THE MYSTERIOUS KICKER
What puzzled Kendall was why Ned Tooker had gone out of his way to
be nice to him. Of course it was plainly to be seen that Ned was a
creature of impulse, one who did about what came into his head, but,
allowing all that, it wasn’t quite explained. Kendall was not impulsive
himself, and while he had a strong capacity for affection, it was
not his way to form friendships very readily. This made Ned Tooker’s
behavior all the more strange to Kendall. Perhaps it had been just an
evening’s prank, a means to pass an hour before bedtime, and perhaps
Ned would have forgotten all about it to-morrow. But there was the
promise to teach him golf, and, still more tangible evidence, there
was one of Kendall’s lamentably few clean collars curled about the
mirror-post and bearing the scrawling legend in the blackest of soft
pencil marks, “2 Dudley.” Kendall put aside the problem for the moment
with a sigh of despair and got ready for bed. But he hoped that Ned
had been sincere, for the older boy had quite won Kendall’s heart.
If Kendall had known of a conversation which passed in Mr. Collins’s
study that evening Ned’s sudden attachment would have been more
understandable. Mr. Collins had asked Ned to come early as he had
something to say to him, and Ned had arrived ten minutes before any
of the others. Mr. Collins was standing in front of the little coal
fire and Ned had shaken hands with him ceremoniously, a performance he
always went through with on such occasions.
“Good evening, sir,” said Ned. “I trust I find you in good health.”
Mr. Collins replied that he was in the best of condition. Then Ned
proceeded to hand an imaginary cane to an imaginary servant, draw
off two imaginary gloves which in imagination followed the cane,
remove an imaginary top hat with an air and finally, with a hitch of
his shoulders, allowed the imaginary servant to remove an imaginary
Inverness cape. It was a very clever bit of pantomime and never failed
of applause. To-night Mr. Collins laughed appreciatively, laid a hand
on Ned’s shoulder and drew him to the fire:
“Well, everything all right, Tooker? The Optimist Society making
converts?”
“Turning ’em away, sir, at every performance.”
“Good. I’ve got a new recruit for you, or perhaps it would be better to
say a new subject for you.”
“All right, sir. Who is it?”
“A fellow named Burtis, a new boy this fall. He rooms upstairs here in
Number 21. I think you’ll like him. I do. He seems to have more than
the usual amount of common sense, for one thing. And he has principles.
I believe, Tooker, that he’s the sort we like, you and I; the sort that
becomes a credit to the school. But he needs a little help right now. I
can’t go into particulars, but Burtis hasn’t been altogether fortunate
since he came. I think he’s a bit down-in-the-mouth just now and he
needs some fellow to chum up to him a bit. I’ve asked him here this
evening and I want you to look him over and, if you possibly can, get
acquainted with him and tide him over the next month or so. You’re the
man for the job, Tooker. Will you take it?”
“Why, of course, sir. You’ll see us to-morrow wandering away to the
woods arm in arm, to carve our initials on the tree trunks. Fever near,
sir!”
“I won’t,” replied Mr. Collins with a smile. “I’ll leave him to
you, Tooker. By the way, I neglected to say that Burtis is not
yet――er――what we might call a tasteful dresser. There remains about
him a strong suggestion of the――er――bucolic.”
Ned shook his head. “I’ve never had that, sir.”
“Had what?”
“The bucolic. Is it catching?”
“I don’t think so,” Mr. Collins laughed. “And, anyhow, Tooker, I don’t
believe it could ever catch you!”
And so during the evening Ned had been studying Kendall most of the
time, even when it seemed that he hadn’t a thought beyond creating a
laugh. And what he had seen he had liked. He hadn’t been surprised,
for he had found that Mr. Collins’s judgment in such matters usually
coincided with his. Ned’s verdict by the time the group broke up was
something like this: “Rather homely in a nice way. Good eyes and looks
straight at you. Well-behaved. Rather shy. Doesn’t butt in. Sees a joke
before it knocks him down. Has a good voice. Dresses like a farmer and
needs a hair-cut and a manicure, but looks as though he knew the use of
bath-tubs. On the whole an interesting subject. Get busy.”
And he had got busy, with what results we know. If there was some
measure of duplicity in Ned’s first evidences of interest and
friendship, the duplicity was in a good cause. Before he had taken
himself away, however, Ned had ceased to play a part, and his
disconcerting “Do you know, Burtis, I like you!” had been very genuine.
