“TUBBY” PACKS A BAG
Gerald hadn’t seen Dan for several days, and on Saturday he set out
shortly before twelve, having gone through the form of eating an early
luncheon, with eager steps. Gerald didn’t use the automobile nowadays
when he wanted to merely go around the corner. Dan had laughed him out
of that. All the way through the Yardley woods and up the hill Gerald
tasted in anticipation the delight and excitement of the afternoon’s
contest. The game was to begin at two o’clock and Gerald hoped to have
a half-hour with Dan before it. He went up to Dan’s room, found it
empty and sat down to wait. After awhile Tubby appeared. He didn’t seem
pleased to discover Gerald in possession, and his stare of surprise
gave place to a frown of annoyance. Gerald felt that he ought to
apologize.
“I wanted to see Dan,” he said, “but I can wait outside just as well if
you want to--to dress or anything.”
Tubby hesitated. His first impulse was to drive Gerald out, to give
vent to the dislike which he entertained for the younger boy. But
Tubby was in a strange mood to-day, and instead he only said, almost
graciously, “I’m not going to dress--much. You can stay here.”
Then he looked at his watch, frowned and asked Gerald the time.
“Twenty-two minutes of one,” answered Gerald, looking at his own watch.
Tubby corrected his timepiece with a growl for its eccentricities. “I
wonder when Dan will be here,” pursued Gerald timidly. “Have you seen
him lately?”
“Saw him in commons at dinner,” replied Tubby.
“Oh, have you had dinner?”
“Yes, had it early on account of the game. I suppose you knew there was
to be a game?” The irony was lost on Gerald.
“You bet,” he answered. “I’m going to see it. I wouldn’t miss it for
anything. I hope Dan will do something fine.”
“Fine? How do you mean?” asked Tubby, turning to view the other
curiously.
“I mean play a great game! Make a touchdown or something!”
“Oh!” Tubby was silent a moment. Then he smiled maliciously. “Dan isn’t
going to play,” he said.
“He isn’t! Why--what--”
“Haven’t you heard?” asked Tubby easily. “He’s on probation. They
say--in fact he’s owned up to it--that he painted the front of Dudley
the other night.”
“Painted it?”
“Yes, painted ‘Now for Broadwood!’ all along the front in blue letters.
Faculty was awfully peeved and put Alf Loring and the fellow he rooms
with on probation. They found the paint pot under a bed in their room.
Then Dan confessed to it and so they let Loring off and put him on.”
“And he can’t play?” cried Gerald incredulously.
“Of course not; you can’t do much of anything if you’re on
probation--except study!”
“I don’t believe he ever did it!”
“But he’s acknowledged it. It--” Tubby looked at Gerald intently--“was
Sunday night.”
“Why, he was with me Sunday night! He came over in the afternoon and
stayed until almost ten o’clock! He couldn’t have done it, Jones!”
Tubby shrugged his shoulders.
“Well, he says he did! I guess he knows.”
He looked at his watch again, arose and wandered somewhat restlessly
about the room, glancing at Gerald now and then and pausing to listen
to the sounds in the corridor. Finally,
“I guess he isn’t coming up here,” he said carelessly. “Maybe he’s gone
over to the library or somewhere.”
“Can’t he see the game?” asked Gerald anxiously.
“Not he! He can’t go off the grounds. He might watch it from the hill,
though. I guess he will do that.”
“I--I’ll wait a few minutes longer, I think, if you don’t mind,” said
Gerald troubledly. Tubby shrugged his shoulders.
“Wait as long as you like,” he said. He went to his closet and got down
his bag, a big yellow Gladstone. Then he pulled open the drawers of his
bureau and began transferring some of his clothes to the bag.
“Are you going away?” asked Gerald.
“Yes, going home over Sunday,” replied Tubby. “I’m sick of this place.
Got to have a change.” He wandered along his side of the room, adding a
book or a photograph or some trifle to the contents of the bag. Finally
it was filled and strapped. Tubby set it at the foot of his bed, placed
coat and umbrella over it and drew his chair to the table. For the next
quarter of an hour he wrote, pausing and scowling over his task. When
he had finished three notes sealed and addressed, lay beside him. He
looked at his watch. It was after one o’clock.
“What time does your train go?” asked Gerald politely.
“One-forty-three,” was the answer in preoccupied tones. Then, “Say,
Pennimore, I wish you’d do me a favor. I want this note to get to
Payson, the coach, right away. Will you take it to him? I won’t have
time myself. Do you mind?”
“Not at all; I’ll be very glad to,” replied Gerald eagerly.
“All right. And here’s one for Dan. You might hand it to him when
you see him. It’s something I meant to see him about before I went.
It--it’s kind of important. You won’t forget it, will you?”
“No, I’ll find him right away.”
“Well, but the one to Payson is the most important. So just look him up
first. I’m much obliged.” Tubby dropped the third note into his pocket
and put on his cap. “I’ve got to go across to the Office a minute.
Coming along? I don’t think Dan’s coming up here. You’ll probably find
him around the grounds somewhere.”
They went out together, Tubby leading the way along the corridor and
down the stairs. Outside he remarked:
“Dan says you’re coming here after Christmas.”
