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CHANGE SIGNALS
BY RALPH HENRY BARBOUR.
Each Illustrated, 12mo, Cloth, $1.50.
Change Signals!
For Yardley.
Finkler’s Field. ($1.25.)
Winning His “Y.”
The New Boy at Hilltop.
Double Play.
Forward Pass!
The Spirit of the School.
Four in Camp.
Four Afoot.
Four Afloat.
The Arrival of Jimpson.
Behind the Line.
Captain of the Crew.
For the Honor of the School.
The Half-Back.
On Your Mark.
Weatherby’s Inning.
D. APPLETON & COMPANY, NEW YORK.
[Illustration: “But the ball went true, straight up and up, over the
crossbar.”]
CHANGE SIGNALS
A STORY OF THE NEW FOOTBALL
_By_
RALPH HENRY BARBOUR
AUTHOR OF “FOR YARDLEY,” “THE HALF-BACK,”
“FORWARD PASS,” ETC.
[Illustration]
ILLUSTRATED
NEW YORK AND LONDON
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
1912
Copyright, 1912, by
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
_Published September, 1912_
Printed in the United States of America
FOREWORD
I am taking this occasion to thank all of my readers, boys and girls
alike, who have been so kind as to write to me. Sometimes your letters
have gone unanswered for a long time, I fear; and it is possible
that now and then, entirely by accident, one has been lost sight of
entirely. If so I am both sorry and apologetic, for your letters are
always a real pleasure to me, whether, as is so surprisingly often the
case, they are filled with praise for my stories, or, as is sometimes
the case, they call me to account for mistakes made. Your criticisms,
always just, are perhaps better merited than your praise, and are
quite as well appreciated. My thanks and my compliments, then, to all
my correspondents for their kindly expressions, and my thanks and
compliments to all my readers for their kind allegiance.
Very truly yours,
RALPH HENRY BARBOUR.
“Journey’s End,”
Manchester, Mass.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I THE MASS-MEETING 1
II TOWNE PLAYS A JOKE 10
III KENDALL MAKES A CALL 25
IV FIRST PRACTICE 41
V KENDALL LEARNS OF A PLOT 56
VI AND FOILS IT 71
VII CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE 80
VIII THE FIRST GAME 97
IX NEW ACQUAINTANCES 108
X NED TOOKER 120
XI THE MYSTERIOUS KICKER 127
XII NED USES TACT 147
XIII GOLF WITH BROADWOOD 160
XIV DAN IS OUT OF SORTS 175
XV NED EARNS A QUARTER 194
XVI A DISSERTATION ON MUSHROOMS 205
XVII UNDER THE MANAGEMENT OF MR. TOOKER 217
XVIII YARDLEY VISITS NORDHAM 231
XIX CHEERS AND SONGS 244
XX DAN IS KIDNAPPED 256
XXI AT THE “WASHINGTON’S HEAD” 269
XXII KENDALL EXPLAINS 278
XXIII THE MORNING OF THE GAME 289
XXIV KENDALL MEETS AN OLD FRIEND 296
XXV “CHANGE SIGNALS!” 305
XXVI KENDALL MAKES THE FIRST 321
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
FACING
PAGE
“But the ball went true, straight up and up, over the
crossbar” _Frontispiece_
“An odd-looking figure in a pair of old gray trousers” 42
“At the pole stood a boy with upraised arm” 74
“‘I think I can win the match if you make it worth my
while’” 166
CHANGE SIGNALS
CHAPTER I
THE MASS-MEETING
“Old Yardley can’t be beat, my boy,
She’s bound to win the game!
So give a cheer for Yardley, and
Hats off to Yardley’s fame!”
The Banjo and Mandolin Club, huddled together on the right of the
platform in Assembly Hall, strummed diligently and with enthusiasm,
their zeal atoning for shortcomings due to lack of practice. For this
was the first night of the fall term, and many members had not touched
their instruments since the final chord had been twanged on class day.
