CAL BUYS A SUIT
“House Eleven: Practice at 3:45 sharp today. No cuts. Brooks, Captain.”
“Sounds like business, what?” asked Spud of Cal as he read the notice
in School Building Monday morning. “Say, I hope Brooksie won’t take
it out on The Fungus for that beastly fumble. Wasn’t that the meanest
luck ever? Between you and me, Cal, Fungus ought to have recovered that
ball. He had lots of time. It looked like a case of stage-fright. I
guess Fungus was so horrified at what he’d done he couldn’t move for
a second. But he will make good all right if Brooksie doesn’t take
him off today. But I don’t believe he will. Cap has got a whole lot
of common-sense. I guess that’s one thing that makes him such a dandy
captain.”
Spud was right in his surmise. The Fungus went back to his place at
left half-back that afternoon just as though there hadn’t been any
fumble. The only change made was in the substitution of Folsom for
Boyle at full. It was the hardest practice of the season and lasted
until it was almost too dark to see the ball with any certainty.
Brooks was trying to make his machine run smoother. All the parts were
there and they represented plenty of power, but so far the full power
hadn’t materialized. A football team is like, we will say, an engine
which is rated at twenty horse-power. If the engine runs smoothly
it will develop its twenty, but if the parts aren’t assembled just
right, if each one isn’t timed exactly with the others, there’s a
loss of power and the twenty is perhaps no better than a fifteen. So
it was with the House Team. Brooks, who had, as Spud said, a lot of
common-sense――and a good deal of football sense added to it――realized
that his team represented the best of the material at hand and that
if it was to develop the power of which it was capable it must be
perfectly adjusted. So that afternoon and every other afternoon that
week the constant cry was “Get together!” The back-field was the chief
offender. Play after play was pulled off――the team had a repertoire of
fourteen at this stage――and always someone was too early or too late.
Brooks argued and explained and pleaded and scolded. Ned gave way to
H. Westlake at right half and Morris took M’Crae’s place at quarter,
and still things went wrong. Hoop went into the line for Brooks so that
the captain might coach from back of the team. A thing that exasperated
Brooks was that over on the Hall gridiron the rival team was running
through its signals with all the smoothness that the House eleven
lacked. But Rome wasn’t built in a day and Brooks told himself that it
was something accomplished if he had only made the fellows understand
what was wanted. Perhaps tomorrow or the next day they would put his
preaching into practice. It was a very tired group of players and
substitutes that trailed back to the gymnasium at dusk. The Hall Team
had long since disappeared and they had the gymnasium to themselves.
Brooks, attired scantily in a generous bath towel, spoke a few words to
his weary team-mates on his way to the shower.
“You fellows can play this game the way it ought to be played,” he
said, “play it well enough to lick Hall. But you won’t until you can
get it into your heads that a football team isn’t made up of eleven
fellows each acting for himself but of eleven fellows acting like
one. You know your plays but you don’t know how to use them. That’s
what the trouble is. Hall hasn’t any better material than we have in
spite of the fact that she has more fellows to draw from. But Hall
gets together. The line and the ends and the backs work like so many
different parts of a watch, and the result is nice smooth football.
You fellows in the line are doing pretty well, but the backs aren’t
helping you along. Now tomorrow I want to see this team take hold and
run through its plays like clock-work. If it doesn’t there’s going to
be another victory for Hall on Saturday. I’m doing all I can. Now it’s
up to you fellows.”
Brooks disappeared into the bath and there was a sound of rushing water
beyond the canvas curtain. That’s all the sound there was for a minute.
Then Brad Miller whistled a tune softly and stole bathward and one
after another the rest followed, as many as there was room for, while
the balance waited, subdued and chastened.
On Tuesday practice was no less vigorous, but Brooks let them off after
an hour and a quarter. There was some improvement noticeable. Cal got
in at left tackle for a while and did very well; so well that Dutch,
relegated to the substitutes, looked distinctly anxious. It was almost
supper time when West House reached home. On the steps sat Molly, a red
ribbon pinned to the front of her gown in honor of the Houses. Mrs.
