A week later the awkward squad ceased to exist. Some few of the
members, discouraged by the sheer irksomeness of the labor, voluntarily
resigned; others, who showed no football possibilities, were dismissed,
and the rest, perhaps ten in all, went to Squad C. Among the latter
was Harry. Hugh Barrett, the big left guard, who had reigned over the
awkward ones, had taken a sort of professional interest in Harry, an
interest evinced by muttered words or grunts of commendation at first
and by sharp criticisms later. Once he asked the younger boy:
“You fellow in the red shirt! Where’d you learn to catch a ball that
way?”
“At home. I played on my high school team three years,” answered Harry.
Barrett grunted.
“Three years, eh? How old are you now?”
“Fifteen.”
“Must have started young,” muttered Barrett. “What’s your name?”
“Danforth.”
“Well, take charge here, Danforth, till I get back. Keep ’em passing.”
Meanwhile Harry had settled down into his groove at school. Lessons
were proving a bit harder than expected, but, thanks to a summer of
coaching at the hands of one of the high school instructors, he was
keeping up his end. Tracey Colgan, with whom Harry roomed in Number
16 Temple Hall, was turning out to be a much more companionable and
likable fellow than Harry had at first hoped for. Tracey came from some
small town in the vicinity of Boston and possessed all the frigidity
of manner popularly associated with New Englanders. But underneath the
icy coating was a warm heart and a liveliness of temperament quite
unsuspected. After Harry got to know him better――and you can’t room
with a chap very long without getting to know him――he liked him very
much. He was rather tall and thin, good-looking in a way――nice-looking
would be a better word for it――and excruciatingly clean and neat. It
seemed to Harry that Tracey was forever bathing or scrubbing, while as
for his attire a badly tied scarf made him positively wretched and he
consumed more time in dressing than Harry took for his entire morning
preparations! Tracey was rather a grind, which, perhaps, was fortunate,
since just at this time Harry needed some one to set him an example in
studiousness. Not that Harry didn’t want to study, for he did. He had
no mistaken notions of what he was at Barnstead for. But football is
a hard taskmaster, he was an enthusiastic lover of it, and previous
success had made him ambitious to win further honors. In short, during
those first two months of school he was inclined to spend a little too
much time and energy on football and not enough on his lessons.
Perry Vose, for Tracey had easily supplied the name of the boy when
Harry had recounted his adventure, had so far not troubled Harry again.
Once or twice, on the field or in School Hall, they had passed, but
there had been no display of hostility other than a scowl. After he had
cooled off Harry had been a little ashamed and regretful of his loss
of temper. As Tracey had pointed out, a new fellow was liable to a good
deal of kidding and even some roughing-up at the hands of the older
boys. It was all a part of getting settled down. Tracey thought his
chum had escaped rather easily, and to prove it narrated some fairly
hair-raising hazing exploits that he knew of. As for the chap who had
befriended him that day, Harry had only glimpsed him once or twice from
a distance, not a surprising fact when it is considered that Barnstead
Academy boasted of some two hundred and forty pupils.
Of course life wasn’t quite all football for Harry. Recitations
averaged four hours a day for the Lower Middle Class, of which he was a
member, and the evenings were largely given over to study. And several
times he and Tracey met on the tennis court in the morning after a
hurried breakfast and played a set or more before the bell summoned
them to first recitation. And Sundays were in the nature of holidays.
There was church in the forenoon in the school chapel, but after that
the rest of the day was theirs for whatever orderly recreation they
chose. Tracey was fond of walking and he and Harry and Joe Phillips,
the football manager, often took long, wandering trips about the autumn
country. The discovery of chestnut trees was one of their delights.
