THE CONFERENCE
After Breakfast Sunday morning Jack appeared at Number 12 Lacey with a
big bundle of newspapers under his arm. It was his first call for over
a week and, had Neil been absent, there might have been an appreciable
restraint in the atmosphere. But Neil saved the situation, and in a
minute the conversation was going smoothly enough. Jack was full of the
football news, dumping all save the sporting sections of the Sunday
papers on the floor, and read aloud the story of the Pearsall――St.
Charles game, which Pearsall had captured by the staggering score of 39
to 0. Stuart forgot his grievances in surprise and concern.
“Golly! That’s three scores more than we made against them! It’s double
what we did! St. Charles must have been ’way off her game, Jack. You
can’t tell me that Pearsall is that much better than we are.”
But the story held nothing to confirm his theory. St. Charles was
credited with having played hard and with having made few mistakes. “I
guess Pearsall’s better than we thought she was,” said Jack gloomily.
“We didn’t find those St. Charles ends very easy, but Pearsall seems to
have run them about as she pleased! Look at some of her gains: ‘Connor
made seven outside left tackle’; ‘Morton, faking a throw to Cooper, ran
around right end for sixteen yards, St. Charles’ defense having fallen
for the bluff’; ‘Loring failed at the center, but on the next try went
outside tackle on the left and carried the pigskin to the twenty-eight
yards’; ‘Connor got around right end again for six, but a penalty for
off-side took the ball back to the forty-one yards.’ Say, that Connor
must be some guy!”
“Who went over to the game for us?” asked Stuart.
“Hanson and Joe Jakin.”
“What do they say?”
“I haven’t heard yet. They’re going to report this afternoon. They
didn’t get back until late last night. There was a freight smash-up
down the line and their train was held up. By the way, in case I forget
it, there’s a conference at Haynes’s Tuesday night and he wants you to
be sure and come.”
“Me?” Stuart looked surprised. “Oh, well, I guess I wouldn’t be much
use,” he added after a pause.
“Yes, you would. There’ll be about eight of us and we’re going over the
final plans. I’ll look for you.”
“Maybe I’ll get there,” answered Stuart with elaborate carelessness.
“You will,” said Neil decidedly. “You’ll get there if I have to carry
you!”
Jack laughed, and after a moment of indecision Stuart managed a grin.
Then they returned to the subject of the Pearsall――St. Charles game
and thrashed it all out, if not to their satisfaction at any rate most
exhaustively. When Jack took his departure, his precious papers under
his arm again, Stuart’s “So long, Jack,” was almost cordial.
In the afternoon Stuart went over to the infirmary and called on Wally
Towne. He spent only a few minutes with the patient, however, for Towne
was not up to talking much, and the nurse discouraged a longer visit.
Towne was certain that he’d be all right for the Pearsall game, but,
secretly, Stuart doubted it. Nor could he find anything in the nurse’s
expression to bear out Towne’s assertion. He left the room convinced
that if there were any field-goals scored on Saturday next they would
not be scored by poor old Wally!
Monday was rather an off day on the gridiron so far as the regulars
were concerned. Stuart had some fifteen minutes with a first team that
was largely substitutes, and the second managed to tie the game at 6
to 6. But so far as the education of Le Gette was concerned Monday was
not an off day at all. There was a round sixty minutes of work in the
morning and, because practice was shortened, a good forty-five in the
afternoon. Le Gette already showed progress, and Stuart acknowledged
the fact to the pupil on the way back from the field at dusk. Perhaps
his words sounded more grudging than he really felt, for Le Gette
laughed and answered: “Don’t say it if it hurts you, Harven.” Whereupon
Stuart fell into a silence and wondered if punching the other on the
nose would really yield him all the satisfaction he thought it would!
Tuesday the players put their noses back on the grindstone and Coach
Haynes turned it fast and unremittingly. When the second team came over
and the scrimmage started both sides realized that to-day’s battle was
going to be real and earnest, and, although neither Mr. Haynes nor
“Old Unabridged” so much as suggested it by word, look or gesture, fur
began to fly right away. A day of rest or light work for the first team
regulars had put them on their mettle and, paraphrasing the old story,
they were determined that no second team could bite them and live! It
was a hot, scrappy affair from the first whistle to the ten-minute
intermission, and, from the intermission on to the last panting moment
when, with their backs to the goal line, the first team warriors
repelled the second for the fourth time inside the five-yard line,
praying for the whistle. Nominally it ended in a victory for the first,
7 to 6, but virtually it was a tie, for that margin of one point was
there only by reason that the second possessed no player with half the
ability of Joe Cutts to kick a goal from placement.
Stuart played through the second period――they played two halves of
fifteen minutes each――and worked hard. If he didn’t cover himself with
glory he at least managed to get fairly well sprinkled with gore, for
a second team end put an elbow against his nose in a heated moment of
the contest, and life was going far too hectically just then for the
administration of first aid. When the flow was staunched Stuart would
have been denied admittance at any respectable abattoir! But that was
all in the day’s work, and a puffy nose soon responds to the proper
treatment, and, anyhow, they’d stopped the second four times inside the
five yards! Still, Stuart felt the pace and showed it when the game was
done, and Le Gette, himself a dirt-smeared, short-winded, disreputable
object, took one brief look at his instructor and shook his head.