Linn had been talking to her from the doorway but hurried kitchenward
when the boys appeared.
“Didn’t see you at practice, Molly,” said Ned, throwing himself down
wearily on the steps.
“No, I didn’t go today,” answered Molly. “I was teaching Clara tennis.”
“What? Well, you must be getting on!”
“I don’t play very well, of course, Ned, but I know what you have to
do. And that’s what I was showing Clara.”
“Oh, I see. Where is he?” Ned looked about him.
“He――he went upstairs.” Molly hesitated and looked troubled. “He got hit
with a ball.”
“How awful!” laughed Spud. “Did it kill him?”
“N-no, but it made his nose bleed. It hit him right square on the
nose.”
“Why, Molly!” said Spud in shocked tones. “Is that the way you treat
your opponents? You ought to be playing football instead of tennis.”
“I didn’t mean to, Spud. I just hit a ball across and he was leaning
over the net quite near and didn’t see it coming. It――it bled horribly.”
“Well, he will be all right,” Sandy said comfortingly. “Accidents will
happen on the best regulated courts.”
“Just the same,” observed Spud, “it isn’t considered sportsmanlike to
maim your enemy, Molly.” But Molly looked so troubled that Spud stopped
his efforts at teasing. “I see you’re wearing the right color, Molly.”
“So is Clara,” murmured Ned.
“Yes, but if you don’t beat the Hall next Saturday I’m going to wear
blue,” she answered. There was a groan of protest at that.
“We’re going to win, though,” said Spud sturdily, “aren’t we, Cal?”
“I cal’late we’ll put up a good fight,” was the cautious reply.
“We’re going to win,” said The Fungus vehemently as he got up. “That’s
what we’re going to do. Now I’ll go up and see how Clara’s nose is
behaving. I hope it isn’t damaged. It’s a nice little nose.”
It wasn’t damaged, but it presented a reddened and swollen appearance
when Clara brought it to the supper table a few minutes later. He had
to put up with a good deal of ragging from the others.
“I shall have to tell Molly to be more careful with you,” said Spud.
“You’re not used to the gentle ways of women, Clara.”
The incident, however, brought about more trouble for Molly than for
her victim, for the following noon, when Cal returned from morning
school, Molly called to him from beyond the lilac hedge that separated
the two houses.
“Hello,” he said as he went over, “what’s the matter with you?” For
Molly looked extremely depressed.
“They won’t let me go out of the yard today,” she said mournfully. “And
Hoop was going to play tennis with me after dinner.”
“Why won’t they?” Cal demanded.
“Because I told them about Clara’s nose and Aunt Matilda said I was to
stay at home until I had learned to be more careful and lady-like. And
I told her I didn’t mean to do it, too!”
“That’s a shame,” said Cal warmly. “It wasn’t your fault.”
“Aunt Matilda says I’m harum-scarum,” sighed Molly. “Do _you_ think I
am, Cal?”
“I――I cal――I guess I don’t just know what that is,” he answered. “How
long have you got to stay in the yard?”
“I don’t know. All of today, anyhow. Why, what have you done to your
coat, Cal Boland?”
“That? That’s just a tear,” replied Cal. “Hoop and I were tussling this
morning.”
“You must have it mended or it will get worse. Haven’t you another suit
you can put on?”
“Only my Sunday one.”
“Then you’d better buy one at once,” she said severely. “That isn’t fit
to be seen in, Cal. All the other boys look so nice, too.”
Cal viewed as much of his suit as was in sight to him and shook his
head ruefully.
“I cal’late I’ve got to,” he said. “Seems like I get into a lot of
trouble with my clothes. This was a perfectly good suit when I came
here.” Molly laughed.
“Well, it’s perfectly good for nothing now. Get a dark suit, Cal,
won’t you? You’d look so much nicer in dark clothes.”