But on the way back to his room Ned had owned to himself that it might
not prove an easy task to convert the outward appearance of his new
protégé to Yardley standards.
“He must have some other clothes,” murmured Ned as he crossed the Yard
to Dudley. “And first of all he must have his hair cut. The hair-cut
won’t be difficult, but it’s a mighty delicate matter to tell a chap
that his clothes aren’t right. Well, I’ll go at it gently. Tact, Ned,
tact and diplomacy!”
“I wonder,” he reflected after he was in bed and listening to the
musical efforts of his slumbering roommate, “I wonder what the dickens
that kid did to get probation! He doesn’t strike you as much of a
cut-up. I can’t just see him putting a tack in Bertie’s chair!” (Bertie
was Mr. Albert Von Groll, Instructor in Modern Languages.) “Besides, he
said the secret concerned others. I suppose that’s what Collins meant
when he said the chap hadn’t been altogether fortunate since he came. I
should say not! It’s going some to get on probation within three weeks
of the opening of school! Well, I’ll look him up again to-morrow. I
simply _must_ know why he’s on pro!”
Yardley played her third football game the next afternoon. Her opponent
was Forest Hill School. Forest Hill was not considered very dangerous
and there was a rumor that Payson meant to put in a team of substitutes
in the last two periods. Ned Tooker reached the field only a few
minutes before the time of starting the game and the two teams were
already running through signals and punting. As he turned the corner
and walked along in front of the crowded stand many hails reached him:
“Ned, come on up; here’s a seat!”
“Oh you Took! Come and sit in my lap, Ned!”
But Ned only waved and smiled and went on, searching the stand with
his gaze. It was not until the whistle had sounded and Sandy Fogg had
lifted the ball from the tee with the toe of his shoe that Ned found
whom he was looking for. Then he climbed the stairs, nodding and
eluding the detaining hands thrust toward him, and crowded his way
along one of the seats until he reached Kendall. The latter, absorbed
in the game――the Forest Hill left half-back was charging back up the
field with the pigskin nestled in his arm――hadn’t seen Ned’s approach,
and when the latter crowded down beside him and Kendall turned to see
who it was the smile that came into his face was well worth seeing.
“Hello!” he said rather shyly.
“Hello, Bendall Kurtis,” replied Ned. “How are you to-day? Who’s going
to win the game? You’re a football sharp, aren’t you?”
“Why, we are, of course,” returned Kendall confidently. “But I wish you
had seen that Forest Hill fellow run that ball back. He must have made
twenty yards!”
“Good stuff! Who’s playing for us?”
“Most of the regulars. Fogg’s at center, Ridge and Merriwell are the
guards, Jensen and Mitchell tackles, Vinton and Norton ends, Roeder and
Stearns half-backs, Simms quarter, and the full-back I don’t know.”
“That’s Marion. What’s the matter with Hammel, I wonder? That isn’t
Jensen at right tackle, though, Curt; that’s Stark.”
“Is it? But it looks like Jensen. No, he’s got dark hair, hasn’t he?
And there’s Jensen on the bench down there; next to Holmes.”
“Jensen’s hair, by the way, is about the same color as yours, Curt.
I don’t like to see them wear it as long as that, though. Nowadays,
when headguards are the fashion it isn’t necessary.” Ned glanced at
Kendall’s hair and displayed much embarrassment. “I didn’t mean――
Honest, Curt, I hadn’t―― You wear yours long, too, don’t you?” he
ended lamely.
“Me? Why, no; at least, not like Jensen’s. I guess mine needs
trimming.” Kendall laughed. “Mother’s always after me to have my hair
cut, and now that I’m away from home I guess it’ll be down on my
shoulders if I don’t watch out. It grows awfully fast.”
“Then you don’t wear it long because you’re a footballist?” asked Ned.
“I’m glad of it, because you’ll look better when it’s trimmed a little.
I’ve got to have mine done, too. We might go through the agony together
next week, eh? Hello, look at that for a punt!”
“A dandy!” sighed Kendall. “Simms has got it. No! Missed it! Got it
again, though. He’s down!”
“Now let’s see what our chaps can do with the ball,” said Ned. “Here we
go! Good work, Roeder! Five yards easy! And right through the center!
Watch that Forest Hill left end, Curt. He was off-side about a yard
that time. There he goes again. I thought so! Penalty for you, Mr. Man!”
