THE TARDY QUARTERBACK.
The members of the Oakdale football team were gathering at the gymnasium
to dress and prepare for the game. Singly and in groups they came
hurrying in to open their lockers and drag forth suits, cleated shoes,
shin guards, head pieces, nose protectors and other paraphernalia. Some
were in high spirits, while others, as if impressed by the importance of
the approaching contest, appeared somewhat serious and grim. Chipper
Cooper, always volatile and lively, persisted in perpetrating some very
bad puns, being finally given a call-down by Sile Crane, who was wearing
an almost funereal face.
“Oh, cut it aout,” remonstrated Sile. “Yeou’ll make us all sick with
yeour senseless slop. If yeou’ve got an idee it’s goin’ to be any picnic
trouncin’ them Barville fellers this arternoon, yeou’re away off yeour
base.”
Chipper’s retort was particularly atrocious. “I would not _debase_
myself by such a thought,” he said.
Harry Hopper let fly a shoe, which Cooper deftly dodged. “You’ll be
murdered some day if you don’t quit it,” declared Harry.
“It wouldn’t be murder,” said Chub Tuttle, carelessly spilling peanuts
from his pocket as he flung his coat aside; “it would be a noble deed
for the general public good. No jury would ever convict a feller for
killing Coop in a frenzied moment, following one of his alleged
witticisms.”
“The assassin sure would escape on the plea of temporary insanity,”
laughed Rodney Grant.
“I tell yeou, fellers, we’ve got to play some if we trim Barville,” said
Crane. “I’ve got it straight from Len Roberts that they’re goin’ to chaw
us up.”
“In the name of a good old English poet, let them Chaucer,” snickered
Cooper, flinging himself into a defensive attitude. “Come on, you base
scoundrels; I defy you.”
“Roberts is a big wind-bag,” was the opinion of Jack Nelson. “He’s
always blowing about what Barville is going to do.”
“But they’ve got a coach,” said Crane. “Last year we had one, but this
season, without Roger Eliot to raise the spondulicks, we couldn’t git
one. They’ve got some new players, too, that are said to be rippers. I
tell yeou, boys, I’m worried.”
“It’s just as bad to worry as it is to be overconfident,” said Ben
Stone, the captain of the eleven, appearing among them. “It’s my opinion
they’ve been trying to get our goat by setting afloat a lot of hot air
about the strength of their team and their wonderful new players. If we
go onto the field feeling a bit shy of them, which is doubtless what
they want, they will try to get the jump on us at the start. But we’re
not going to let them work that trick. Has anyone seen Sage? I wonder
where he is.”
Fred Sage, who was usually one of the first to be on hand, had not
arrived, and when, a short time later, he still remained absent, the
captain’s wonderment took on a touch of anxiety.
“Here, Hooker,” he called to Roy, who, as a substitute, was getting into
his armor, “do you know anything about Sage? He isn’t around.”
“I’ve been wondering where he was,” confessed Hooker. “I haven’t seen
him since I left him in front of his house this forenoon.”
“Perhaps,” suggested Jack Nelson maliciously, “he’s suffering from an
attack of indigestion. Wild duck is pretty heavy food, you know.”
“Look out,” retorted Roy, “that you don’t have to eat crow yet.”
Another five minutes passing, and the quarterback failing to arrive,
Stone decided to send out for him.
“Here, Tommy,” he called to Tommy Shea, the mascot of the team, “you go
find Sage and tell him to get a move on. We must have our regular
warming up before the game, and I’ll guarantee Barville is on the field
now. I can’t see what’s happened to keep him away. Stir yourself,
Tommy.”
As the little fellow dusted out of the gymnasium there came through the
momentarily opened door the sound of a hearty Barville cheer, which,
doubtless, proclaimed the advent of the visitors on the adjacent field.
“They must have plenty of confidence in their team,” said Bob Collins,
“for they’ve certainly sent over a big bunch of rooters. People have
been coming from Barville in all sorts of turnouts for the past two
hours.”
“All the more gate money for us,” exulted the optimistic Cooper. “In
fancy I can hear the merry jingle of their quarters. They can give us as
many as they please, but we’ll give them no quarter to-day.
Nevertheless, without Sage we’d be a quarter short, and we’d feel it
before the end of the first half. Mercy! I surrender! Spare me!”
No one paid the slightest attention to him, however, which led him
disgustedly to mutter something about casting pearls before swine.
