STUART GOES OUT FOR THE TEAM
Neil was sitting in an armchair in Coach Haynes’ front room, his
crutches against his knees. The coach sat near by, close to one of the
long front windows, completely surrounded by a Sunday paper. Beyond
him, through the casement that reached to the floor, Neil saw the
little park, fenceless, deep in yellow and red maple leaves, and the
abandoned iron fountain in the center, its basin long dry and filled
with the litter of many seasons. But, against the trees, some of them
still retaining their gaudy foliage, and bathed in the sunlight of a
wonderful early November morning, it looked rather pretty. Mr. Haynes
was smoking an after-breakfast pipe, and the clouds of gray-blue smoke
writhed and billowed in the shaft of sunlight that fell athwart the
worn carpet and almost restored the ancient hues of its floral garlands.
“There never has been a moment since Harven resigned,” the coach was
saying, “when I wouldn’t have been mighty glad to have him back in his
old position, Orr, but no good would have come of my taking any steps
to get him. I think you realize that. I believed that he would come
around himself in time, but I thought it would be before this. Now that
he has decided to return, I’m very glad of it.”
“Yes, sir, but he hasn’t,” said Neil, smiling ruefully. “I mean, he’d
like to, but he thinks you don’t want him.”
“He hasn’t any right to think so,” commented Mr. Haynes. “I suppose he
thinks I was instrumental in ousting him, which I wasn’t, but even so
he should know that the success of the team means too much to me for
me to allow personal likes or dislikes to interfere. Well, what’s your
idea, Orr? Do you want me to see him and ask him to come back?”
“No, sir, I wouldn’t expect you to do that!” exclaimed Neil.
“Oh, I’ll do it if it’s necessary,” replied the coach surprisingly.
“But I fancy the less I appear personally in the matter the more chance
we have of success, Orr. You know Harven, and you know he’s a chap to
be handled with gloves――and mighty smooth ones at that! For instance,
if he learned you’d been here this morning, and I asked him to come
back to the team, he would naturally connect the two, jump to the
conclusion that you’d worked on my sympathies and we never would get
him. There’s a better way if we can only think of it.”
The coach puffed hard on his pipe and stared through the window for a
space. Finally: “You say he doesn’t know you’re here?” he asked.
“Not from me, sir. And I shan’t tell him.”
The coach nodded and a second silence followed. At last he turned and
rapped the ashes from his pipe into the ash tray on the arm of his
chair. “I’ve got it, Orr,” he said. “The Laird’s the one to do it. I’ll
see him this afternoon.”
Neil’s face brightened. “That’s so, Mr. Haynes! They’ve always been
great pals! Stuart will listen to The Laird.”
“I’m sure he will. Don’t hurry away, though. I’m mighty grateful to you
for doing this, Orr. I wish you didn’t have to use those things.” He
pointed smilingly to the crutches. “I’d like you on the team, old man!”
Neil flushed, not at the allusion to the crutches but in real pleasure.
You see, he sometimes thought that if he had been like other chaps
he could have done rather well in sports, and it was fine to have the
coach confirm the thought. He made his way back to school very happy.
Stuart was inclined to be a bit resentful because Neil had left him
alone, but he didn’t insist on knowing where the other had been and
Neil at once began to bustle around in preparation for church. His
prayer book and hymnal had, it appeared, been misplaced, and in aiding
in the search Stuart forgot his resentment and any curiosity he may
have had. The missing articles were eventually discovered by Neil just
where he had left them a week before. It was almost dusk when there
came a knock on the door of Number 12 and The Laird came in. Stuart
had been humped up on the window seat earnestly wrestling with his
English, and Neil was in the middle of a delayed Sunday letter. The
Laird explained carelessly that he’d been out for a bit of a walk and
thought he’d drop in and pass the time of day. Stuart was glad to see
him and equally glad of an excuse to close his books, and he made
The Laird comfortable in the biggest of the two easy chairs and was
quite merry. Neil ended his letter hurriedly during the first minutes
of the trainer’s visit, inclosed it, and, excusing himself, took it
down to the letter box in front of Manning Hall. He made the trip very
leisurely and, on the way back, stopped in a few minutes with Tom
Hanson who lived on the first floor. He was careful not to make his
absence suspiciously prolonged, however, and got back to Number 12 some
fifteen minutes after his departure. The trainer was still there and
neither he nor Stuart appeared to have been aware of Neil’s absence.
