THE PLAY
THAT WON
By Ralph Henry Barbour
YARDLEY HALL SERIES
Guarding His Goal
Forward Pass
Double Play
Winning His Y
For Yardley
Around the End
Change Signals
PURPLE PENNANT SERIES
The Lucky Seventh
The Secret Play
The Purple Pennant
HILTON SERIES
The Half-Back
For the Honor of the School
Captain of the Crew
ERSKINE SERIES
Behind the Line
Weatherby’s Inning
On Your Mark
THE “BIG FOUR” SERIES
Four in Camp
Four Afoot
Four Afloat
THE GRAFTON SERIES
Rivals for the Team
Winning His Game
Hitting the Line
BOOKS NOT IN SERIES
For the Freedom of the Seas
Under the Yankee Ensign
Keeping His Course
The Brother of a Hero
Finkler’s Field
Danforth Plays the Game
The Arrival of Jimpson
Benton’s Venture
The Junior Trophy
The New Boy at Hilltop
The Spirit of the School
The Play that Won
D. APPLETON & CO., Publishers, New York
[Illustration: IT WAS LARRY LOGAN WHO FUMED AND IMPLORED....]
THE PLAY
THAT WON
BY
RALPH HENRY BARBOUR
AUTHOR OF
“FOR THE FREEDOM OF THE SEAS,” “UNDER THE YANKEE ENSIGN,”
“THE HALF BACK,” ETC.
[Illustration]
ILLUSTRATED
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
NEW YORK LONDON
1919
COPYRIGHT, 1919, BY
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
Copyright, 1918, 1919, by
THE CENTURY COMPANY
Copyright, 1916, 1917, by
PERRY MASON COMPANY
Copyright, 1918, by
SPRAGUE PUBLISHING COMPANY
Copyright, 1919, by
FISK BICYCLE CLUBS OF AMERICA
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. THE PLAY THAT WON 1
II. THE GREAT PECK 28
III. TERRY COMES THROUGH 53
IV. SPOOKS 101
V. THE QUITTER 130
VI. “PUFF” 156
VII. “PSYCHOLOGY STUFF” 172
VIII. BILLY MAYES’ GREAT DISCOVERY 196
IX. THE TWO MILER 226
ILLUSTRATIONS
FACING
PAGE
It was Larry Logan who fumed and implored.... _Frontispiece_
Then the pistol popped and they were off 94
Somewhere in that mêlée was the runner with the precious ball 152
The bridge tender had half closed the second gate 168
THE PLAY THAT WON
When the knock came Ted was slumped on his spine in the Morris chair,
the green-shaded lamp beside him and a magazine propped on his chest.
It was Saturday night and study was not imperative, for which he was
grateful. The baseball game with Prospect Hill in the afternoon had
been a hard one, and the victory――for Warwick had won in the tenth――had
left him rather tired, and he had passed up a lecture in the school
auditorium in favor of rest and solitude at home. Which is why the
knock on the door brought a sigh and a frown. Of course, he might
remain silent, but the light shining through the transom would be a
give-away, and the caller might be Trevor Corwin with his everlasting
stamp album: Trev was a sensitive kid and easily hurt. So Ted laid down
his magazine and said “Come in!” in no very enthusiastic tone. To his
relief, the visitor was Hal Saunders.
“Hello, Bowman,” said Hal, glancing about the study. “George around?”
His eyes sought the darkened bedroom as he closed the door behind him.
“Gone home over Sunday,” replied Ted.
“Gone home!” Hal’s tone held so much of dismay that Ted wondered.
“Yes, his father’s been sick for about a week or so, and he got leave
from faculty. Went right after the game.”
“Gee!” exclaimed Hal worriedly. “He didn’t say anything to me about
it. I wish I’d known. I want to see him about――something important.”
To Ted’s discomfiture he seated himself on the window-seat and moodily
stared at the lamp. “When’s he coming back?”
“Monday. He got permission to cut morning hours. I guess he will be on
the twelve-forty-six.”
“That’ll be too late,” said Hal aggrievedly. “By Jove, that’s rotten! I
don’t see why he couldn’t let folks know he was going.”
Evidently overwhelmed by the news, he made no move to depart. He was
a good-looking fellow of sixteen, well-made, tall and lithe, with
light hair and eyes and a fair complexion which even three months of
baseball had failed to darken. In contrast, the boy in the Morris chair
was a year younger, shorter, heavier, more compact, with dark eyes and
hair and a face which, if not handsome, was rather attractive in spite
of the fact that sun and weather had tanned it to the hue of leather
and that the tip of the nose was peeling. Both boys were members of
the School Nine, Ted being right fielder and Hal first-choice pitcher.
They were not, however, very good friends. Ted thought Hal traded too
much on his ability as a twirler. It was undeniable that he was an
exceptionally good one, perhaps the best that the school had ever had,
but in Ted’s opinion Hal would do well to forget the fact now and then.
He didn’t understand what his room-mate, George Tempest, saw in Hal to
admire; that is, beyond his playing. Naturally George, being captain
of the team, would feel kindly toward a chap who so often pitched to
victory, but he needn’t overdo it! Ted was fond of his room-mate and so
it is possible that jealousy had something to do with his mild dislike
of Hal Saunders.
Presently Hal raised his eyes from a frowning contemplation of his
shoes and Ted was surprised at the trouble shown in his face. It was
a most unusual thing for the self-satisfied, rather superior Hal
Saunders to exhibit anything approaching discomposure. In spite of
himself, Ted’s sympathies were touched. “Was it something about the
Team?” he asked.
Hal shook his head. “No, it was――something――――” He hesitated. Then: “I
wanted to borrow some money from him.”
