A SLIGHTED OFFER
ONLY a week remained before the first league game—that with Newbury.
Having already had experience in the position, and being a lad who used
his eyes and ears more than his lips, Hardie needed very little coaching
to fit well into the game at left end. Though he lacked Harrison’s
sureness in play, as well as the instinctive readiness in translating
signals into action which is to be expected of one who has practiced
long in a single position, he was better than Harrison in making holes
and quite as fast in getting down the field. Each showed a fine keenness
of scent after the ball in the enemy’s hands; each was master of the art
which belongs especially to a good end, of appearing where he is most
useful, and not somewhere else. Deprived of the support of the first
team and handicapped by the weakness of the second, Dunn made an
inconspicuous figure in the practice. When on the first, he had at
times, under favorable conditions, shown effective dash and vigor;
degraded to the second, he became sulky and listless. Little remained of
the aggressiveness of the early days but a chronic ugliness which
manifested itself in fault-finding and in the practice of certain mean
tricks which he had learned at a former school.
Sumner’s conduct stood out in strong contrast. Having undertaken to
furnish the school a quarter-back better than himself, he pushed his
sacrifice to its full limit. He drilled Mac in signals, schooled him in
receiving and passing—a part of the play in which Sumner himself
excelled—and put him in possession, as far as was possible, of such
facts respecting likely plays and dangers to be avoided as his own
experience had furnished. Harrison immediately made him captain of the
second eleven, and in this capacity he went energetically to work to
build up a team which should give the first the best possible practice.
By this course, it is safe to say, he gained more respect among the boys
whose opinion was worth having than if he had kept his place and won a
game. When kid-brother Dick, who, imp-like, found amusement in his
elder’s misfortune, referred slightingly to Jack as having been “fired,”
Mike McKay threatened to lick him on the spot.
“You’re a big fool, Dick Sumner, or you’d know that it’s a lot harder
thing to get off a team of your own accord when you’re on it, than to
get put on when you’re off. I’d be proud of him if he was my brother.
Besides, he’ll get back.”
“The team’s playing a lot better since he’s off; everybody says so,”
answered Dick, bound to maintain his position, yet secretly pleased at
this authoritative recognition of his brother’s merits.
“It isn’t because he’s off, it’s because Jason Dunn’s off. He never was
any good. I knew it all the time. He’s afraid of any fellow his size.”
Dick had nothing to say in favor of Jason Dunn, so he took another tack.
“Newbury’ll beat ’em anyway, so what difference does it make?”
“It may make a lot of difference,” answered the oracle of the fifth.
“Newbury may beat us, and they may not. If big Bumpus doesn’t bust,
we’re going to have a solid line, and the ends are great! It’ll be a
corking game all right, whichever wins. And you don’t want to go around
saying we’re going to be licked!”
“I don’t say it to anybody but you,” Dick interposed hastily.
“You don’t want to say it to any one,” continued Mike, with a severity
quite judicial. “Just try to make everybody think we’re going to win.
You know how Phillips had us all scared when the fourth played Suffolk,
with his talk about how big and strong they were, and how we couldn’t
possibly down ’em, and all that, till we lost our nerve and almost let
’em beat us?”
Dick remembered.
“It’s the same with the big team; they’ve got to be encouraged. Harrison
deserves it, too, for firing Jason.”
This principle Mike had an opportunity to put into practice the next
morning when he passed a knot of older boys gathered at the corner of
the school building, where they waited for the nine o’clock bell to ring
and meantime swapped news and jokes and covertly watched the girls who
by twos and threes and fours passed on the other side of the street on
the way to Miss Wheeler’s school. Eaton reached out and seized the boy
by the shoulder. “Ticket for the game?” he demanded.
“Got one,” said Mike, coolly, shaking himself free.
“What do you say, Mike,” asked Wilmot; “are we going to beat Newbury?”
“Sure thing, only they’ve got to get those forward passes down better.”
“Do you hear that?” called Wilmot, as the boy trotted away. “Mike says
we’re going to win. That settles it. No use to practice any more. It’s
all up with Newbury.”
“He’s trying to make us win; that’s more than can be said of you,” spoke
Talbot, disapprovingly.
“What’s the matter with me?” protested Wilmot. “Don’t I spend half my
time tagging round after you fellows as manager?”
“A bum manager!” grumbled Horr. “Where are those W sweaters?”
“Mike is doing his little best to build up a school sentiment behind
us,” continued Talbot, “and you—well, you’re laughing at us most of the
time. Mike knows what he’s talking about, too, when it comes to
football.”
Wilmot assumed an indignant manner. “That’s a base libel. I’m trying to
keep you from being over-confident.”
The bell rang and the group began to move. “I’d like to see a few signs
of over-confidence,” said Harrison. “Everything seems to me to be going
the other way.”
For the mid-week practice Yards brought out a team of Westcott graduates
from college, who could furnish to the reorganized school eleven
something sturdy on which to try their plays. Mac ran his game with few
errors and handled punts like a veteran; the ends got three out of four
forward passes; Bumpus wrestled valiantly against a big sophomore in the
line, puffing and blowing and perspiring, but fully holding his own. The
result was in the main encouraging.