The burs had not yet begun to open, but the boys set down the location
of the trees in their minds and bided their time. As the days went by
Harry’s circle of acquaintances increased in a haphazard and natural
way. You sat next to a fellow in class and spoke to him about some
trivial matter. Then you nodded to him when you passed him on the
campus. And finally you dropped into his room by invitation, or he
dropped into yours. And in dining-hall, of course, it took but one
or two days to get on speaking terms, at least, with the fellows at
your table. At the end of his first fortnight Harry was surprised to
discover how large a circle of speaking acquaintances he had. Of real
friends he had so far but one, Tracey. Friendships aren’t made in a day
even at preparatory school. Next to Tracey, Joe Phillips was the fellow
he knew best. Joe, however, was several years older than Harry and,
while he was a fine chap in every way, Harry experienced no affection
for him. Perhaps Harry made acquaintances more easily than the average
boy. He was eminently attractive to look at, had a winning smile, could
listen as well as talk, and was, in short, thoroughly companionable.
On Squad C Harry performed creditably for a week. Work at the dummy
had begun and a provisional eleven had been made up. The first game
was but a few days away. Harry had been placed with the halfbacks, a
position for which his experience recommended him. Squad C began to
thin out as the first contest drew near. Some of the fellows went to
the first team as third substitutes, others went to Squad B, which had
now developed into the second team, in like capacities, and a few fell
out of the race. Just before the Belton game Harry was taken on to the
second and a few days later Squad C, like Squad Z, ceased to exist. By
that time the number of candidates had dwindled from sixty-odd to about
forty, and most of those who remained were certain to last the season
out either on the school team or the second, barring accidents. Harry
was glad to get into the second team fold, but he had no intention of
remaining there.
The Belton game, looked on beforehand as not much more than a good
practice, proved a tough contest and Barnstead won out eventually by
the slim margin of a kicked goal, the final score being 7–6. That was
on a Saturday, the last Saturday but one in September, and on the
following Monday Coach Worden made a number of changes in the line-up
of the first team. Several substitutes were given opportunities to
show what they could do, while Jones, who had exhibited remarkably
poor generalship as quarter in Saturday’s game, gave place to Bob
Peel, a small, freckle-faced youth with red hair and any amount of
vim. Unfortunately, however, Peel, while a good director, was only a
mediocre player in the backfield, and that Monday afternoon a fumble
by him of a long punt paved the way for a touchdown by the second and
a subsequent victory. Harry got in that day at left halfback for a
full ten-minute period, and after the scrimmage was over the school
was relishing the knowledge of a discovery. For in ten minutes Harry,
using every bit of the daring, reckless courage that had brought him
fame at Hillston, and all the knowledge he had gained since, dashed
through the first team’s defense or around its drawn-in ends for long
gains time after time and opened Coach Worden’s eyes to the fact that
here was a youngster worth watching and cultivating. Hugh Barrett, even
when a play with Harry hugging the ball went through his position,
grunted commendation and nodded his head knowingly. He had, he told
himself, seen from the first that Danforth had something in him. So
Barnstead Academy took a sensation with it up the hill and back to
the dormitories, and the sensation was the sudden appearance on the
football horizon of a new star whose name was Danforth!
Barnstead met Cruger’s School and Thurston Polytechnic on succeeding
Saturdays――there were no mid-week games――and scored one victory and
met one defeat. The victory was overwhelming and the defeat, at the
hands of Thurston, a heavier and far more experienced team, was
honorable. Barnstead reached the middle of the season hopeful and
determined. Harry was still on the second team and was still making
good. Of course he had much to learn, but he was learning it fast. And
the school at large, having enjoyed its sensation, settled down to a
hearty admiration of “the kid halfback,” as they called him and looked
for great things from him. Some criticism was aired because Worden
did not at once move Harry from the second to the first. There were
plenty of critics who declared that “young Danforth could play rings
around Norman.” Norman was the present first choice for left half, a
hard-working but not especially brilliant youth who had already had two
seasons on the team. But Worden, if he heard the criticisms, paid them
no heed. Harry needed training and experience in fast company before
he was ready for the School Team, and the coach meant that he should
have it. The second eleven worked prodigiously those days and the first
had all it could do to register anything like a decisive victory. To
be sure, the second had its slumps, as when, the Tuesday after the
Thurston game, it allowed the first to tally four touchdowns and only
saved itself from a shut-out by lifting the ball over the cross-bar for
a field goal. To even matters, however, the first team itself was only
human and sometimes let down in its play and allowed the second to tie
or, infrequently, to win.