“That’s what Ned said. Dark clothes show dirt, though, don’t they?”
“They couldn’t show much more dirt than those do,” replied Molly
scornfully. “Just look at them! You ought to be ashamed to be seen in
them.”
Cal looked a trifle surprised and a little ashamed.
“I guess they are pretty bad,” he muttered. “I can have them cleaned,
though, can’t I?”
“I suppose so, but they’ll never be real nice again. You could wear
them as a sort of second-best, Cal.”
“Y-yes. It’s sort of a bother, though, having two suits, I guess. You’d
always have to be changing.”
But when he left her, bearing a message to Hoop, he went up to his room
and composed a letter to his mother in which he explained the necessity
for new clothes and asked her to send him twelve dollars. Cal had been
to the village but once since his arrival at school and consequently
he still retained most of his two dollars and eighty-five cents, and
some of this, he calculated, could be added to the twelve dollars if
necessary. In the matter of shoes he had been lucky. His own were
showing signs of giving out, and when Dutch had offered him the loan
of a pair of baseball shoes, with cleated soles, Cal had thankfully
accepted. These he wore when he played football, so saving his own
shoes a deal of hard usage. The reply to his letter came promptly two
days later.
“You’ll be wanting other things besides a suit,” wrote his mother, “and
so I send you fifteen dollars instead of the twelve you asked for.
Don’t forget to have your hair cut every three weeks. It will soon be
time for winter underwear and you are to put on the old ribbed ones
first. They are very warm but won’t last long. When you come home at
Christmas time I will get you another suit of them. Does Mrs. Linn keep
your socks darned up for you? And do you need more socks yet, I wonder.
There are some gray wool ones here that belonged to your father but
maybe they would be too thick for you. Are your shoes holding out? You
were always hard on shoes. Have them mended before they go to pieces.
I am glad you are getting on so well with your studies and like your
school so much. I wouldn’t play football very often. The papers are
full of accidents to boys playing football. It must be a very rough
game. Nancy is well except for a cold on her chest and sends love to
you....”
There was no practice Friday afternoon, and Cal went shopping. He
wanted to ask Ned where to look for his suit, but couldn’t bring
himself to do it. He did ask Spud, but Spud had never purchased
clothing other than boots and stockings and ties in Woodfield and his
advice was vague.
“I guess I’d go to the big store opposite the Post Office,” he said. “I
forget the name, but you’ll find it all right.”
[Illustration: Cal buys a new suit of clothes]
Cal was hoping that Spud would offer to accompany him, but Spud was
looking over a few rusty golf clubs and waiting for Brad Miller to
call and take him over to the links. So Cal went off by himself. He
had never bought a suit of clothes unassisted and was filled with
misgivings. But they were extraordinarily polite and attentive at
Simmons’s Boston Store and it was all over before he knew it and he
was trudging back to West House with a big pasteboard box under his
arm. The clerk had offered to deliver it for him in the morning, but
Cal, now that he had made the purchase, was eager to get it home and
have a good look at himself in the mirror. The house was empty when
he reached it, although Hoop and Clara and Molly were playing tennis
outside. He tried the new suit on and looked it over. It was necessary
to get on to a chair in order to see the bottoms of the trousers and
when he saw them Cal had a vague suspicion that they terminated with
far too many wrinkles. He wished he might have Ned’s opinion on them.
At least, though, he had followed advice and bought a dark suit, and
one, too, that wouldn’t easily show dirt. The goods was a strange
mixture of black and white, the white consisting of faint lines forming
a double plaid. In effect the suit was dark gray, almost an Oxford at a
distance. The surface was quite rough and seemed to contain more than
an ordinary share of tiny splinters of wood.
“I cal’late,” he told himself, “this sheep must have lived in a lumber
yard!”
The clothes didn’t look nearly as natty as they had at the store and
the coat had a perverse way of settling away from his neck at the back.
