The room was old-fashioned, a dark-walled parallelogram, the farthest
end of which was seldom reached by the light which crept through the
two small-paned windows. Overhead four huge rafters passed from side to
side.
The ledges beneath the windows formed wide seats, which were
upholstered in somber corduroy. The mantel above the large fireplace
was narrow, high, a mere shelf, designed a century ago to hold the twin
candlesticks and the snuffers on their silver tray.
The occupant had wisely confined the furnishings to old-style mahogany
in quaint Chippendale forms. The green-shaded student-lamp on the desk
under the heavy bronze chandelier gave almost the only modern touch.
Yet with all its gloom, the apartment was singularly homelike and
restful.
Perhaps this thought occurred to Parmelee, ’00, as he closed the door
behind him, for his gaze swept slowly over the room, and he sighed
once as he removed his cap and gown and laid them carefully aside. He
crossed to one of the windows, and sank back dispiritedly against the
cushions.
Parmelee’s face, seen in the warm light of a late June afternoon, lost
something of its usual paleness, but the serious lines about the mouth
and the pathos of the deep-set brown eyes were accentuated.
The face, on the whole, was strikingly handsome. The forehead under
the dark hair was broad and high; the nose straight and fairly large;
the mouth, despite its grave lines, seemed made for smiles; the chin
was full and firm. Yet the expression now was one of weariness and
melancholy.
Through the open windows came faintly the strains of a waltz from the
band in the college yard. Over the top of a vividly green chestnut-tree
the western sky was beginning to glow with the colors of sunset. Now
and then a student in cap and gown, or the more brilliant attire
appropriate to class-day, hurried past the house; but for the most the
little street was deserted and still.
Parmelee had done his duty. He had conscientiously taken part in
all the exercises of the day, excepting only those about the tree.
When the procession that had marched about the yard and cheered the
buildings had dissolved, he had hurried away to his room, lonesome and
downhearted.
Every one seemed so disgustingly happy! Fellows with nice mothers and
pretty sisters, cousins or sweethearts appeared to flaunt them before
Parmelee’s eyes; fellows hurrying off to somebody’s spread thrust him
unceremoniously out of the way with muttered apologies. He was so out
of it all! He had no womenfolk to take care of, no friends to greet, no
spreads to attend. He was simply a nonentity; merely “Parmelee, that
hunchbacked fellow.”
That was Parmelee’s trouble. All his life he had been a “hunchback.”
As a boy he had often taken flight before the merciless gibes of his
companions, too sick at heart to follow his first impulse to stand and
fight.
When he had entered the preparatory school he had enclosed himself
in a shell of sensitiveness, and had missed many a friendship that
might have been his. At college it had been the same. He believed
his deformity to be repellent to others, and credited them with
sentiments of distaste or pity, when, as was generally the case, the
attractiveness of his countenance made them blind to his defect of
form. Naturally fond of athletics, he believed himself barred from
them. He made few acquaintances and no friends; no friends, that is,
except one.
Philip Schuyler and he had met in their freshman year. Schuyler,
refusing to be repelled, had won his way through Parmelee’s defenses,
and the two had been inseparable until shortly before the last
Christmas recess. Then they had quarreled.
The cause had been such a tiny thing that it is doubtful if either
still remembered it. Pride had prevented the reconciliation which
should have followed, and the two friends had drifted widely apart.
Parmelee sometimes told himself bitterly that Schuyler had made the
quarrel an excuse for ending a companionship of which he was wearied.
Schuyler had quickly found new friends; Parmelee simply retired more
deeply than before into his shell. It meant more to him, that quarrel,
than to Schuyler. He had lost the only real friend of his life. The
wound was a deep one, and it refused to heal. On this day it ached more
than it had for months.
Parmelee glanced at his watch, suddenly realizing that he was hungry.
He had missed his lunch. It was yet far from the dinner-hour, he found.
Then he remembered that his boarding-house would be practically given
over that evening to a spread. He shrank from the idea of facing the
throng that would be present. The restaurants would be crowded. A
solitary dinner in town was not attractive. The only alternative was to
go dinnerless, or--yes, he could have something here in his room. He
smiled a trifle bitterly.
“It will be Parmelee’s spread,” he said.
He went out and turned his steps toward the avenue. In the store he
surprised the clerk by the magnitude of his order. The whimsical idea
of having a spread of his own grew upon him. The expense meant nothing
to him.
When he was ready to return, the bundle of his purchases was so large
that for the moment he was dismayed. Then he took it in his arms and
retraced his steps.
Back in his room, the first difficulty that confronted him was the lack
of a tablecloth, but this was presently solved by spreading two immense
white bath-towels over the study table. Then he began the distribution
of the viands.
