WITH THE SECOND
Of recent years the custom of having separate organizations for the
First and Second Teams from the very outset of the season had obtained
at Yardley. In the old days the Second was made up, perhaps a fortnight
after the school year had started, of players who were not needed on
the First and those who, for one reason or another, were ineligible for
it. As a result, the Second as an adversary for the First, or School,
Team, never amounted to much until the season was half gone. Under the
new system the Second came into being two or three days after the start
of the fall term, with a coaching staff, small but sufficient, of its
own, a captain elected the preceding year and a general organization
similar to that of the First save as to size. The coach was inevitably
some enthusiastic and patriotic fellow who had recently graduated and
who gave his services free. At times――whenever possible, in fact――he
summoned other graduates to his assistance. If he was a wise coach,
he never had more than one assistant at a time. If he was unwise, he
had――and chaos reigned.
This year the coach was Mr. Burtis. Burtis had, in his time, been
a remarkable half-back and an equally remarkable kicker, both in
preparatory school and college. He had left college last spring and
was, consequently, but twenty-one or twenty-two years of age. Because
Yardley Hall history accorded him much fame as a player and leader, a
great deal was expected of him. Toby’s first look at Kendall Burtis
produced more surprise than anything else. He found himself wondering
how any man could be as utterly homely as the coach and yet look as
attractive, how any one could have so many angles in his body and yet
be so free from awkwardness! Burtis was rather large, ruggedly built,
square of frame. His mouth was broad, his nose somewhat pug, his hair
nondescript in hue. Yet in spite of these things the face was pleasing
and attractive. Perhaps the very dark gray eyes, clear and steady
and honest, were accountable. Or it may be that the mouth expressed
kindliness. At all events, after that first instant of surprise and
confusion, Toby liked the new coach immensely. Whether the new coach
liked Toby I can’t say. It is quite probable that he didn’t see him,
for Toby was only one of some forty-eight fellows drawn up in a group
on the edge of the second diamond that Saturday afternoon.
Toby wondered what words of wisdom would fall from that
generously-proportioned mouth, and he craned his head over Sid Creel’s
shoulder that he might hear them all. What he did hear and see were
hardly worth the exertion. Coach Burtis, a new football snuggled in his
left elbow and his right hand thrust into a pocket of an old pair of
gray trousers, looked pleasantly over the little throng for a moment.
Then: “Well,” he said genially. “It looks like we had material for a
good team here. Let’s get busy!”
That was all. Toby felt a trifle neglected and disappointed. But he
had to acknowledge that perhaps getting busy was as important as
listening to a speech. After that, for more than an hour and a half, he
had very little opportunity for feeling neglected. There were moments
when he wished he might. Coach and captain were both believers in hard
work, and both buckled down resolutely to the task ahead of them.
More than half the material was inexperienced, much of what remained
was useless, and only some twelve or fourteen candidates combined
experience with ability. To-day’s work was the veriest drudgery, and,
although occasional halts were called, yet the September sun did
unkind things to many. Toby, rather to his surprise, discovered that
he was not nearly so hard and fit as he had thought. After ten minutes
of passing and falling, he perspired from every pore, and ere the
afternoon’s practice was finished, he felt very much like a wet rag.
Also, he had somehow managed to develop a painful crick in his left
shoulder, close to his neck. And the muscles in the backs of his legs
felt as if some one had pounded them with a board. On the whole, he
was far less enthusiastic than he had been at three o’clock, and even
the shower failed of much reaction. Dragging a tired body from the
gymnasium across the yard to Whitson, he wondered by just what mental
process he had the day before arrived at the decision to play football!
As a matter of fact, there had been, so far as he could recall, no
mental process at all. Arnold had threatened him with the First Team
draft and almost without reflection he had announced that he was going
out for the Second! Ten minutes before, or even three, he had had no
more idea of a football career than he had had of jumping from the
window. Well, reflected Toby ruefully, it just showed that you couldn’t
be too careful of impulses!
