't stick girls' pictures, and banners worked in silk by the
aforesaid damsels, all over the room," and Sid looked with disapproval
on an emblem which Tom had placed on the wall that day. It was a silk
flag of Randall colors, which Madge Tyler had given to him.
"You're a misguided, crusty, hard-shelled troglodytic specimen of a
misogynist!" exclaimed Tom.
"Thanks, fair sir, for the compliment," and Sid arose to bow
elaborately.
Phil and Tom talked football until Sid begged them to cease, as he
wanted to study, and, though it was hard work, they managed to do so.
Soon they were poring over their books, and all that was heard in the
room was the occasional rattle of paper, mingling with the ticking of
the clock.
"Well, I'm done for to-night," announced Sid, after an hour's silence.
"I'm going to get up early and bone away. Hand me that alarm clock, Tom,
and I'll set it for five."
"Don't!" begged Phil.
"Why not?"
"Because if you do it will go off about one o'clock in the morning. Set
it at eleven, and by the law of averages it ought to go off at five. Try
it and see. I never saw such a clock as that. It's a most perverse
specimen."
Phil's prediction proved, on trial, to be correct, so Sid set the clock
at eleven, and went to bed, where, a little later, Tom and Phil
followed.
There was more football practice the next afternoon, and also the
following day. Tom was doing better than he expected, but his speed was
not yet equal to the work that would be required of him.
"We need quick ends," said the coach in talking to the candidates during
a lull in practice. "You ends must get down the field like lightning on
kicks, and we're going to do a good deal of kicking this year."
Tom felt that he would have to spend some extra time running, both on
the gymnasium track and across country. His wind needed a little
attention, and he was not a lad to favor himself. He wanted to be the
best end on the team. He spoke to the coach about it, and was advised to
run every chance he got.
"If you do, I can practically promise you a place on the eleven," said
Mr. Lighton.
"Who's going to be quarter-back?" Tom could not help asking.
"I don't know," was the frank answer. "A few days ago I would have said
Phil Clinton; but Gerhart, the new man, has been doing some excellent
work recently. I'll be able to tell in a few days."
Somehow Tom felt a little apprehensive for Phil. He fancied he could see
the hand of Langridge at work in favor of his freshman chum.
The matter was unexpectedly settled a few days later. There were two
scrub teams lined up, Tom and Phil being on one, and Gerhart playing at
quarter on the other. There had been some sharp practice, and a halt was
called while the coach gave the men some instructions. As a signal was
about to be given Phil went over to the coach, and, in a spirit of the
utmost fairness, complained that the opposing center was continually
offending in the matter of playing off side. Phil suggested that Mr.
Lighton warn him quietly.
The coach nodded comprehendingly, and started to speak a word of
caution. As he passed over to the opposing side, he saw Gerhart stooping
to receive the ball.
"Gerhart," he said, "I think you would improve if you would hold your
arms a little closer to your body. Then the ball will come in contact
with your hands and body at the same time, and there is less chance for
a fumble. Here, I'll show you."
Now, when Mr. Lighton started he had no idea whatever of speaking to
Gerhart. It was the center he had in mind, but he never missed a chance
to coach a player. He came quite close to the quarter-back, and was
indicating the position he meant him to assume, when the coach suddenly
started back.
"Gerhart, you've been smoking!" he exclaimed, and he sniffed the air
suspiciously.
"I have not!" was the indignant answer.
"Don't deny it," was the retort of the coach. "I know the smell of
cigarettes too well. You may go to the side lines. Shipman, you come in
at quarter," and he motioned to another player.
"Mr. Lighton," began Gerhart, "I promise----"
"It's too late to promise now," was the answer the coach made. "At the
beginning of practice I warned you all that if you broke training rules
you couldn't play. If you do it now, what will you do later on?"
"I assure you, I--er--I only took a few----"
"Shipman," was all Mr. Lighton said, and then he spoke to the center.
Gerhart withdrew from the practice, and walked slowly from the gridiron.
As he left the field he cast a black look at Phil, who, all unconscious
of it, was waiting for the play to be resumed. But Tom saw it.
Fifteen minutes more marked the close of work for the day. As Tom and
Phil were hurrying to the dressing-rooms, they were met by Langridge and
Gerhart. The latter still had his football togs on.
"Clinton, why did you tell Lighton I had been smoking?" asked Gerhart in
sharp tones.
"Tell him you had been smoking? Why, I didn't know you had been."
"Yes, you did. I saw you whispering to him, and then he came over and
called me down."
"You're mistaken."
"I am not! I saw you!"
Phil recollected that he had whispered to the coach. But he could not,
in decency, tell what it was about.
"I never mentioned your name to the coach," he said. "Nor did I speak of
smoking."
"I know better!" snapped Gerhart. "I saw you."
"I can only repeat that I did not."
"I say you did! You're a----"
Phil's face reddened. This insult, and from a freshman, was more than he
could bear. He sprang at Gerhart with clenched fists, and would have
knocked him down, only Tom clasped his friend's arm.
"Not here! Not here!" he pleaded. "You can't fight here, Phil!"
"Somewhere else, then!" exclaimed Phil. "He shan't insult me like that!"
"Of course not," spoke Tom soothingly, for he, too, resented the words
and manner of the freshman. "Langridge, I'll see you about this later
if you're agreeable," he added significantly, "and will act for your
friend."
"Of course," said Tom's former rival easily. "I guess my friend is
willing," and then the two cronies strolled off.