THE SCOUTS BRING NEWS
THE delighted Westcott lads poured after their team to the dressing
rooms in a turbulent stream. The forward ones thronged the limited space
within, interfering with the progress of the players toward cleanness
and respectability, and wearying them with fierce clutches of the hand
and much repetition of exclamations and idle questions. Dunn served his
companions a good turn—unintentionally, to be sure—by standing near
the door and delivering to a densely packed circle a disquisition on the
game, which included not merely the true explanation of the weakness of
the Newbury team and the faults of their playing, but a candid setting
forth of the errors on the Westcott side. According to Dunn, the score
might have been doubled if Westcott’s hadn’t thrown the ball away so
much by punting, and had gone systematically to work at the outset to
use up Thorne, the Newbury tackle who did half the defensive work of his
team.
“Didn’t McDowell put up a great game,—and Hardie?” exclaimed some
inconsiderate enthusiast in the circle.
“Yes, they both did pretty well on the whole,” answered Dunn. “It was a
cinch for Hardie. He had nothing against him.”
Mike and Dickie Sumner came edging by.
“If Jason had only been there, you’d have seen something doing,” said
Mike, in a low tone to his companion. They both laughed aloud. Dunn
turned at the sound and caught a glimpse of the roguish faces, and felt,
though he could not hear, the insult of their words.
“Get out of here, you kids!” he called angrily. “You’ve no business here
at all.”
“We’re going, Jason, as fast as we can,” returned Dick, feeling safe in
the crowd. “You played a corking game, Jason!” added Mike.
The two went their way to the quarters of the other team to see how the
Newburyites were taking it, leaving Dunn to wax violent over the
necessity of having these “little fresh mutts” hanging round all the
time, and the foolish encouragement they received from older fellows who
ought to know better. Some of these fellows who ought to know better
were at the other end of the room preparing for the shower. Jack Sumner
held Talbot’s foot in his lap—the knee was stiffening again—and worked
at the knot in a shoe-lace, exclaiming with delight over the playing of
the team and dwelling with especial enthusiasm on McDowell’s
performance.
“It was just perfect,” he said, relaxing his efforts on the knot to look
into the faces of his hearers. “Those tackles in the second half when
Thorne got the on-side kicks and came down on him, just saved
touch-downs. He’s the greatest find of the year!”
“Oh, cut it!” exploded Talbot, punning without intent. He meant that
Jack should drop that talk about McDowell. It was honest, without doubt,
and generous, but it hurt Pete none the less, for he understood well
Sumner’s disappointment.
“I haven’t any knife,” said Sumner. “Here, Steve, give us a knife!”
And Wilmot, interrupting his discourse on how he had saved the game by
suggesting that they learn the signals during play, dug down into his
trousers pocket and produced a battered thing with a single broken
blade, which he kept on purpose to lend.
“Be sure you give it back to me,” he said. “It’s the only lender I’ve
got.”
Meantime in the Newbury quarters, outside of which stood Mike and Dickie
with wide-open eyes and most receptive ears, were to be heard laments
and reproaches and an indignant clamor of foul play. Westcott’s knew the
Newbury signals, there was no doubt about it.
“Why, that Hardie would move right up on the signal for outside-tackle
play, and go right back again when it was called off. He knew the signal
all right.” Skillen’s assurance had personal interest behind it. He
wanted it understood that he had been laboring under a handicap.
“And on the centre plays in the second half,” said Firman, “Ford came
right up into the line, and Talbot got in behind him. Of course I
couldn’t make a hole.”
“That miserable Callahan gave them away,” declared Newbold, the captain.
“You wouldn’t suppose Westcott’s would play such a dirty trick, would
you?”
“These high flyers are always the worst grafters,” said Skillen.
“They’ll cheat fast enough when they have to.”
“But we changed some of the signals,” remarked Thorne, “and that
outside-tackle signal that they knew was one of the new ones.”
“That was only one,” said Newbold. “They knew at least half a dozen.
Callahan sold us, that’s the fact. We’ve got proof. Fritz Schaefer saw
him at the Westcott grounds last Wednesday, talking with one of their
men. It’s a steal. We’ll protest the game.”
“I don’t believe they did it,” said Thorne. “I know one or two of their
fellows, and they aren’t that kind. Williams (the quarter-back) always
gives the same numbers, anyway. No one who kept his ears open could help
hearing some of them.”
“That’s right, stand up for ’em!” said Hexam, bitterly. “Go back on your
own school and try to get the Westcott fellows’ favor! They may let you
into one of their societies when you get to college.”
“I don’t feel as if I’d gone back on my own school much to-day,”
returned Thorne, quietly. “It’s bad enough to be beaten without playing
the baby.”
“It’s a steal!” Newbold reiterated. “They got our signals and won
unfairly. Smith says so.”
Smith was saying so at that very moment, in strongly rhetorical
language, to an eager crowd outside the quarters, including in its front
rank a stout man with a diamond pin, and—on the outskirts—Mike McKay
and Dickie Sumner. The high-minded president was sorely pained—not at
the defeat of his school—oh, no! Nor by the anti-climax of his first
gala day—certainly not! Nor by his loss of prestige with Alderman
Skillen. He was pained, but only impersonally and officially, as the
offended guardian of the moral majesty of the league.
