UNDER THE MANAGEMENT OF MR. TOOKER
“Vinton, I want to present to you Mr. Bendall Kurtis,” announced Ned.
“Mr. Kurtis desires to join your aggregation of thugs and pursue the
agile pigskin across the――the verdant meed. Not bad, what?”
They had found Dan alone in Number 28, studying some new plays which
were to be taught to the team that week.
“Very poetic,” laughed Dan. “Sit down, fellows. Burtis and I have met
before, I think. Now kindly tell me all over again, Tooker; what is
troubling you?”
“Not a thing. And please don’t assume that air of patient fortitude, as
though you were humoring an idiot from sheer politeness. I’m talking
perfectly good sense. Mr. Kurtis――or Burtis――wishes to join your team
of footballers.”
“Oh, I see. But isn’t it a little late, Burtis?” asked Dan with a smile.
“Yes, I know it is,” said Kendall. “I――I didn’t want to bother you, but
Ned insisted that I should come over. I thought perhaps I might be
able to play on the Second Team.”
“I see. Well, the Second is pretty well settled now, you see, and I
don’t believe――”
“May I interrupt?” asked Ned very courteously. “I merely wish to say,
Vinton, that you perhaps do not realize the magnitude of the favor I
am trying to do you. Mr. Burtis here is no common garden variety of
footballer. He is――he is a positive wonder! I have never seen him play,
nor have I ever heard him speak of his――his prowess, but I have tried
him at golf, and, while I don’t say that he might not with patience and
perseverance, become a golfer of some ability, yet truth compels me to
acknowledge that he would not be likely to become the United States
amateur champion. You catch the idea?”
“Hanged if I do!” laughed Dan.
“Why, don’t you see that the mere fact that he is only an average
golfer makes it more than probable, nay, almost certain, that he is a
natural-born footballer? In other words, Vinton, if a fellow isn’t a
golfer he must be able to do something, and what is easier to do than
football?”
“You’re an idiot, Tooker! But I’ll see what can be done for you,
Burtis. Perhaps Staniford may be able to take you on as a sub. You had
some training early in the season, didn’t you?”
“A little,” answered Kendall.
“Were you dropped or did you get tired of it?”
“I――I――”
“Fess up, Curt. The fact is, Vinton, that this seemingly innocent youth
is one of the most depraved characters in school. You wouldn’t suspect
it, would you? Why, man alive, he’s been on probation for a month!
Fancy that! And that’s why he abandoned football. He had no choice, you
see.”
“So that was it? I’m sorry, Burtis, you couldn’t keep on. That was
hard luck, wasn’t it? Well, I’ll speak to Staniford to-morrow; he’s
captain of the Second, you know; perhaps he will find something for
you, although, as you know, I suppose, there are only two weeks more of
football. What’s your line, Burtis?”
“Line?” asked Kendall vaguely.
“Yes; I mean what position have you played?”
“My dear Vinton,” Ned interrupted before Kendall could reply, “my
client is an all-around footballer. He can play anything from
quarter-back to manager. His――ah――domain, if I may use the word, has no
limits, Vinton; he――”
“Oh, please dry up, Ned,” begged Kendall laughingly. “He will think I’m
a perfect fool!”
“None of us,” replied Ned, shaking his head sadly, “are perfect.”
“Well, you come down to the field to-morrow afternoon,” said Dan to
Kendall, “and we’ll see. But don’t bring your advertising manager with
you. First thing I know he will have you captain of the team!”
“Thank you,” said Kendall gratefully. “Would it matter if I didn’t wear
regular things to-morrow?”
“Regular things?” asked Dan. “What sort of things?”
“I mean regular football clothes. You see, I didn’t get any because――”
“You shall have mine,” exclaimed Ned. “I’ve got a perfectly magnificent
array of football attire! I shall never use them again; they are yours
unconditionally, Curt. My football experience was brief but lurid.
Perhaps I didn’t know as much about playing the game as some; in fact,
the coach as much as hinted that; but I will say that when it came
to outfit, Vinton, I was head and shoulders above the whole field!
Complete, that’s the word for it. I don’t believe in doing things by
halves, and when I determined to lend my assistance to the football
team I obtained a catalogue from a dealer in football necessities and
luxuries and bought one of everything. I think I owned everything
in any way connected with the game except a gridiron. I even had an
assortment of leather and felt pads for my ankles, knees, elbows and
shoulders in case I should meet with an accident some time while
plunging through the enemy’s line for a touchdown. And I had――and still
have――a rubber thing that strapped around my head and covered my little
nose; I held one extremity of it between my pearly teeth, and I can
still remember how very unpleasant it tasted. All these things shall
be yours, Curt. I intend you to be the Beau Brummel of the football
field. All I ask is that some day you will allow me to dress you in
full panoply, with a complete assortment of rubber bandages, arm and
leg guards, nose guard and head guard, and have your picture taken!”