“Oh!” murmured Ted. It was, he reflected, a lot like Hal to make a
fuss about an unimportant matter like that. Perhaps the other read the
thought, for he suddenly said defensively:
“I’m in a dickens of a hole, Bowman, and I was pretty sure that George
could help me out. Now I’m blessed if I know what to do!”
“Won’t Monday do?”
“Monday morning might, but Monday afternoon will be too late――unless――――”
Hal fell into silence again. Ted wondered if Hal was trying to find
courage to ask him for a loan. He almost hoped so. It would be rather
a pleasure to refuse it. “It’s Plaister, in the village,” Hal went on
after a moment. “He’s got a bill of twelve dollars and eighty cents
against me. I’ve been owing the old skinflint some of it since last
year. And now he says that if it isn’t paid by to-night he will go and
get the money from ‘Jerry.’ And you know what that will mean!”
Ted did know. “Jerry” was the popular name for Doctor Morris, the
Principal, and when “Jerry” learned that Hal had transgressed the very
strict rule against having bills at the village stores, punishment
would be swift and stern. Why, Hal might be dismissed from school! The
very least that would happen to him would be probation!
“Maybe he’s just bluffing,” offered Ted, but with little conviction in
his voice.
“No such luck,” answered Hal. “He’s threatened twice before and I’ve
begged him off. This time he means it. I found a letter from him in the
mail this noon. I was going to speak to George before the game, but
there wasn’t any chance, and I――I sort of funked it anyway. Besides, I
thought there was time enough. Plaister won’t do anything until Monday.
I was pretty sure George had the money and I guess he’d have let me
have it. I meant to beat it over to the village right after chapel
Monday morning. I hadn’t any idea he was going away!”
“Too bad,” said Ted, more than half meaning it. “How the dickens did
you ever manage to run up a bill like that, Saunders?”
Hal shrugged. “Oh, I don’t know. I’m always buying fool things.
Plaister was keen enough to charge ’em until he had a nice big bill
against me. Afterwards, too. It got so I was afraid not to buy anything
he showed me for fear he’d ask me to pay up.”
“But you get an allowance――――”
“A dollar a week,” said Hal slightingly. “How far does that go? Mother
sends me a little now and then. If she didn’t I wouldn’t have a cent in
my pocket, ever. I’m a fool about money, and dad knows it. And he will
know it a heap better about next Tuesday!”
“But look here, Saunders. Won’t Plaister stand to lose if he goes to
‘Jerry?’ Faculty always says that shop-keepers giving credit to the
fellows will be deprived of the school trade. Seems to me Plaister will
think twice before he risks that.”
“Oh, he will tell some hard-luck yarn and ‘Jerry’ will believe him.
You know how ‘Jerry’ is. Barks a lot, but doesn’t bite much. Yes, he
might be scared to do what he threatens, but his letter sounded mighty
earnest. He’s got me going, anyway. I say, Bowman, I don’t suppose
you――er――happen to have ten dollars you’d let me have? I’d have to pay
it back fifty cents a week, but――――”
“Sorry,” said Ted, shaking his head. To his surprise he found that he
really was sorry――a little. Hal’s gloom enwrapped him again.
“No, I suppose not. And I don’t guess you’d care much about lending to
me if you had it. You don’t particularly love me. Well, I guess I’ll
toddle.” He arose and stood uncertainly a moment before he moved toward
the door.
“What will you do?” asked Ted anxiously. “If――if you get put on ‘pro’
we’ll be in a nasty fix! Hang it, Saunders, you’ve got to do something,
you know. Crouch would last about two innings in the Temple game! Why
don’t you see Plaister to-morrow and get him to wait another week?
After next Saturday it wouldn’t matter.”
“I’ve talked to him until I’m tired,” replied Hal wearily. “It’s no
good. Maybe he won’t do it, or maybe I can scrape up the money by
Monday. I’m tired worrying about it. I’d just as lief get fired as have
this thing hanging over me all the time.”
“Maybe he would take part of it and wait for the rest.”
“He won’t. I tried that. He says he’s waited long enough and――oh, a
lot of drivel. You know the way they talk. Well, good-night. And say,
Bowman, just keep this to yourself, like a good chap, will you? I don’t
know why I bothered you with it, but I’d rather you didn’t say anything
about it.”
“That’s all right. I won’t talk. Good-night. I hope you――come out all
right.”
Hal nodded dejectedly and went. Ted took up his magazine, but after
finding his place in it he let it drop once more. If Plaister did what
he threatened, and Ted knew the hard-featured little shop-keeper well
enough to feel pretty certain that he would, it would be all up with
Warwick’s chances for the baseball championship that year. With Hal
Saunders in the points they might defeat Temple Academy next Saturday.
Without him they couldn’t. Neither Crouch nor Bradford was good enough
to last three innings against the Blue’s hard-hitting team. The
knowledge brought real dismay to Ted. Personally he wanted a victory
for the school team, but it was the thought of George’s disappointment
that moved him most. George, like every captain, had hoped and worked
for a triumph harder than any of the others. For Ted’s part, he would
go back next year, but this was George’s last chance. Ted was miserably
sorry for his friend. He was such a corking fine fellow. Ted recalled
the day last September when George, learning that fate in the shape
of faculty had wished a strange and two years younger boy on him as
room-mate, had acted so mighty decent about it. Lots of fellows in
George’s place, thought Ted, would have been mad and grouchy, but
George had never let Ted guess for a moment that he wasn’t entirely
welcome. And all through the year George had been a perfect brick. He
had helped Ted in many ways: had got him into Plato Society, helped
him at mid-year exams, introduced him to nice fellows, coached him in
batting until he had become proficient enough to beat out Whipple for
right field position. Ted’s feeling for George Tempest was a mingling
of gratitude and hero-worship that amounted to a very real affection,
and the thought of George’s unhappiness in case the final game of the
school year went against Warwick troubled him greatly. Temple Academy
had routed Warwick overwhelmingly last year and the sting of that
defeat still remained. Warwick wanted revenge, and her three hundred
and odd students had their hearts set on obtaining it next Saturday.
