WANTED, A KICKER
Stuart’s return to the fold was a matter of almost as much discussion
as his previous retirement had been. But where he had been censured
before for leaving the squad he was now censured for returning to it.
Among his friends and closer acquaintances, of course, his action was
approved, but there were some three hundred and fifty students at
Manning that fall and to the bulk of them Stuart Harven was known by
sight only, and it was from outside his small circle of friends and
admirers that disapproval came. It was largely held that, having left
the team, he should have stayed off it for the season; that his return
would only have the effect of upsetting football affairs again. Even
among the squad there were some who viewed his reappearance on the
field rather coldly. There was, however, no doubt as to the sentiment
of most of the players, and Stuart was grateful to those for their
hearty welcome and friendliness. He needed the encouragement such
friendliness gave, for it was speedily evident that his absence from
practice, as brief as it had been, had played hob with his game. Much
of the old dash was gone, much of his former initiative lacking. He
had to prod himself constantly in order to show a semblance of his old
form. It was as though the ability to play was inside him but wouldn’t
come out! By the middle of the week he despaired of “coming back” and
realized disheartenedly that so far as the big game was concerned he
might just as well have stayed away. But he was of use to the team, and
knew it. He found some comfort in the knowledge, and, which is to his
credit, refused to be downcast and kept pegging away as hard as he knew
how.
Of course what Stuart realized others saw, too. Wednesday evening Jack
brought up the subject after a conference in Coach Haynes’s quarters.
“I don’t know what’s the matter with Stuart,” he said troubledly. “He
isn’t playing anywhere near his real game.”
“No,” said the coach. After a moment he added: “I’m afraid his coming
back is going to make more unhappiness for him, Brewton. I suppose he
expected to get his place again, but it doesn’t look now as if he
could have it, and I’m afraid he will think he is injured and blame
me.” Mr. Haynes shook his head regretfully. “It’s too bad. There’s
enough ill feeling on his side toward me already; and there’s another
year to go through with yet. That is, if I’m back again.”
“But you will be, sir, won’t you?”
“I hope so, Brewton, but a good deal depends on how things go this
year. I was given a one-year contract with the understanding that if
things went well this fall I should have another for two. If Pearsall
shows us up I fancy I’ll be looking for a new job.” Mr. Haynes smiled.
Then he looked grave again. “This trouble with Harven has been mighty
unfortunate. The Committee has stood by me, but I suppose they can’t
help thinking that another man might have got along with less friction.
And I guess they’re right. If I had understood Harven as well in
September as I do now I’d have handled him differently. I can’t comfort
myself with the assurance that the fault has all been his, you see.
I’ve made mistakes, too, Brewton.”
Jack frowned. “Stuart’s awfully sort of touchy and stubborn,” he
muttered. “I guess it would be mighty hard for any coach to get along
with him much better than you have. He――hang him!――he’s got it in
for me now. I don’t know why. He’s as stiff as a ramrod. It can’t be
because I took his place, for I went to him before I accepted it and he
said it was all right, that he’d rather see me captain than any other
fellow. But he acts as if I’d done something against him!”
Mr. Haynes smiled. “Human nature has some queer angles, my boy,” he
said. “I fancy Harven really thought he was glad to see you become
captain, and I dare say he’s tried to be, but there’s a little hurt
feeling that persists, and he can’t help showing it. But I wouldn’t let
it bother me. He’ll get over it in time. By the way, what about Towne?
Have you heard from him since afternoon?”
“No, sir, but I guess it’s only a cold.”
“Well, I hope so,” answered the coach grimly. “We can’t afford to lose
our best guard just now. And we’d certainly be in a hole if he wasn’t
on hand to kick field goals. That’s a weak department with us, Brewton.
Outside of Towne and Harven we haven’t a fellow we can depend on for
field goals. Tasker is a whale of a punter, but if the Pearsall game
depended on a three-point tally I’d hate to have to leave it to him!
Of course, if Harven was in we’d be safe, but unless he bucks up a
whole lot inside of the next week he’s likely to see that game from the
bench. If I were you I’d look in on Towne to-night and see how he’s
making it.”
Jack agreed and took his departure.
