ON THE WAY HOME
Mr. Lindsay climbed stiffly down the tiers of seats, and edged his way
past the side-lines into the field, over which the exultant crowd had
suddenly scattered, like leaves flung broadcast by a whirlwind from the
gardener’s neatly ordered pile. He wanted to make sure that Wolcott was
unhurt and to congratulate him upon his escape. This, at least, was his
avowed object. Within his heart, however, lurked another motive, less
definite and unacknowledged, to show some recognition of the work the
boy had done; some appreciation of the skill, the physical power, the
coolness and alertness of mind, the tremendous persistence, which had
marked Wolcott’s play from the beginning. There are boys before whom a
teacher must sometimes feel like standing uncovered, so much more
faithful and sufficient do they seem in their places than he in his.
Some such impulse of respect Mr. Lindsay felt, as he pushed by the
stragglers toward the groups about the players. It was not the
victory,—he cared nothing for that,—nor the silly boys’ enthusiasm for
an athlete; the play as an achievement, as an example of what training
and determination and hard endeavor could accomplish, appealed to him in
spite of himself.
But to know where Wolcott was to be found was one thing, to get at him
another. Around each group of players crowded the hero-worshippers, who,
though they shifted and squirmed and danced in and out of their places,
still kept a serried line of backs to the outer world, and offered no
practicable opening to a middle-aged intruder, awkwardly conscious that
he was out of place. As he stood wavering on the outskirts of the
throng, there passed within his reach an eager, glad-faced youth, with a
red badge on the lapel of his coat, a megaphone in his hand, and, as Mr.
Lindsay discovered on addressing him, a hoarse voice in his throat. The
youth halted, heard the stranger’s appeal, and dived unceremoniously
under the elbows of the outer circle. Soon the circle parted again and
Wolcott popped forth, making haste a little stiffly, and showing a face
on which smears of mud were streaked by rivulets of sweat, but shining
with exultation.
“We did it, father, didn’t we?” he cried, as he caught Mr. Lindsay’s
clean glove in both his grimy hands. “Oh, it was splendid! You can’t
imagine the fun; I wouldn’t have missed it for anything! Didn’t Milliken
buck the line, though? When he once got his nose by my shoulder, they
simply couldn’t stop him. And Hendry was all over the lot—there seemed
at least two of him. And Paul Durand! Wasn’t that the cleanest tackle
that ever was made? If Joslin had got by that time, I believe we’d have
been done for. You’ll never see anything better than that if you go to a
hundred games!”
“I dare say not,” calmly interposed Mr. Lindsay, who had no desire to
see one more game, not to mention a hundred. “Did you get hurt?”
“Not a bit!” answered the young man, cracking the smooch of mud by a
sudden laugh. “I’ve a scratch or two, and my left hip seems to work as
if it needed a little oiling, and I’m pretty tired, but that’s all. How
did you like it? Wasn’t poor Dave in hard luck to have to go out just
when we needed him most? It was dead silly in him to throw away his
head-gear like that!”
“I’m glad it wasn’t you,” observed Mr. Lindsay, dryly.
“He’s all right now except for a headache,” went on Wolcott, eagerly.
“He really didn’t know what he was about when he went off. The first
thing he asked when he came to himself was whether Hillbury got the
touchdown.”
“Come, Lindsay, don’t be hangin’ round here, gettin’ cold,” interrupted
an authoritative voice from behind. “Hustle over to the gym, there, and
get a bath and rub-down as soon as ever you can.”
Mr. Lindsay turned in surprise and beheld a businesslike man in a
sweater, whom he immediately recognized as the guardian of pail and
sponge, who had so suddenly scurried into the field on several occasions
when an ankle was to be rubbed or a face bathed.
“This is Mr. Collins, our trainer,” said Wolcott, looking ruefully at
his father. “I shall have to do what he says. You’ll find me over at the
gymnasium if you care to come.”
And while Wolcott trotted slowly away toward the Hillbury gymnasium, the
trainer continued, as if his interruption needed excuse: “It’s risky for
’em to be hanging round in sweaty clothes after a game like that; but
they will do it. You have to watch ’em all the time, if you want to keep
’em up to the mark. They’re boys, not men, and it’s sometimes pretty
hard to make ’em take proper care of themselves.”
“I judge that you have succeeded,” remarked Mr. Lindsay. “They seem to
be in excellent condition.”
A smile of perfect satisfaction lighted Collins’s face. “Right on edge!
That son of yours played the game to-day. I knew it was in him. He’ll
make a great player in college if they don’t spoil him.”
Mr. Lindsay received this prophecy with less enthusiasm than might have
been expected of a proud father, and turned to watch the boys gathering
for their triumphant march to the station. They were off now in a long
line, proudly counting the score as a marching chant. They counted loud
and strong as they circled the field; they counted up the hill and past
the brick buildings on its crest. And as they filed away into the
twilight on the other slope, the sound of their counting still came back
to vex the much-enduring ears of Hillbury.
The trainer’s last words were in Mr. Lindsay’s mind as he wended his way
toward the gymnasium, following the direction given him by a sad-eyed
Hillbury lad. He knew little about football,—though more perhaps than he
wanted to know,—but he had heard enough and seen enough to be sure that
Wolcott had contributed quite as much as any one else to the Seaton
success. Yet not a word had passed the boy’s lips that showed any
consciousness of superiority. “Fine!” thought the father, with pride.
“But that is in the boy, not in the game. It’s the old strain
reappearing. The Lindsays have always been men of action rather than
braggarts.”