But to none did it mean quite what it meant to Captain Tempest. Ted
tossed the magazine aside and stood up. “Something ought to be done,”
he muttered.
In the bedroom he produced a small tin box from its hiding place in a
dresser drawer and emptied the contents on his bed. Three one-dollar
bills and many silver coins, when counted, came to exactly fourteen
dollars and seventy-five cents. He had been accumulating the hoard
ever since Fall with the intention of buying a bicycle when he went
home in the Summer. When he had about five dollars more he would have
enough. He hadn’t told Hal that he didn’t have the money. He had merely
politely refused to make a loan. And he had no idea of changing his
mind. Hal’s fix was no affair of his, and Hal could get out of it as
best he might. Certainly he couldn’t be expected to give up a whole
Summer’s fun for the sake of a fellow he didn’t like much anyway!
Resolutely he placed the money back in the box and the box again in
concealment. “He will wriggle out of it somehow,” he said to himself.
Sunday was rainy and seemed weeks long, and Ted missed George horribly.
He saw Hal Saunders at dinner and again in the evening, and it was
apparent from Hal’s countenance that he had not yet found a way out of
his difficulty. Ted went over to the library after supper feeling very
angry with Hal, angry because that youth had endangered the success
of the nine, because his foolishness was in a fair way to bring grief
to George, and because he had somehow managed to make one Ted Bowman
distinctly uncomfortable! Ted surrounded himself with reference books,
but all the work he did scarcely paid for the effort.
Ted did not say anything to George, when the latter returned on Monday,
about Hal’s affairs. After dinner that day he received a summons to the
Office, and although conscious of a clear conscience he couldn’t help
feeling a trifle uneasy as he obeyed it. One didn’t get an invitation
to confer with “Jerry” unless the matter was one of some importance.
Events subsequently justified the uneasiness, for when Ted closed the
Office door behind him the second time he was on probation!
He could have stood his misfortune better had George been decently
sympathetic, but George was disgusted and mad clear through. “You’ve no
right to do silly stunts when you’re on the team,” he stormed. “You’ve
got a duty toward the School. A fine thing, isn’t it, to get on ‘pro’
four days before the big game?”
“Well, you don’t think I _asked_ for it, do you?” demanded Ted
indignantly. “Don’t you suppose I wanted to play Saturday just as much
as anyone?”
“Then you might have behaved yourself. You know perfectly well that
Billy Whipple can’t hit the way you can. What did you do, anyway?”
“Nothing much. I didn’t really do anything, only ‘Jerry’ thinks I did
and I can’t――can’t prove that I didn’t!”
“That’s likely,” grunted George. “You must have done something.”
“All right, then, I did. Anyhow, it doesn’t matter whether I did or
didn’t. I’m out of the game. I’m sorry――――”
George withered him with a look and slammed the door as he went out.
After that life was hardly worth living, Ted thought. George scarcely
spoke to him and the rest of his former team-mates were not much more
cordial. In fact the whole school apparently viewed him as a traitor,
and he felt like one. Thursday morning Dr. Morris announced that
hereafter the students were not to make purchases at Plaister’s, and
Ted found a certain ungenerous comfort in the shop-keeper’s misfortune.
In the afternoon, while he was studying in his room――he had avoided the
ball field since Monday――Hal came in with George. For some reason Hal
appeared to view Ted more leniently than the other players did, perhaps
because, having so nearly attained probation himself, he had sympathy
for a brother offender. Hal’s greeting was almost cordial. George’s was
only a grunt. Ted pretended to study, but he was really listening to
the talk of the others. Presently Hal said indignantly:
“I wonder what they’ve got against Plaister, George. It’s a shame to
shut down on him like that.”
“Some chap’s run up a bill, probably,” answered George indifferently.
“Faculty was after him last year for giving credit.”
“Well, I’m sorry. The old codger’s mighty white, and I ought to know it
if anybody should. I owed him something over twelve dollars, some of
it since last year, and he came down on me hard last week and said that
if I didn’t pay right up he’d go to ‘Jerry.’ He had me scared stiff,
and that’s no dream! I had visions of being fired, or at least put on
‘pro,’ and so I came over here Saturday night to see if I could get
some money from you. I had only about two dollars to my name. But you
had gone home. Bowman offered to loan it to me”――Hal winked at Ted’s
startled countenance and grinned――“but I wouldn’t take it. I tried at
least a dozen other fellows, but every last one was stoney broke. I
expected all day Monday to get an invitation to the Office――――”
“I’m sorry I wasn’t here,” interrupted George regretfully. “I could
have fixed you up. Better let me do it now.”
“Not for anything,” laughed Hal. “You see the old chap never showed up
and I had my nervous prostration for nothing. All he did do was to send
me the bill Tuesday morning――receipted!”
“Receipted!”
“Yep, paid in full! Just scratched it right off his books. I suppose he
thought he might as well. Afraid to get in wrong with faculty, maybe.
Still, it was pretty decent of him, wasn’t it? Of course I’ll pay him
as soon as I can, but he doesn’t know that.”
George agreed that it was decent indeed, but he looked somewhat
puzzled. The incident didn’t tally at all with his conception of Mr.