Dunn stood on the side-lines, dressed for play and ready to be called in
if necessary. While he waited and observed the game, jesting aloud with
Stover to show the bystanders how little his spirits were affected by
his retirement from the team, Dunn noticed a stoutly built, showily
dressed man, with a square face darkened by a heavy, close-shaven beard,
who, while following the play, seemed at the same time to be interested
in the conversation around him. Presently the stranger, having
apparently made inquiries concerning Dunn from some of the smaller boys,
called him aside and talked with him a few minutes out of earshot of the
spectators. At the close of the conversation he put a slip of paper into
Dunn’s hand and disappeared.
Some time later, as Harrison trotted from the field across toward the
locker house, he passed Stover and Dunn going in the same direction.
“What do you think of Bumpus now?” he called over his shoulder as he
went by.
“You can make a football player out of ’most any fat old thing,”
returned Stover. “It’s different in baseball. I say, stop a minute,
Harry!”
Harrison turned round. “What is it?”
“We want to see you as soon as you get dressed about something
important, very important! We’ll give you fifteen minutes.”
Before the allotted time was up, the captain emerged from the locker
house, pulling on his coat as he came. Dunn followed him. Stover drew
them both into a corner. “Do you know Jake Callahan?” he asked.
“The Newbury coach? I know who he is.”
“He isn’t coach any longer, they’ve fired him,” said Stover. “He was
here this afternoon for a little while watching the game. He picked
Jason out of the crowd and made him a proposition. Go ahead, Jason!”
“He’s terribly sore on Newbury because they haven’t treated him right,”
explained Dunn, eagerly. “He says he can let us have the diagrams of all
their best plays and the signals for ’em. He doesn’t mean to sell ’em,
he’s just going to give ’em to us; but all the same if they help us, and
we _want_ to make him up a purse of a few dollars on the quiet, he’ll
take it. He left his address with me.”
Harrison looked from one face to the other, but said nothing.
“You see, if you had the signals,” continued Dunn, “and knew what the
play was going to be, you could stop ’em wherever you wanted to. Of
course you wouldn’t want to do it too often, or you’d give yourselves
away. It might be better to let only four or five good fellows in on the
thing, and then there wouldn’t be so much danger of getting caught at
it.”
“We could raise ten or twenty dollars for Callahan among a few fellows
who’d keep their mouths shut,” said Stover. “I’ll attend to that. Yards
needn’t know a thing about it.”
“Do you think it’s quite—honorable?” asked Harrison, hesitatingly. He
needed no lessons from either Stover or Dunn to appreciate the
advantages to be derived from knowing an opponent’s signals.
Stover grinned. “Honorable? Sure! Why not? Ain’t it their business to
have signals we can’t discover? Wouldn’t you play for the right side if
some one came and told you the Newbury right tackle was weak? Don’t we
always try to find out what kind of a ball a batter can’t hit?”
“The cases aren’t similar,” returned Harrison.
“There’s no use in arguing about it,” said Stover. “It’s nothing to me.
We give you a chance to get the game. You can take it or leave it. I
thought you wanted to win.”
Wanted to win! Was there anything Harrison at that moment wanted more?
He looked up and caught sight of Talbot and Hardie sauntering past the
corner on their way to Hardie’s room. “Here’s Pete,” said the captain;
“let’s see what he says.” And before the emissaries of the disgruntled
coach could interpose an objection, he had called the pair over and was
bidding Dunn repeat Callahan’s offer.
Dunn obeyed with alacrity, happy in the conviction that by the service
which he was now rendering, he was taking a long step forward to the
recovery of his lost popularity. As he spoke, growing more and more
eager in the unfolding of the advantages to be gained and the best
method of using the new information, Hardie dropped his gaze to the
ground, where he kicked away impatiently at a stubby tuft of grass,
while Talbot held his eyes fixed on the narrator’s face, his cheeks
darkening and swelling with rising emotion. Slowly Dunn became aware
that the impression which he was making was not the one intended. His
eloquence wavered; his speech dwindled to an abrupt and confused end.
“Well, what do you think of it, Pete?” asked Harrison, quietly, swinging
round upon his friend.
“I think it would be a dirty, mean trick!” Talbot burst out in wrathful
staccato. “A hundred victories couldn’t wipe out the disgrace of it!”
“That’s just my opinion,” declared Harrison. “As you have the man’s
address, Dunn, you’d better write him what we think of his offer.”
Harrison turned back into the locker house; Talbot and Hardie went off
toward the dormitory. Stover watched the retreating figures for a few
seconds in silence, then emitted a loud, mocking laugh.
“Have it your own way, you angels, you nice boys, and get slaughtered,”
exclaimed Dunn, in deep disgust. “I’m through with the thing.”
He crumpled the envelope on which was written Callahan’s address and
threw it on the ground. Several minutes later, when the coast was clear,
a strange boy who had been watching from the outer fence, strolled
across the yard, picked up the twisted scrap of paper, and thrust it
into his pocket.
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