He supposed that Sid Creel was mainly responsible for these aching
muscles. He had resolutely refused to be persuaded by Sid’s arguments,
and yet, apparently, he had been! Or else he had done it just to
surprise Arnold. Maybe that was it. If it was, it was a mighty poor
reason! Any amount of surprise on the part of Arnold wasn’t worth the
soreness of those leg muscles! He groaned as he started up the stairs,
but nearing the door of Number 12, he assumed a carefree and nonchalant
air designed to deceive Arnold in case that youth was within.
He wasn’t, though, and Toby was thankful. It gave him a chance to lie
down on the window seat, groaning as much as he pleased while doing it,
without arousing curiosity. He dropped his cap――he had put by the straw
hat――on the nearest object and divested himself of an unnecessary coat.
It was while he was getting rid of the latter article of apparel that
his eyes fell on an envelope propped against the base of the droplight
on his side of the table. It bore his name in funny up-and-down
characters, like the writing of a boy of ten, and the postmark showed
that it was mailed in Wissining that morning. Of course, it might be
only an invitation to deal at one of the few local stores, but there
was evidence against that premise; such as the lack of any address in
the corner, the queer writing and a brownish smudge along the flap
suggesting that unclean hands had sealed the envelope. He bore it
to the window seat, settled himself cautiously against the pile of
cushions, stretched his aching legs out and tore open the letter. A
single sheet of blue-ruled paper emerged. Toby read it frowningly.
Dear Tucker: I’m sorry for what I said this afternoon. I didn’t
mean it because you are the only fellow at this place who has
been decent towards me since I came here. I got mad and I
wish I hadn’t and I’m sorry. I wish you’d forgive me, please,
Tucker. I guess what you said was true about the Navy, I mean,
and maybe I’ll do like I said. Every one here shows plain that
I am not wanted at this school and I guess the sooner I beat it
the better. If more fellows were like you maybe I could stick
it out. I am not afraid of the studies. It is not that, but the
fellows here are not my kind I suppose. You are not either, but
you acted like you did not think much about that. I am just
writing this because you were decent to me in the train that
day, more than any other fellow has been, and I do not want
you to think I am no good at all, with no gratitude. If I do
not see you again, good-by and good luck, from Yours Truly,
Geo. W. Tubb.
Toward the end of the queer epistle Toby’s frown disappeared, and when
he had read it once he read it again. After that he laid it down and
looked out over the woods below the railroad cut, at the foot of the
Prospect, and so to the blue expanse of Long Island Sound. A sail boat
dipped slowly along the shore and afar out a cocky tug was leading a
draggled parade of three coal barges. Presently the frown crept back
again, and he lifted the letter, folded it and put it back in its
envelope.
“Suppose I ought to answer it,” he thought, “only, what can I say? Tell
him I don’t mind what he said, I suppose, although it happens that I do
mind. At least, I ought to. He’s a very objectionable, soggy-minded,
unclean fellow, and I don’t want any more to do with him. Still, that
doesn’t say that he isn’t having a horribly messy time here. Of course
fellows don’t take to him. He looks dirty and bad-tempered and he talks
worse than he looks. He doesn’t belong here. Seems to realize it, too.
Shows he has some sense, doesn’t it? Well, I didn’t say he didn’t have
sense. Trouble with him is he’s been left to do as he likes too much,
I guess. Bet you I know that father of his. Severe as anything when
things go wrong, and the rest of the time doesn’t pay any attention to
the kid. He didn’t say anything about a mother or brothers or sisters.
Probably there’s just the two of them in one of those mean little towns
where nothing ever happens that’s worth while. Bet you there isn’t
even a movie theater there! Dad puts out the lamp at nine o’clock and
goes to bed and the kid has to go, too, and the only way he can have
any excitement is to sneak down the rain-spout and get into mischief!