Jabed Plaister.
Saturday dawned breathlessly hot, and the game, set for two o’clock,
was postponed until three. The wait was hard on the nerves of the
players, and Billy Whipple, who was to play right field in place of
Ted, was plainly unsettled. Ted knew of no reason why he should not
enjoy the painful pleasure of watching the game, and so, when Loring,
the Temple Academy pitcher, wound himself up for the first delivery,
Ted was seated cross-legged under the rope behind third base with a
very disconsolate expression on his perspiring countenance. To-day the
consciousness of virtue failed more than ever to atone for his being
out of the game. He strove to find consolation in the reflection that
there was another year coming, but the attempt was a flat failure.
The heat had its effect on spectators and players alike. The cheering
and singing lacked “pep” and the rival teams comported themselves as
though their one desire was to get back to the shade of the benches.
Ted glowered and muttered at the slowness of the contest. In the first
two innings only a long fly by the Temple second baseman that was
neatly captured by Whipple and a couple of inexcusable and innocuous
errors livened the dreariness of the game. The third inning began
like the preceding ones but promised better when, in the last half of
it, Warwick got a man to second on the first clean hit of the game.
The Brown’s cheerers came to life then and, although the next batter
fouled to catcher, making the second out, Warwick paid for the vocal
encouragement by putting the first run across on a hit past third.
Temple got men on third and second bases in the first of the fourth
and tried hard to bring them home, but Hal Saunders, having allowed a
hit and walked a batsman, retrieved himself and saved the situation by
knocking down a hard liner that was well above his head. Very coolly
and leisurely he picked it up, while the man on third scuttled to the
plate, and threw out the batsman at first.
The fifth inning went better. The air had cooled perceptibly and both
Hal and Loring were now twirling real ball and the game was becoming
a pitchers’ battle pure and simple. When Hal got down to business,
hits became as scarce as hen’s teeth, nor was Loring much behind him in
effectiveness to-day. Batters stepped to the plate, swung or waited and
retired with trailing bat. One-two-three was the order. The game went
into the seventh with Warwick’s one-run lead looking very large. Ted,
his disappointments forgotten, was “rooting” hard and tirelessly behind
third. Temperature was now a matter of no moment. Warwick was ahead,
Hal was mowing ’em down and victory was hovering above the brown banner!
It was in her half of the seventh that Temple evened up the score.
With two gone and first base inviolate Temple’s third man up, her
chunky little tow-headed shortstop whose clever playing had frequently
won applause from friend and foe, waited cannily and let Hal waste
two deliveries. Then he swung at a wide one and missed. The next was
another ball, although it cut the corner of the plate, and, with the
score against him, Hal tried to bring the tow-headed youth’s agony
to a merciful end by sneaking over a fast and straight one. But the
shortstop outguessed him that time. There was a mighty _crack_ and away
arched the ball. And away sped the batsman. Probably he had small hope
of safety, for the sphere was making straight for the right fielder,
but he knew enough not to jump to conclusions. Which is why, when the
ball bounded from Whipple’s hands, the runner was almost at second.
Urged on by the delighted coaches, he slid into third a few inches
ahead of the ball.
What caused Whipple’s error I do not know. He had the sun in his eyes,
of course, but he had made a harder catch under like circumstances in
the second inning. But better men than young Whipple have done the same
and so we needn’t waste time trying to find an excuse for him. The
mischief was done, and four minutes later the Temple captain had tied
up the score with a Texas Leaguer back of third.
There were no more hits in the seventh and none in the eighth. In the
ninth Temple almost won by a scratch and an error after Hal had lammed
an inshoot against a batsman’s ribs and he had reached second on a
sacrifice bunt. But the error, while it took him to third, did no more,
and Hal settled down and struck out his tenth man.
Warwick got one runner to second in her half, but he died there and the
contest went into extra innings. By this time the sun was behind the
trees at the edge of the field and a faint breeze was stirring. Ted
was parched of throat and hoarse of voice and was alternately hopeful
and despairing. The tenth inning went the way of the others. Hal had
two more strike-outs to his credit and Loring one. In the eleventh
the strain began to show. Hal passed the first man up, the second hit
safely, the third struck out, the fourth laid down a bunt in front
of the plate. Temple shouted and raved in delight. But Hal was still
master. Another strike-out averted the threatened disaster. Warwick
went in in her half with Captain Tempest up. George tried hard to
deliver, but made an easy out, third to first. The next batter had no
better luck. The third was Billy Whipple. Billy was known as a fair
batsman, although to-day he had signally failed. Maybe Loring eased up
a trifle. If so he produced his own disaster, for Billy picked out the
second delivery and everlastingly whanged it!
In Ted’s words, it went where it would do the most good. It fell to
earth twenty feet short of the gymnasium steps and ten feet beyond the
center fielder’s eager hands. Billy didn’t make the circuit because
George Tempest himself, coaching behind third, blocked his path to the
plate. There was a howl at that, for it did seem that Billy might have
made it. But playing it safe won out for once, for Loring was a bit
shaken by that blow at his record and Warwick’s next batter hit safely
between second and shortstop and Billy romped home. That ended the
scoring in that inning, but the Brown was again in the lead and Warwick
shouted and chanted.
Ted, realizing the effort Temple would make to even things up in the
twelfth, and knowing that the head of her batting list was up, was
on tenter-hooks. Warwick had the victory in her grasp if she could
only hold it. But Hal had been showing signs of fatigue the last two
innings and there had been a perceptible let-down. Ted anxiously took
counsel with himself. Then he jumped to his feet and ran around to the
home bench. Hal, his face rather drawn and plastered with dust in the
wrinkles, was pulling on his glove when Ted reached him.