Thursday morning it became known that Wally Towne was ill with
something that looked a whole lot like tonsillitis, and consternation
reigned throughout the school. That afternoon Baker played right guard
and the most promising of the second team’s guards was requisitioned
by Mr. Haynes. Baker, however, was not a success, and the second team
fellow, although he was scrappy and quick and worked hard, was much too
light for the place. On Friday the coach tried an experiment, and Steve
Le Gette, second-string tackle, was shoved into the line between Cutts
and Thurston. Le Gette had the weight and the size and he soon showed
that he had the fight. It was not certain that Towne would not be back
for the Pearsall game, but tonsillitis, if you have it severely enough,
can play hob with you, and even if Wally was able to enter the final
contest it was doubtful that he would be able to play it through; and
just now the doctor’s report was far from reassuring. So Coach Haynes
set about the development of a new guard, to the chagrin of several
substitutes for that position, and, recalling the fact that, with Towne
out of the game, there’d be a dearth of goal kickers, looked about him
for likely material. In the end, it was Le Gette who seemed the most
promising. Tasker would have to do the bulk of the punting and, while
he might add to his field goal ability by hard practice, it seemed
neither wise nor fair to add to his duties. Le Gette had done some
punting the year before on the second team as substitute fullback, and
so the coach’s choice fell on him.
Stuart, well wrapped in a big gray blanket against the chill wind
that was sweeping across the field, was watching the first and second
plugging away down by the thirty-yard line at the far end of the
field when some one seated himself on the bench beside him. Stuart,
interested in seeing the result of Tasker’s effort to punt into the
teeth of the wind, didn’t turn his head until Mr. Haynes’s voice
startled him.
“Harven,” the coach was saying, “how are you fixed for time in the
morning?”
“Time?” Stuart looked rather blank for an instant, trying to focus his
thoughts. It was a trifle disconcerting to find the coach’s eyes on a
level with his at a distance of two feet.
“Perhaps I’d better explain what I’m after,” continued the other. “We
need another man who can kick goals, Harven. If Towne shouldn’t make
the Pearsall game we’d be in a fix. If you were playing I’d not worry,
but, to be candid, you may not be.” He paused, but Stuart, turning his
gaze away, only nodded. “We need another man, if only to be on the safe
side,” Mr. Haynes resumed. “I know that a week is a mighty short time
to work in, but I think that if you gave an hour to the business in
the mornings and perhaps a half hour in the afternoons you could come
pretty close to giving us a new goal kicker. A good deal would depend
on the other chap, of course, but I’ve got a fellow who has done some
punting and who is willing to learn. He was on the second last year
and I’ve frankly told him that his chance of getting into the big game
depends on his ability to kick goals fairly well. You’ll find him eager
to learn, Harven. I’d take him in hand myself, but I’m no kicker and
never was, and I wouldn’t be able to teach him half as well as you
will. Now what do you say?”
“Of course I’ll do what I can, sir,” answered Stuart soberly and a bit
stiffly. “I can find an hour every morning, if my time suits the other
fellow’s. Is it certain that Towne won’t be able to play?”
“No, but we’ve got to be prepared. We may never have a chance to score
from the field in that game, but we want to have the goods if the
chance does come.”
“Of course. Who is the fellow, Mr. Haynes?”
“Le Gette,” replied the coach promptly.
Stuart looked startled. “Steve Le Gette?” he exclaimed.
The coach nodded. “Yes, I’m trying him at guard in Towne’s place and I
think he’ll fit. I’ll tell him to see you after practice and you can
fix a time for the instruction I hope.”
Stuart was frowning at his scarred hands. “We――he and I aren’t very
friendly, sir,” he muttered.
“I know that, but this is a time when such things don’t matter,
Harven,” answered the other quietly. “Each of you has a duty to perform
for the team. Personal differences can be forgotten for an hour or so
each day, I fancy.”
Stuart was silent a moment. Then: “I can do it if he can,” he replied.
“Good!” Mr. Haynes stretched out his hand and Stuart had put his in
it before he realized what was happening. He even grinned a little
in response to the coach’s smile. Afterwards he told himself that he
wished Haynes wasn’t so keen on hand-shaking. “Much obliged, Harven,”
the coach went on. “Don’t spare Le Gette. He’s game for all you can
pile on to him. See what you can do in a week. If you think I can help,
let me know, but I shan’t butt in on you. It’s up to you and Le Gette.”
He nodded and hurried off down the side line.
When the second period started Stuart took Wheaton’s place at quarter
and, it seemed to him, did better than he had done any day since his
return. He was not confident enough to carry the ball himself, although
had he tried a quarterback run in one instance and made it good he
might have added another six points to the first team’s score. But he
ran the team with not a little of his old brilliance, and Coach Haynes,
following the plays, smiled thoughtfully.
The meeting of Stuart and Le Gette was extremely polite and formal.
They walked back to the gymnasium together and compared schedules,
finding that on every day save Tuesday it would be possible to get an
hour together on the field. On Tuesday they fixed on a half hour,
possibly forty minutes, following breakfast. They parted with mutual
relief on the gymnasium steps.
