WESTBY IN THE GAME
It was with satisfaction that Westby and Carroll saw Lawrence entering
the dining-room with Irving. They had observed the long table spread in
the common room of the Upper School, where the visiting team were to be
entertained at luncheon, and had supposed therefore that they would have
no chance of satisfying their curiosity about the master's brother.
When Irving introduced Lawrence to them, Westby said,--
"We hoped we were going to see you here, but we were afraid you might
have to eat outside with your team."
"Oh, I got special permission from the captain for this occasion," said
Lawrence. "I'm afraid I'm depriving somebody of his seat," he added to
Irving.
"It's Caldwell--I arranged with him about it. He's gone to Mr. Randolph's
table."
"Besides, he's only a Fourth Former," said Westby.
Lawrence laughed. "You're Sixth, I suppose?" Westby nodded. "Going to
Harvard next year?"
"Yes."
"Good for you. I'll tell you one thing; you couldn't have a better man
to get you in than this brother of mine--if I do say it. He tutored me
for Harvard--and I guess you've never had a worse blockhead, have you,
Irv?"
"Oh, you were all right in some things, Lawrence."
"I'd like to know what. How I used to try your patience, though!"
Lawrence chuckled, then turned and addressed the boys, especially Westby
and Carroll, as they were the oldest. "Did any of you ever see him mad?"
"Oh, surely never that," said Westby urbanely. "Irritated perhaps, but
not mad--never lacking in self-control."
Westby, thinking himself safe, ventured upon his humorous wink to Blake
and the others who were grinning; Lawrence intercepted it and at once
fixed Westby with a penetrating gaze.
Westby colored and looked down; Lawrence held his eyes on him until
Westby looked up and then, in even greater embarrassment under this
prolonged scrutiny, down again. Then Lawrence turned to his brother.
"Tell me, Irv," he said in a tone that simply brushed aside as
non-existent everybody else at the table--just as if he and his brother
were talking together alone, "what sort of kids do you have to look
after in your dormitory, anyhow?"
Irving's lip twitched with amusement; Westby, still scarlet, was looking
at his plate. "Oh, a pretty good sort--but they're Sixth Formers, you
know--not kids."
"Pretty fresh, are they--trying to show off a good deal and be funny?"
"Oh, one or two only; still, even they aren't bad."
Lawrence paid no further attention to Westby. Now and then he spoke to
Carroll and to Blake, but most of his conversation--and it dealt with the
sort of college life about which boys liked to hear, and about which
Irving had never been able to enlighten them--he addressed directly to
his brother.
Westby listened to it gloomily; there were many questions that he wanted
to ask, but now he did not dare. Evidently Mr. Upton had warned his
brother against him, had imparted to his brother his own dislike; that
was why Lawrence had nipped so brutally his harmless, humorous allusion
to the master's temper.
As a matter of fact, Lawrence had had no previous knowledge whatever of
Westby; Irving had always withstood his impulse to confide his troubles.
He made now an effort to draw Westby forward and reinstate him in the
conversation; he said,--
"Lawrence, you and Westby here may come against each other this
afternoon; Westby's first substitute for one of the half-backs on the
School eleven."
Lawrence said, "That's good," and gave Westby hardly a glance.
After luncheon, walking down to the athletic field with Westby, Carroll
said jeeringly,--
"Well, Kiddy Upton's brother is no myth, is he, Wes?"
At that Westby began to splutter. "Conceited chump! He makes me tired.
Of all the fresh things--to sit up there and talk about the 'kids' in
Kiddy's dormitory!"
Carroll laughed in his silent, irritating way. "He certainly put you
down and out--a good hard one. Why, even Kiddy was sorry for you."
Westby went on fuming. "Sorry for me! I guess Kiddy had been whining to
him about how I'd worried him. That's why the chump had it in for me."
"Chump, Wes! Such a peach of a good looker?"
"Oh, shut up. I don't care if he is good looking; he's fresher than
paint."
"He would think that was a queer criticism for you to make."
Westby stalked on in angry silence. He was more wounded than he could
let Carroll know. There was a side to him which he shrank from
displaying,--the gentle, affectionate side of which Irving had had a
glimpse when the boy was anxiously watching his young cousin Price in
the mile run; and to this quality Lawrence's greeting of his brother had
unconsciously appealed. Westby had stood by and heard his words, "_You_
carry that, you little fellow!" had seen the humor in his eyes and the
gentleness on his lips, and had felt something in his own throat.
