STRANGE BEDFELLOWS
The practice was over. Phil stuck to it until he had, with the
assistance of the coach and the captain, drilled the 'varsity into an
almost perfect running of the trick play. Of course, how it would work
against fierce opponents was another matter. But, in spite of the shock
engendered by the receipt of the telegram, Phil would not give up until
the men fairly "snapped" into place, after he had given the signal for
the fake tackle run and pass to the half-back. Now he and Tom were on
their way to their room.
"What are you going to do, Phil?" asked Tom.
"I don't know," was the despondent answer. "I--of course, I'll have to
go when I get word."
"Do you think she's worse?"
"I'm afraid so; or else they're going to operate. But don't let's talk
about it. It breaks me all up."
"I should think it would. I don't see how you could stay in practice
after you got the message."
"I felt as if I had to, Tom. Of course, I know I'm only a small factor
in the eleven----"
"I think you're a pretty big one," interrupted the left-end
enthusiastically.
"Well, thank you for that; but I mean relatively. I'm only one of eleven
players, and my place could be filled. Still, I do flatter myself that
I've got the team into some kind of machine-like precision, which is
very needful in a game. I don't mean that I've done it all alone, for I
haven't. Every man has done more than his share, and with a coach like
Mr. Lighton, and a captain like Holly Cross, a fellow can do a lot. But
I'm a cog in the wheels of the machine, and you know how it is when you
put a new wheel in a bit of apparatus. It may be just as good, or better
than the old one, but it's got to take time to work off the rough spots
and fit in smoothly.
"That's the way I feel. I want to stay in the game and at practice as
long as I can, for when I drop out, and a new quarter-back comes in,
it's bound to throw the playing off the least bit, and I'm not patting
myself on the back when I say that, I hope."
"Indeed, you're not! But it must be nervous work running a team when you
know--well, er----" and Tom stopped in some confusion.
"I know," said Phil simply. "But you can do lots of things when you try
hard. I'm going to do this. I'll hold myself in readiness to jump down
to Palm Beach when I get the word, but until then I'm going to stick by
the team."
There was a look on Phil's face that Tom had never seen there before. It
was as if some inner power was urging him along the difficult path that
lay before him. He seemed to be drawing on a hidden reserve supply of
grit and pluck, and, as he passed up the stairs, with an easy, swaying
motion of his athletic body, Tom could not help but admiring his
good-looking, well-formed chum.
"I--I hope nothing happens to take him away before we play our last
game," whispered the 'varsity pitcher. "He's the best quarter Randall
ever had, if what the old-timers say is true. If we don't win the
championship I'll miss my guess."
He kept on up the stairs after Phil. In the corridor stood Ford Fenton.
Phil nodded at him, but did not feel like speaking. His fingers were
clasped around the telegram in his pocket.
"Hello!" cried Fenton. "I saw you at practice. That's a dandy trick you
worked, Phil. My uncle says that----"
"Ford," began Tom gravely, "have you ever had smallpox?"
"Smallpox? My good gracious, no! You don't mean to say that there's a
case of it here?"
"We haven't been exposed to smallpox," went on Tom, "but we are both
suffering from a severe attack of Uncleitis, so if you don't want to
catch it you'd better keep away from us."
"Hu! I guess you think that's a joke!" exclaimed Ford as he turned and
walked away. Then Tom and Phil entered their room.
Something in the look of their faces attracted the attention of Sid.
"What's the matter?" he asked, despite Tom's frantic gestures behind
Phil's back, which motions were made with a view to keeping Sid quiet.
"I'm afraid I'll have to go--go where my mother is, any minute," said
Phil brokenly. "I--I guess I'll pack up so--so's to be ready."
Then the tension broke, and the nervous force that had girt him about
when he was on the gridiron gave way, and he sobbed brokenly. Tom
instantly began rearranging the books on the table, where they were
piled in artistic confusion, and raised such a dust that Sid sneezed.
The latter was in the old armchair, which had been mended, after a
fashion, following the throwing of it from the window in the fire scare.
