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LEFT GUARD GILBERT
_BY THE SAME AUTHOR_
LEFT END EDWARDS
LEFT TACKLE THAYER
[Illustration: "Well, come on! How did it happen?" (Page 14)]
Left Guard Gilbert
BY
RALPH HENRY BARBOUR
AUTHOR OF
LEFT END EDWARDS,
FULL-BACK FOSTER, Etc.
ILLUSTRATED BY
E. C. CASWELL
GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS NEW YORK
COPYRIGHT, 1916, BY
DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY, INC.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I THE BOY FROM KANSAS 1
II IN NUMBER SIX 11
III AMY HOLDS FORTH 21
IV THE FIRST GAME 35
V DON GOES TO THE SECOND 46
VI THE SEARCH OF ADVENTURE 58
VII FIGHTING FIRE 71
VIII COACHING THE TACKLES 85
IX THE WIDTH OF A FINGER 103
X TIM EXULTS AND EXPLAINS 118
XI MR. BRADY FORGETS 128
XII THE JOKE ON MR. MOLLER 139
XIII SOUTHBY YIELDS 155
XIV WALTON WRITES A NOTE 166
XV A PROPOSITION 177
XVI DON VISITS THE DOCTOR 186
XVII DROPPED FROM THE TEAM 195
XVIII "GOOD-BYE, TIMMY!" 206
XIX FRIENDS FALL OUT 216
XX AMY APPEARS FOR THE DEFENCE 231
XXI THE DOCTOR TELLS A STORY 247
XXII COACH ROBEY IS PUZZLED 260
XXIII CROSS-EXAMINATION 268
XXIV "ALL READY, BRIMFIELD?" 277
XXV TIM GOES OVER 289
XXVI LEFT GUARD GILBERT 300
ILLUSTRATIONS
"WELL, COME ON! HOW DID IT HAPPEN?" (PAGE 14) _Frontispiece_
FACING
PAGE
FINALLY, DON WAS UNCEREMONIOUSLY YANKED UP AND THROUGH 90
"WILL YOU UNLOCK THAT DOOR?" DEMANDED DON ANGRILY 224
THE RUNNER SMASHED INTO SIGHT, WILD-FACED FOR AN INSTANT BEFORE
HE PUT HIS HEAD DOWN AND CHARGED IN 306
LEFT GUARD GILBERT
LEFT GUARD GILBERT
CHAPTER I
THE BOY FROM KANSAS
"HOLD up!"
Coach Robey, coatless, vestless, hatless, his old flannel trousers held
up as by a miracle with the aid of a leather strap scarcely deserving
the name of belt, pushed his way through the first squad players. The
Brimfield Head Coach was a wiry, medium-sized man of about thirty, with
a deeply-tanned face from which sharp blue eyes looked out under whitish
lashes that were a shade lighter than his eyebrows and two shades
lighter than his sandy hair. As the afternoon was excessively hot, even
for the twenty-first day of September and in proximity to Long Island
Sound, Mr. George Robey's countenance was bathed in perspiration and the
faded blue silk shirt was plastered to his body.
"That was left half through guard-tackle, wasn't it? Then don't put the
ball in your arm, St. Clair. You ought to know better than that. On
plays through the line hold it against your stomach with both hands. How
long do you think you'd keep that ball in your elbow after you hit the
line? Someone would knock it out in about one second! Now try it again
and think what you're doing. All right, Carmine. Same play."
The panting and perspiring backs crouched once more, Carmine shrilly
called his signals, Thayer and Gafferty plunged against an imaginary foe
as Thursby shot the ball back and St. Clair, hugging the pigskin
ecstatically with wide-spread fingers, trotted through the hole,
stopped, set the ball on the grass and wiped his streaming face with the
torn sleeve of a maroon jersey.
"All right," said the coach. "That will do for today. In on the trot,
everyone!"
The first squad, exhaling a long, deep sigh of relief as one man, set
their faces toward the gymnasium and trotted slowly off, their
canvas-clad legs _swish-swashing_ as they met. Coach Robey walked
further down the sun-baked field to where the nearer of the remaining
four squads was at work.
"Oh, put some pep into it, McPhee!" called the coach as he approached.
"You all look as if you were asleep! Come on now! Wake up! Jones, get up
there. You're away out of position. That's better. Now then, Quarter!
Hold up! What's your down?"
"Third, sir, and four to go."
"All right. Show me what you're going to do with it. Head up, Martin!
Look where you're going."
"36--27--43--86!" grunted the quarter-back. "36----"
"Signal!" cried Gordon, at right half.
McPhee straightened, cast a withering look at the half-back, wiped the
perspiration from the end of his sun-burnt nose and repeated:
"36--27--43----"
Gordon shifted his feet, and--
"Hold up!" barked the coach. "Gordon, don't give the play away. Shifting
your feet like that makes it a cinch for the other fellow. Get your
position now and hold it until the ball's passed. All right. Once more,
Quarter."
"36--27--43--86!" wailed McPhee. "36--27----"
The pigskin shot into his waiting hands, Gordon leaped forward, took it
at a hand-pass and ran out behind his line, left half in advance, turned
sharply in and set the ball down.
"First down!" called McPhee. "Sturges over."
"Hold up! Try a forward pass, McPhee. You're on the ten yards and it's
third down. Get into this, you ends. Put some pep into it!"
"Signal! Martin back! 37--32--14--71--Hep!" The backs jumped to the left
one stride. "37--32----"
Back flew the ball to the full-back, right end shot out and down the
field across the mythical last line, the defence surged against the
imaginary enemy and Martin, poising the ball at arm's length, threw over
the line to Lee.
