RECRUITS FOR THE FOOTBALL SQUAD
ON the following Tuesday—the day of the imposing appearance before the
school of President John Smith—Hardie, having at last secured his
playing clothes, presented himself on the field. His arrival aroused no
very flattering comment, partly because nothing in particular was
expected from him, partly because of the company in which he came.
Saturday’s disappointment had caused a flurry of energy on the part of
the football leaders, and the school had been sifted anew for material.
As a result Fat Bumpus was strained out, and little McDowell, who,
though lithe and sinewy as an alley tomcat, and eager as a hound tugging
at the leash, was manifestly below the standard of weight. He came via
the third team, on which he had distinguished himself in the game with
Wood’s third, played on the Saturday on which the first had failed so
conspicuously at Suffolk. These three, Bumpus the fat, McDowell the
small, and Hardie the unpretending, formed the last group of recruits
available to reënforce the battle line of Westcott’s.
The side-line comments would have been sufficient to put all three to
speedy flight, if the contemptuous words had reached their ears. Stover,
the ball player, stood with Hargraves who didn’t like football and
Reeves whose forte was dancing and “fussing,” and made very merry over
the faults of their schoolmates, dwelling with unwearied if not
brilliant wit on the appearance of the newcomers, and enjoying the
audience of gaping small boys who surrounded them.
“They ought to tie a string to it and give Fatty the end,” said Stover,
as Bumpus groped sprawling after the ball which Harrison had rolled
toward him. “It’s cruelty to animals to make him root around like that.”
“The best way would be to put him sideways in the line on his hands and
knees. No one could get past him then,” remarked Reeves.
“They’d have to call time to get him up again.”
“Did you see that?” broke in Hargraves. “Hardie got the ball at the
first try!”
“It must have been an accident; he hasn’t sand enough in him to do it
purposely.” This was Stover’s opinion.
A furious but futile charge on the part of Marshall, a clumsy but
energetic hanger-on of the second, drew the fire of the trio. “That’s
the spirit!” chuckled Hargraves. “Dig up the dirt with your face, my
boy! Football is the game!”
“There goes Mac!” cried a shrill voice close at hand.
“McDowell the infant wonder,” commented Stover, as the boy dropped
sharply and cleanly on the ball, falling along knee, thigh, and hip, in
one continuous and perfectly easy motion.
“What’s the sense in wasting time on a kid like him?” muttered Reeves.
“Firman of Newbury would carry half a dozen of him on his back.”
The coach evidently had his own views as to the usefulness of McDowell,
for he made the boy repeat his performance several times to show the
less skilful how the trick should be done. Meantime Talbot, who was
catching punts, drew over near the criticising group, and the comments
became less audible. As regards side-line ridicule, Talbot held forcible
opinions which he had no hesitation in expressing nor reluctance to
defend. The trio moved farther down the line, and their wit flowed anew.
[Illustration: “THEY OUGHT TO TIE A STRING TO IT AND GIVE FATTY THE
END.”]
All three of the newcomers got into the line-up of the second that
afternoon. Bumpus thrashed about with more uproar than success at guard,
while McDowell and Hardie were placed at right end and right tackle
respectively. Harrison gave them a general exhortation to “play sharp
now,” and Talbot urged Hardie in specific terms to “get right into
Dunn.”
“You can manage him all right, if you stand right up to him,” he said.
“Forget everything but the play!”
Hardie nodded gratefully. He felt no fear, nor was he by any means new
to football, but he was conscious that the school did not expect much of
him, and the personal interest of an important fellow like Talbot was,
therefore, especially gratifying. In the big athletic school from which
he had come to Boston, he had learned to think modestly of his prowess.
While he had made his class eleven there, the school team lay beyond all
reasonable hope. It was not easy for him to think of himself as ‘varsity
material, even at Westcott’s!
Talbot kicked off, the ball sailing over Roger’s head down into
McDowell’s territory. Lingering long enough to see the boy gather in the
ball and tuck it safely under his arm, Hardie ran forward at
three-fourths speed to take the first onset of the school linesmen and
permit Mac to slip by. The first comer was Dunn, who caromed off Roger’s
shoulder without so much as touching the runner. Eaton, the left tackle
of the first, McDowell dodged by an abrupt stop and a dart outside; and
beyond Eaton again, Hardie was at his side to take Channing, the right
guard. The two disentangled themselves and followed after as McDowell
zigzagged on, emerging from between Lowe’s hands and leaving Talbot on
the ground behind him. Sumner, the quarter-back, at last drove him
outside at the forty-yard line.
The coach carried the ball in and put it down for the scrimmage, first
giving the little end a deserved compliment, and then scoring the first
severely for careless tackling. The glory of the second faded quickly.
