LE GETTE EXPLAINS
The cold spell continued well into the middle of the week, with brisk
winds from the northwest and, if rumor was to be credited, a momentary
flurry of snow Tuesday evening. The clicking of the steam in the pipes
had a pleasant sound those mornings when, leaping heroically from bed,
one slammed the window down, hustled shiveringly into a bathrobe and
scuttled along the corridor to the showers. Once inside the swinging
doors, the warm steam-laden atmosphere drove out the chills and almost
invariably, for some reason, induced song. Disrobed figures, darting
in or out of the showers, sang lustily. Robed figures, awaiting their
turns, sang, too. As one had to drown the sound of the spray and
his neighbors’ voices in order to hear and appreciate his own vocal
efforts, the lavatories were so many Babels. At this season football
songs were in favor, and a stranger listening outside could not have
failed to be convinced of Manning’s might and valor and of the
futility of Pearsall’s pretensions!
But one didn’t have to listen outside the lavatories to hear football
pæans those days. Every one sang them or whistled them, in hall, on
campus, along the village street. Already the big cherry-red banner
with the gray M floated beneath the stars-and-stripes from the flagpole
in front of Manning Hall and dormitory windows were showing crossed
pennants or cherry-colored pillows. In the village the storekeepers
were digging out last season’s surplus of flags and megaphones and
arm bands, and over the portal of the town hall the ancient and faded
length of red and gray bunting was once more in place. In short,
Safford was preparing for the big event that came but once in two years
and scorned expense! It was even said that Mr. Hutchins――familiarly
known throughout school as “Blinky”――had recklessly imported from New
York a whole dozen cherry-and-gray four-in-hands the like of which had
never been seen in Safford and, which was even more certain, would
never be seen at Manning! But, although fellows shied from the ties,
they considered that “Blinky” had been very sporting.
Cheer meetings were held nightly, increasing in fervor as the big game
approached. Unknown to fame indeed was he who by Friday night had not
stood at least once on the platform in assembly hall and voiced his
faith in the team! Fellows who never read a newspaper save on Sunday,
and then confined themselves to the magazine and “comic” sections,
hurried to the village after breakfast and meandered back to the campus
with their faces concealed behind the outspread pages of the morning
journals. Studious youths who had hitherto been uncertain whether
a touchback was a player or an article of football attire became
suddenly versed in the rules of the game to the point of argument, and
Nutting, who kept the stationery store, sold the four rules-books that
had caused him sorrow for nearly two years! In fact, Manning School
was undergoing a recurrent malady known as football fever and was
experiencing it in its most virulent form.
On Wednesday, however, the malady had not reached its height, and
morning recitations were fairly normal; something not to be said of
Thursday’s or Friday’s. Stuart and Le Gette put in the usual practice
session on the second team gridiron and Le Gette did seven goals out
of ten tries by drop kicking and four out of ten from placement. When
work was over Stuart announced that the other would have a chance to
show what he could do against the second team that afternoon. If Stuart
expected signs of trepidation in Le Gette he was disappointed. Le Gette
only nodded and said: “I suppose you’ve got to forget the other fellows
and just keep your mind on the kick.”
Stuart had no better advice to offer.
When the trials came Le Gette didn’t do so badly. The first time,
called back from guard position to try a drop kick from second’s
thirty, he showed nervousness but, since his line held fast, he put
the pigskin over. A few minutes later, however, on a second attempt,
an opposing tackle leaked through and hurried him and the ball went
slewing off to a corner of the field. Again he made good, from close
to the twenty, and, just before the end came, he failed miserably at a
placement kick after touchdown. Afterwards, Stuart kept him out until
it was too dark to see the ball, and, with an eager junior chasing the
pigskin for them, drilled Le Gette in placement kicking so strenuously
that all hands, including the willing junior, were thoroughly fagged
out. But on Thursday Le Gette showed improvements both at morning
practice and during the game with the second, and Stuart felt a deal of
pride in the results of his coaching, even before Mr. Haynes sought him
on the bench and congratulated him.
“You’ve done wonders, Harven,” said the coach earnestly. “You’ve pulled
us out of a hole. No doubt about that. Le Gette’s as good right now as
Towne. I’m mighty grateful to you.”
“That’s all right,” muttered Stuart. “He’s worked like a Trojan, Le
Gette has. I’ll say that for him.”
“I guess you both have,” answered the coach warmly. “Perhaps you’d
better ease up to-morrow. Mustn’t overdo it.”
“No fear, sir. Le Gette’s a whale for work. He’ll be twenty per cent
better Saturday. I’m going to keep him right at it until the last
minute.”