“Saunders,” said Ted breathlessly, “if you can hold ’em we’ve got the
game!”
Hal viewed him with disgust and weariness. “You surprise me,” he
replied, with a weak attempt at sarcasm.
Ted laid a hand on the other’s arm and took a firm grip there. “Cut
out the mirth,” he said. “You go in and pitch ball, Saunders. Get me?
Don’t you dare let up for a second. If we――――”
Hal shook him off. “What’s wrong with you?” he demanded. “Sun-stroke?
You’re a fine one to make cracks like that! Beat it, kid!”
“Listen to me,” said Ted earnestly, dropping his voice. “If Temple
wins this game I’ll go to ‘Jerry’ and tell him what I know. I mean it,
Saunders!”
“Why, you little rotter!” gasped the pitcher.
“That’s all right. You heard me. You pitch ball, Saunders!”
“I’m going to,” sputtered the other, “and when I get through I’m going
to knock your silly block off. Now get out of my way!”
Ted went back to his place well satisfied. Saunders was mad clean
through and Saunders would pitch real ball! And Saunders did. Not since
the game had started had he worked more carefully, more craftily, and
although he had three hard hitters to put aside he never faltered.
Up came the Temple third baseman――and back again to the bench. The
Blue’s captain followed him and, although he brought Ted’s heart into
his mouth four times by knocking fouls, he, too, had to acknowledge
defeat. Temple was frantic now as she saw defeat impending. For luck
she sent a substitute player in for the third batsman and Hal promptly
put his first two deliveries across for strikes while triumphant
Warwick howled with delight. Then a ball, and another one, and――――
“_He’s_ OUT!” cried the umpire.
* * * * *
It was after eight. The riotous celebration had dwindled to mere
sporadic outbursts of joy out on the campus. Ted was talking with
George on the window-seat in their study. The victory had put the
captain in high spirits and since dinner he had returned to the old
footing with his room-mate. They had talked the game over from first
play to last, and Ted, happy in the renewal of friendly relations, was
seeking a fresh topic lest George should become bored with his society
and go away when there was a knock at the door and Hal strode in.
Recalling the threat he had made, Ted viewed his appearance with some
apprehension, but Hal showed no intention of removing Ted’s “block” in
the designated manner.
“I got something to show you fellows,” announced Hal, striding across
to the window. “Look here. Read that. No, wait a minute till I tell
you.” He drew back the sheet of paper he had thrust toward George. “I
thought it would be only the decent thing if I thanked Plaister for
cancelling that account, see? So yesterday I wrote a nice little note
and mailed it to him. This is what I got in answer. Found it in my room
after supper. Read it out loud, George.”
“‘Jabed Plaister, General Emporium, Dealer in――――’”
“Never mind that,” interrupted Hal impatiently. “Read the writing.”
“If I can,” agreed George. “Let’s see. ‘Dear Sir: Yours of like date
to hand. I gave the other boy a receipted bill and I don’t know what
you are talking about unless you are trying to get funny and I’ll tell
you plain there’s a law for such as you. And if you hadn’t paid I would
have seen your principle just like I said I was. Lucky for you you did.
Respectfully, Jabed Plaister.’ Not so very respectful, either! Well,
what about it, Hal?”
“Don’t you see? Someone paid that bill. I didn’t. Who did? That’s what
I came here to find out.” He turned suddenly to Ted. “Did you?” he
demanded.
Ted stared back blankly.
“Did you?” insisted Hal. “You _did_! What for? Why――――”
“He hasn’t said so,” interposed George.
“He doesn’t need to. He isn’t denying it, is he? Besides, he knew about
it. Look here, Bowman, I’m much obliged, of course, and all that, but I
don’t understand why――after you’d refused me that night――――”
“Well,” said Ted at last, slowly, seemingly seeking inspiration from
his shoes, “I knew that if you got fired or put on probation and
couldn’t pitch to-day we’d get licked. I――I ought to tell you frankly,
I guess, that I didn’t do it on your account, Saunders. There was the
School to consider, and――and George. I knew he’d be all broke up if we
lost the game. I had the money put away for――for something, and so I
decided that if Plaister was really going to make trouble I’d pay him.
I met him on the road Monday morning right after breakfast. I tried to
get him to take five dollars, but he wouldn’t, and so I paid it all
and he gave me the receipted bill. I ought to have told you at once,
but――well, I was sort of peeved at you and I didn’t. Finally, when it
got to be supper time and I hadn’t told you, I was ashamed to, and so
I stuck the bill in an envelope and put it in the mail. That’s all;
except that someone――I guess it was ‘Granny’ Lockwood: he’s always
mooning around the landscape――saw me give the money to Plaister and
told ‘Jerry.’”
There was a moment’s silence. Then George said: “But you could have
told ‘Jerry’ the truth, Ted.”
“What good would that have done? He’d have put Saunders on ‘pro,’ and
that’s just what I was working against. Don’t you see?”
“Mighty white,” muttered Hal.
“I wish you had told me, Ted,” said George. “I talked a good deal of
rough stuff. I’m sorry, kid.”
“That’s all right,” said Ted. “You didn’t know. You see, I’d promised
Saunders not to talk about it.”
“Bowman, you’re a perfect brick,” exclaimed Hal. “I know you didn’t do
it on my account, but you got me out of a beast of a hole, and――and I’m
mighty grateful. And you’ll get that money back just as soon as I get
home. I’ll tell dad the whole story and he’ll come across, never fear.