“It can’t be done,” he said. “Let’s call it off, Harven.”
And Stuart, wanting to act the Trojan but sensing the call of the
showers, nodded as reluctantly as he could, arose and limped off on the
trail of the others.
It was while The Laird was delicately administering to his enlarged and
ensanguined nose that Stuart asked perplexedly: “Say what’s the matter
with me, anyhow, Mac?”
The Laird tossed a wad of absorbent cotton into the basin and replied,
“Naught, lad. There’s no break there. ’Twill be fine to-morrow.”
“Oh, shucks, I don’t mean my nose,” responded Stuart impatiently,
“and you know it. I mean, what’s the reason I can’t play worth a hang
any more? You’ve seen how it is, Mac. I’m not half as good as I was.
I can’t play as well as I could at the beginning of last season!
Something’s wrong, and I can’t put my finger on it!”
“Eating all right?” asked the trainer.
“Sure. Eating enough, anyway. Sometimes things don’t taste so good,
but――oh, it isn’t that. I’m all right that way. Nothing wrong with me.
I mean――――”
“Don’t think about it, lad.” The trainer wiped his hands carefully and
returned things to the shelves. “No one can lay off as long as you did
and not break his stride. Given another week or ten days, you’d come
back fine.”
“But I haven’t got another week,” protested Stuart. “There’s only three
days! And I’ve been back a whole week already and I’m no better than I
was when I started!”
“I know,” The Laird nodded sympathetically. “It’s too bad, but I’d not
greet. You’re doing your best, lad, and we all know it, and there’s no
more any one can do.”
“Well, it’s mighty funny,” growled Stuart. “I’m fit as ever and I know
all the football I ever knew, but――but I can’t――can’t deliver the
goods! I get sort of scared, Mac. I’m afraid to try anything myself
for fear I’ll make a mess of it. The other day I almost fumbled!”
“What of it? There’s others have fumbled and lived to spring an alibi!”
“Maybe, but I never fumbled but once, and you know it: in a game, I
mean. And it frightened me, Mac.”
“You think too much, lad, and it’s making you nervous. Forget football
for a couple of days. And to-morrow, when you go in, give the ball to
yourself and prove you’re just as good as ever you were.”
“I wouldn’t be, though,” answered Stuart gloomily. “I’d make a botch of
it. I haven’t got the sand any more, Mac.”
“Try it, just the same, lad. If you get stopped there’s no great harm
done. But try it. That’s the only way to tell. There you are. Give
the nose a good bath in cold water to-night and again in the morning.
The lad that handed you that must have near sprained his elbow, I’m
thinking!”
Stuart took his damaged countenance to Coach Haynes’ at half-past seven
that evening and afforded more or less merriment to the others present
at the conference. There were seven of the players there: Jack, Tom
Muirgart, Beeman, Wheaton, Howdy Tasker, Leo Burns and Stuart. And The
Laird sat in a dim corner and smoked his pipe incessantly and spoke
only to answer questions. Fred Locker came in later, out of breath and
apologetic. Stuart took small part in the discussion that lasted well
over an hour and a half, although both Jack and the coach by word and
manner invited his opinions. The fact was that Stuart would willingly
have given his opinions had he had any, but, to his surprise, he
found that, save on one or two subjects alone he had formulated none.
It was Jack who, aside from Mr. Haynes, had supplied suggestion and
criticism, who had, it appeared, really given thought to the questions
that arose. For the first time Stuart realized how far short of perfect
his conception of a captain’s duties had been, and he felt a new, and
slightly envious, respect for Jack.
Coach Haynes was very frank in comparing Manning and Pearsall and
made no attempt to spare any one’s feelings. “I don’t think Pearsall
has much if anything on us in the rush line. Maybe Walworth is a bit
cleverer than Cutts. He’s a good example of the light, quick-moving
center, very shifty and a hard man to handle on offense. Their right
guard is a remarkably good one, too, and Le Gette will have his hands
full. As to ends, I’m not troubling. Our scouts report that Cooper, who
played left end for them, was boxed time and again Saturday. Of course,
we can’t count much on that, for that fault will probably be largely
corrected. It’s when we come to the backfield that the comparison goes
against us, fellows. There’s no doubt that, as the two teams played
three days ago, Pearsall has a faster, heavier and more aggressive
set of backs than we have. Connor, their right half, is an unusually
fine player. He made most of their running gains for them and did a
lot better against the St. Charles ends than we did. Morton, fullback,
is big and heavy and hard to stop. He failed to gain just three times
against St. Charles when he bucked the line. At runs outside tackles
he’s a bit slow. Loring, the left half, is good but not so dangerous
as Connor. Their quarter is experienced and runs off a fast game. He
seldom carries the ball himself.