The whistle had blown and now the umpire was carrying the ball five
yards nearer the Forest Hill goal.
“Now will you behave?” murmured Ned. “This is a fake. Marion can’t
punt. I thought so. Stearns outside tackle for three yards. That was
very neat. Hello! What’s wrong?”
“Stearns fumbled,” said Kendall sadly. “It’s Forest Hill’s ball.”
“And rather too near our goal to be comfortable. About the thirty-five
yard line, isn’t it?”
“I think so,” answered Kendall, sitting forward on the edge of his
seat. Three cheer leaders jumped from their places and called for “A
regular cheer, fellows, and get into it!”
And then, while the cheer was crashing forth, a brown-clad youth hurled
himself against the Yardley line, broke through, eluding player after
player, and circled toward the center of the field and the Yardley
goal. The watchers leaped to their feet. Pandemonium reigned. Then
Simms dived for him and brought him fiercely to earth on the twenty
yards.
But it was first down again and only four white lines separated the
eager opponents from a touchdown. The cheering began again, the
leaders, their commands drowned in the noise, waving their arms in
frantic encouragement. From around Kendall and Ned cries of “_Hold_
’em! _Hold_ ’em!” arose and gathered rhythm and volume. The Forest Hill
quarter, hand to mouth, was bellowing his signals. Then back went the
ball, confusion reigned for a moment and another scant two yards had
been conquered.
“Right through Stark that time,” said Ned. “I guess they’d better bring
Jensen on. Second down and eight to gain. Hold ’em, Yardley!”
But Yardley couldn’t, it seemed. What looked like another plunge at
the line resolved itself into a delayed pass to left half, who tore
along behind the line, squirmed past Mitchell and got away around the
end for a good twelve yards. It was first down again then, and Forest
Hill, despite the frenzied implorations of the Yardley supporters and
the best efforts of Yardley’s players, gained the three yard line in
two plays and crashed through and over for the final distance and
a touchdown amidst the ecstatic cheers of some twenty Forest Hill
rooters. Unluckily for the visitors they had secured their touchdown
near the side of the field and the subsequent punt-out was lost. But
five points looked pretty big at that stage of the game and pessimists
amongst the audience were already predicting defeat for the home team.
The first period ended after four more plays and the teams donned
blankets and rested. Then the whistle blew again and the game went on.
Yardley pulled herself together then and managed to stop the Forest
Hill plunges, although the latter twice won her distance in that
second period. Once Yardley got to Forest Hill’s thirty yards, but only
to lose the ball on a fumble. The second period ended with the score
still five to nothing and the two teams trotted off the field and up
the hill to the gymnasium.
A boy further along the row engaged Ned in conversation, and Kendall,
leaning back in his seat, studied his new friend. Although Ned was two
years Kendall’s senior he was scarcely any taller; there was perhaps
the difference of an inch between the two. Ned was fleshy without
being fat, carried himself very straight and had a round, good-natured
face from which a pair of shrewd brown eyes twinkled. Kendall had
already learned that it was only by watching Ned’s eyes that he could
tell whether the latter was in earnest or only joking, for Ned could,
and did, say the most outlandish things with the face of a truthful
undertaker. Ned always looked trim. To-day he wore a suit of blue
serge, a soft flannel shirt of gray, a blue knitted silk tie, black
socks and rubber-soled tan Oxford shoes. And there was a little gold
pin in his tie, a plain seal ring on one finger and from his watch
dangled a leather fob with a Yardley seal in silver and enamel. Kendall
mentally resolved to have one just like it. He had seen them in a
jeweler’s window in Greenburg. And Kendall wondered why Ned’s clothes
fitted him so well, and why his lisle socks showed never a hint of
a wrinkle over his ankles. Kendall knew that some persons had their
clothes made to order by tailors, and came to the conclusion that Ned
was one of these fortunate mortals, a conclusion quite erroneous. Ned’s
talk with the other boy was all about golf, and much of it Kendall
couldn’t understand. When the teams trotted back to the field and Ned
settled into his seat again Kendall asked:
“Are you at the head of the golf, Tooker?”
Ned looked amused. “I’m captain of the Golf Team,” he explained. “We’ve
got a five-man match on with Broadwood here next Saturday. That’s what
Kirk was talking about. We’ve never won a match from Broadwood yet,
although we’ve met them three times.”