(Brewster, playing second mandolin, was doing bravely with a silver
dime, having lost his pick and not being able to borrow one!) Beyond
the platform some two hundred and fifty clear-eyed, clean-skinned
boys sang the words with vim. Many, unable to satisfactorily express
their enthusiasm vocally, kept time with their feet. Across the
platform from the musicians sat the Assistant Principal, Mr. Collins,
the physical instructor, Mr. Bendix, the head coach, Mr. Payson, the
president of the First Class, Lawrence Goodyear, and the football
captain, Dan Vinton. The mass meeting had been called to formally
open the football season at Yardley Hall School. The song ended in a
final triumphant burst of sound and Goodyear arose. As he moved to the
front of the platform the applause began, the stamping of feet and the
long-drawn “_A-a-ay!_” repeated over and over until Goodyear’s upraised
hand commanded quiet.
“We’re here to-night, fellows, to start things going. We’re going to
hear from the faculty and from the head coach and the captain, and all
I’m supposed to do is to introduce the speakers. But before I do that
there’s just one thing I want to say, fellows, and it’s this. We’re
going to win this year――”
The cheers burst forth deafeningly, and it was a full minute before
Goodyear could go on.
“Just as we did last year and other years before that.” (Another
demonstration, but briefer.) “But to do it we must all get together and
stand right back of the team every minute. It’s school loyalty that
does the business. Every fellow who has been on a team knows what it
means to feel that the school is right back of him. It means a lot, I
tell you; I don’t say that it wins games, but it comes mighty near it
sometimes. The team may have its failures; it can’t win all the time;
but it isn’t going to help matters if you start ‘knocking.’ There may
be mistakes made; that happens now and then; but don’t ‘roast’ the
team for it. Don’t roast anyone; get behind and push harder than ever!
That’s all, fellows. Mr. Collins will now speak a few words to you.”
The audience proved that it was in entire sympathy with Goodyear’s
sentiments by cheering long and loudly. And then it began again as the
Assistant Principal stepped to the front of the stage. Mr. Collins,
in spite of the fact that he represented Authority and meted out
punishment to ill-doers, was very popular. Doctor Hewitt, or “Toby” as
the school called him, was the Principal, but the doctor was getting
well along in years now and the actual school management fell on the
younger and very capable shoulders of “Mr. Warren Collins, A.M.,
Yale,” to quote the school catalogue. Mr. Collins confined his remarks
to-night to a few moments only. He said he was glad to see them all
back again, glad to see so much enthusiasm and glad that the football
prospects looked so bright. “With a settled coaching policy well
established, a coach whom we all admire and respect and a captain who
has proved himself popular, brilliant and earnest,” said Mr. Collins,
“we are very fortunate, I think. And I, for one, shall be very much
surprised if this season proves anything but one of the best in recent
years.”
Mr. Bendix had his meed of welcome and applause when he followed the
Assistant Principal. Although “Muscles” was a hard taskmaster and was
often well hated by the lazier youths, he was generally liked. Besides,
this was the beginning of the term, the old boys were happy at getting
back again and the newcomers delighted to be there, and they would
have cheered even “Mother” Walker, who was the least loved of all the
faculty, had he appeared. Mr. Bendix had quite a little to say about
physical examinations and the matter of training, and his remarks
were not especially exhilarating. But everyone heard him through with
respect and then burst into thunderous cheers as the football captain
came to the front of the platform.
Dan Vinton was a First Class boy, seventeen years of age, tall and
lithe, with an alert, good-looking face in which a pair of steady
brown eyes and a distinctly good-tempered mouth were the most notable
features. Just at present the mouth was smiling, but there was
embarrassment in the smile, for Dan wasn’t much of a speaker and had
been dreading this occasion for weeks. As he waited for the applause to
cease he sunk his hands in his trousers pockets, and then, realizing
his lapse, hurriedly pulled them out again. The cheers changed to a
shout of laughter and a boy in a front seat called:
“Put ’em back again, Dan!”
Then the hall quieted down, and Dan, more embarrassed than before,
began to speak.