Also, the vest――waistcoat, the man had called it――was decidedly tight
across his chest. He wondered whether Marm couldn’t set the top button
over a little for him. No, on the whole, he wasn’t nearly so satisfied
with his purchase as he had been at the Boston Store, but he cal’lated
it would do. He guessed it would have to! He got out of it and hung
it up in the closet and stowed the box on a shelf. Tomorrow he would
put it on and have Marm mend the suit he was wearing. Then he would
have it cleaned, if they didn’t ask too much, and perhaps it would
last him until Christmas. There was one thing to be said for his new
clothes, he reflected as he made his way downstairs, and that was that
they had cost him even less than he had dared hope for. Nine dollars
and eighty-five cents wasn’t much for a whole suit. And he had almost
eight dollars left! He cal’lated――no, he _guessed_ he wasn’t such a poor
shopper after all!
Downstairs he found that most of West House had returned and were
watching the tennis. Only Dutch and Spud were absent.
“Hello, Cal,” was the greeting of The Fungus. “What you been doing?
Grinding?”
“I’ve been down town,” answered Cal.
“Thunder! Wish I could go. But what’s the use when you haven’t any
coin? Did you bring anything home with you? Any peanuts or chocolate,
Cal?” But Cal shook his head.
“I just bought a suit of clothes,” he said.
“Really?” The news seemed to affect them all, The Fungus, Ned and
Sandy, with lively interest and surprise. “Think of that! Why, Cal,
you’ll be a regular Beau Brummel.”
Cal didn’t know what that was, but he smiled good-naturedly. “It’s just
a cheap suit,” he explained. “This one’s getting sort of shabby.”
“Now that you speak of it,” laughed Sandy, “it does seem a bit worn
about the edges.”
“Where’d you buy it?” asked Ned gruffly.
“Simmons’s.”
“Rotten hole,” Ned grunted. “I told you where to go.”
“I forgot where you said,” answered Cal meekly.
“Could have asked, couldn’t you?”
“I didn’t want to.” Sandy and The Fungus exchanged glances. That
something was very wrong between Ned and Cal had been apparent for some
time, but what it was no one could guess.
“Bet you you got stung,” said Ned with more than a trace of satisfaction
in his tones.
“I don’t cal’late I did,” answered Cal calmly. “I only paid nine
eighty-five.”
Further discussion of the subject was stopped by Molly, Hoop and Clara,
who had finished their set and now joined the others on the steps.
“He only beat us six to three,” announced Molly triumphantly, nodding
at Hoop. “Don’t you think we did pretty well?”
“I guess it would have been closer if I hadn’t been in it,” said Clara.
“You did splendidly! Didn’t he, Hoop?”
“He will learn all right, Molly.”
“Didn’t hit you on the nose again, did they?” asked Ned. Clara reddened
and shook his head.
“I guess I never will,” Molly laughed. “It cost me two days in jail.”
“It was a pretty big jail,” said Cal.
“Yes, but it seems pretty small when you know you can’t get out of it!”
“By the way, Molly,” asked The Fungus, “did you ever dream what had
become of Ned’s money?” Molly’s face fell and she sighed.
“N-no, not exactly. I tried three times, too. The first time――that was
Sunday night, you know――I did dream something but I couldn’t quite
remember it in the morning.” She wrinkled her forehead. “It was
something, though, about apples; and Cal was in it, too. But I don’t
seem to remember dreaming about the money.”
“Funny you should have dreamed of apples,” laughed Sandy.
“Not half as funny as dreaming about Cal,” said Hoop. “What you had was
a nightmare, Molly.”
“Produced by too many pippins,” added The Fungus.
“I’m going to try again,” she said cheerfully. “I’m sure that was a
perfectly good dream――if I only could have remembered it.”
“Sure,” agreed Ned soothingly. “Like the Irishman’s horse. It was a
perfectly good horse, only it was dead.”