At the gymnasium door he proved his right to be admitted, and some one
showed him to the Seaton quarters. There he found Wolcott with a towel
about his loins, and Milliken similarly clad, Hendry just getting into
his shirt, and Durand dressed still more simply in nature’s garb of
muscles and sinews, with a most glorious smile crowning his athletic
figure, like the laurel wreath of a Greek victor. The boys greeted him
cordially, and went on undisturbed with their rubbing and dressing,
gloating over the grand events of the day. Over in the corner, propped
against the wall, sat Laughlin, nursing a splitting headache, but
clothed and in his right mind, and keenly interested in every
reminiscent detail. Presently Poole came in, and accompanied Mr. Lindsay
to a more convenient waiting-place outside. There after a time Wolcott
joined them, and together they strolled toward the station at a pace
adapted to the supposedly weary condition of the player.
Here was hilarious confusion. The little station was full, the platform
thronged, while the constantly increasing crowd were straggling over the
tracks indifferent to danger. The cheer leaders saw their opportunity,
and bellowing through their megaphones, kept the way clear for the
passing trains. In the press on the platform Wolcott found Mr. Graham,
whom his father was glad to meet again; also Mr. Lovering, and Tompkins,
who had of course come out from Boston to see the game. Later Poole
presented Ware, and while Mr. Lindsay exchanged compliments with the
manager, Poole laid hands on a passing Peck, and brought him to be
displayed.
“This is Donald Peck, Mr. Lindsay,” said Poole. “You have probably heard
of him from Wolcott.”
“Oh, of course,” answered Mr. Lindsay, who during the exciting afternoon
had seen so many boys, dressed and undressed, and heard so many names,
that he was not quite certain where to place the newcomer. “I am very
glad to meet you. Were you one of the players, too?”
“Oh, no!” said Donald, shocked at the assumption. “I never could get on
any team. I’m not man enough.”
“You are probably just as well off,” replied Mr. Lindsay. “I don’t
entirely believe in this athletic craze.”
Poole now ventured a remark, and Donald slipped away. A moment later
Wolcott appeared from the other side with another lad in tow.
“Here is Duncan Peck, another of my friends. He rooms on the same floor
with me.”
“I’m very glad to meet you, sir,” said Duncan, who, slow though he might
be in the classroom, was always ready with a polite phrase. “You came to
see your son play, I suppose.”
But Mr. Lindsay was not to be taken in. “I am happy to meet any of your
friends, Wolcott,” he said, “but this young gentleman hardly needs a
second introduction. Poole brought him up a moment ago.”
“Oh, no, sir,” replied the smiling Duncan, promptly. “You must have
mixed me up with some one else. I am sure that you have never seen me
before.”
Mr. Lindsay stared blankly at the glib youth, wondering what could be
the object of this evident falsehood.
“This is Duncan,” explained Wolcott. “It was another copy of him named
Donald, that Poole introduced. You really must see them together.
They’re the pride of the menagerie.”
At this moment Poole brought up the fugitive again, and standing him
beside his brother, asked Mr. Lindsay to tell which he had first met.
And while Mr. Lindsay stood in puzzled amusement, there was a scream
from a near-by locomotive, and the cheer leaders began shouting through
their megaphones again: “KEEP OFF THE TRACK! THIS IS NOT OUR TRAIN! THIS
IS THE TRAIN FOR BOSTON! KEEP OFF THE TRACK!”
“That’s my train,” said Mr. Lindsay.
“Come back with us and see the celebration!” cried Wolcott.
For a moment Mr. Lindsay felt tempted, not by the celebration, of
course, but by a desire to linger in the society of these friendly lads
among whom he felt the full charm of vigorous, light-hearted, unsoured
youth. Second thoughts came quickly. “I think I have had about all the
celebration that is good for me; I am as tired now as if I had played
the game.”
The train crept cautiously in. Mr. Lindsay said good-by, and, jostled by
other passengers eager for seats, climbed the steps of the platform. The
circle of boys at his back cried good-by again and waved their hands.
Behind them still others roguishly took up the shout, and violently
swung their arms, until the whole platform seemed to be waving salutes
and shouting adieus. And Mr. Lindsay, squeezed by the crowd and deafened
by the shouts, dropped into a seat exhausted, thankful for the
comparative quiet of the rumbling train. After all it seemed hardly as
dangerous for a boy to play football as for his father to attend the
game.
The happy throng left behind by the departing train waited, patient
though by no means silent, for its own long line of cars.
“I say, Wolcott,” said Tompkins, sidling up for the fifth time with
congratulations; “this isn’t much like our funeral here last June, is
it? That was a terribly sour-looking bunch! There wasn’t a man in it who
didn’t look like a yaller dog born with a tin can tied to his tail.”
Wolcott laughed, not at Tompkins, but from pure joy of heart. At the
moment there flashed into his recollection the words Laughlin had
uttered when the possibilities of football had first presented
themselves to the new boy. “It’s a great thing to win a Hillbury game;
it’s fine just to play in one, but to win,—win fairly and squarely,
because you’re a better team and know more football,—why, it’s like
winning a great battle.” He understood it now, understood it all; and
his face sobered as he contrasted the joy of an accomplished victory
with the uncertainty and discouragement of the heavy task which Phil was
facing, as captain of the nine, with but a scanty nucleus of a beaten
team to support him.
Some such thought must also have entered Tompkins’s ecstatic brain, for
he turned toward Phil, who was staring in solemn vacancy out across the
tracks, and dropped his hand affectionately on the ball player’s
shoulder.
“It won’t happen again, will it, Philly? You’re going to give us a
winning nine!”
“I’m going to try to,” replied Phil, quietly.
How he tried, and what came of the trying, will be told among other
things, in the next volume of the series, “With Mask and Mit.”