“Fellows,” he said, “I can’t talk very well. In fact, I’m just about
scared to death. I guess you can see that. But what I’ve got to say
won’t take long. You’ve made me captain and I’m going to do the best I
know how for you. I’m not making any promises. That would be a silly
thing to do because we none of us can tell what may happen as――as
the season advances. But we’ve got a mighty good start for the team
this fall. We’ve got five of the fellows who played against Broadwood
last year and a lot of good second string fellows. So as far as――as
experienced material goes we’ve got no kick coming. But I don’t want
you to think that we’ve got all the men we want, for we haven’t. I hope
that to-morrow afternoon every one of you chaps who hasn’t lost a leg
or an arm will come out for the team. I want to see the biggest bunch
of candidates that ever turned out at Yardley! And don’t stay away
because you think you can’t play football. Come out and get to work and
we’ll tell you in a week whether you can play or not. You know they’ve
changed the rules again this year and a fellow doesn’t have to weigh
two hundred pounds to be of use to the team. We want fellows who have
speed and who can handle a ball, and, above all, we want fellows who
can kick. Well, I guess that’s all.” Dan’s hands unconsciously went
back to his pockets and a cheer went up. But he didn’t take them out
this time. He only smiled. “There’s one thing more, though,” he went
on earnestly. “What Goodyear told you about standing back of the team
is so. I don’t mean just coming down to the field and cheering. That’s
all right as far as it goes. What I mean is letting us know all the
time that you’re right back of us, hoping us on, wishing us on, pulling
every minute! You do your share, fellows, and we’ll do ours, I promise
you!”
Pandemonium reigned for a good two minutes after Dan walked back to his
chair. Then Hammel, the baseball captain, was on his feet calling for
“a cheer for Captain Vinton, fellows, and make it good!” And it was
good, and if Oxford Hall hadn’t been built of granite I think it would
have shook under that outburst.
Then Payson got up, and more cheering followed, for the big,
broad-shouldered man of thirty-two who faced them was a school idol. In
his six years as football and baseball coach at Yardley, John Payson
had turned out four winning teams on the gridiron and had done very
nearly as well on the diamond. He had quick, sharp black eyes, a broad,
strong jaw and an ease and grace of carriage that quite belied his two
hundred and odd pounds. Payson spoke quietly and seriously and the hall
was so still that you might have heard a pin drop. He agreed with the
previous speakers that the outlook was bright, but reminded them that
many a team with fine early season prospects had come a cropper before
now. And then he repeated the captain’s call for candidates, for hard
work, for self-sacrifice and devotion and for the whole-souled support
of the student body. And then, as he turned away and the stilled
audience burst into sound, the leader of the Banjo and Mandolin Club
nodded his head and the strains of “The Years Roll On” broke into the
tumult. Instantly every fellow was on his feet, singing the slow, sweet
song:
“The years roll on. Too soon we find
Our boyhood days are o’er.
The scenes we’ve known, the friends we’ve loved,
Are gone to come no more.
But in the shrine of Memory
We’ll hold and cherish still
The recollection fond of those
Dear days on Yardley Hill.”
Very reverently they sang it, and not many without a thrill and,
perhaps, a moistening of the eyes. Many of the older boys could
remember standing with heads bared to the cold November wind and
singing it grandly after Yardley had gone down to defeat before her
rival. All save the new boys had sung it at class day under swaying,
many-hued lanterns and with the warm breath of June in their faces.
If you are a Yardley man, young or old, you can never hear that song
unmoved:
“The years roll on. To man’s estate
From youthful mold we pass,
And Life’s stern duties bind us round,
And doubts and cares harass.
But God will guard through storms and give
The strength to do His will
And treasure e’er the lessons learned
Of old on Yardley Hill.”
The last strain died away, there was a moment of silence, and then
caps were slipped onto heads, feet shuffled on the floor, settees were
pushed aside and the fellows crowded toward the doors. Then down the
old, worn stairway they went, talking and laughing a little subduedly,
and out into a mild September night lighted by millions of twinkling
white stars that seemed to shine down kindly as though sympathizing
with the glow of exaltation, of courage and kindliness and patriotism,
in all those boyish hearts.