The matter of table decoration was something of a problem, and in
the solving of it he forgot his depression, and even whistled a tune
while trying to decide whether to bank all the oranges together or to
distribute them in a sort of border about the edge of the table.
A few plates would have been an aid, but it was possible to do without
them. The olives occasioned much bother by refusing to emerge on the
point of the knife-blade from the narrow neck of their tall bottle.
This difficulty was at last obviated by pouring off the brine and
emptying the olives upon a sheet of letter-paper. The canned meats
and the glasses of jellies and the tins of crackers he arranged with
geometrical precision, forming stars, circles and diamonds in outline.
The oranges formed a pyramid in the center of the board, topped with a
bunch of vivid radishes.
Parmelee stood off and viewed the result, at first critically, then
with approval. Displacing the big armchair, he shoved the banquet-table
up to one of the windows, and set a fiddle-backed mahogany chair before
it. The effect was incongruous, and he chuckled aloud.
“You’re the loneliest-looking chair I ever saw!” he exclaimed. “Here,
this is better.”
He seized another chair and placed it at the opposite side of the table.
“There, that balances. Besides, one should always make provision for
the unexpected guest. Perchance, the president or the dean may drop in.”
He gave a final look at the repast and disappeared into the bedroom at
the back. Presently the sound of splashing water told its own story.
At that moment the house door slammed, footsteps sounded in the hall,
and there was a knock at Parmelee’s door. But Parmelee, rioting at the
basin in the back room, heard nothing. After an interval the knocking
was repeated. Then the knob turned and the door opened.
The visitor was a very erect, white-whiskered man of about fifty,
possessing a degree of stoutness that set off to the best advantage his
well-cut black coat, white waistcoat and gray trousers. His dark eyes
gleamed with kindliness and humor.
He held his shining hat and his gloves in his hand, and looked
questioningly about the room. Then the sound of Parmelee’s ablutions
caught his ear, and he took a step forward.
“Is there any one at home?” he called.
Parmelee, in his shirt-sleeves, the water dripping from the end of his
nose, came to the inner doorway, the towel clutched desperately in one
hand, and stared with amazement.
“I beg your pardon, sir, for this intrusion,” the visitor said.
“I knocked, and receiving no answer, took the liberty of entering
unbidden. We old graduates lay claim to many privileges on class-day,
you know; nothing is sacred to us.”
He paused. Parmelee grasped the towel more firmly, as if it were a
weapon of defense to be used against the invader, and nodded silently.
His gaze fell on the banquet, and amazement gave way to dismay.
“I escaped from my wife and daughter after much scheming,” continued
the visitor, “in order to slip down here and have a look at this room.
I haven’t seen it for--well, not since I graduated, and that was
twenty-nine years ago this month.”
“Ah!” Parmelee had found his tongue. “You lived here while in college?”
“Four years. After I entered the law school I roomed in town. But don’t
let me disturb you. I’ll just glance round a moment, if I may.”
Parmelee’s courtesy came to the surface again. The visitor’s designs
were plainly above suspicion. It was very awkward, but----
“Certainly, sir; just make yourself at home. If you’ll pardon me for a
moment, I’ll get my coat on.”
The visitor bowed deprecatingly, and Parmelee disappeared again. He
reentered the study a moment later, to find that the visitor had laid
aside his hat and gloves, and, with hands clasped behind him, was
looking from a window across the vista of trees and roofs at the sunset
sky. He turned as Parmelee approached, sighed, smiled apologetically,
and waved a hand toward the view.
“I have just accomplished a wonderful feat,” he said. “I have wiped out
a quarter of a century.”
Parmelee smiled politely. “I presume you find things much changed?” he
asked.
“Yes, yes; but not here. That view is almost the same as it was when I
sat in that window there, studying, reading, dreaming, just as we all
will when we’re young; just as I dare say you have done many times.”
“But I fancy, sir, your dreams came true.”
“My boy, none of our dreams ever come true just as we dream them. They
couldn’t; they are much too grand. I have nothing to complain of and
much to be happy for, but”--he shook his head, smiling wistfully--“I’m
not the hero of those dreams.”
“I suppose it’s idle work, picturing the future, dreaming of the great
things we’re going to do,” answered Parmelee, soberly; “but--it’s hard
not to.”
“No, no, don’t think that!” The visitor laid a hand for a moment on
Parmelee’s shoulder, then darted a quick look of surprise at the
place his fingers had touched. Parmelee saw it, and a wave of color
dyed his face. But the other continued after a pause that was almost
imperceptible. “Don’t think that, my boy. Life wouldn’t be half what it
is without dreams. And who knows? Perhaps yours are destined to come
true. I hope they will.”