There was a most enthusiastic cheer meeting that evening, and Stuart
and Neil attended, although the former tried to get out of it. New
songs and old songs were sung, every one who had the courage to face
that sea of faces and could think of anything to say made a speech.
There was wild and noisy applause on every provocation and the cheering
was deafening. Neil, noting that Stuart’s name brought as vociferous a
response as any, glowed proudly.
On their way out of the hall Stuart collided with Mr. Moffit and the
instructor took him by the arm and led him aside. “You didn’t come back
to report,” he accused smilingly. Stuart grinned. “I meant to, sir, but
I couldn’t make it. I suppose you’ve heard――――”
“Yes, and I was very glad, Harven. It is always a satisfaction to one
to learn that one’s prophesies have been――er――correct. You see, I
expected you to go back on the team and laid a wager with myself that
you would. It pleases me to win. I thank you.”
Stuart laughed. “You took chances, sir. I didn’t think I would go back.”
“On the contrary, my boy, I was betting on a sure thing. I was rather
ashamed to take that end of the wager: it was almost like cheating
myself. You see, Harven, what we think and what we think we think are
frequently very different thoughts. Well, the best of luck to you!” The
instructor nodded and smiled and was borne on and Stuart joined Neil
again. As he steadied the latter through the throng at the entrance he
said with conviction:
“Miss Muffit’s a mighty decent old guy, Neil.”
“Sure,” agreed Neil. “Every one is when we think so.”
Stuart’s rôle as teacher of the gentle art of kicking field goals began
the next forenoon. He had grimly determined to follow Mr. Haynes’s
instructions and not spare the pupil, and, as they crossed to the
second team gridiron, he announced:
“Haynes tells me that you want to learn, Le Gette, and that I’m to
teach you. I wasn’t crazy to take the job, as you can guess, but I did
take it and I’m going to do my best with it. What I’m trying to get at
is just this.” He stopped and scowled sternly. “You’ve got to work if
anything’s to come of this, and I’m going to see that you do work. But
you’re not to think that I’m――I’m trying to put anything over on you.
I’m doing this for Haynes――I mean for the team, and it won’t get us
anywhere if you grouch or sulk.”
“Oh, that’s all right,” answered Le Gette. “I’m not any crazier about
this than you are, but if you keep your shirt on I’ll do the same. And
I’ll take all the work you can give me, Harven. Let’s go.”
After half an hour Stuart concluded that it was going to be less a
matter of the teacher’s not sparing the pupil than of the pupil’s not
sparing the teacher. Le Gette was a veritable whale for work, and all
Stuart’s admonitions to take time were wasted. Le Gette spared neither
himself nor Stuart. And he proved an apt student, too. Stuart had to
acknowledge that. He listened to what was told him, copied the other’s
methods and got results. A knowledge of punting aided to some extent,
but drop-kicking is an art by itself and the pupil had much to learn.
When the hour was up and they had to hurry back to the campus, Stuart
couldn’t have said whether he or Le Gette was the more exhausted! In
the afternoon there was a brief half hour after the Williston game
was over, but as Le Gette had played through most of that contest he
wasn’t in very good shape for his lesson. For that matter, neither was
Stuart, for he, too, had participated. Both were glad enough when the
darkness put an end to the session. They went back to the gymnasium
in the twilight, crossing the deserted first team gridiron in silence
until, just short of the lighted windows of the building ahead, Le
Gette said feelingly:
“A shower isn’t going to be so rotten, eh?”
And Stuart answered, almost amiably: “You said something!”
The Williston game had resulted about as predicted. The visitors had
proved rather more formidable than expected, perhaps, and Coach Haynes
had been forced to use most of his first-string players well into
the third period. The exceptions were Whaley and Wheaton. The right
end had been roughly used in a tackle and had given way to Wesner in
the second period and Wheaton had yielded to Stuart soon after the
beginning of the third quarter. Stuart had done well enough; had run
the team fast and surely, had recovered a fumble of Tasker’s that might
have resulted disastrously and had pulled off three perfect heaves to
Tom Muirgart. But as for “stunts” Stuart simply wasn’t there. Those
old-time quarterback runs for thirty, forty, sometimes sixty yards were
missing. Only once during the time he had played had he dared attempt
a run and then he had been spilled promptly for a two-yard loss. On
the whole, though, the Cherry-and-Gray had played a hard, snappy
game against a doughty opponent, and the final score of 19 to 6 was
generally considered satisfactory. There were those who maintained that
Williston should not have scored, but there are always pessimists in
every community.