In a short time Tommy Shea returned, followed closely by Sage, whose
face was flushed and who betrayed some tokens of unusual excitement. At
least, this was what the watchful Piper thought, and he became, if
possible, more watchful than ever.
“Met him on the way, captain,” the mascot reported to Stone.
“You’re late, Fred,” said Ben sharply. “We’re ready to go out now, all
but you. Anything the matter?”
“No—no, nothing the matter,” was the somewhat faltering answer, as Sage
began ripping off his clothes, having given Tommy Shea the key to open
his locker. “I had—some things to do at home, and I didn’t—I didn’t
realize it was so late.”
“Lame excuse,” whispered Piper to himself. “Something has happened,
sure. He’s in a perfect stew.”
While Fred was hurriedly preparing for the field, Stone called the
others around him and talked to them earnestly, laying out a plan of
campaign for the first quarter. At first he addressed them all in a
general way, after which he singled out individual members of the eleven
and gave each one advice and instructions. Ere he had gone through the
list Sage was completely dressed for the game and apparently drinking in
the captain’s words, although to Piper it seemed that he listened with a
distinct effort which betrayed a tendency of his mind to wander.
“Just a word to you, Sage,” said Stone in conclusion. “Keep things
moving on the jump. Don’t waste any time over your signals when we’re on
the offensive. I have an idea that Barville will try to rush us off our
feet at the start, and we mustn’t let them do that. We’ll hammer them
hard as we can with straight football to begin with, and hold back our
trick plays for use in emergencies. Of course if we quickly get within
striking distance of their goal, and they hold us for a down that
doesn’t give us a proper gain, you may see fit to try a trick or to work
the forward pass. Now come on, everybody; let’s go out with a snap and
show that we’re alive.”
From the gymnasium to the players’ entrance of the field was only a
short distance, and Ben led his sturdy followers at a swift pace. The
visitors were practicing at one end of the field, watched and encouraged
by the surprisingly large gathering of Barville supporters who had
followed them to Oakdale. As the shocky-haired locals dashed out into
the open space they were given a lusty cheer by the majority of the
assembled spectators. At once two footballs were put into use by them,
and they went at the work of warming up with commendable method and
ginger.
It was a hazy autumn afternoon, the sky being overcast with a filmy
veil, through which the sun shone with a muffled orange glow. A tempered
southwest wind was blowing steadily, but not with sufficient vigor to
give much advantage to the defenders of the western goal. For the
spectators on the seats, light outer wraps were needed, even though the
air was not crisp enough to make first-class football weather.
With their coach watching them closely, the Barville lads were making an
impression by their snappy practice, in which short dashes, every man
starting fast and running low, seemed to be a particular feature.
Stone took this in at a glance, even while he did not appear to give the
rival team as much as momentary attention. It was a reminder, however,
that for the past week he had striven constantly to drill into the heads
of his teammates the necessity for rapidity in both assault and defence,
and the advantage of hitting the opposing line low and hard.
Among the followers of professional sports there can be no such genuine
loyalty and enthusiasm as that shown by the adherents of school and
college teams; for, as a class, the supporters of such teams are, like
the players, heart and soul in the game. In most cases the contestants
they are backing and on whom they pin their hopes are known to them
personally, which fact establishes between them such friendly personal
relations as seldom exist between masses of spectators and
professionals; and always a well-earned victory is a thing to be
rejoiced over by the satisfied supporter of the triumphant team, like a
piece of personal good fortune.
The referee for this game came from Clearport, and was equally
acceptable and satisfactory to both teams, having demonstrated in other
contests his absolute impartiality and fairness. At the proper moment he
walked briskly out upon the field and held a low-spoken consultation
with the two captains. A coin was tossed, and, Oakdale obtaining the
choice, Ben took the western goal.
The cheering of the spectators sank to a murmur, and was followed by a
few tense moments of silence as the youthful gladiators spread out over
the outlined chalk marks and made ready for the kick-off. Barville had
been given the ball, and the referee placed it carefully upon a little
soft mound of earth formed by his own hands at the exact center of the
field. A short distance away Copley, the fullback, who was to make the
kick, balanced and steadied himself, his eyes fastened on the huge
yellow egg. The referee retreated; the whistle sounded. With tensed
muscles, the players crouched a bit, ready for the dash.
Copley advanced, quickening his steps. With perfect judgment, he came
into position with the proper stride, swung his lusty right leg with
vigor, and, following the plunk of his foot against the ball, the
pigskin went sailing and soaring far into Oakdale’s territory.