“They never have,” said Parmelee, bitterly.
The older man smiled. “But there’s time yet.” He turned and walked
slowly about the apartment, nodding his head now and then, viewing the
dark rafters as he might have viewed old friends, and putting his head
in the bedroom door, but declining Parmelee’s invitation to enter.
Reminiscences came to his mind, and he told them lightly, entertainingly.
He stood for several moments in front of the empty fireplace, and sighed
again as he turned away.
He moved toward where he had laid his hat and gloves. “I left word with
my wife to tell my son to come here for me, but I don’t see him.” He
picked up his hat and looked out into the street. “He took part in the
tree exercises; he would have to change his clothes afterward, and that
would take some time. I dare say if I walk up the street I shall meet
him.”
Parmelee struggled in silence with his reserve; then he said:
“I--I wish you’d wait here for him, sir. You see, it’s just possible
that you might miss him if you went.”
“But you’re certain I sha’n’t be in the way? Your guests will not
arrive for a while?”
“I’m not expecting any one, sir.”
“Indeed!” The visitor glanced at the banquet and looked puzzled.
“Pardon me; I thought you were giving a small spread. I shall be very
glad to remain if I’m not in your way.”
He laid aside his hat and took a seat. Parmelee retired to the window
and frowned at the banquet. Of course he had not been asked to explain
it, but no other course seemed possible; the situation was ridiculous.
He would make a clean breast of it. Somehow it did not seem difficult
to tell things to the kind-faced stranger.
“I dare say you think I’m crazy,” he said, “with all that stuff spread
out there and--and nobody coming, but--” And then he explained things,
although not very lucidly, for he was disturbed by a realization of the
absurdity of the affair. But the visitor seemed to understand, and when
Parmelee had ended, he exclaimed, with concern:
“Why, then I’ve been keeping you from your supper! And no lunch, you
say? I’d no idea, I assure you--” He seized his hat again. Parmelee
sprang to his feet.
“No, no, I’m not in the least hungry! That is, I’m in no hurry.”
The older man hesitated.
“But if you’ve had no lunch, you must be starved! Indeed, I’m sure you
must be! I can appreciate your condition in a measure, for my own lunch
was a sorry affair, although I did get a few bites. Don’t let me keep
you a moment longer.”
“But--but--” exclaimed Parmelee. The visitor paused with his hand on
the door-knob. “Perhaps--you must be hungry yourself, and--if you
wouldn’t mind the lack of knives and forks--and plates--I’d be awfully
glad----”
“Well, really now, I’ve half a mind to accept,” laughed the other.
“The truth is, I’m as hungry as a bear. These boarding-houses on
class-day--” He shook his head expressively. “You are sure I’m not
taking some one else’s place?”
“No, indeed,” answered Parmelee. “The fact is, I set that chair there
for you half an hour ago.”
“For me?” inquired the visitor.
“Well, for the unexpected guest. You see, sir, the one chair looked so
lonely. Have you room enough? Shall I move the desk out a bit? It’s
awkward having no plates--or forks--or anything. If you will take this
penknife, sir? And--wait a moment! The very thing!”
Parmelee excitedly seized two old blue plates from over the mantel,
dusted them on a corner of the nearest bath-towel, and presented one
to the guest.
“Queer I didn’t think of these, isn’t it? I think you’ll find that
sliced chicken very fair. Do you eat olives? I’ve never tried cold
Saratoga chips myself, but they look rather good.”
He proffered one article after another in a very fever of hospitality.
In his eagerness he distributed the olives impartially over the whole
board and brought the _pièce de résistance_, the pyramid of oranges,
tumbling into ruins.
The guest laid down his pocket-knife and looked gravely across at his
host.
“Is--is anything the matter?” faltered Parmelee.
“I must refuse to go on until I see you eating something.”
“Oh!” Parmelee blushed and seized a tin of potted turkey at random.
After that the banquet progressed finely. The unexpected guest did full
justice to the repast, and the unaccustomed host remembered his own
hunger and satisfied it. More than that, he forgot his shyness and was
radiantly happy. And after a while, when the last of the strawberries
had disappeared, he suddenly found himself telling, in the most natural
way in the world, things that he had never told any one before, except,
perhaps, Philip Schuyler. He stopped short in the middle of a sentence
in sudden embarrassment.
“And so your deformity, such a little thing as it is, has worked all
this--this misery?” mused the guest. “Dear, dear, such a pity, my boy,
so unnecessary!”
“Unnecessary?” faltered Parmelee.