“We――ell, all right. Maybe you know best. See that he gets a good
rubbing afterwards.” Mr. Haynes nodded and hurried off, leaving
Stuart frowning after him. The frown was occasioned by the unwelcome
realization that the coach’s commendation had pleased him, and Stuart
didn’t want to be pleased by anything the coach said or did.
There was a stiff, grueling practice that afternoon, in which the first
team rose in its might and, to use Billy Littlefield’s picturesque
metaphor, “chewed the ear off the goats.” Which meant that the first
stacked up fourteen points in the first period and twelve in the
second, and that all the second could do was drop a rather lucky field
goal from the thirty-five yards, aided by a brisk wind. Stuart played
all of that second half and played about as usual. In spite of The
Laird’s advice, he had not dared to put himself to the test. It was
all well enough for The Laird to say that if he was stopped it didn’t
matter, but it did matter. The first was on its mettle those days and
a win over the second was something greatly to be desired, and Stuart
never found a time when, in his judgment, to risk the loss of territory
or, possibly the ball, would have been permissible. So he fed the
pigskin to the other backs or shied it over the line to a waiting end
and never attempted to gain the glory of a spurt outside of tackle or a
“knife” through the line.
Thursday’s work-out was the last before the Pearsall game, although
there was some signal and formation drill on Friday and a short session
for the kickers. The second disbanded with much cheering and romped
joyously off the field, elation over the end of a season’s martyrdom
overweighing the degradation of a 26 to 3 defeat. That was Thursday.
Friday Stuart and Le Gette got in an hour in the forenoon and an hour
before twilight, and Le Gette kicked fourteen out of a possible twenty
drops from various distances and at assorted angles, and Stuart, unable
to dissimilate any longer, slapped his pupil on the back and exclaimed
heartily: “That’s booting ’em!”
That was when the afternoon’s session was over. Le Gette, having
rescued his sweater from the ground faced Stuart with a broad grin. “I
guess I must be pretty good, Harven,” he replied, “to have _you_ say
so!”
Stuart frowned. “Oh, I’m not such a pup as that,” he protested. “You’ve
done mighty well, and――I’m fair enough to say so.”
“Thanks. All right. Let’s wander.” Then, when they had gone a little
way, he turned to Stuart and said: “You’ve got it in for me for
blackballing young Orr, haven’t you?”
Stuart, surprised, stared back an instant. Then: “Yes, I have,” he
answered coldly. “And if it’s the same to you, Le Gette, we’ll keep
off that subject.”
“I thought so. And I didn’t care a whoop. But you’ve been pretty decent
in this business, Harven, and I guess I’d like to have you know that
you’re wrong.”
“Wrong? How am I wrong? Just because you didn’t like me you needn’t
have――”
“Hold your horses,” interrupted Le Gette calmly. “You didn’t get me.
I’m trying to tell you that I didn’t vote against Orr.”
There was a moment of incredulous silence before Stuart laughed
sarcastically. “Go on, you’re doing fine!” he sneered.
Le Gette flushed but kept his temper. “All right,” he said. “If you
take that tone, I’m through.”
Stuart eyed him doubtfully. Then: “There’s no use telling me that,” he
expostulated. “I know you did it. Who else was there?”
“That’s for you to find out,” Le Gette replied shortly. “I’ve told you
that I didn’t do it. Let’s drop it.”
They went on towards the gymnasium in silence, Stuart thinking hard.
After a minute he said: “All right, Le Gette, I believe you. Sorry if
I was rotten. But you looked at me funny that night, and I knew you had
it in for me――――”
“Never did,” answered the other quickly. “Anyway, not until you showed
that you disliked me for some reason. But no matter how I felt toward
you, Harven, I wouldn’t do a dirty trick like that.”
They had reached the steps, and Stuart paused. “Wait a second,” he
said. “I’d like to get this right. It looks as if I’d made an awful
fool of myself. I never had anything against you, Le Gette; I mean
until that happened. You always looked sort of――of sneery, and――well, I
thought you didn’t like me. Then, that night, you had a look―― Maybe I
imagined it――――”
“I guess I looked at you the way you looked at me,” replied Le Gette
gruffly. “You always seemed to think I was a lump of dirt! I don’t say
that I was awfully cut-up about that blackballing, except that I’ve
always sort of liked Neil Orr, for it got your goat for fair. But I
didn’t do it, and I didn’t like you thinking I did. That got me peeved
and I went on letting you think so.”
“Well,” said Stuart helplessly, “it’s mighty funny!”
“Oh, if you don’t believe me!”
“I don’t mean that! I mean the whole thing’s funny; me thinking you had
it in for me and――and blaming you for the blackballing. I――I’m sorry,
Le Gette. Honest, I am!”
“Well, I wanted you to know the truth,” muttered the other.
“I’m glad you told me. I guess I owe you an apology.”