Four games remained on the schedule when October was half gone: Carver
Academy, Pleasanton High, Norwich Academy and St. Matthew’s. St.
Matthew’s was Barnstead’s dearly hated rival in every sport and the
victor in most. The Blue triumphed almost yearly on the track and won
more than her share of the baseball contests. It was only in hockey
and football that the records of the two schools came anywhere near
balancing. At hockey Barnstead, aided by better ice facilities, was
the master, while at football the Brown had almost, if not quite, as
many wins to her credit as the Blue. This year, having met defeat last
November, the Brown considered it her turn to triumph and meant to do
so. And to this end the school worked as one.
And yet there was an exception after all, and that exception was Perry
Vose. Perry was eighteen years of age, strongly built, good-looking
in a dark and somewhat surly way and what the fellows who had seen him
perform called a corking player. But in spite of his ability Perry was
not on the team this year. Why this was so Harry learned from Tracey.
“He played in the line two years,” said Tracey. “Left guard, I think.
Maybe he was right. Anyhow, he has a beast of a temper and can’t hold
on to it. In almost every game he was cautioned for slugging or rough
work of some sort, and several times he was put off. Worden stood a
lot from him because he was such a dandy player. But last year in the
Pleasanton game he mixed it up with the chap who played opposite him,
the umpire or the referee caught him, the other chap got a cut lip and
Perry was put off. After the game Worden told him he needn’t report
again until he could play decently and like a gentleman. Perry ‘sassed’
him for fair, they say; I didn’t hear it; and Worden told him then
that he needn’t report again for football as long as he was coaching
because he wouldn’t have him. Faculty heard about it and Perry came
mighty near being expelled. He had to apologize to Worden and went on
probation for two months. That didn’t make him care any more for the
coach, and he still hates him like anything. Mention Worden to Perry
and he will foam at the mouth!”
And Tracey smiled reminiscently.
“He seems to have a good many friends, though,” said Harry.
“Oh, he isn’t such a bad sort when he behaves. Lots of fellows like
him, or pretend to, because his folks are pretty well fixed and Perry
always has a lot of money to spend. And he spends it. Still, maybe it
isn’t only that. I dare say lots of fellows like him just for――for
himself. He can be very decent if he wants to. It’s his old temper that
plays hob with him. You and he had any more trouble?”
“No, he’s let me alone and I’ve let him alone.”
“Good scheme, chum. He’s a bad man in a mix-up.”
“I’m not afraid of him,” replied Harry stoutly. “But I don’t see that
there’s any use in having a fuss. I said I’d get even with him some
day, and I intend to, but I don’t want to lose my place on the second
on his account. And it might come to that if we had a row and faculty
heard of it.”
“You’re wise. Keep away from him. And if he tries to start anything,
run. It would be like him to get you into a rumpus just so faculty
would hear of it and, maybe, put you on pro. He’d like that because it
would lose Worden a good player.”
“You don’t mean Vose would want to see us beaten just because he
dislikes Mr. Worden!”
“Hm; not exactly, perhaps. Still, I wouldn’t wager much on it! If he
could get even with Worden I dare say he wouldn’t care a continental
whether we won or lost at football!”
“He’s a dandy!” said Harry indignantly. “If that’s the way it is you
can bet I’ll keep away from him. I’ll even run if necessary! But if
ever I do run from him I’ll run back again when the football’s over!
And then he will learn something!”
“Easy!” laughed Tracey. “Perry Vose is three inches taller than you are
and three years older――almost.”
“He’s a bully, and I never saw a bully yet who wasn’t a coward at
heart.”
“I wouldn’t count too much on that, Harry. He may be a bully, but
you’ll find he’s no coward. And he’s a mean chap in a fight. Take my
advice and let him alone.”
“I mean to――at present,” replied Harry. “I can’t afford to take any
chances. I want to make the first before the season’s over. Think I
will, Tracey?”