For all his affectation of worldliness and cynicism, the boy was a
hero-worshiper at heart, and could never resist being attracted by a
fine face and a handsome pair of eyes and a pleasant voice; Lawrence had
in the first glance awakened an enthusiasm which was eager for near
acquaintance. And now, although he talked so venomously against him, it
was not Lawrence whom he reproached in his heart; it was himself.
Why had he been unable to resist the impulse to be smart, to be funny,
to be cheap? He might have known that a fellow like Lawrence would see
through his remark and would resent it; he might have known that his
silly, clownish wink could not escape Lawrence's keen eyes.
So Westby walked on, gloomily reproaching himself, unconscious that at
that very moment, walking a hundred yards behind, Irving was defending
him.
"A month ago, Lawrence, I'd have been glad to have you light on Westby
as you did," he said. "But now I'm rather sorry."
"Why so?"
"Oh, he's had some hard luck lately, and--well, I don't know. Those
encounters with a boy don't seem to me worth while."
"You've got to suppress them when they're fresh like that," insisted
Lawrence. "For a fellow to talk to you in that fresh way before a
guest--and that guest your brother--I don't stand for it; that's all."
"No, I don't either. Well, it doesn't matter much; reproof slides off
Westby like water off a duck's back."
They talked of other things then until Lawrence had to join his team and
enter the athletic house with them to dress.
Out on the field Irving mingled with the crowd, walked to and fro
nervously, stopped to say only a word now to a boy, now to a master, and
then passed on. It was foolish for him to be so excited, so tremulous,
he told himself. Lawrence had parted from him with the same calmness
with which he might have gone to prepare for bed. It was all the more
foolish to be so excited, because the accessories to promote a
preliminary excitement were lacking,--rivalry, partisanship; the visiting
team had no supporters.
The School had turned out to see the game, but there was no cheering, no
thrill of expectation; the boys stood about and waited quietly, as they
would before ordinary practice. It would be different in another week,
when the St. John's team were sharing the athletic house with St.
Timothy's, and the adherents of the two schools were ranged opposite
each other, waving flags and hurling back and forth challenging
cheers--cheers meant to inspirit the players while they dressed. But now
Irving was aware that he in all the crowd was the only one whose nerves
and muscles were quivering, whose voice might not be quite natural or
quite under his control, whose heart was beating hard.
If Lawrence should not play well this time--the first time he had ever
seen him play! Or if anything should happen to him! Irving tramped back
and forth, digging cold hands into his pockets.
The Harvard team was the first to leave the athletic house; they broke
through the line of spectators near where Irving stood and trotted out
on the field. As they passed, he caught his brother's eye and waved to
him. In the preliminary practice Irving watched him eagerly; with his
light curly hair he was conspicuous, and as he was on the end of the
line his movements were easy to follow. It seemed to Irving that he was
the quickest and the readiest and the handsomest of them all.
Out came St. Timothy's, and then there was a cheer. The two teams went
rollicking and tumbling up and down the field for a few moments; then
Collingwood and the Harvard captain met in the centre, Mr. Barclay
tossed a coin, and the players went to their positions. Mr. Barclay blew
a whistle; the game began.
From that time on Irving trotted up and down the side lines, his heart
twittering with pride and anxiety. After every scrimmage, after every
tackle, he looked apprehensively for a curly light head; he was always
glad when he saw it bob up safely out of a pile. Through all the press
and conflict, he watched for it, followed it--just as, he thought in one
whimsical moment, the French troopers of Macaulay's poem watched for the
white plume of Navarre.
If he had known even less about the game than he did, he must still have
seen that for Harvard his brother and Ballard, the fullback, were
playing especially well. Ballard, with his hard plunges through the
centre and his long punts, was the chief factor in Harvard's offensive
game; Lawrence was their ablest player on the defense.
After the first ten minutes St. Timothy's made hardly an attempt to go
round his end, but devoted their assaults to the centre and other wing
of the line.
If there was one thing for which Collingwood, the best football player
in the School, had achieved a special reputation, it was the fleetness
and dexterity with which he could run the ball back after punts. He was
known as the best man in the back field that St. Timothy's had had in
years. So when Ballard prepared for his first kick, the spectators
looked on with composure.
It was a fine kick; the ball went spiraling high and far, but
Collingwood was under it as it fell, and Dennison was in front of him to
protect him.
Yet Lawrence, rushing down upon them, was too quick, too clever;
Dennison's attempt to block him off was only a glancing one that
staggered him for the fraction of an instant; and the ball had no sooner
struck in Collingwood's arms than Lawrence launched himself and hurled
the runner backwards.