Of course I’ll have to promise to keep inside my allowance after this,
but I guess I’m about ready to, anyhow. Last Monday I’d have promised
anything! And I’ll see ‘Jerry’ at once――――”
“There is no sense in doing that,” interrupted Ted. “There’s only four
more days of school and I don’t mind.”
“But you’re in wrong with faculty――――”
“Not very. ‘Jerry’ was awfully decent. Said my record was so good he
wouldn’t be hard on me. There’s no use in his owning up, is there,
George?”
“No, I don’t think there is,” answered George after a moment’s
consideration. “Ted’s taken your punishment and you’ve learned your
lesson――I hope.”
“I have,” agreed Hal, emphatically. “But it doesn’t seem fair to――to
Ted. He was done out of playing, and a lot of fellows think hardly of
him――――”
“Shucks,” said Ted, “I don’t mind. You fellows know how it was, and the
others will forget by next Fall. And we won. I’m satisfied.”
“We won,” said George, “because of what you did, Ted, and for no other
reason. I don’t see any way to give you credit for it without getting
Hal into trouble, but there’s one thing I can do, and I’m going to do
it.”
“What?” asked Ted uneasily.
“See that you get your W.”
“Bully!” applauded Hal. “Only, do you think you really can? If Ted
didn’t play――――”
“Who says he didn’t?” demanded George. “He must have. It was his play
that won!”
THE GREAT PECK
Eight of us were in Pete Rankin’s room that night, all freshies and all
candidates for the ’21 football team, unless you except this fellow
Harold Peck that I’m telling you about. Jim Phelan had brought him
along, because, he said, he looked lonesome. Jim had planned to room
with a chap he had chummed with at Hollins, but he had failed in exams
and faculty had stung him with Peck. That’s one drawback to rooming
in the yard at Erskine: you can’t always choose your roommate. Peck
was sort of finely cut, with small, well-made features, dark hair
and eyes and a good deal of color in his face. And he was a swell
little dresser. Rather an attractive kid, on the whole, and maybe a
year younger than most of us there. He didn’t make much of a splash
that night, though, for he just sat quiet on Pete’s trunk and looked
interested and polite. Being polite was Peck’s specialty. I never knew
a chap with more different ways of thanking you or begging your pardon.
We were mostly Hollins or Enwright fellows, and we were there to get
the freshman football team started. Dave Walker, the Varsity captain,
dropped in for a few minutes and helped us out; and after he had gone
again we got to talking about our chances of turning out a good enough
eleven to beat the Robinson freshies, and who would play where, and one
thing and another, and presently Bob Saunders, who had played half for
Enwright last year, asked: “What have we got for quarterback material,
fellows?”
Trask, another Enwright chap, said: “Kingsley,” but no one enthused.
Tom Kingsley had been a second choice quarter on Trask’s team and had
been fairly punk, we Hollins crowd thought. Pete Rankin yawned and said
he guessed we’d find a couple of decent quarters all right, and Jim
Phelan said, sure, you can always catch a quarter when he was young and
train him.
“I think I’d like to try that job,” I said. “I guess it’s easier than
playing tackle. You don’t have to exert yourself. You just shove the
ball to someone else. It’s a cinch!”
“You’d make a swell little quarterback,” laughed Pete. “You’re just
built for it, Joe.”
“Well, I’m down to a hundred and eighty-one and a half――――”
“I don’t think I ever saw a crackerjack quarter,” Jim Phelan butted in,
“who wasn’t sort of small. Did you, Pete? Remember Warner, of two years
ago? He was my notion of a properly built lad for the quarter. Wasn’t
he a wonder?” Pete said yes, and “Toots” Hanscom, who will take either
end of any argument you can start, tried to prove Jim all wrong, and
then everyone took a hand. But Jim is stubborn, and he hung out for the
small kind. “Take a chap like――well, like Peck there. If he knows the
game he will play all around your heavy man or your tall one.”
Everyone turned to size Peck up, and he looked embarrassed, and Toots
sniffed and asked him his weight.
“About a hundred and forty-two, I think,” said Peck.
“Thought so. He’d have a swell chance, Jim, against those husky
Robinson freshies!”
“Sure he would,” answered Jim, stoutly. “I don’t say he’d be a marvel
at plugging the line, but I do say that if Peck was a football man a
good coach could take hold of him and make a rattling good quarter of
him. It isn’t beef that counts in a quarter, Toots. It’s brains and pep
and knowledge of football.”
“Piffle! Peck wouldn’t last five minutes!”
“Better induce Mr. Peck to come out,” suggested Monty Fellows. “Then we
can see who’s right.”
Jim started to hedge. “I didn’t say Peck was the man. I said a fellow
of his size and build. Peck isn’t a football player, and so it wouldn’t
prove anything if he tried it.”
“Haven’t you ever played at all, Mr. Peck?” asked Pete.
“Oh, yes, thanks,” replied Peck. “We had a rather good football team at
my school and I――er――I tried for it year before last. But, of course, I
was pretty light, you see――――”
“You could soon beef up, I’d say,” said Pete. “Maybe you’d have better
luck this time. Had you thought of it?”
“Why――why, I did mention it to Phelan, but he thought I’d better wait
until I was a bit heavier――――”
Everyone laughed at Jim then, and Jim tried to explain that he hadn’t
thought of Peck as a quarter. “Just the same,” he said stoutly, “I wish
he would come out and try for the position. I’ll risk it! I’ll bet he
will make good! Come on, now, what price Peck?”
“Oh, really,” began Peck, “you mustn’t hope much of me, Phelan! You
see――――”
“That’s all right! You agree to try for the quarterback position and do
as you’re told and work hard and――――”
“And grow a few inches,” said Toots slyly.