“Don’t see how you can help it. I’m not much of a football fan, but
I hear what the fellows say, and they all seem to think that you are
some wonder. Guess I’ll have to wander down to the field and see you in
action some day.”
“It’s quite a sight,” laughed Harry.
“I suppose so.” Tracey was silent a moment. Then, with a smile, “Funny
how my stock’s gone up lately,” he added.
“How do you mean?”
“Why, since the fellows discovered that you were a star football player
I am treated with much more respect. You see, I happen to be your
roommate. Case of reflected glory.”
“Oh, shut up,” said Harry.
“Fact, though. Wouldn’t be surprised if I went down to posterity as the
fellow who roomed with Harry Danforth at prep school! Say, don’t turn
me out next year, will you? Think how I’d feel!”
“You make me sick,” grumbled Harry. “You’re twice as popular and――and
important as I am.”
“I used to be,” sighed Tracey, “but now I’m just Danforth’s roommate.
Still, fame is fame, and――――”
But just there Harry shied a book at him, and in the scuffle that
followed fame was forgotten.
In the Carver game Harry had his first try on the School Eleven.
Worden put him in at the beginning of the third quarter at left half,
displacing Norman. Harry did good work against a team that averaged
several pounds lighter and established himself more firmly than ever
in the affection and admiration of his fellows. And yet when the
fourth period began it was Norman who went in at the left of quarter
and Harry retired to a blanket and the bench. Just why this was he
couldn’t see, since he was conscious of having played well, better,
he honestly believed, than Norman. But facts were facts, and he saw
the last ten minutes of a rather listless combat from the substitutes’
bench. Barnstead had no trouble rolling up twenty-seven points and
was only scored on when Jones, who took Bob Peel’s place in the last
period, fumbled the ball on Barnstead’s thirty yards and a quick-witted
and long-legged Carver forward got it and tumbled through a broken
field for a touchdown. Poor Jones, whose fortunes were trembling in
the balance before, was a sad-faced youth as the players trotted back
to the gymnasium after the game, and Harry pitied him. From thence on
Jones was frankly a second-string quarter and Bob Peel ruled the roost.
Football, like life, is a case of the survival of the fittest, and the
boy who makes good in the first more often than not makes good in the
latter. And the lessons learned on the gridiron, lessons of obedience
to authority, confidence, unselfishness and self-control, are lessons
that stand one in good stead in the bigger game to follow. Harry, with
some dim notion of this in his mind, mentally compared Jones’ conduct
under discipline to Perry Vose’s. Jones probably had a bad hour or two
with himself, but the next Monday he turned up smiling and cheerful,
and all the rest of the season he worked hard when work was given him,
served patiently with the waiters on the bench and never once gave
voice to a disgruntled expression. Jones was a good loser, which is
scarcer than a good winner. And Harry, looking on, learned a lesson
from Jones.
The team had its troubles that week. Plaisted, the best guard the
school had, and, with the possible exception of Captain Ted Corson,
at fullback, the best player of all, wrenched his knee in practice on
Tuesday and went off for what the doctor predicted would be a full
week. Parrett, first substitute, took his place at the right of center
and filled it fairly satisfactorily, but Plaisted was missed. I think
that if ever Worden was tempted to retract his words and offer Perry
Vose his old position it was then. But he didn’t. Nor did he show any
sign of yielding when, a week later, Plaisted returned to work, hobbled
around rather uselessly and was finally retired for good with a bad
case of water on the knee. By that time Pleasanton High had come and
gone with trailing banners and Barnstead had scored another victory.
But the Pleasanton game, although it had been won decisively, 15 to 3,
proved to Coach Worden that Parrett was not another Plaisted and that
the right of the line was now its weak place. Several experiments were
tried during the first of the week, but it was not until Captain Corson
was changed from fullback to right guard that the difficulty seemed to
be solved. Ted Corson had played guard two years before and so was no
novice in the line. To fill Corson’s place, Carstairs, right half, was
pulled back to full, and Harry Danforth at last became a member of the
School Team. Norman was moved across to the other side and Harry went
in at left half. And the school applauded.