"Whew! What a fierce tackle!" ejaculated a boy near Irving admiringly.
"I think Lou did well to hang on the ball," responded his friend.
Irving heard; he went about greedily drinking in comments which that
tackle had evoked. He found himself standing behind Westby and the other
substitutes, who, wrapped in blankets, trailed up and down the field
keeping pace with the progress of their team.
"No!" Briggs, one of the substitutes, was saying. "Was that Kiddy
Upton's brother? He's a whirlwind, isn't he?"
"Looked to me as if he was trying to lay Lou Collingwood out," returned
Westby sourly.
At once Irving's cheeks flamed hot. He put out his hand and touched
Westby's shoulder; the boy turned, and then the blood rushed into his
cheeks too.
"Was there anything wrong about that tackle, Westby?" Irving asked.
"It just seemed to me he threw him pretty hard."
Irving spoke to the three or four other substitutes standing by.
"I don't know much about football; was there anything wrong with that
tackle--that it should be criticised?"
"It looked all right to me," said Briggs.
"If there is any question about it, I shall want to talk to my brother--"
"Oh, it was all right," Windom spoke up. "It was a good, clean, hard
tackle--the right kind. Wes is always down on the enemy, aren't you,
Wes?"
Westby stood in sullen silence. The next play was started; St. Timothy's
gained five yards, and in the movement of the crowd Irving and Westby
were separated.
For a few moments Irving's thoughts were diverted from his brother, and
his joyous excitement was overshadowed by regret. He felt less indignant
with Westby than sorry for him; he knew that the boy had repented of his
hasty and intemperate words. If he would only come up and acknowledge
it--so that he might be forgiven!
Then Irving put Westby out of his mind. St. Timothy's had kicked;
Ballard had recovered the ball for Harvard on St. Timothy's forty-yard
line, and then Warren, the quarterback, had made a long pass straight
into Lawrence's hands; Lawrence started to run; then, just as Chase and
Baldersnaith were bearing down for the tackle, he stopped and hurled the
ball forward and across to Newell, the other Harvard end.
It sailed clear over the heads of the intervening players; Newell had
been signaled to, had got down the field and was ready for it; three St.
Timothy's players ran to get under the ball, but instead of blocking
Newell off and merely trying to spoil his catch, they all tried to make
the catch themselves; they all leaped for it. Newell was the quickest;
he grabbed the ball out of the air and went down instantly, with the
three others on him--but he was on St. Timothy's ten-yard line.
It was a brilliant pass and a brilliant catch; St. Timothy's stood
looking on disconsolate, while the Harvard players gathered exultantly
for the line-up. Three rushes through tackle and centre and one run
round Lawrence's end carried the ball across St. Timothy's line for a
touchdown. Ballard kicked the goal.
There was no more scoring that half. In the second half St. Timothy's
kicked off; Harvard got the ball and set about rushing it back up the
field. They had gained ten yards and had carried the ball forty yards
from their own goal, when they lost possession of it on a fumble. The
spectators cheered, and began shouting,--
"Touchdown, St. Timothy's, touchdown!"
There was more shouting when, with Collingwood interfering for him,
Dennison broke through the Harvard left tackle and made fifteen yards.
Then Collingwood made a quarter-back kick which Morrill captured on the
Harvard five-yard line.
The St. Timothy's cheering broke out afresh, Scarborough leading it.
Irving joined in the cheer; he was glad to see Collingwood and the
others making gains--provided they did not make them round Lawrence's
end.
On the five-yard line the Harvard defense stiffened. On the third down
the ball was two yards from the goal line.
"Everybody get into this next play--everybody!" cried Collingwood
appealingly; he went about slapping his men on the back. "Now
then--twelve, thirty-seven, eighteen."
There was a surge forward, a quivering, toppling mass that finally fell
indecisively. No one knew whether the ball had been pushed across or
not. No one wanted to get up for fear it might be pushed one way or the
other in the shifting.
Barclay and Randolph, who was umpire, began summarily dragging the
players from the pile, hauling at an arm or a leg; at last Dennison was
revealed at the bottom hugging the ball--and it was just across the line.
Then all the St. Timothy's players capered about for joy, and the
spectators shouted as triumphantly as if it had been the St. John's
game; the Harvard team ranged themselves quietly under the goal.
Dennison kicked the goal, and the score was tied.
For the next ten minutes neither team succeeded in making much progress.