The quarter fumbled and lost a yard. Bumpus let Eaton through on the
waiting half; the third down was followed by a feeble punt which Sumner
ran back twenty yards. Then came a quick reversal. The first had the men
and the signals. The ball was pushed rapidly through the centre, through
the right side, again through the centre and again through right. At a
new signal Hardie caught a change of expression in Dunn’s face, and knew
that his own turn had come.
“Look out, Mac!” he shouted, and leaped for his opening with the first
movement of the ball. Dunn held him but an instant; with a side buffet
of the open hand the new tackle slipped by, ruined the interference, and
drove the convoy straight into Mac’s sure grip.
“This feels like it again,” Roger said to himself as he took his place
once more. “They’re not up to a Hillbury class team after all.”
“Whose fault was that?” demanded the coach.
“Mine!” said Talbot, shortly.
Hardie looked in wonder over at the friendly half-back. It wasn’t
Talbot’s fault, or at least not primarily. Dunn had failed to block his
man, Talbot only to make his protection wholly effective—a difficult
task at best. The essential weakness lay with Dunn.
“Tackle and end must take care of the opposing tackle,” said the coach.
“Get down in front of him, Dunn, spread your elbows, dive into him with
your shoulder, but _hold him_—you hear?”
“He started before the ball was snapped,” pleaded Dunn.
“Shut up! Play the game!” commanded Talbot. “I said it was my fault.”
They bucked the centre once more, by way of variety, and then made
another trial of the left side. Horr went ahead to push out the end, and
Talbot carried the ball. This time Dunn made frantic efforts to hold his
man by use of body and arms without much regard for the rules of the
game; but Hardie, keeping him at arm’s length, made a dash at the runner
that staggered him, and the line half-back laid him low. At the third
attempt Dunn and Eaton together contrived to box the second tackle, and
the play went through, over the line half-back.
Mr. Adams, who feared overdoing at the beginning of the season, cut into
the coach’s programme after the first had made two touch-downs, and put
an end to the practice. Bumpus limped in like an exhausted dray-horse,
sweating at every pore. Stover and Hargraves hailed him as he crossed
the road to the dressing rooms.
“How’d you like it, Bump?” asked Stover. “You look warm.”
“You played a bully game,” said Hargraves.
“Did I?” Bumpus gave them a glance of suspicion. “It didn’t seem so.”
“It was great playing,” continued Stover. “Going to keep it up?”
“Of course he is!” interrupted Harrison, as he came up from behind.
“Bump won’t go back on the school as long as it needs him.”
“That’s right!” said Bumpus, beaming with his whole red, swollen face.
“I’m not stuck on the game, but if you really think I’m any help, I’ll
come out till the end of things!”
“That’s the talk,” answered Harrison. “I wish you fellows showed as good
a spirit.”
“We’ve been trying to encourage him,” claimed Hargraves. “What more do
you want?” They went off, snickering, to Stover’s automobile.
Inside the dressing rooms, boys shouted and jested and laughed over
their bathing and dressing. Talbot leaned a smooched arm and a grimy paw
on the top of a locker, and smiled across at Hardie.
“You’ve played football before.”
“Only on a class team at Hillbury.”
“That’s more than most of us have done. You ought to make our team
easily.”
“I’d like to,” said Hardie, wistfully.
“Ever play end?”
“That’s where I’ve always played.”
“See here!” Talbot raised his eyes level with his companion’s and gave
him a square, direct look. “We need just the kind of fellow you are, but
Harry doesn’t know it yet. You keep your mouth shut, play for all that’s
in you, try to do what the coach tells you, and you’ll make the team
before the first league game. Understand?”
“Yes.”
“All right.” Talbot turned toward the door. “Where’s that ’Lijah with
the towels? He hasn’t given me a clean one for two days.”
A sober-faced negro with close-cut side whiskers appeared round the
corner.
“Aren’t you going to give me a clean towel, Lije?”
“Not ontil you pay me,” returned Elijah. “I ain’t trustin’ nobody this
year.”
“You old Shylock!” grumbled Talbot. “I’ve only got five cents, and I
want that for car-fare.”
“I’ll lend you a quarter,” proposed Hardie, eagerly.
“Thanks. He’s more generous than you are, ’Lijah. He’ll lend me a
quarter, and you won’t trust me for a towel.”
“He’s new here,” answered Elijah, solemnly, as he handed over the clean
towel and pocketed the quarter. “If he’d lost as much by you fellows as
I have, he wouldn’t lend you a cent.”
“That pays for a week, now, Lije,” urged Talbot. “Don’t forget!”
“I never forgets. It’s you that forgets;” and the janitor went forth to
seek other business opportunities.
“A good fellow Lije is, but he’s too avaricious,” commented Talbot,
hurrying for the shower.
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