“Pearsall will use about the same plays she used last year, from all
the information we have. She has probably a couple of aces up her
sleeve, but so have we. She hasn’t developed forward passing much and
hasn’t been very successful so far with that style of game. Her punters
are ordinarily good. There are weird stories of Loring having made
sixty yards frequently in practice but he’s never shown anything of the
sort in public. There’s no doubt, however, that he owes his place on
the team more to his punting ability than to his running. So it may be
that he’s the nigger in the woodpile.”
“You think then, sir,” asked Muirgart, “that Pearsall has the edge on
us?”
“Surely. I think she’s at least six points better than we are to-day.
Mind you, though, I say _to-day_, Muirgart. Next Saturday’s another
day. Frankly, I’d rather go into a game of this sort with the odds
against us a bit. We’ll realize that we’ve got to fight harder and
we’ll do it. We can beat Pearsall. I don’t say that just as a bluff.
I mean it. We can beat her and we’re going to. We’re going to do it
by getting the jump on her right at the start, by making no mistakes
and by always, everlastingly trying a little bit harder than she does!
Every fellow must go into the game with the determination to outplay
his opponent and the conviction that if he really tries hard he can do
it. Fellows, I’ve seen teams that were admittedly two scores weaker
than their opponents go in and fight and fight and win. I’ve seen it
time and again. It’s spirit that does the trick. Teach two teams the
same amount of football, have them physically even and put them on the
field. What’s going to happen? A tie game? Not once in ten times! One
team or the other will have the better spirit and will win the game!
Well, let’s get down to business.”
They went over the plays then, discussing, arguing. Every play was
judged with relation to Pearsall’s style of defense and her success
against such plays during the season. In the end nineteen only were
retained. As each could be pulled off at both right and left of center
Manning would have at her disposal thirty-eight variations. All
reasonable contingencies were brought up and disposed of. Stuart was
questioned regarding Le Gette’s probable usefulness as a field goal
kicker and gave an encouraging report. “He ought to be tried out in a
game to-morrow, though, Mr. Haynes,” Stuart added. “Kicking a goal is a
different thing when half a dozen wild Indians are charging through on
top of you!”
“I’ve been waiting for the word from you,” replied the coach. “We’ll
give him a trial to-morrow and every other day until Saturday. What’s
the news of Towne, by the way, Laird?”
The Laird took his pipe out of his mouth and shook his head.
“He’ll not play, Coach, save you put him in at the end for a bit. And
I’m thinking that’s not so wise, for he has his letter already.”
Stuart walked back to school with Jack and Fred Locker and said little
on the way. The evening’s proceedings had left him feeling extremely
unimportant, and the feeling wasn’t an agreeable one. The manager
left them to look in at the mass meeting which, as was evident from
the sounds that came from the assembly hall in Manning, was still in
progress, and Stuart and Jack paused at the corner of Lacey. There was
silence between them for a moment, and then Stuart said impulsively:
“Jack, it was a mighty good thing they dished me and made you captain.
You’ve got the brain for it, and I hadn’t. I didn’t realize it until
to-night.”
“Rot!” said Jack indignantly. “Besides, brain――or what you mean by
that――isn’t the only thing a captain needs, Stuart. The right sort of
football captain needs what I haven’t got and never could get.”
“What?” asked Stuart.
Jack shook his head. “I don’t know how to put it into words. It isn’t
exactly popularity, and――leadership isn’t quite it. Those things are
part of it, though. I read about a fellow who was a captain over in
France in the War. He wasn’t popular exactly. Some of his men loved
him but a lot more fairly hated him. But they all _believed_ in him,
Stuart, and they’d have followed him to――to Berlin, and cheered all the
way! I guess that’s about what I’m trying to get at. What that fellow
had is what I haven’t got and what you have, Stuart.”
“I have?” muttered Stuart. “I don’t think I knew it, Jack.” He was
silent a moment. Then with a little laugh that held more of bitterness
than amusement, he added: “If I had, I’ve surely lost it. No one would
follow me to-day as far as the door there!”
“You failed them, Stuart,” answered the other gravely. “But they’ll
come back when you say the word.”
“Come back? Oh――well――I guess there won’t be any coming back. I suppose
I did play the fool, Jack. Just the same, I guess it was better for
the team. You’re a better captain than I was or could have been. I――I
haven’t been awfully decent lately, and――well, you might forget it, if
you don’t mind, and――――”
“Oh, shut up!” said Jack gruffly. “Go to the dickens, will you? Good
night, you poor simp!”
Stuart found Number 12 in darkness. Neil, he reflected, was probably
over at the cheer meeting. Neil had a sentimental streak in him and
loved to get choked up and moist-eyed listening to the Glee Club sing
“Old Manning!” Stuart didn’t light up just then, but pulled a chair
to the window and put his feet on the window seat and looked across
at the lights in Meigs and thought over what Jack had said and what
had happened during the evening and a lot of things. When Neil came in
later he found him still there.
“Hello,” Neil exclaimed, “what’s your trouble?”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to discover,” answered Stuart soberly.