They were still laughing over Ned’s extravagances when the door opened
and Gerald Pennimore came in. He shook hands with Kendall and seemed
very glad to see him. “I thought you had forgotten your promise to come
and see us, Burtis,” he said. “How are you, Tooker? I haven’t seen much
of you this fall.”
“Been over to Arthur’s?” Dan asked.
“Yes. He’s getting on all right. The doctor says he can try crutches,
if he likes. The sprain wasn’t as bad as it seemed at first, he says.”
“Who’s that, Pennimore? Arthur Thompson?” asked Ned.
“Yes, he sprained his knee in the game last week.”
“I heard about it. Too bad. I’m glad he’s getting well, though. I
suppose that keeps him out of football for the rest of the season,
doesn’t it?”
“Yes,” Dan replied. “I hope, though, that he will be able to hobble
into the Broadwood game for a minute so as to get his Y.”
“These the new plays?” asked Gerald, taking up the sheets of paper on
the table. “When I see a thing like that I’m glad I’m not on the team,”
he laughed, holding up one of the diagrams.
“How is the Cross-Country Team getting on?” asked Ned.
“Fine. We have our trials to-morrow afternoon to select the fellows
to run against Broadwood a week from Saturday. We’ve got twenty-two
fellows trying, which means that ten of us will get left.”
“Ten?” said Dan. “I thought you had only ten in the race.”
“That’s all, but Andy picks a dozen and two of them are substitutes in
case someone can’t run. How are you getting on, Burtis?”
“First rate, thank you.”
“You gave up football, didn’t you? You know you were quite full of it a
while ago.”
“Yes, I――that is――”
“He’s going to try again to-morrow,” said Dan. “That is, if I can
convince Staniford that he needs another sub. Tooker has accepted the
position of Burtis’s press agent and manager.”
“I should think he’d make a good one,” said Gerald, with a smile.
“One of the best,” agreed Ned. “After the football season is over I
shall be at leisure again. Anything needed in my line?”
“No, I think not,” laughed Gerald.
After Ned and Kendall had taken their departures, which they did a few
minutes later, Gerald turned a puzzled face to Dan.
“What did you mean by saying that Burtis was going to try again?” he
asked.
“I meant,” replied Dan ruefully, “that that idiot Tooker came in here
with Burtis and hypnotized me into promising to get Burtis on the
Second Team if I could. Don’t ask me how it happened, because I don’t
know. But one thing I do know,” he added as he took up the diagrams
again, “and that is that Tooker can talk you out of house and home.
I was afraid all the time he was here that he would decide to make
Burtis captain, and that I’d have to resign.”
“Yesterday,” laughed Gerald, “you were aching to resign. I’m glad
you’ve changed your mind about it, Dan. Things looking brighter
to-night?”
“Lots, chum. That walk sort of cleared my brain, I guess. I wonder why
I never knew Tooker better. He’s a dandy sort.”
In spite of Dan’s request to the contrary, Ned accompanied Kendall to
the field the next afternoon. Kendall was clothed in Ned’s football
togs, which fitted him fairly well. In appearance they were brand-new,
for Ned’s football career had been brief and the immaculate khaki
trousers held not the tiniest smooch. What Dan had said to the Second
Team’s captain isn’t known, although Ned secretly wondered how the
former had managed to put such an extraordinary request. To instate
an inexperienced player even on the Second at the tag end of the
season was an outlandish proceeding, and Ned knew that Dan had done it
only to show his appreciation of Ned’s companionship on that walk to
Lloyd. As for Kendall, it never occurred to him to wonder about the
proceeding. He was still pretty green in such matters. Staniford was a
big, broad-shouldered First Class fellow who took his captaincy of the
Second very seriously and worked like a Trojan with his fellows under
him. He greeted Kendall very briefly and sent him to the bench, but Ned
noticed with amusement that the captain’s gaze followed Kendall with
perplexity.
“He’s laying it to politics,” said Ned to himself with a chuckle, “and
he’s wondering what Curt is going to do for Vinton in return. Alas,
human nature is terribly suspicious!”
After a while Kendall was sent onto the field with a squad of Second
Team substitutes to run through signals. It was his first experience
with signals, and from his place at left half-back he made so many
mistakes at first that the entire squad viewed him with disgust and
resentment. But he began to understand what was required, and for the
last five minutes of the drill acquitted himself fairly well. But there
were many who asked that afternoon:
“Who’s the jay Stany put in here to-day? Where’d he come from? What’s
he think this is, a kindergarten?”