“Surely. You’ve been so mistaken when you have credited all kinds of
unpleasant sentiments to people. They can’t care any the less for you
because your back is not as straight as theirs. The fault has been
yours, my boy; you haven’t given people a chance to get near to you.
You’ve held them off at arm’s length all your life. Take my advice.
After this go out among them; forget your suspicions, and see for
yourself if I’m not right. When God put a hump between your shoulders
he made up for it in some other way, you may depend upon that. And
although I’ve known you but an hour, I think I know wherein the Lord
has made it up to you. But I’m not going to tell you; it might make you
vain.”
Parmelee raised his own eyes to the smiling ones across the table.
“I don’t think you need have any apprehensions on that score, sir,” he
said, a trifle unsteadily.
“Well, perhaps not. I dare say you need a little more vanity. But think
over what I’ve said, and if you can, act on it.”
“I will,” answered the other, earnestly. “And I’m--I’m very grateful. I
don’t think I ever--looked at it quite that way, you see.”
“I’m certain you never have. And another thing; I wouldn’t be too
quick to bring in a verdict in the case of that friend you’ve told me
of. I think when you learn the truth you’ll find you’ve done him an
injustice. And forgive me if I hurt you, my boy, but I think you’ve
been more to blame than he has. It seems to me that you were the one
to take the first step toward reconciliation. Well, I really must be
going to hunt up my family. They’ll think I’m lost. I don’t know what’s
happened to Philip, I’m sure.”
“Philip?” asked Parmelee, quickly.
“My son,” answered the visitor, proudly. “He graduates this spring.
Philip Schuyler. Perhaps you’ve met him?”
“I----”
There was a knock at the door. Parmelee drew himself up very straight,
perhaps to give the lie to the pallor of his face.
“Come in!” he called, and the door swung open.
The youth who confronted them looked with white, set face from one to
the other. There was an instant of awkward silence. Then, “Father!” he
exclaimed, in a low voice.
“Why, Philip, what’s the matter?” Parmelee’s guest moved quickly to the
door. “Did you think I was lost?”
The son laughed uneasily.
“I didn’t know you were coming here; I only learned it from mother a
few minutes ago.” It sounded like an apology, and the older man looked
apprehensively from his son to his host.
“But was there--any reason why I shouldn’t have come here, Phil?”
Philip Schuyler glanced from his father to Parmelee’s set face, then
dropped his eyes.
“Of course not, sir,” he replied. “It was only that I didn’t know but
I’d miss you. Such a crowd in town!” he muttered.
“That’s all right, then,” said his father. “And now I want to make you
acquainted with a friend of mine. I’ve only had the honor of calling
him such for an hour or so; but two persons can become pretty well
acquainted in that time, especially over the table,” he added, smiling.
“Phil, this is--but, dear me, I don’t know your name!”
“John Parmelee,” answered his host.
“Ah, Phil, this is Mr. Parmelee, who has been exceedingly kind and has
ministered to my wants, outward and inward. I want you to know him.
Somehow I have an idea you two youngsters will get on together. Mr.
Parmelee, this is my son, Philip.”
Philip bowed without moving from his place at the door. Parmelee gave a
gulp and strode forward, his hand outstretched.
“We--we’re not new acquaintances, Mr. Schuyler,” he said.
“Ah!” The older man watched while the two shook hands constrainedly.
“Ah!” he repeated. It was a very expressive word as he uttered it, and
Parmelee, glancing at his face, saw that he understood the situation.
The two unclasped their hands, and for a moment viewed each other
doubtfully.
“If you know each other, that makes simpler the request I was about to
make,” said Parmelee’s guest. “I want Mr. Parmelee to come and make
us a visit for a week or so, Phil. I think the North Shore sunshine
will take some of that white out of his face. Just see if you can’t
persuade him, won’t you?” He turned away toward the window. The two at
the doorway looked at each other for an instant in silence. Then Philip
Schuyler put out his hand, and Parmelee grasped it.
“You’ll come?” asked Philip, softly. Parmelee nodded.
“If you want me.”
“Of course I do! And, I say, Jack, it’s--it’s all right now, isn’t it?”
“Yes, Phil; it was never anything else,” answered Parmelee, a trifle
huskily. The two gripped hands silently, smilingly, and turned to Mr.
Schuyler.
“Are you ready, dad?”
“Eh? Oh, yes. And, Mr. Parmelee, perhaps you wouldn’t mind joining us?
I’d like you to meet Phil’s mother and sister. It--it might be a good
chance to test the value of my advice, eh?” Parmelee hesitated for a
moment, then took up his gown.
“Thank you, sir, I think it might,” he said.