“Why is that?” Kendall asked.
“We haven’t the players they have. As a matter of fact, although it
sounds like boasting, Curt, I’m the only member of our team that has
a show with those chaps. Kirk isn’t bad, but he’s always unlucky,
and he’s been beaten every time. This year he says he’s going to get
revenge. He’s been practicing every day except Sundays, I guess, since
school opened. Last spring he played a dandy game but drew Frost, who
is Broadwood’s best player, and so didn’t have any show from the
start. By the way, don’t forget that you’re coming out to learn the
game Monday. There goes the ball. Now, Yardley, get down to business.”
Perhaps the talk they had received from Payson in the gymnasium helped.
At all events, Yardley’s players did get down to business, almost with
the sound of the whistle, and in the ensuing ten minutes of playing
time scored two touchdowns. Hammel missed both goals. It was Tom Roeder
who proved the hero of that game. Tom tore through the Forest Hill line
for short and steady gains that took the ball down the field in short
order. Once Stearns got loose for an end run and once Simms worked a
very pretty forward pass to Dan, but for the most it was persistent
line-bucking that won the day.
In the fourth period, with the score 10 to 5, Yardley sent in many
substitutes, one of them Arthur Thompson, who went in for Stearns.
Arthur did very well, especially on defense. Holmes took Simms’s
position at quarter-back and ran the team in good shape. He was a
gingery chap, and, while he knew less football than did Simms, and
was a less spectacular player, he got more speed from the team in
spite of the fact that, towards the last, it held six substitutes.
Yardley added a third touchdown to her score in the final minute of
play, and Dan elected to try the goal himself. The handful of Forest
Hill supporters jeered derisively as the ball left his toe, for it was
apparently much too low. But some happy chance took it over the bar by
an inch or so――there were some who declared the ball actually brushed
the beam――and added another point to the final score of 16 to 5.
On the whole the game had been encouraging to Yardley’s hopes. Clearly
outplayed in the first period, the Blue had managed to hold her
adversary in the second and then, in the last two periods, “come back”
and rush Forest Hill off her feet. It was what Ned, walking up the hill
with his arm linked in Kendall’s, called “a fine recovery.”
Ned led Kendall across the Yard to Dudley and down the corridor to
Number 2. Sanford was not at home. The room was small in comparison
with those in Clarke, but it was more comfortable and had an open
fireplace which Kendall envied Ned the possession of. For a half hour
Ned showed golf clubs and explained their uses, told stories of matches
won or lost and managed to get Kendall quite interested in the ancient
and royal game. He even illustrated strokes with his clubs, to the
imminent danger of the furniture. Then Kendall discovered a line of
mugs on the mantel and had to know about each. And about that time
Teller Sanford came in, and Kendall, after a few moments, took himself
off, Ned’s last words being, “Don’t forget, Curt; Monday at half-past
three!”
There was a gathering of the talent in Number 28 Clarke that evening
after supper; Tom Roeder, Al Simms, Sandy Fogg, Arthur Thompson,
Grafton Holmes and, of course, Dan and Gerald. They replayed the game,
as boys will, and gave and took criticism in good part. Neglected
opportunities were regretted, mistakes explained and many “ifs”
indulged in.
“I don’t believe,” said Sandy Fogg, the broad-shouldered, good-natured
center, “I ever played in a game where there was less punting.”
“That’s so,” said Dan. “It was ‘old-fashioned football’ from start to
finish. We should have had another score, though. In the second period
we had a dandy chance down there on their thirty yards.”
“That was me,” said Simms. “I don’t know how it happened. Seemed as
though that ball just jumped away from me!”
“I don’t regret what didn’t happen so much as what did,” observed Tom.
“We ought never to have let them get that touchdown.”
Everyone assented more or less gloomily to that.
“Oh, well,” said Holmes cheerfully, “what’s the good of post mortems?
We beat ’em, and could have done it again right afterwards. We were
slow in getting started, that’s all.”
“It won’t do to be so slow next Saturday,” said Dan. “Carrel’s has a
pretty good team this year, I hear.”
“They’re light, though,” said Tom.
“There’s one thing we ought to find, Dan, if you don’t mind my butting
into your affairs,” said Fogg, “and that’s some fellow who can kick a
goal once out of twenty times.”