From which you may gather the impression that Kendall’s first day as
a member of the Second Team was not highly successful. The First was
walked and then trotted through two of the new plays that afternoon,
and later, when it faced the Second, it tried them out. You can never
tell on paper what a play will be on the field, and to-day one of
the two plays proved utterly impractical and was immediately dropped.
Altogether, that afternoon’s practice was not a success, a fact
recognized by coaches, captain and players, and there was a general
air of discouragement apparent afterwards. Two graduates, old football
players, had put in an appearance that day and had bothered Payson to
death with their advice and interference. They had the best intentions
in the world and had as likely as not sacrificed time and trouble to
be there, but the amount of actual assistance they rendered was nil.
Payson growled to Cowles, the manager, on the way up the hill, that if
he had his way there’d be a notice at the school entrance reading, “No
graduates allowed.”
Kendall had watched the scrimmage from the bench, one of two dozen or
so blanket-wrapped substitutes, none of whom he knew save by sight and
none of whom was apparently aware of his existence. When, panting and
perspiring, the members of the opposing teams rescued their sweaters
and trotted or limped back to the gymnasium Kendall followed, secretly
proud to be even an humble unit in that army of warriors. He had his
shower like the rest of them――Ned having procured him a locker all
his own――and dressed slowly, listening to the talk about him and
watching the scene. Discouragement, as I have said, was the aftermath
to-day. Even the Second Team fellows felt that the afternoon had been
practically wasted. Kendall saw Dan, at first half undressed and then,
later, swathed in a big towel, standing for minutes at a time talking
earnestly, scowling the while, with Tom Roeder or Al Simms or Wallace
Hammel. Everyone seemed cross and disgruntled. Mr. Payson, crossing
the room once, looked out of sorts, something very unusual for him.
Even the door when it closed behind him seemed to slam vindictively.
A tussle over the possession of a towel which started good-naturedly
between two boys at the farther end of the locker-room ended in a
“scrap,” with friends of the contestants thrusting them angrily apart
and showing a disposition to “start something” themselves on the
slightest provocation. Kendall, who had climbed onto a bench to watch
events, felt a bit disappointed when the two boys went off growling in
different directions, leaving the towel, the bone of contention, quite
forgotten on the floor. The steam from the baths eddied out and filled
the room with a humid warmth, and from beyond the partition came the
hiss of water and the sudden shriek of a bather as the cold stinging
jets struck his glowing body. Little by little the babel of sound
lessened. One by one, or in groups, the fellows slammed their locker
doors and went out. Kendall, who had been ten minutes tying a shoelace,
found himself almost alone. The lights were on now and outside the high
windows was deep twilight. He finished his toilet, arranged his clothes
in the locker, shut the door and dropped the key in his pocket. At
the door of the stairway he turned for a final look over the big room
with its disarranged benches, its water-stained floor, its litter of
discarded or forgotten towels and its heavy, steamy odor. Somehow he
felt that here at last was _life_!
That last week but one seemed to rush by. There was Tuesday, when the
Second scored on the First by a blocked kick, and Wednesday when the
First came back and literally tore the Second to shreds, and Thursday,
when Kendall got into the scrimmage for a brief five minutes and
emerged from what seemed afterwards to have been a wild chaos with
a black eye and bleeding knuckles and a positive hatred of Cowles,
whose whistle had ended the fray. That was Kendall’s baptism by fire,
and it left him trembling with excitement and eager for the morrow.
By Friday the First Team had learned its new signals; hard nightly
periods in the gymnasium had accomplished that; and had mastered the
new plays so that the Second Team went into the scrimmage with no hope
of scoring, but only wondering how long they could stand off their
opponents. The First was a fighting machine at last, eleven eager,
powerful parts working together with a minimum of friction. The Second
dug their toes and strained and panted and sweated, but always the
First came through, overwhelming them, thrusting them aside, trampling
over them to victory. Time and again the Second was given the ball on
the First’s ten yards or five yards and told to take it over. But the
First was a human stone wall, and Staniford almost cried as his attack
curled up like spent bullets against steel. The First was coming fast
now and discouragement was forgotten. The school was in the throes
of the excitement that always presages the Big Game. The first mass
meeting had been held on Wednesday; there was another called for
Saturday night. Football songs were heard everywhere. Lessons suffered
those days, and the instructors mentally shrugged their shoulders
and patiently waited for the madness to end. And then, on Saturday
forenoon, the First Team and almost the whole student body went off,
cheered and cheering, to Nordham for the last contest before the final
game. Kendall went, and Ned, and Gerald, and about everyone we know
except Arthur Thompson, and all the way to Nordham the Yardley songs
and cheers floated out the car windows:
“Yardley! Yardley!! Yardley!!!”