THE EVE OF BATTLE
It was surprising how nice the other Vests were to him the next few
days, Rodney thought. Old Kitty seemed to be trying, awkwardly enough,
to make him understand that nothing that had happened or that might
happen would make any difference. Jack Billings went out of the way
to be nice to him, and even Warren Hoyt, whom Rodney liked less than
any of the other Vests, showed unusual friendliness. Tad, of course,
was eagerly sympathetic and tried not to show it too much lest Rodney
resent it. Any of the fellows would have gladly discussed the incident
in Saturday’s game had Rodney introduced the subject, and would have
told him to “Forget it!” and “Buck up!” but Rodney kept silence.
But the attitude of his friends was not the attitude of the school in
general. The consensus of opinion was that Ginger Merrill’s brother
was a failure at football. “He’s a wonder in class,” said one youth,
“but he’s no good on the gridiron. It all comes of jumping to the
conclusion that because you’ve got a brother who has done wonders you
can do them yourself. What the dickens did Cotting keep Merrill on the
team for? I could show as much football as he has!”
The school did not feel unkindly toward Rodney, save perhaps for a
brief hour or two after the game was over, but it seemed to think that
Rodney had been trading on the reputation of his famous brother. Some
charged him with having worked a sort of confidence game on the usually
astute coach. And most all agreed that his usefulness to the team was
over. Consequently when they found him back at practice on Monday they
were surprised and somewhat inclined to criticism.
“He’s got Cotting hypnotized, I guess,” grumbled one fellow. “Thought
he had more sense.”
His companion shrugged his shoulders. “What’s the difference? I suppose
it’s so near the end of the season that Cotting thinks he might as
well let him stay. He can’t do any harm just practicing.”
Coach Cotting felt the loss of the second team during the first three
days of that final week of preparation. And he also doubtless felt the
absence of Terry Doyle. Doyle’s fate was still undecided, although
it was generally believed that he would be reinstated in time for
Saturday’s game. Mr. Cotting had enough candidates on hand to make two
teams for scrimmage purposes, but as each team used the same signals,
and as the players on one side were continually being shifted to the
other, the scrimmages were not especially valuable. Rodney played in
various positions on the substitute teams; left half, right half and,
on one occasion, fullback. He had no chance to distinguish himself
but played a steady game and showed a lot more fight than at any time
previously.
In the meantime disturbing accounts of Bursley’s prowess reached the
school. Bursley had played through a most successful season without a
serious upset, losing but one game of the seven, and at Maple Hill it
was conceded that she would bring over a stronger team than she had
presented for several years. The last hard work came on Wednesday. On
Thursday there was a long signal practice on the field, and on Friday
evening the fellows walked through the plays to be used against Bursley
on the morrow. This final preparation took place in the gymnasium and
after it was over Coach Cotting, according to custom, made a short
speech to the players.
“My position to-night, fellows,” he said earnestly, “is that of a
general who has marched and manoeuvered his army to its position for
the battle. To-morrow I shall be on hand to watch the fray and to
direct it to some extent, but from a distance. After the first shot is
fired it is up to you. The outcome of the battle will show whether I
have done my part well or ill, and if a defeat awaits us I shall accept
my share of the blame. But from now on, fellows, it depends on you,
individually and collectively. I’ve watched my army pretty closely for
two months, and I think I know pretty well what it is capable of. It
is weak in some places, as all armies are, but it is strong in others,
and I am firmly convinced that its strength exceeds its weakness and
that as a whole it is mighty enough to command victory. But an army is
made up of fighting units and success depends on each unit doing his
level best, fighting hard from the first gun fire to the end of the
combat. I want you to remember that.
“But, leaving out metaphors, fellows, we’ve got a hard game ahead of
us. Bursley has a good team and she’s coming across the river to-morrow
to win――that is, she’s coming to _try_ to win. Whether she does or does
not depends now on you. You may start handicapped by the absence of
your captain, although that is not certain. If you do, you’ll just have
to work all the harder. My experience has shown me that the competitor
who enters with a handicap against him is generally the one who wins.
Let’s have it that way to-morrow. Now, in spite of all my talk about
armies and battles, we both know that what we are going to do to-morrow
is play a game. There’s no harm in playing it earnestly, no harm in
doing all you can to win. Playing a game is like anything else. That
is, if it’s worth doing it’s worth doing well. But let’s remember that
it _is_ a game, fellows. Let’s play it cleanly and like gentlemen. And
if we lose, let’s lose like gentlemen. But, and I say this convincedly,
if you play as you _can_ play you won’t lose!”
Then there were cheers, sturdy, confident cheers, for the coach, and
for the second team that wasn’t there to hear, and finally for the
school. And then, a little serious, as befits the warriors on the eve
of battle, they went out and sought their rooms just as nine o’clock
was striking.
Stacey, Kitty, and Rodney walked home together through the starlighted
night. There was a sharp breath in the air that promised a brisk day
for the game. They went in silence until the lights of West Hall
greeted them through the branches of the leafless trees. Then it was
Stacey who spoke.
“Funny,” he said thoughtfully, “the feeling you always have the night
before a big game. You don’t get it any other time. At least, I never
do.”
“What sort of a feeling?” asked Kitty curiously.
Stacey laughed. “I guess I can’t tell you if you haven’t got it, Kitty.
I suppose, though, it’s a case of nerves.”
“Probably,” agreed Kitty. “That comes of poor circulation due to weak
respiration. If you developed your lungs――――”
“Help!” laughed Stacey. “Stop him, Rodney!”
“You can’t when he gets started,” replied Rodney. “I guess, though,
I know the sort of feeling you mean, even if old Leather Lungs here
doesn’t. It makes me kind of glad I’m not going to play. If I was I’d
be in a blue funk!”
“Hm,” said Stacey. “You never can tell.”
What it was you never could tell Rodney didn’t find out, for they
reached the cottage just then. Mrs. Westcott came out of her room to
inform them that she had made some cocoa for them. “You’ll find it on
the stove, Stacey. And the cups and everything are on the dining room
table. You know there’s nothing better than cocoa to give you a good
night’s sleep.”
They thanked her a trifle doubtfully, since none felt inclined for the
beverage, and, rather than disappoint her, went out to the kitchen
and bore the steaming pot of cocoa back to the dining room. It didn’t
taste so bad, after all, nor did the crackers she had provided. Stacey
explained softly that once some ten years before one of Mrs. Westcott’s
boys who was a football player had asked for a cup of cocoa the night
before a game, and that ever since she had provided it religiously.
“And,” concluded Stacey, “if you don’t drink it she feels terribly
hurt.”
“Tastes very good,” commented Kitty, “but it’s fattening. One shouldn’t
drink much of it. I’m sleepy. Good night.”
Stacey watched Kitty depart with an envious smile. “Hasn’t a nerve in
his whole body,” he said to Rodney. “I suppose he will sleep eight
solid hours to-night!”
“And snore all the time,” laughed Rodney.
Stacey sighed. “Wish I could,” he said. “Good night, Rodney.”