As Sid tried to get up from the depths of it, there came a crash, and
the antique piece of furniture settled heavily on one side, like a ship
with a bad list to port.
"There you go!" cried Tom, glad to have a chance to speak sharply. "What
are you trying to do--smash it all to pieces? Can't you get out of a
chair without busting it?"
"I--I didn't mean to," spoke Sid so gently, and in such a contrast to
Tom's fiery words, that Phil could not restrain an exclamatory chuckle.
It was just the thing needed to change the current that was setting too
strongly toward sadness, and a moment later the three were carefully
examining the chair.
"It's only a leg broken," said Phil at length, and during the inspection
he kept his face in the shadow. "I can fix it to-morrow," he went on,
and when he arose he was himself again.
"Better put an iron brace on, if Sid is going to do double back
somersaults in it," went on Tom with simulated indignity. "This isn't a
barn, Sid. It's a gentlemen's room."
"Oh, you shut up!" cried Sid, and then the chums were more natural.
Phil arranged that night to leave college at once, in case further bad
news was received, and he also communicated with Ruth, planning to take
her with him. But there was no need, for in the morning another message
was received, saying that Mrs. Clinton had somewhat recovered from the
relapse that threatened.
Phil said little, but there was a different air about him all that day,
and when he went into practice he actually seemed to carry the team
along on his shoulders, so that they crumbled the scrub opposition into
nothingness, and made five touch-downs in the two short halves they
played.
Since the episode of the freshman dance the first-year students had
"sung small" whenever the sophomores were about. It was the most
humiliating trick that had been "pulled off in so many years that the
memory of man runneth not to the contrary," as Holly Cross put it in one
of his favorite quotations. Gerhart was much downcast at first, for, as
he was in charge of the affair, it was considered a sort of reflection
on his ability. And he laid it all to Tom, Sid, Phil and Dutch
Housenlager.
"You wait; I'll get even with you some day," he had said to Tom.
"We're perfectly willing," answered Tom good-naturedly. "If you think
you can put anything over our home plate, why go ahead, and more power
to ye, as Bricktop Molloy would say."
"You just wait," was all Gerhart answered.
It was the night before the game with Dodville Preparatory School, which
institution had an eleven not to be despised. They had met Randall on
the diamond and were anxious to come to conclusions with them on the
gridiron. Following some light practice, during which the fake tackle
run and pass to half-back was worked to perfection, Sid, Tom and Phil
went for a stroll along Sunny River. The placid stream had an attraction
in the early evening that was absent at other times, and the three
chums felt its influence as they walked along the banks.
"Do you feel nervous about to-morrow's game?" asked Tom of Phil.
"Not as much so as if it was against Boxer Hall," replied the
quarter-back. "Of course I--I shall be worrying a bit for fear I'll get
a message from Florida, but I'm going to try to forget it. I want to
roll up a big score against Dodville."
"And against Boxer Hall, too," added Sid.
"Of course. But that's some time off, and we'll improve in the meanwhile.
I fancy the game to-morrow will develop some weak spots that will need
strengthening."
They walked and talked for about an hour, and it was dark when they
returned to their room.
"No study to-night," remarked Phil, as he began to disrobe. "Me for
pounding the pillow at once, if not sooner."
"Same here," came from Tom, and he began taking off his things. "Last
fellow to undress puts the light out," he added, and then there was a
race. Tom and Phil leaped into bed almost at once, and Sid, leaving
the light turned on, was scarcely a second behind them. There was a
protesting howl from Phil and Tom at their chum's perfidy, but the next
instant Tom uttered a yell.
"Wow! Ouch! Something's in my bed!" he cried as he leaped out.
"And in mine, too!" came from Sid. "It's a snake!" and reaching down
between the sheets, he pulled out a long reptile.
"Cæsar's Haywagon!" cried Phil. "I've drawn something, too!" and with
that he held up a mudturtle.
"Ten thousand thistles!" yelled Tom as he began pulling off his pajamas.
"I'm full of needles!"