Oh, well, it’s no affair of mine. Still, I am sort of sorry for Tubb.
‘Washtub.’ Beastly nickname! Wonder who his adviser is. Probably hasn’t
been near him, and would only growl and be ugly if he went. Best thing
can happen to George W. Tubb is to seek pastures new.”
Toby yawned and closed his eyes. The faint breath of cool evening air
that blew in through the open window beside him made him feel very
sleepy. He would write a couple of lines to Tibb――no, Tubb――after
supper. Tell him it’s all right, and――――
Toby fell asleep.
Ten minutes later he dreamed that he was falling down innumerable
flights of stairs, bounding from one to another with ever increasing
momentum. He didn’t seem concerned about the process of falling, but he
knew that when he reached the bottom, if he ever did, there would be
an awful smash! In case there shouldn’t be enough left of him to groan
then, maybe he had better do it now. So he did, quite frightfully. And
opened his eyes to find Arnold and Frank tugging at him and laughing.
“Wake up, Toby! It isn’t true!”
“N-no,” agreed Toby doubtfully. “But――I’m glad you stopped me before I
got to the bottom!”
“Nightmare?” asked Frank. “I have it sometimes. Get a move on. We’re
going to get supper early and beat it over to Greenburg for the first
house at the movies.”
“I don’t see any use in my spending good money to see movies,” demurred
Toby, sitting up sleepily, “when all I’ve got to do is go to sleep and
have movies of my own!”
Arnold grinned. “How did practice go?” he asked significantly.
“Fine.” Toby was quite cheerful and nonchalant. “Made me sleepy,
though, I guess.”
“Hope you’re not tired or lame or anything like that? You had such a
lot of fun ragging me yesterday, you know. Too bad if _you_――er――――”
“Me? Oh, well, it was pretty warm, of course, but when you’re in good
hard condition――――”
“What’s the matter?” asked Arnold, grinning.
“Matter? Why?”
“I thought you made a face when you stood up. My mistake, of course!”
“I don’t know what you’re getting at,” declared Toby with great
dignity. “If you think that a little football practice――_ouch! Gee!_”
He sat down again on the window seat and rubbed his back ruefully,
while the others laughed with wicked glee.
“It won’t do, old thing! There’s no use stalling. You’re as bad as I
was yesterday, when you had the beautiful cheek to sit there and read
me a lecture on not keeping fit! Where does it hurt worst?”
“All over,” groaned Toby. “I’ll be all right after I move around
a while, though. That’s one advantage of being in fine physical
condition: you may get a bit lame but you get right over it!”
“Isn’t he the wonderful bluffer?” asked Arnold admiringly to Frank.
“Well, go ahead and move around, old thing. It’s five minutes of, and
we want to get over there before seven.”
“Tell me one thing first,” begged Toby, squirming about from his waist
up. “Do they have cushions on the seats at the movie house?”
“Oh, yes, and they’ll give you a couple of pillows at the ticket office
if you ask for ’em,” answered Frank. “Hustle now!”
“What you tell me sounds perfectly beautiful,” said Toby sadly, “but
I’m afraid it isn’t true.”
Thereupon Arnold thrust towel and soap into his hands, Frank held the
door open and between them they pushed him, groaning and remonstrating,
into the corridor and headed him toward the lavatory.
“It’s really an awful joke on him,” chuckled Arnold as Toby’s lagging
footsteps receded down the hall. “He thought he was as hard as nails,
and had a fine time crowing over me yesterday. Said it took more than
sailing a boat to keep a fellow in shape!”
“I guess the only way to keep fit enough for football,” said Frank,
feelingly, “is to chop trees all summer. I was just about all in last
night. How did you manage to persuade him to take up football, anyway,
Arn? I thought he was dead set against it.”
“So did I. _I_ didn’t persuade him. I don’t know who did――or what! He
sprung it on me suddenly yesterday. I’m glad, though. I think there’s a
good football player in Toby, Frank.”