“NO HOLDING”
The captain, the head coach and the trainer of the Hillton Academy
football team sat about the table in the head coach’s room. It was the
evening of November 27th, and on the morrow, Thanksgiving day, the
wearers of the crimson were to meet on the gridiron their old-time
rivals of St. Eustace Academy, in the final and most important contest
of the year.
The drop-light illumined three thoughtful faces. Bob Syddington,
captain, a broad-shouldered and fine-looking lad of eighteen, traced
figures on the green-leather table-covering and scowled intently.
Gardiner, the head coach, a man of thirty, wrote on a sheet of
paper with a scratching pen. The trainer and the school’s physical
director, Mr. Beck, leaned back in his chair, his eyes from behind
the gold-rimmed glasses fixed speculatively upon Syddington. Gardiner
looked up.
“Cantrell at left half, of course?”
Syddington nodded.
“He won’t last the game,” said the trainer, “but he’s good for the
first half.”
The coach’s pen scratched again. Syddington scowled more darkly and his
hand trembled a little over the leather.
“How about right half?” Gardiner glanced fleetingly at the captain and
then, questioningly, at the trainer. The latter spoke after a moment:
“Well, Lane’s first choice, isn’t he?”
“To my mind, yes,” answered Gardiner, “but Syddington thinks Servis
should start the game; that while he’s not so brilliant as Lane, he’s
more steady. I don’t share Syddington’s distrust of Lane, but if he
thinks he’s going to feel that he has better support behind him, I’m
willing to hold Lane out until he’s needed.”
“Then there’s Lane’s knee,” said Syddington, without looking up.
“The knee’s all right,” said Beck, decisively. “Physically Lane’s in as
good shape as he was before the injury.”
“Ye-es, but Servis has never been hurt,” answered Syddington. “Seems to
me that makes him less liable to injury now.”
His face was pale and there were little stubborn creases about the
mouth. The trainer opened his lips as if to reply, but closed them
again. Gardiner examined his pen and waited. Restraint was in the air.
“I think we’d better start with Servis,” said Syddington, after a
moment. He heaved a sigh of relief and shot a glance at Beck.
The latter’s face wore an expression of disappointment, which
disappeared under the lad’s scrutiny, but which, nevertheless, caused
Syddington to transfer his gaze to the table and sent a flush to his
cheeks.
Gardiner wrote for a moment. “That leaves only full-back, and Hale’s
our man there. And that finishes the line-up. I’ll read it over.”
Then he and Beck discussed once more the plan of the battle.
Bob Syddington heard nothing. He was fighting a battle of his own,
and his thoughts were far from pleasant. To do a dishonorable act
knowingly, deliberately, is in itself disagreeable enough to a boy who
has all his life hated mean actions. But to know that two persons in
whose eyes one particularly wants to appear clean and honorable are
aware of the act adds greater bitterness.
Syddington entertained no illusions. He knew that when he had caused
Servis’s name to be placed in the line-up instead of Lane’s he had done
a dishonorable thing. And he knew that both the head coach and the
trainer were equally aware of the fact, and that he had fallen far in
their estimation; that henceforth they must hold him, at the best, in
pitying contempt. A monstrous price, he told himself bitterly, to pay
for next year’s captaincy!
And he was not only injuring himself, but by deposing Lane he was
placing in jeopardy the team’s success in the “big game.” There was
never a doubt but that Lane was the man for the position of right
half-back. Without exception he was the most brilliant player at
Hillton. He had won the game with Shrewsburg by a sixty-yard run for a
touch-down. More than once in minor games he had brought the spectators
to their feet by his daring running or hurdling. It was almost a
certainty that if he went into the St. Eustace game he would do just
what the school expected, and by brilliant playing become the hero of
the year. And there lay the rub.
Only the day before, Carter, the right tackle, had warned him: “If
there was an election now, Bob, we’d make you captain again by a
majority of one or two. But if Lane goes in and does his usual
spectacular stunt, he’ll be the next captain as sure as fate. Take
my advice and keep him out somehow. You’ve got Servis and Jackson,
and--well, don’t be an ass!” And Syddington had shaken his head and
answered righteously, “I can’t do that, Tom.”
And now he had done it!
He clenched his hands under the table and hated himself with an
intensity that hurt. Gardiner and the trainer talked on. The clock on
the mantel ticked monotonously.
It was not as if Lane would make a poor captain. On the contrary,
Syddington knew that he would prove a good one. That the captain did
not altogether like him, Lane knew. He had said a few days before--it
had never been meant for Syddington’s ears, but nevertheless had
reached them--“I’ll never get into the St. Eustace game until
every other back is in the hospital. Syddington’s no fool!” And now
Syddington hated Lane more than ever because he had rightly judged him
capable of dishonesty.