“And I’ll guarantee that you’ll be third-string quarter or better by
the end of the season! What do you say?”
“Why, it’s very flattering,” answered Peck, looking around and smiling
deprecatingly. He had a nice smile, had Peck. “But I’d be awfully
afraid of disappointing you.”
“I’ll risk that,” said Jim. “You show up to-morrow at three-thirty,
then.”
Peck murmured something that sounded like consent and Jimmy Sortwell
asked: “Where is your home, Mr. Peck?”
“Winstead, Maryland.”
“Oh,” said Jimmy. “I asked because I wondered if you were any relation
to the Peck who played on the Elm Park High School team last year.”
“What is his first name, please?” asked Peck.
“I don’t know that I ever heard it. I never met him, but the team came
on from Chicago last December and played a post season game with one of
the Boston teams and licked the stuffing out of them. This fellow Peck
was quarter, and he was a wonder. Don’t you fellows remember reading
about him? Some of the papers in the East here made him All-Scholastic
quarter, and that’s going some, for they hate to name anyone west of
Albany!”
“Seems to me I remember something about a remarkable quarter on some
Western team that played around here last year,” agreed Pete. “Don’t
recall his name, though.”
“It was probably this fellow I’m telling of. He wasn’t much bigger than
you, either, Peck, I’d say. Perhaps a little heavier, eight or ten
pounds. He was a stunning player, though, a regular marvel. And that
sort of helps out your contention, Jim.”
“I don’t believe I have any relatives in the West,” said Peck. “Of
course, there might be some distant ones――――”
“Well, if you take after your namesake,” laughed Burton Alley, “we
won’t kick a mite!”
“Thanks,” said Peck, “but, of course, you mustn’t expect much of me.
There’s a great deal to learn about football.”
“Well, there’s more to it than croquet,” said Toots dryly, “but don’t
let that scare you. With Jim looking after you you ought to get along
fine!”
“Really, do you think so?” asked Peck, gratefully. “Thank you ever so
much!”
* * * * *
We had a whooping big freshman class that year and didn’t expect much
trouble in finding all the material we needed. But we had reckoned
without the war. A lot of fellows were so full of it that they couldn’t
see football. There was talk of introducing military training at
Erskine, too, and although that didn’t come until later, there was
a lot of excitement over it. Of course, we were all strong for the
military stuff, but some of us couldn’t see the necessity for making
the world safe for Democracy before we had knocked the tar out of the
Robinson freshmen. It was more than a week after college had started
when we finally got four full squads together. The Athletic Committee
assigned us a Graduate School chap named Goss as coach. He had played
tackle for Erskine three years before. We didn’t cheer for him much at
first, but he turned out fine. He wasn’t much on the up-to-the-minute
stuff, but he was a corking tactician and hard as nails when it came
to discipline. And he was so set on teaching the rudiments before the
frills that we were soon calling him “Old Rudy.”
Faculty held us down to a six-game schedule, which was a shame, for
we could have licked any team of our weight in New England. Besides,
the Varsity was all shot to pieces, because so many last year men had
enlisted, and was a sort of a joke, and we always took the crowds
away from her. We were really the big noise that Fall and should have
been allowed a decent schedule. Of course, every good team has its
troubles, and ours began after the Connellsville game. We beat her,
all right, but she laid up two of our best linesmen and proved that
neither Kingsley nor Walker was the right man for quarter. We had two
other candidates for the position in Ramsey and Peck. There wasn’t
much to choose between them, it looked; only Peck had a good press
agent and Ramsey hadn’t. Jim Phelan was still backing his roommate
strong. Toots Hanscom told us that Jim was coaching Peck for an hour
every evening. Said he dropped into their room in McLean one night and
found Jim holding the book on Harold and putting him through a regular
exam! Anyhow, Peck was certainly coming all the time, and when we met
the Taylor freshies the next Saturday he had his chance in the third
period. He got mixed a couple of times, but I couldn’t see any signs of
nervousness, and he surely made us hump ourselves. And he played his
position mighty well besides. Jim certainly had no kick coming against
his pupil, for Peck played good football that day, barring those two
mistakes in signals, and ended up in the last three or four minutes
with as pretty a forward pass to Trask as you’d want to see. Trask
didn’t quite make the goal line, though, and so we accepted our first
defeat, Taylor nosing out 12 to 11. But we’d played good ball, and we
knew it, and the school knew it. And you can bet that Taylor knew it,
too, for she was just about all in when the whistle sounded.
Peck got quite a lot of kind words that day, and Jim Phelan went around
saying “What did I tell you?” and making himself generally obnoxious.
But that didn’t win Peck the quarterback position, for Kingsley was
still the better man, especially when he was going well, and young
Peck went back to the second squad Monday, and Jim spoke darkly of
“bonehead coaches.” More trouble developed that week: Wednesday, I
think it was. Pete Rankin――I forgot to say that we’d elected him
captain without much opposition from the Enwright crowd――hurt his knee
in a scrimmage and had to lay off. And one or two other chaps went
wunky and so Townsend Tech didn’t have much trouble with us, three days
later. Kingsley started at quarter and Peck didn’t get a show until
the last of the third period. Then he played the same nice game he’d
played the week before and speeded us up so that we managed to score
our second touchdown. And, considering that we had six second- or
third-string fellows in the line-up by that time, that wasn’t so poor.
And 11 to 20 didn’t sound as bad as 7 to 20, either. So Peck got the
glad hand in the locker room afterwards and old Rudy stopped him on his
way to the showers and spoke kind words.