“Yes, I am,” replied Gerald uneasily, dreading the next question.
“Got your room yet?”
“No, not yet. Father has spoken about it, though.”
“I see. Thought perhaps you and Dan would room together.”
“I’d like to,” answered Gerald, “but--I don’t know--”
“You’d better. He’s a good sort, Dan is. He and I--” there was pride in
Tubby’s voice--“have been pretty good chums.”
“But won’t you--” began Gerald.
“Me?” said Tubby carelessly. “Oh, I may decide to change my room. You
can’t tell. Perhaps I won’t be here after Christmas.”
“Oh, I hope you will,” murmured Gerald.
“Oh, cut it out!” It was the old Tubby once more. “You make me sick,
you do, Pennimore. What’s the good of lying about it? You know blamed
well you wouldn’t care if I never came back.”
“Not when you talk that way,” returned Gerald with spirit. “But when
you’re nice--”
Tubby laughed and flushed. They had reached the entrance to Oxford.
“You’re a queer guy,” he said, and nodded. “Well, so long. See you
again maybe. Don’t forget the note to Payson.”
“I won’t. Good-bye, Jones. I hope you’ll have a pleasant visit home.”
“Oh, I’m sure to,” answered Tubby ironically. “They’ll all be terribly
pleased to see me! So long!”
He disappeared into the building and Gerald turned his steps toward the
gymnasium, seeking Dan and Payson.
But he wasn’t destined to find Dan just then, for that youth was two
miles away, loitering dejectedly along the shore. Dinner had been at
twelve o’clock, a breathless, excited repast for everyone, Dan thought,
save himself. He had felt terribly out of it all, and, although he
desired Yardley to win the game as much as any of her supporters,
he felt that he couldn’t remain around school to watch the fellows
trooping down to the field. He had eaten little and his dinner was soon
over. Afterwards he had wandered across the Prospect and the railway
bridge and, without thinking, had plunged into the woods.
For awhile his main desire had been to place distance between himself
and the school, to get away somewhere where he wouldn’t keep
recollecting every minute what he had missed. But one can’t walk away
from recollection, and, although he had tramped a good two miles along
the Sound, his thoughts were still on the game. What a game it would
be! And how he hated Williams who would have his place at left end! If
only it wasn’t the last game of the year! Who knew what might happen
before next Fall; why, he might be dead or something! Perhaps to-day
was his last chance to play, and here he was on probation--!
Probation!
He stopped suddenly and looked about him. Why, he had no business
here, off of the school grounds! He had forgotten; he must get back at
once. He turned and hurriedly retraced his steps, praying that none of
the Faculty would see him before he was once more within bounds. He
didn’t feel especially guilty about it, since he had disobeyed quite
unintentionally, but it might not be easy to convince the Doctor of his
innocence. He breathed freer when he was once more across the bridge.
The grounds and buildings looked strangely empty and were uncommonly
quiet. He looked at his watch and found that it was five minutes of
two. And at that moment, borne on the breeze, came, faint but distinct,
the long-drawn cheers of Yardley. Dan clenched his hands and hurried
toward Clarke Hall. Once past the entrance the disturbing sounds no
longer reached him. He closed the door of his room and turned the key
in the lock, as though the better to shut out sound, tossed his cap
aside and picked up a book desperately.
Suddenly, as his gaze roamed from the book, it occurred to him that
Tubby’s side of the room looked strangely bare; most of his photographs
had disappeared and the top of his dresser was denuded of toilet
articles. He wondered a moment. But the solution didn’t come to him
and his thoughts returned to the game. Ten minutes passed. He had read
only a page of the book and had not the slightest idea what it had
meant. Footsteps sounded down the corridor and came rapidly nearer.
There was a knock at the door. Gerald’s voice cried “Dan! Dan! Are you
in here?” A hand tried the door. Dan made no answer. He didn’t want
to talk to Gerald just then. There was another challenge, a pause and
then the footsteps hurried off again. Downstairs the front door slammed
subduedly. Dan took up his book again. But it was no use, and presently
he donned his cap and hurried as fast as Gerald had done down the
stairs and out of the building. He had to know how the game was going!
He turned into the Yard at the corner and crossed it rapidly. He might
not leave the ground but there was nothing to keep him from seeing the
game from the edge of the hill or--He gave a grunt of satisfaction.
The gymnasium! That was it! There was a window on the running track
looking directly down upon the field which lay only a few hundred yards
distant. The gymnasium was silent. The afternoon sunlight streamed in
at the big westerly windows, high up under the peak of the roof, and
motes of dust swam in the golden paths it made. He climbed the stairs
to the track and hurried to the window on the north. Two big blue and
green flies were buzzing fretfully against the panes. Before him was
the meadow, the path, the tennis courts and the field, the latter
fringed with figures. The two stands, one on each side of the gridiron,
were packed with spectators and the blue banners of Yardley and the
green of Broadwood were everywhere. On the field, a golden-yellow
expanse of sun-bathed autumn turf, two thin lines were facing each
other. A white-sweatered referee skipped nimbly out of the way, the
lines surged together in a sudden confused jumble of struggling
canvas-clothed forms, there was a moment of indecision, the confusion
melted away, order grew out of chaos and once more the lines faced,
now five yards nearer the south goal. Yardley had made first down;
Dan saw the linesmen trot along with the poles and chain. He looked
at his watch. The time was twenty minutes after two; only fifteen
minutes remained of the first half. If only he knew whether any scoring
had been done! He believed that if he could get to the top of the
window he could look over the corner of the nearest stand and see the
score-board. But there was nothing to hold on by. He thought a moment
and then raced across to the trophy room, returning presently with a
chair. By standing on the back of it he could see. The score-board was
blank of figures!