And Lane would know, and Gardiner and Beck and Carter; and the fellows
would suspect. But--and that was the worst of all--he himself could
never forget. The clock struck the half-hour, and Gardiner looked up.
“Half after nine! This won’t do. We must get to bed. Don’t bother about
to-morrow, Syddington. Get your mind off the game and go to sleep.
It’ll be all right.”
Syddington rose and took up his overcoat. After he had struggled slowly
into it he faced the others as if about to speak, but instead walked to
the door in silence.
“Good night!” said Gardiner.
“Good night, Syddington!” echoed Beck.
The boy thought he could already detect a different tone in their
voices, a foretaste of that contempt with which in future they were to
consider him.
“Good night; good night, sir!” he answered, miserably. Then, with the
door opening under his hand, he turned, his face pale but resolute,
with something that was almost a smile playing at the corners of his
mouth.
“Mr. Gardiner, I wish you’d change that line-up, please.”
“Of course, if there’s anything----”
“I’d like Lane to go in at right half instead of Servis. Thank you,
sir. Good night!”
When the door had closed coach and trainer faced each other smilingly.
“I didn’t think he could do it,” said Beck.
“Nor did I,” answered Gardiner. “And he didn’t.”
* * * * *
The autumn sunlight had disappeared slowly from the field of battle,
and the first shadows of evening grew and deepened along the fences.
The second half of the game was well-nigh over, and the score-board
told the story thus:
Hillton 6 Opponents 8
Hillton’s Ball
3 Down 4 Yds to Gain
7 Minutes to Play
Over on the Hillton sections of the stand the cheering was hoarse and
incessant, and crimson banners waved ceaselessly. It has ever been
Hillton’s way to shout loudest under the shadow of defeat.
Hillton’s one score had been secured in the first three minutes of
play. Quick, steady tackle-back plunges had carried the ball from the
center of the gridiron to St. Eustace’s six-yard line before the latter
team had awakened to its danger. From there Cantrell had skirted the
Blue’s right end and Hale, the Hillton full-back, had kicked an easy
goal.
But St. Eustace had pulled herself together, and from that time on had
things her own way, forcing her rival to abandon offense and use every
effort to protect her constantly threatened goal. Yet it was not until
the half was almost over that St. Eustace finally managed to score,
pushing her full-back through for a touch-down and afterward kicking
goal.
The second half had started with honors even, but on his five-yard
line Hale had failed miserably at a kick, and had been borne back
for a safety. And now, with but seven minutes left, with the ball on
Hillton’s fifty-yard line and four yards to gain on the third down,
the Crimson was fighting valiantly against defeat.
Syddington, pale and panting, measured the distance to the St. Eustace
goal with his eyes and groaned. If only Lane or Sanford, who had taken
Cantrell’s place, could be got away round an end! If only they could
get within kicking distance of that cross-bar! If----
“34--29--96--12!”
Lane was hurdling the line at right guard. Syddington dashed into the
_mêlée_, shoving, shouting hoarsely. The blue line gave and Lane fell
through, squirming, kicking. The Hillton stand went wild with joy. The
score-board proclaimed first down.
“Get up! Get up!” called Syddington, a sudden note of hope in his
strained voice. “That’s the stuff! We can do it again! Hard, fellows,
hard!”
Aching, dizzy, but happy, nevertheless, red-faced and perspiring, Carl
Lane dropped the ball and trotted back to his position.
“Signal!” cried Colton. “27--34--”
Lane crept, crouching, back of Sanford.
“--87--5!”
He dashed forward in the wake of the other half, the ball thumped
against his stomach, was clasped firmly, and the next instant he was
high in air. Arms thrust him back, others shoved him forward. For an
instant the result was doubtful; then the St. Eustace players gave, the
straining group went back, slowly at first, then faster. Lane, kicking
friend and foe impartially in his efforts to thrust himself forward,
felt himself falling head foremost. Some one’s elbow crashed against
his temple, and for a moment all was dark.
When he came to, his face was dripping from the sponge and his head
ached as if it would burst; but the score-board once more proclaimed
first down, and the crimson-decked section of the grand stand had gone
suddenly crazy. His name floated across to him at the end of a mighty
volume of cheers.
He picked himself up, shook himself like a dog emerging from water,
grinned cheerfully at Carter, and sped back of the line. Syddington,
his blue eyes sparkling with newborn hope, thumped him on the shoulder
as he passed.
