SIGNALS
Although Toby was back in Whitson before nine that evening, it is
needless to say that the note he had promised himself to write to
George Tubb did not get written. In fact Toby forgot all about it until
the next morning, when Arnold found Tubb’s letter on the floor and
asked Toby if it was anything he wanted to keep.
“No, throw it in the basket,” answered Toby. “Hold on, though! Guess
I’ll keep it. I’ve got to answer it to-day. Stick it on the table, Arn.”
Later it got buried under a book and so during the course of a busy day
or two Toby again forgot it. He might have remembered it on Sunday,
which, as at every preparatory school in the land, was the recognized
letter-writing day of the week at Yardley, but he didn’t. He wrote to
his folks in the afternoon until Arn, who never spent much time on his
correspondence, dragged him away to the river and a certain shining
blue canoe. Then he finished the epistle in the evening just before
bedtime, and retired with a fine feeling of duty performed. Monday
witnessed a change in temperature. There was a light frost on the
ground when Toby and Arnold hurried over to chapel, and, although the
middle of the day was bright and warm, by the time practice began on
the gridirons there was enough nip in the air to make work with the
pigskin more agreeable.
Toby found himself on a squad of fellows of much his own age and
football experience――or lack of it. It didn’t seem to him that he
showed much promise of ever being better than a dub at the game, and
while he did rather enjoy the work, he was not vastly concerned over
the prospect of being dropped. He had been dropped very promptly last
fall, and he expected a similar fate this season. Of course, he was
heavier now than then, but he guessed football required something more
than weight of a fellow. Sid Creel was playing center on another squad
in signal drill that Monday afternoon, so far as Toby could discern,
conducting himself in a highly meritorious fashion. Sid had weight and,
apparently, ability, and Toby decided that this year his good-natured
perseverance was to be rewarded.
After three quarters of an hour of “baby-play” the Second Team
candidates were summoned to the bench and Coach Burtis announced the
first scrimmage. “Who have we for center on B Team, Harris?” he asked
the trainer.
“Center? Well, there’s Galvin and that tow-headed chap over there,
Coach. And Creel. Creel’s got the build, all right. Want to try him?”
“Yes. And Burnett and Hodgson for guards. And――what’s your name, you
chap?”
“Thorson, sir.”
“Well, Thorson, you take left tackle on B. I want another tackle now.
Who wants to play tackle? All right, I’ll take you: the fellow in the
green sweater. Now, a couple of ends, Harris. Yes, they’ll do. Burns at
quarter. Come on, Burns! And Folwell and――――”
“Nelson’s played half, Mr. Burtis,” suggested Grover Beech.
“I want him on A Team. Who else is there? Fosdick? All right. And that
fellow down there, whatever his name is, for full-back. All right, get
out there, fellows! You referee, Harris, please. I’ll be ump. I want
all the rest of you chaps to follow the play closely and learn all you
can. We’ll play two ten-minute periods, Harris. Team A takes the ball
and north goal. Now then, let’s see what you fellows know about the
game!”
At first it didn’t seem that they knew very much, for signals went
wrong, fumble followed fumble and the players became occasionally so
inextricably mixed up that scrimmage had to be halted while they were
disentangled. But Coach Burtis, alternately umpire and critic, was
possessed of a vast patience, and toward the last of the first ten
minutes things went better. Team A worked down to the opponent’s twelve
yards and would have scored if the line had held. But a B Team tackle
trickled through and laid White on his back before he was well started
on a wide run, and after that Frick, quarter-back on the attacking
side, missed a try-at-goal by many yards.
A five-minute rest followed, during which the coach and the trainer
and Grover Beech lectured and criticized, and then, with many changes
in each line-up, the scrimmage began again. Toby still decorated a
bench, looking rather colorful with his red thatch obtruding from a
blue blanket. Toby had dutifully watched the efforts of the players,
but it cannot be truthfully said that he learned much. Perhaps he was
too attentive to the performance and fortunes of Sid Creel at center
on Team B. Sid appeared to be playing his position rather well,
Toby thought, although he didn’t pretend to be anything of a judge.
At least, Sid lasted longer than most fellows of his team, returning
breathless to the bench only when the last period was more than half
over. He squirmed into a place beside Toby, pulling a blanket about his
broad shoulders.
“I guess he didn’t have much on me,” Sid panted, “if he is ten pounds
heavier!”
“Who?” asked Toby.
“Watson. He didn’t get past me once, and I turned him twice. Did you
notice?”
“Who’s Watson? Their center?”
“Yes. If they’d given us a couple of decent guards we’d have put it all
over that bunch. Burnett isn’t so bad, but Hodgson laid down every time
any one looked at him! You didn’t get in, did you? What are you trying
for?”
“That’s what I’ve been wondering, Sid.”
“I mean what position.”
“How do I know? End, I suppose. Or half. Search me!”