“I know,” assented Dan with a frown. “And don’t you think I’m not
worrying about that as much as you are, Sandy. We all thought last year
that Hammel was going to make good, but he doesn’t seem to get down to
it at all. Payson’s going to have him out for morning practice next
week and says all he needs is a little more confidence. I wish I’d let
you try those goals this afternoon, Al.”
But Simms shook his head. “I’m glad you didn’t, Dan. I’d have slipped
up sure on ’em. I was so afraid you were going to, after that second
score, that I was afraid to look at you!”
“You should have put in the chap who was kicking goals down at the
field one morning last week,” said Arthur. “I watched him from the
window for about ten minutes and it looked as though he couldn’t miss
them.”
“Who was it?” asked Dan.
“I don’t know. I couldn’t make him out. One of the subs, I suppose.”
“Where was he kicking from?” asked Gerald. “The five yard line?”
“About thirty, I think. And from an angle, too.”
“Oh, come, Arthur,” laughed Dan, “you were looking through one of those
crazy panes of glass in Oxford.”
“I was in Oxford, all right; Room C, it was; but there wasn’t anything
the matter with my eyesight. I guess the fellow made ten or twelve
tries and kicked more than half as many goals.”
Dan glanced about the room questioningly. “Who the dickens could it
have been, fellows?” he asked in perplexity. “I don’t know any sub who
can do that.”
“Or any regular, either,” murmured Tom.
“This was in the morning, you say?” asked Sandy Fogg.
“Yes, just after my Latin. I was waiting for some papers that Collins
had.”
“Well, I don’t like to cast asparagus on your eyesight, Arthur,” said
Tom, with a smile, “but your story sounds fishy.”
“What was he kicking, Thompson, drop or place?” asked Simms.
“Drop at first, and then he tried placement.”
“From the thirty yards?” asked Dan skeptically.
“Yes; certainly not nearer, Dan; I wouldn’t swear it wasn’t nearer
forty.”
“What did he look like? Had you ever seen him before? Was he alone?”
“Yes, he was all by his lonesome, and he looked sort of tall; about
your height, maybe. He had his coat off and wore darkish clothes.
That’s all I could see.”
“But why the dickens didn’t you say something about it? Have you seen
him since?”
“No, but I haven’t looked for him. I didn’t say anything about it
because I forgot it. And, anyway, I supposed you knew; thought you’d
sent him down there to practice.”
“I wish I did know! A chap who can kick five goals out of ten would be
a find. You’re not joking, Arthur?”
“Of course I’m not,” responded Arthur impatiently. “If you really don’t
know who he is I advise you to find him, for he certainly could kick
goals that day!”
“You bet I’ll find him! I’ll find him if I have to hire a regiment of
detectives! Anyone guess who he is?”
But they all shook their heads.
“The only explanation I can offer,” said Tom, “is that Arthur went to
sleep and dreamed it. I don’t believe there’s a fellow in school who
can stand on the thirty yard line and drop-kick a goal from an angle
once out of two tries. Either you were dreaming, Arthur, or what looked
like goals weren’t.”
“That’s so,” agreed Dan. “At that distance it would be hard to tell.
Sometimes you’re mistaken from the end of the field.”
“You fellows have it your own way,” said Arthur with a sigh of
resignation. “I know what I saw.”
“Well, we will have to keep a lookout and see if we can catch him at it
again,” said Dan. “And, for goodness’ sake, fellows, ask everyone you
know. If there really is a goal-kicker in our midst we can surely find
him.”
“Well, he will have to show me,” said Tom, still unconvinced. “Look
here, Arthur, it wasn’t Wallace, was it?”
“No, I’d know Hammel a mile off. Besides, I met and spoke to him ten
minutes later in the corridor. No, it wasn’t he.”
“Let’s advertise,” suggested Holmes. “A notice in Oxford might fetch
him.”
“Sure,” Simms agreed. “‘If the student who practiced goal-kicking on
the field last week will call on Dan Vinton he will hear of something
to his advantage.’ Something like that, eh?”
“I’ll try that if everything else fails,” said Dan grimly. “A good
drop- or place-kicker will be worth about a million dollars to me this
season.”
“We’ll find him all right,” said Fogg. “He’s probably one of the subs
who has discovered he can kick and hasn’t the sense to say anything
about it.”
“As for me,” said Tom, “I’m like the countryman at the menagerie when
he saw the hippopotamus; I don’t believe there’s no such critter!”