They were past the middle of the field now, and once more Lane
struck the blue-stockinged right guard for a gain. St. Eustace was
yielding. Hillton was again on the offensive. From the fifty yards to
the thirty-two went the conquering Crimson, Lane, Sanford and Hale
hurdling, plunging, squirming between tackle and tackle. St. Eustace’s
center trio were weak, battered, almost helpless.
Syddington gazed longingly at the farthest white line, now well in
view. If only Lane could skirt the end! There was no longer any thought
of rivalry in his heart. If Lane could make a touch-down and save them
from defeat, he might have the captaincy and welcome.
The St. Eustace quarter called for time. The battered center and
right guard were taken out and their places filled with new men. The
timekeeper approached, watch in hand.
“Two minutes more,” he announced.
Syddington’s heart sank; the panting players reeled before his eyes,
and he grasped Carter’s shoulder to steady himself. Only two minutes!
And success almost within grasp! He turned swiftly to Colton.
“Two minutes, Dan! Did you hear? There isn’t time to work it down. Try
the ends; give it to Lane! We’ve got to score, Dan!” He thumped his
clenched hands against his padded thighs and stared miserably about
him. Colton patted him on the back.
“Cheer up, Bob,” he whispered--his voice was now such that he could
only whisper or shout--“cheer up! We’ll make it. Two minutes is time
enough to win in!” The whistle sounded again.
“Right tackle--back!” cried the quarter. Carter dropped out of the line.
“Signal! 16--34--58--5!”
A tandem play on left guard netted two yards; the new center was a good
man. Syddington’s heart was leaping into his throat and thumping back
again painfully. He clenched his hands, watched his man with every
nerve and muscle tense, and awaited the next signal. Would it never
come? What was the matter with Colton? Did he not know he was losing----
“Sig--” began the quarter; then his voice gave out in a husky whisper.
“Signal!” he repeated, hoarsely.
“Block hard!” shouted Syddington.
“Watch out for fake!” shrieked the St. Eustace captain.
“44--22----”
The Blue’s right half ran back to join the quarter up the field.
Hale, the Crimson’s full-back, stood with outstretched hands on the
thirty-six-yard line, with Lane and Sanford guarding him. Syddington
swung his arms and crouched as if on edge to get down under the punt,
yet out of the corners of his eyes he was watching the St. Eustace left
tackle as a cat watches a mouse.
“44--22--11--6!” gasped Colton.
Center passed the ball back straight and clean to Hale, and the latter
sped it on at a short side pass to Lane, who had dropped back; Sanford
dashed at the right end of the line, and Lane, the pigskin hugged
close and his right arm rigid before him, fell in behind. Sanford sent
the St. Eustace end reeling backward, and Syddington put the Blue’s
full-back out of the play and went crashing to the ground with him.
Sanford and Lane swept through outside of tackle and sped toward the
goal.
Crimson banners waved and danced. The game was lost or won in the
next few seconds. Victory for Hillton, defeat for her rival, lay in
the crossing of those eight trampled white lines by the lad who, with
straining limbs and heaving chest, sped on behind his interference.
Sanford, lithe and fleet, held a straight course for the right-hand
goal-post. Ahead, with staring eyes and desperate faces, the St.
Eustace quarter and right half advanced menacingly. Behind, pounding
footsteps told of stern pursuit.
Then the quarter-back was upon them, face pale and set, arms
outstretched, and Lane swung to the right. Sanford’s shoulder met
the foe, and the two went to earth together, Sanford on top. He was
up again in the instant, and, unharmed, once more running fleetly.
But Lane was ahead now, and before him, near the ten-yard line, the
blue-clad half-back was waiting. The man ahead stood for defeat, for
Lane doubted his ability to get round him. Even running was agony,
and dodging seemed out of the question. But just as hope deserted him
Sanford came into sight beside him.
“Faster!” he panted. “To the right.”
Lane had no time to make his lagging limbs obey ere Sanford and the foe
were piled together at his feet. He plunged blindly over the writhing
heap, stumbled, fell on one knee, staggered up again, saw the yellowish
turf rising and sinking before him, felt his knees doubling up beneath
him, fell, rolled over twice, crawled and wriggled on knees and elbows
from force of habit, and then closed his eyes, laid his head on his arm
and was supremely content.
Syddington sped down the field with the roar of three thousand voices
in his ears, and a great, almost sickening happiness at his heart.
Hillton had won!
For the moment thought refused to go beyond that wonderful fact. His
team, the boys whom he had threatened, coaxed, driven, struggled with
for months, had beaten St. Eustace!
He thrust his way through the little group and dropped to his knees.
Lane opened his eyes and for an instant stared blankly into his face.
Then recollection returned and he raised his head. Above him rose the
goal-posts. He grinned happily.