“Oh, I don’t believe so. Can’t blame you for being peeved, the way
things stood. Guess I ought to have explained at the time, only I was
too mad.”
“Of course,” agreed Stuart. Then, thoughtfully: “I wish I knew who did
it!”
“I don’t mind telling you, but I wouldn’t bother to say anything about
it to him because I gave him a dressing down he won’t forget for
awhile. It was young Lantwood.”
“Austin Lantwood! But――why, I thought――”
“Oh, he didn’t have anything against you. It was something that Orr had
done. He didn’t tell me what.”
“I don’t believe it! Neil never did anything against any one! He’s the
squarest fellow in school! If Lantwood says that――――”
“Oh, it probably wasn’t anything really,” interrupted Le Gette.
“Lantwood’s more or less of a pill. Anyway, he won’t do it again, and
if you put Orr’s name up next term there’s no doubt that he’ll make it
all right.”
“I’m going to,” answered Stuart. “How’d you know it was Lantwood?”
“Sort of guessed it. Happened to see his face when Severence announced
the vote. Afterwards, I followed him out and poked a fist at him and
made him come across. He’s yellow and only lied once. Then I gave him
a playful jolt in the ribs and he confessed. It wasn’t any business
of mine, I suppose, but――well, maybe I thought I might want to square
myself some day. Say, let’s go in. I’m freezing to death out here!”
“The little rat!” murmured Stuart as he followed the other into the
warmth of the gymnasium.
“All of that,” agreed Le Gette cheerfully. “But I wouldn’t bother with
him, Harven. I told him I’d break his neck if he ever did anything like
that again. He won’t. Funny thing about it is he’s taken rather a shine
to me since then!”
Later, back in Number 12, Stuart asked: “Neil, what did you ever do to
Austin Lantwood?”
Neil marked a place in his book with a finger and shook his head as he
looked up. “Lantwood? Why, nothing! That is―――― Why do you ask?”
“Well, Le Gette’s just told me that it was Lantwood who blackballed you
for Lyceum.”
“Lantwood! Funny I didn’t think of him,” mused Neil. “Well, I’m glad it
wasn’t Le Gette, anyway. You know, I didn’t think it was, Stuart.”
“Lantwood told Le Gette that you’d done something to him some time or
other. What was it?”
Neil laughed. “Well, last spring I told him he was a disgrace to the
school, and a few things like that, and I dare say he didn’t like it.”
“What for?”
“Why, I found him twisting a kid’s arm one afternoon in the lower
corridor in Manning. The kid was a junior, about thirteen, I guess,
and hardly up to the other chap’s shoulder. He was crying and I butted
in. Lantwood said the kid had called him names and I said I guessed he
deserved it. He wanted to scrap, and I couldn’t oblige him very well,
so I hauled off with one crutch and he beat it. That’s all there was to
it, except that I told him a few things to think over!”
“Well, I’ll be switched!” marveled Stuart. “Think of little Neil’s
losing his temper! Golly, I didn’t think you could do it!”
“I’m not sure that I did just that,” replied Neil reflectively. “I was
indignant, I guess, but I don’t think I was mad.”
“Well, I hope you’ll never get mad at me, then,” laughed Stuart. “I
suppose when you’re really angry you use _both_ crutches!”
“No,” Neil shook his head smilingly, “when I get really mad I don’t say
anything.”
“Hope you remain chatty, old son. Well, Lantwood won’t do it again,
Steve says, and――――”
“_Who_ says?”
“Le Gette.”
“Oh!” Neil hid the amusement in his eyes by bending over his book
again. “Well, I’m glad it wasn’t Le Gette, Stuart.”
“Yes.” After a moment Stuart added: “He’s not such a bad sort, Neil.
I――I was sort of fooled about him.”
“You sometimes are, you know,” agreed Neil mildly.
“Well, when a fellow makes you think he doesn’t like you――――” Stuart
paused. “I’m going to put you up again for Lyceum right after
Christmas recess, and you’ll go through like a shot.”
“All right. Thanks. Now will you kindly let me go ahead with this? Even
if you never study, I’ve got to occasionally!”
“What a rotten subject to mention,” groaned Stuart. “I’m in a regular
mess with Greek. But a fellow simply can’t get his mind on things like
that in the last week of the season. After we’ve trimmed Pearsall――――”
He stopped and was silent a moment. Then: “Know something, Neil?” he
asked abruptly.
Neil nodded without looking up again. “A little something,” he murmured.
“We’re going to get licked Saturday,” announced Stuart in dismal tones.
“Something tells me so.”
“That so? What time is it?”
“Quarter to six――nearly.”
“Wait half an hour then and something will tell you differently. I’ve
always noticed that you’re a bit of a pessimist just before mealtime!”
“Oh, go to the dickens,” murmured Stuart.