* * * * *
By that time the college was beginning to sit up and take notice of
Peck. Fellows asked where he’d played before, what school he’d come
from and so on. No one seemed to know, and when you asked Peck himself
he was sort of vague, and so blamed polite that you didn’t have the
crust to keep on asking. But I made out that he’d skipped around
between two or three schools down Maryland way, and I believed it
until two things came off simultaneously. The first was Peck’s sudden
“arrival” in football. It occurred the Thursday after the Townsend
fracas. Kingsley was suffering from shell shock by reason of having
been slammed around by big Sanford, the Townsend fullback, in the
third quarter, and old Rudy started Peck when the scrimmage began.
Well, I don’t know what had got into little Harold that day; or I
didn’t know then. Afterward I thought I had an inkling. Anyway, he
was a revelation. Pete Rankin said awedly that Peck was a composite
reincarnation of Eckersall and Daly. So far as I know, those two
old-timers are still alive and kicking, but you get Pete’s idea. He
meant that Peck was a peach of a quarter that day; and that goes double
with me. We went up against the Varsity scrubs, and they were a heavy,
scrappy bunch, even if they didn’t have much team play. Peck seemed
to sense just the sort of medicine that would do ’em the most good,
and he proceeded to dose it out to them right from the kick-off. He
used Saunders and Hanscom for play after play until we were down to
the scrub’s twenty-yard line, bringing Hanscom around from right end
and busting him through left tackle. He and Saunders were light and
quick, and they got the distance in three plays regularly. Then, down
on the twenty, he switched to his other backs, Fellows and Curtis,
and piled ’em through to the two yards. The scrubs pulled themselves
together then, and two tries failed and Peck gave the pass to Curtis
for an overhead heave to Saunders. But Bob was spilled in his tracks
and, with three to go and one down left, Peck faked a try at goal and
kited around his left end with the pigskin cuddled under his elbow and
slipped across the line near the corner very nicely.
Four minutes later we scored again. The scrub’s kick-off was short and
I wrapped myself around it and busted along for nearly twenty yards
and landed the ball on the forty. Then Saunders slipped up for the
first time and Peck tried a forward to Hanscom that grounded. Curtis
smashed through for four and then Peck took the law into his own hands
again and, faking a pass to Saunders, hid the ball until the scrubs
were coming through. Then he found his hole, slipped right through the
middle of the line, ducked and squirmed past the secondary defense and
raced off straight for the goal. And believe me, that kid could run!
The scrub quarter was the only man with any license to stop him, and
Peck fooled him near the thirty yards, and went right on and placed old
Mister Pigskin squarely between the posts.
I’d got sort of roughly handled by the big mutts when they stopped me
after I’d caught the kick-off and Old Rudy yanked me out, and so I
didn’t see any more of the scrimmage. But they said that Peck kept it
up right to the end, making another corking run from near the scrub’s
forty to her five, and handling the team like a veteran. Monty Fellows,
who could spill language that would gag you or me, said that Peck was
inspired and that he had “indubitably vindicated Phelan’s contention.”
I thought so, too, though not in just those words, and so when I ran
across Jim on the way to College Hall after dinner that evening I
started to hand him a few bouquets. But he only grunted and looked
peeved, and I eased up and asked: “What’s jangling your heart strings,
Jim? I should think you’d be pleased to see little Harold vindicating
your――er――whatyoucallems.” He sometimes called him Harold to annoy Jim.
“You would, eh?” growled Jim.
“Sure I would! Haven’t you toiled with the kid all Fall and taught him
all he knows and everything?”
“I thought so,” said Jim significantly.
“What do you mean, thought so? Who else is responsible? Of course, I’m
not saying Peck wouldn’t have learned football after a fashion even if
you hadn’t――――”
Jim laughed harshly, like a villain in a play. “Say, Joe, you do a lot
of talking with your mouth sometimes, but maybe you can keep a secret.
Can you?”
“Secrecy’s my middle name. Shoot!”
And after a minute Jim shot. “He fooled me, all right,” he began
ruefully. “I thought he was as green as grass and even when he’d learn
a thing too blamed quick to be natural I didn’t suspect. I said, ‘It’s
just natural football instinct he’s got. You can’t explain it any other
way.’ Wasn’t I the bonehead?”
“Sure! But what――――”
“Listen. This morning I wanted a collar stud. Mine had rolled under the
bed or somewhere and it was late. So I pulled open Harold’s top drawer.
I knew he had a little fancy-colored box there where he kept studs and
things and as he had gone to breakfast I thought I’d just help myself
to one. What do you suppose was the first thing I saw when I lifted the
lid?”
“Great big snake?”
“Cut the comedy! One of these little gold footballs you wear on your
watch chain!”
“Well?” I asked, not catching the idea.
“There was engraving on it and I read what it said. ‘E. P. H. S.,
1917,’ Joe! What do you know about that?”
“Still I don’t get you. What’s E. P. S. stand for?”
“E. P. H. S., you dummy! Elm Park High School! Don’t you remember
Sortwell telling about a fellow named Peck who’d played with Elm Park
and asking Harold if he was any relation?”
“Oh!” said I. “Now I savvy! But, look here, Jim, you don’t think
Harold’s this Elm Park star! Why, didn’t he say――――”
“No, he didn’t,” answered Jim sourly. “He was mighty careful not to.
He said maybe Peck was a distant relative or something. And he let me
teach him how to play quarterback! Must have had lots of good laughs at
me, eh? If I hadn’t been an utter idiot I’d have tumbled to the truth
long ago. Why, no one could pick up the game the way he has! Look at
the way he played to-day! He fooled the whole bunch of us, anyway. I
wasn’t the only come-on. Only, why? What did he do it for?”
“Search me! But look here, what does he say? Has he fessed up?”