They were talking football, the pair of them; discussing the chances
of Yale coming back in time for the Princeton game next Saturday, and
the overthrow of the big colleges in their games yesterday. It was
evident to Neil, however, that The Laird had performed his mission,
and performed it well since Stuart was unmistakably in an excited and
exalted frame of mind. Presently the trainer took his leave, and Neil,
after waiting a moment for Stuart to explode the news, asked idly:
“What did The Laird have to say? Anything new in the world?”
“N-no.” Stuart was elaborately careless. Whatever he had to tell, Neil
saw, wasn’t going to be exploded! “We were talking about the game
Saturday and one thing and another. Where’d you go?”
“Out to post my letter. Then I stopped in at Tom Hanson’s for a minute.
It’s getting colder.”
“Yes.” Stuart absently fingered the pages of a book. “I guess we’re in
for a cold snap. Glad of it. You need zippy weather for football. That
reminds me. I’ve decided to go back on the team to-morrow.”
“Honest?” exclaimed Neil, in surprised and pleased tones. “I’m awfully
glad!”
Stuart laughed ironically. “The Laird says Haynes was talking to him
to-day. What do you think he asked him?”
“I don’t know. What?”
“Asked him if he thought I meant to come back! Looks as if he wasn’t
so mighty independent, after all, eh? The Laird says he guesses Haynes
would be tickled to death if I showed up again. And The Laird sort of
wants me to, too.”
“That’s fine,” commented Neil. “Only, if he happened to be wrong about
Mr. Haynes you wouldn’t want to do it, of course.”
“He isn’t wrong,” replied Stuart decisively. “He’s dead right. I――I’ve
sort of suspected――just lately, I mean――that Haynes wouldn’t be
heartbroken if I reported again.”
“Oh! But you said――”
“I know,” answered the other impatiently. “I didn’t have anything to
go on, you see; it was just a――just a feeling. Anyway, I’ve decided to
risk it. I’m going out to-morrow afternoon. Gee, it’ll be good to get
back into togs again! Of course, I may not get my place back, but I
don’t care so much. I’ll have the fun of playing. And――and The Laird
says they need me. There’s only one more game before Pearsall, but he
thinks we’re going to come back all right. Golly, Neil, we’ve _got_
to! When you come right down to it, Pearsall hasn’t done so remarkably
well herself this fall. Yesterday’s win wasn’t anything to brag about.
Eleven to three against Lyons was pretty punk, I’ll say. They’ll have
to do a great sight better playing two weeks from now if they expect to
beat this outfit!”
Stuart, once well started on the subject of football, gave no signs
of tiring. In fact, he kept it up until supper and, after supper,
until bedtime. Neil listened patiently if not always interestedly, too
pleased with the result of the conspiracy to begrudge attention, even
though it left him ill-prepared for to-morrow’s recitations. Stuart was
too absorbed to notice that his roommate sometimes hid a yawn behind a
polite hand.
The next afternoon Manager Locker, early on the field and uninterestedly
watching two second-string backs kicking a ball about, beheld with
surprise the approach of a youth in togs who had, at the distance of a
hundred yards, a remarkable resemblance to Stuart Harven. Nor did his
surprise decrease as the youth drew nearer and the resemblance
increased. Locker drew in a long breath and ejaculated: “Well, I’ll be
jiggered!” Then he stepped eagerly forward. “Stuart!” he exclaimed.
“Gee, this is great! Say――”
But Stuart interrupted gravely. “Hello, Fred,” he said. “I’d like to
report for practice.”
Locker opened his mouth for a good laugh, but something in the other’s
face caused him to change his mind. Instead: “Oh!” he faltered. “That’s
fine! Well, I guess we need――――”
“Might take my name if you don’t mind.” Stuart’s gaze traveled to the
breast of Locker’s jacket and came to rest significantly over an inside
pocket.
“What? Oh, sure!” The manager hurriedly produced his red book and
plucked a pen from a pocket of his vest. There was no harm in humoring
the other!