“Well, you’d better make up your mind. When Coach yells for an end the
next time, sing out and race on there. That’s the only way you’ll get a
chance. Beat the other fellow to it, Toby.”
“I’d be afraid he’d take me,” answered Toby dryly. “I don’t know any
more about playing end than――than you do center!”
Sid grinned. “You watch me, Toby. I’m going to fade Watson before this
season’s much older, my child. Honest, I really believe I’ve got a
chance to stick this year. Of course, it’s a bit early yet, but――――”
“What’s he yelling?” interrupted Toby. Play had paused, a youth was
limping to the side-line and Coach Burtis was shouting toward the bench.
“Quarter,” said Sid. He looked left and right along the benches. Here
and there a player squirmed indecisively but none appeared to have
enough courage to offer his services. “Guess all the quarters are used
up,” mused Sid.
Trainer Harris added his voice to the coach’s. “Aren’t there any
quarter-backs over there? Get a move on, somebody! Any of you!”
“Coming!” shouted Toby, throwing aside his blanket and jumping to his
feet.
“He said quarter, you idiot!” hissed Sid. “You aren’t a quarter!”
“How do you know?” laughed Toby. “_I_ don’t!”
“All right, this way,” greeted the Coach, as Toby raced on. “What’s the
name?”
“Tucker, sir.”
“Ever played quarter, Tucker?”
“No, sir.”
“Well, then what the mischief――――”
“Trainer said any of us, sir.”
Mr. Burtis frowned, smiled and nodded shortly. “Go ahead then. Let’s
see what you can do. Know the signals?”
“Yes, sir.” Toby was pretty certain that he had forgotten them, but it
wouldn’t do to say so! Turning, he caught the amused smile of Captain
Beech. Toby dropped the lid of his left eye gravely and stepped to
position behind center.
“Look what you’re doing, Tucker,” warned the coach. “Third down and
four to go.” There was amusement in his tone and Toby flushed. Third
down and four, he thought hurriedly. That meant that a line play wasn’t
the thing. What was, then? He hesitated and glanced doubtfully at the
backs. The trainer blew his whistle. Something had to be done and done
quickly. If B Team hadn’t been having luck with A’s line there was no
use trying to get four yards between tackles, even on a third down.
The teams were near the middle of the field, and A had three men back,
evidently expecting an open play. Then why not――――
“14――23――8――――” Toby’s voice sounded very weak and small to Toby.
“14――23――――”
“_Signals! Signals!_” The whole back-field was remonstrating, it
seemed! His heart sank. He had got his signals wrong! But how? No, he
was right. It was the others who were wrong!
“Signals!” he cried, scowling at the nearer of the three backs behind
him. “14――27――8――196――――”
The team awoke to action. Full-back dashed headlong upon him, took
the pass and went, twisting and boring, into the mêlée. Toby threw
himself behind, triumphant. His signals _had_ been right, just as he
had known! (It wasn’t until after practice was over that he learned
that he had changed them the second time!) The play went through for
well over three yards, the unfeasible for once proving feasible, and
B Team exulted and looked approval at Toby. Toby tried to be modest
about it, which, considering that he had called for the play in sheer
desperation, not remembering at the moment anything else to call for,
wasn’t hard! Some one, too, had walked on his face, and that helped him
toward humility.
Realizing that he had established a reputation for generalship, Toby
tried hard to live up to it, but although B did not get the necessary
eighteen inches or so on the next down, the succeeding play failed
dismally and B lost nearly all she had gained. Toby tried to assure
himself that the fault was the right half-back’s, but something told
him that an end run from balanced formation was predestined to fail
and that another time he would remember that there was such thing as
a shift! Perhaps he would have vindicated the reputation gained from
his first lucky play if the scrimmage hadn’t ended then and there; or
perhaps he would have become exposed for the impostor he knew himself
to be. At all events, Toby welcomed the whistle heartily.
Afterwards, in the gymnasium, Grover Beech detained him on his way from
the shower. “Snappy work, Tucker,” he said, smilingly. “Glad to see you
with us.”
Toby reflected the other’s smile in somewhat sickly fashion. “Thanks,”
he answered lamely. “Of course, I didn’t know anything about playing
quarter, Beech――――”
“Well, you got away with it, anyway! That’s the main thing. And that
plunge at guard when we were looking for a pass was clever strategy.”
There was a twinkle in his eye, however. Toby’s smile broadened.
“Have a heart!” he begged. “I didn’t know whether that play was going
to right or left, Beech!”
“Well, I’m glad it went to the right,” laughed the Second Team captain,
“for if it had come my way I’d have been just as unready for it as Weld
was! Going to try for quarter, Tucker?”
“Gee, no! I’ve had all I want of it, thanks. I just did it as a sort
of joke. I’m no football player, Beech, and you’ll miss my shining
countenance in a day or two.”
“Oh, I hope not,” answered the other. “Better stick it out.”
“And you will, if I have my say,” he added to himself as Toby went off.