“They was too smart for you, that’s about the size of it,” Mr. Skillen
was saying. “If the’ isn’t any rule against buying up a coach, why,
they’ve got you pinched.”
“No rule is needed,” answered President John, pompously. “The league
stands for the highest ideals in sport. It won’t countenance low tricks
or dishonorable methods of winning or anything at all in the games that
isn’t absolutely fair and right.”
“It wasn’t fair and right to kick Jerry off the field, that’s a sure
thing,” declared the alderman. “The other fellow got into him first with
his shoulder. I saw him do it time and again.” An irrepressible titter
ran round the circle at this ingenuous view of football etiquette.
“We have to leave that to the officials,” President John hastened to
say. “I think they roasted us several times, but we can’t help that. The
other matter is one for the league itself to handle. It’s one of the
most disgraceful performances in the annals of football!”
The bystanders listened greedily. Mr. Skillen gave a sharp nod of
approval. “That’s the way to put it—make it good and strong and stick
to it. Your friends can give us a nice little story about it in the
papers to-morrow. But what’ll come of it all, that’s what I want to
know? Will there be anything doin’?”
“We shall protest the game before the committee and demand that it be
played again or declared forfeited.”
“Forfeit!” decided Mr. Skillen, promptly. “Forfeit’s the thing. It
wouldn’t help any to play it again. They’ve got too many trumps.”
“Forfeited, then,” agreed Mr. Smith. “I’ll see Newbold about it at
once.”
President John disappeared through the door leading to the Newbury
quarters, whither the curious young Westcott lads had not the audacity
to follow. They hung about, however, hoping that he might reappear, and
talked over the startling news in indignant whispers. They didn’t
understand it all, but it was clear that their admired heroes were
charged with buying signals from a Newbury coach and winning the game
through the knowledge thus acquired.
“It’s all rot,” decided Mike. “Somebody’s been kidding ’em. They’d
believe any old lie, if they thought they could make anything by it.”
“Why, my brother Jack would no more do such a thing than he would pick
pockets!” said Dickie. “He’s awfully particular about those things, and
Pete is just the same.”
“They’re all the same, except Jason,”—there was nothing evil Mike
wouldn’t believe about Jason,—“and Jason doesn’t count any more.”
The president came forth, mopping his face with his handkerchief and
setting his hat firmly on his head. From the window of the dressing room
he had seen Mr. Westcott, lingering with three of his old boys near the
entrance to the grounds. Toward this group he set a straight course,
while the two lads fell in unnoticed behind him.
“Mr. Westcott!” called the high official, sharply, as he drew near. The
college boys lifted their hats and went their way. Mr. Westcott turned
with a pleasant look on his face, and in his heart a kindly feeling for
all the world, including this man Smith. The afternoon had brought him a
full measure of happiness; first the splendid playing of his team, then
a shower of hearty greetings from old boys—and tokens of regard from
former pupils, be it understood, are the sweetest morsels an honest
schoolmaster can roll beneath his tongue.
“Mr. Westcott!” came in a loud, contentious voice from beneath the brown
derby. “We shall protest that game,—I mean the captain of the Newbury
team has protested it.”
Mr. Westcott’s smile vanished in a flash, and an expression of
bewilderment overspread his face. “Protested!” he repeated. “I do not
understand. On what ground, pray?”
“Your team, it appears, bought or at least got the signals which Newbury
was to use from a discharged coach, and so were able to anticipate and
block the Newbury plays.”
“It appears from what?” asked the schoolmaster, coldly.
President John hesitated. “Well, from the game itself and—from other
facts.”
“Mr. Smith,” said Mr. Westcott, speaking with head thrown back, in tones
resonant with indignation, “you probably do not realize the insulting
character of the charge which you are bringing. If I understand you to
mean that the Westcott management plotted to win the game with stolen
signals, I assure you the charge is both false and slanderous. There is
a bad mistake somewhere. I know my boys, as you do not; they are
incapable of such an act.”
“I didn’t want to believe it myself, sir,” said President John, for the
instant abashed, “but the facts are such—” He stopped and tried to
think what the facts really were.
“The facts?” persisted Mr. Westcott.
“They will be stated fully at the meeting of the committee which I shall
call,” answered John, recovering himself. “I merely desired to give you
notice that I had received the protest.”
He turned and bent his steps toward his allies at the dressing rooms,
driving two urchins in flight before him. Long before his pompous strut
brought him to the Newbury end of the locker building, the two young
scouts had burst in among the Westcott players with a whoop and a yell,
had gathered about them in a trice an elbowing crush of the dressed and
half-dressed, and with mutual support and interruption, were devoting
themselves to the delectable task of relating the news. The audience
listened wild-eyed, questioned, and exploded in exclamations. When the
fire of questions slackened and the exclamations began to pop, Dunn
seized his suit-case and silently stole away. This crowd was no place
for him.
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