“Over, eh, Syddington?” he asked, weakly.
“Yes, Lane, over. Are you all right?”
“Yes; a bit tuckered, that’s all. Let me up, please.”
They helped him to his feet, and he stretched his aching muscles
cautiously. Beck handed him his head harness, and he turned and limped
off. The cheering, which had almost subsided for want of breath, took
on new vigor, and he went up the field to the wild refrain of “Lane!
Lane! Lane!”
Hale kicked goal and the teams lined up for the kick-off once more.
But when the ball had fallen into the arms of the Hillton left end the
whistle shrilled and the battle was at an end. The score-board said:
Hillton 12. Opponents 8.
The crowds were over the ropes on the instant, and while the wearied
crimson players were hoarsely cheering their defeated rivals, they
were seized and borne off to where the band was playing Hilltonians.
Then the procession round the field began. And when it had formed,
Carl Lane, left half-back, borne upon the shoulders of four stalwart,
shrieking friends, was at the head. And Syddington, almost at the end
of the line of swaying heroes, saw, and was more than content.
“They’ll make him captain the day after to-morrow,” he said to himself,
“and I’m glad--glad!”
And with the band playing as it had not played for two years, with
every voice raised in song, Hillton marched triumphantly back to the
campus.
* * * * *
It was the evening of the day following Hillton’s victory. The songs
and cheering were over, and the big bonfire was only a mound of ashes.
Syddington had lighted a fire in the study grate, for an east wind was
sweeping across the Hudson and rattling the casements fiercely.
It was all over! The boys had broken training, the field was left to
the pranks of the winter winds, canvas jackets and padded trousers were
put away, and the football season was at an end. Well, it had been a
successful one, and next year----
His hands dropped and he sat upright, staring blankly before him. He
had forgotten. Next year meant little to him now. Lane had earned the
captaincy twice over. If it must go to some one other than himself, he
was glad that Carl Lane was to be that person. He would nominate Lane
himself. He began to fashion a little speech in his mind; and when
he was in the middle of it, there came a knock at the door and Lane
entered. Syddington stared a moment in surprise.
“How are you, Lane? Glad to see you,” he said, finally. “I--I was just
thinking about you when you knocked. Sit down, won’t you?”
“Thanks.” Lane tossed his cap on the table and drew a chair toward the
hearth. “Cold, isn’t it?”
“Yes.” Syddington went back to the armchair and wondered what the visit
meant. Lane had not the air of a casual caller; his face was serious
and held a suggestion of embarrassment. There was a moment’s silence;
then Lane went on in a tone of frank sincerity:
“Look here, Syddington. The fellows are talking about the captaincy.”
He was watching Syddington closely. “And I find that I can have every
vote but four.”
“I don’t know who the four are,” answered Syddington, bravely, “but if
I’m one of them you can count me out. I’m going to vote for you, and if
you’ll let me, I’ll put your name up.”
“Thank you. I didn’t expect that. I fancied you’d want it yourself.”
“So I do. So does every fellow, I guess. But you’ve won it, Lane, fair
and square, and I don’t begrudge it to you. I’ll acknowledge that I did
at first, but after you won the game----”
“You mean that you knew before the game that I might get the
captaincy?” Lane’s voice was full of wonder.
“Yes. Carter told me.”
“And you let me play?”
“Yes, although--” he faltered--“although I came near not.”
“I see. And I owe you an apology. I didn’t think you’d let me on, and
I said so. I think it was a mighty plucky thing to do, mighty plucky,
Syddington, and--and awfully decent. And now, look here. What I came
here to say was just this.” He rose and took his cap from the table. “I
can have the captaincy to-morrow, perhaps, but of course I’m not going
to accept it.”
“Not going to--to----”
“Would you take it if you were in my place? If I had given you the
chance to win the big game, knowing that if you did you’d get the
captaincy; if you knew I’d set my heart on keeping it; if I’d slaved
all fall to turn out the finest team Hillton’s had in years; if--if----”
“But that has nothing to do with it,” faltered the other.
“Yes, it has everything to do with it,” said Lane, earnestly. “It’s a
matter of fair play--and no holding. If I took that captaincy after
what you’ve done I’d detest myself.”
“But--but it doesn’t seem right.”
“It is, though. You’re a captain from head to heels, and I’m not.
And--I guess that’s all.” He moved toward the door. Syddington
followed with pale face.
“I--I don’t know how I can thank you, Lane, honestly! If you change
your mind----”
“I sha’n’t. And as for thanks--I think we’re quits. Good night!”
“Good night!” replied Syddington. “I--” he faltered and the color
flooded into his cheeks--“I--I want to shake hands with you, Lane.”