St. Timothy's were playing more aggressively than in the first half;
twice Kenyon, the Harvard halfback, started to skirt round Lawrence's
end, but both times Baldersnaith, the St. Timothy's tackle, broke
through and dragged him down. Baldersnaith, Dennison, Morrill, and
Collingwood were especially distinguishing themselves for the School.
At last, after one of the scrimmages, Dennison got up, hobbled a moment,
and then sat down again. Collingwood hurried over to him anxiously.
"Wrenched my ankle," said Dennison. "I guess I'll be all right in a
moment."
Waring, the Fifth Former, who acted as water-carrier, ran out on the
field with his pail and sponge. Mr. Barclay examined the ankle, then
turned to Collingwood.
"I think he could go on playing," he said. "But if I were you I'd take
him out now and save him for the St. John's game. You don't want to risk
his being laid up for that."
Dennison protested, but Collingwood agreed with Mr. Barclay. He turned
and called, "Westby"; and as Westby ran out, Dennison picked himself up
and limped to the side-line.
It was Harvard's ball in the middle of the field. Though it was only the
first down, Ballard dropped back to kick.
"Now then, Wes, hang on to it," Collingwood cried as he and Westby
turned and ran to their places in the back field.
Westby had a faint hope that the kick might go to Collingwood; he didn't
feel quite ready yet to catch the ball; he wanted to be given a chance
to steady down first. But he knew that was exactly what the Harvard
quarterback intended to prevent.
The ball came sailing, high and twisting; he had to run back to get
under it. Then he planted himself, but the ball as it came down was
slanted off by the wind, so that he had at the last to make a sudden
dash for it; it struck and stuck, hugged to his breast, and then over
he went with a terrific shock, which jarred the ball from his grasp.
Irving had seen the play with mingled joy and sorrow. It was his brother
who had made the tackle; it was Newell, the other Harvard end, who had
dropped on the fumbled ball.
Westby and Lawrence got to their feet together; Lawrence's eyes were
dancing with triumphant expectation; the ball was Harvard's now on St.
Timothy's twenty-yard line. And Westby went dully to his position, aware
of the accusing silence of the crowd.
"All right, Wes; we'll stop them," Collingwood said to him cheerfully.
Westby did his best and flung himself desperately into the thick of
every scrimmage. The whole team did its best, but Harvard would not be
denied. By short rushes they fought their way down, down, and at last
across the goal line--and the game was won. There were only three minutes
left to play, and in that time neither side scored.
When Mr. Barclay blew his whistle, the Harvard team assembled and
cheered St. Timothy's, and then St. Timothy's assembled and cheered
Harvard. After that the players walked to the athletic house, beset on
the way by the curious or by friends.
Westby was the victim of condolences, well meant but ill-timed; he
responded curtly when Blake, pushing near, said to him, "It was awfully
hard luck, Wes--but after that you played a mighty good game." He wished
nothing but to be let alone, he wished no sympathy. He knew that he had
lost the game; that was enough for him.
In the dressing-room he sat on a bench next to Lawrence Upton and began
putting on his clothes in silence. The other boys were talking all round
him, commenting cheerfully on the plays and on the future prospects of
the teams.
Lawrence refrained from discussing the game at all; he asked Westby what
St. Timothy's boys he knew at Harvard, and where he expected to room
when he went there; he tried to be friendly. But Westby repelled his
efforts, answering in a sullen voice. At last Lawrence finished
dressing; he picked up his bag and turned to Westby.
"Look here," he said, and there was a twinkle in his eyes. "I'm going to
be at Harvard the next three years; we're likely to meet. Must a little
hard luck make hard feeling?"
"Oh, there's no hard feeling," Westby assured him.
"Glad to hear it. Good-by." Lawrence held out his hand.
"You're not going to stay for supper?"
"No. I'm going back with the team on the six o'clock train--hour exam on
Monday. My brother's waiting for me outside; I want to see him for a
while before we start. I hope to come up here some time again--hope I'll
see you."
"Thanks. I hope so. Good-by."
The words were all right, but Westby spoke them mechanically. It had
flashed upon him that Lawrence would now learn from his brother the
charge that he had so unjustly and hotly made. And of a sudden he wished
he could prevent that. He would have been glad to go to Irving and
retract it all and apologize; anything to keep Lawrence from hearing of
it.
Why had he been so slow in dressing--why hadn't he hurried on his clothes
and gone out ahead of Lawrence and made it all right with Irving!
With a wild thought that it might not yet be too late, he flung on his
coat and rushed from the building--only to see Irving and Lawrence
walking together across the football field.