He descended until his feet were on the chair-seat, and so, with the
two flies buzzing about him, and a little ray of sunlight on his head,
he stood and watched the battle. Twice messengers hurried up the
path below him and hurried back again. Once he heard the door open
downstairs, heard footsteps on the floor below, but he was too intent
on the struggle to heed. He tried to open the window that he might hear
the sound of the referee’s whistle or the grunting of the umpire’s
horn, but the casement stuck fast and all his strength could not budge
it.
Yardley was down on Broadwood’s fifteen yards now and Loring was
smashing the backs against the green line. But the gains were small.
Only a yard that time through tackle. Dan knew intuitively that it
was the third down and held his breath as the lines formed again and
Loring’s back bent and his head turned as he shouted his signals. Then
the backs took up the punt formation, the ball arched slowly back
into Capes’ outstretched hands, the field sped to the right. It was a
forward pass, but--ah, there was Williams getting through at the left!
He was stopped! No, he was by! Good old Williams! Now Capes had turned
and was running to the left, the ball at arms length for throwing. And
there went the pass, too high, maybe, but straight as an arrow toward
the waiting left end. If Williams would only get it! He would! He had
it! No, Broadwood’s right half had thrust him aside at the last instant
and a green-stockinged youth was snuggling the ball to earth! Dan
groaned. A roar of delight and relief arose from the farther stand and
green flags waved in the sunlight.
Down the field sped the ball from the powerful toe of Broadwood’s
punter and for awhile the play was hidden from Dan by the stand.
He climbed to the back of the chair again, but still he could see
nothing. There was five minutes of play left. At the lower end of the
gridiron the crowds were pushing onto the field. That meant that the
ball was near the side-line well up at the other end. But still the
players were hidden. Then, suddenly, like a dart from a cross-bow, a
green-shirted form swept into sight, the ball clutched in the crook
of his arm. It was all over in the instant. Broadwood had scored! The
farther stand was crazy with delight and the cheers rolled up against
the closed window in a cloud of sound. Dan groaned. That was his
contribution to the noise. Broadwood kicked the goal. The score-board
was no longer barren of figures, for a big 6 stood after the word
“Opponents.” There was little more done before the whistle blew, and
the stands partly emptied as the spectators stretched their cramped
limbs.
Dan got down from his chair and stretched his own, finding comfort in
the thought that there still remained another thirty-five minutes of
play. Lots of scoring could be done in that time. Many a game had been
won in a handful of seconds! Yardley had almost scored once; the next
time she would do it! He wondered how that Broadwood man had got away.
Let’s see, it had been--by Jove, yes, it had been around left end! Dan
was but human, and for an instant he derived a spice of satisfaction
from the thought that perhaps the fellows and Payson were wishing that
they had him at the left of the line. But that was only momentary. He
was sorry for Williams. Williams was a good sort, and it was no fault
of his that he had Dan’s place.
The ten minutes of intermission went slowly to the solitary watcher up
there on the running track, but at last the teams trotted out again
and at last the battle was renewed. It was Yardley’s kick-off and once
more the play passed from sight behind the nearest grand-stand. Minutes
went by. Now and then the ball arched into sight against the sky, but
of the players nothing was to be seen by Dan save, occasionally, Loring
as he trotted back for a punt. Ten minutes had already passed. Time had
been called for some reason. Dan knew that by the way the spectators
along the line turned their attention from the field. Dan’s attention
wandered too, wandered to a figure hurrying up the path. It was Ridge
of the Second. At the moment Dan recognized him, Ridge, as though
conscious of the other’s regard, raised his eyes to the window. Dan
heard a shout, saw Ridge wave a hand and break into a run. The next
moment the door banged downstairs and Ridge was shouting up to him.
“Vinton! Dan Vinton! Come on, you fool! Get your things on! Payson
wants you! You’re to go in! We’ve been looking for you for hours!
Hurry, man, hurry! Williams is all in, and--”
“Do you mean I’m to play?” shrieked Dan, leaning over the railing and
regarding the breathless Ridge with astounded countenance.
“Of course! Will you get a move on?”
“But I can’t play! I’m on probation! I’m--”
“I don’t know anything about that,” yelled Ridge in a panic of
impatience. “Payson says you’re to play, and play you shall if I have
to carry you down there myself! Vinton, for the love of Mike, get your
togs on! I’ll help you! Don’t stand there with your mouth open like a
blamed idiot! Can’t you move? Don’t you understand that--”
But Dan was moving now.