“Stuart Harven, seventeen, Upper Middle Class, 12 Lacey,” announced the
applicant soberly. Locker wrote it down.
“Experience?” he asked.
“Two years. Maybe you’d better say three. I played part of this season.”
Locker nodded, as grave now as Stuart. “What position?” he inquired.
“Quarterback.”
“Thanks.” Locker closed his book and slipped it back into his pocket.
“I suppose you know about your physical examination? But I forget;
you’ve played this season already, you said. Report to the trainer
after practice, please. Now, you big chump, come off your high horse
and talk sense! Are you really going to play?”
Stuart nodded. “If they’ll let me, Fred.”
“_Let_ you? _Let_――Say, where do you get that stuff? You watch ’em! I
guess the only chap who won’t be tickled pink is Wheaton. And, at that,
I fancy he won’t be awfully cut up, for Wheat’s bitten off more than he
can Fletcherize, and he knows it! Here they come now!”
The squad was beginning to dribble across the field from the gymnasium.
Once past the tennis courts, the balls began to soar. Stuart saw Coach
Haynes well back in the second group, talking to Jack. Stuart kept
his place beside Fred Locker, waiting, a trifle woodenly, for his
presence to be discovered. It was Tom Muirgart who first recognized
him and spread the news with a shout. Then Tom, followed by Billy
Littlefield and Wallace Towne, hiked across the corner of the gridiron
and assaulted him joyfully. It was hard to keep up that expression and
manner of unconcern when Tom was banging him between the shoulders
and Billy was ruffling his hair with jovial but ungentle hand. Stuart
donned his headgear in protection and dodged Tom’s enthusiastic palm.
“Cut it out, fellows,” he growled, embarrassed, and darting an
apprehensive look toward the approaching coach. “Don’t make a――a silly
scene!” But in avoiding Tom’s blows he backed squarely into the stout
arms of Joe Cutts, and Joe seized on him as though he were an opposing
center and lifted him, struggling and wriggling, off his feet. After
that there was no use in attempting to carry the affair off with
dignity and decorum, and Stuart realized it and subsided in weak and
futile remonstrances. “Thirsty” and “Howdy” and “Bee” and half a dozen
others closed about him and pummeled him joyously or pumped his arms,
or, unable to get close enough to lay violent hands on him, shouted
their welcome. Stuart alternately grinned and scowled; grinned because
grinning seemed to ease the sort of choky feeling in his throat, and
scowled to prove that he hadn’t grinned!
And then, the group thinning, he found himself looking straight at
the coach. Mr. Haynes smiled and held out his hand. “Glad to see you,
Harven,” he said cordially.
Foes may clasp hands and still remain foes. Stuart returned the coach’s
firm grip and said: “Thanks, sir.”
Then practice began.
Stuart discovered that a fortnight or so of idleness had told on his
muscles surprisingly, but he didn’t allow any one else to suspect it.
He went through formation drill in a squad of substitutes, playing his
old position. He felt that the atmosphere here was not so sympathetic
as it had been among that group of older players, but he didn’t resent
it. Nor did he resent being left on the bench when, after an hour’s
practice, the second team trailed across from the further gridiron and
the scrimmage began. He couldn’t expect to get his place back without a
struggle. That wouldn’t be fair to Wheat, who, no matter what might be
said of his shortcomings, had tried loyally and hard. For that matter,
Stuart reflected, he might get no better than first substitute’s place
for the rest of the season. To-day he didn’t care very much. It was
so jolly good to get back at all! He had been an idiot to stay out so
long, he told himself. Haynes had acted pretty decently. Shown good
form, too. Some men would have been sloppy and hypocritical and some
would have been sneering or sarcastic. Haynes had hit just the right
note, and Stuart was grateful. “You might dislike Haynes,” he said to
himself, “but you have to respect the guy!”
Stuart’s relegation to the bench during scrimmage was, perhaps, made
more endurable by the presence near by of Steve Le Gette. It wasn’t
that Le Gette’s mere proximity gave comfort to Stuart, but it was some
satisfaction to know that if Stuart wasn’t good enough for a place in
the line-up, neither was Le Gette!
Stuart didn’t spend the whole period on the bench, however, after all,
for toward the end of the game Wheaton was banished and Stuart slipped
back to his old position for a wonderful five minutes.