"All right," commented the coach. "That'll be all for today. Trot all
the way in, fellows."
Five minutes later the field was empty of the sixty-odd boys who had
reported for the second day's practice and the sun was going down behind
the tree-clad hill to the west. In the gymnasium was the sound of
rushing water, of many voices and of scraping benches. Mr. Robey wormed
his way through the crowded locker-room to where Danny Moore, the
trainer, stood in the doorway of the rubbing-room in talk with Jim
Morton, this year's manager of the team. Morton was nineteen, tall, thin
and benevolent looking behind a pair of rubber-rimmed spectacles.
"Did you put them on the scales, Dan?" asked the coach.
"Sure, the first, second and third, sir. Some of 'em dropped a good
three pounds today. By gorry, I feel like I'd dropped that much meself!"
"It certainly is warm. Look here, Jim, is this all we get to work on?
How many were out today?"
"Sixty-two, Coach. That's not bad. I suppose there'll be a few more
dribble along tomorrow and the next day."
"Well, they look pretty fair, don't you think? Some of the new fellows
seem to have ideas of football. All the last year fellows on hand?"
"All but Gilbert. He hasn't shown up. I don't know why, I'm sure."
"Better look him up," said the coach. "Gilbert ought to make a pretty
good showing this year, and we aren't any too strong on guards."
"Gilbert rooms with Tim Otis, I think," replied Morton. "Oh, Tim! Tim
Otis!"
A light-haired boy of seventeen, very straight, and very pink where an
enormous bath-towel failed to cover him, wormed his way to them.
"Say, Tim, what's the matter with Gilbert?" asked Morton. "Isn't he
coming out?"
Tim Otis shrugged a pair of broad, lean shoulders. "He hasn't got here
yet, Morton. I don't know what's happened. He wrote me two weeks ago
that he'd meet me at the station in New York yesterday for the
three-fifty-eight, but he wasn't there and I haven't heard a word from
him."
"Probably missed his connection," suggested Morton. "He lives out West
somewhere, doesn't he?"
"Yes, Osawatomie, Kansas."
"It probably takes a good while to get away from a place with a name
like that," said Mr. Robey drily. "Well, when he shows up, Otis, tell
him to get a move on if he wants a place."
"Yes, sir, I will. I'm pretty certain he will be along today some time.
I wouldn't be surprised if he was here now."
"All right. By the way, Otis, how do you feel at right half? Seem
strange to you?"
"No, sir, I don't notice it. I did play right, you know, two years ago
on the second. Seems to me it's easier to take the ball from that
position, too."
"Well, don't try the fool trick your side-partner did today," said Mr.
Robey, smiling. "Putting the ball under your elbow for a line plunge is
a fine piece of business for a fellow who's been playing three years!"
Tim laughed. "I guess he did that because it was just practice, sir. He
knows a lot better than to do it in scrimmage."
"I hope so. Well, hurry Gilbert along, will you? If he doesn't get out
here inside of a few days he won't find much of a welcome, I'm afraid.
I'm not going to keep positions open for anyone this year, not with the
first game coming along in four days!"
"Don't you worry, Mr. Robey," replied Tim, with a chuckle and a flash of
white teeth. "I'll have him out here the first day he shows up, even if
I have to lug him all the way. Don't think I'll have to, though, for you
couldn't keep Don from playing football unless you tied him up!"
"Nice chap," commented Morton, nodding at Tim as the latter returned to
his bench. "Awfully clean-cut sort."
"A fine lad," agreed Danny Moore, and Mr. Robey nodded thoughtfully.
"I don't believe we're going to miss Kendall and Freer as much as I
thought," he said after a moment. "Otis looks to me like a fellow who
will stand a lot of work and grow on it. Well, I'm going to get a shower
and get out of this sweat-box. As soon as you get time, Jim, I wish
you'd catalogue the players the way we did last year and let me have
the list. You know how Black did it, don't you?"
"Yes, sir. I'll have the list ready for you tomorrow."
"Good! Got a towel I can use, Dan? I haven't brought any yet. Thanks."
The coach nodded and sought a place to disrobe. The trainer's gaze
followed him until he was lost to sight beyond the throng.
"I wonder will he put it over again this year," he mused.
"Surest thing you know," asserted Morton. "Think I'm going to have the
team licked the year I'm manager, Danny? Not so you'd notice it!"
"Well, between you and him," chuckled Danny, "I've no doubt you'll turn
out a fine team. Say, he's the lad that can do it, though, now ain't he?
Four years he's been at it, and it's fifty-fifty now, ain't it?"
"Yes, we lost the first two years and won last year and the year before.
It was Andy Miller's team that started the ball rolling for us. No one
could have won those first two years, anyhow, Danny. Robey had to start
at the bottom and build up the whole thing. We hadn't been playing
football here for several years before that. It takes a couple of years
at the least to get a foundation laid. If we win this year we'll have
something to boast of. No other team ever beat Claflin three times
running."
"Maybe we won't either. I'm hoping we do, though. Still and all, it
don't do to win too many times. You get to thinking you can't lose, d'ye
see, and the first thing anyone knows you're all shot to pieces. I've
seen it happen, me boy."
"Oh, I dare say, Danny, but don't let's start the losing streak until
next year. I want to manage a winning team. Well, so long. See about
some cooler weather tomorrow, will you?"
"I will so," replied the little trainer gravely. "I'll start
arrangements to once."
Meanwhile Tim Otis, again arrayed in grey flannels and a pair of tan,
rubber-soled shoes rather the worse for a hard summer, was on his way
along the Row to the last of the five buildings set end to end on the
brow of the hill. As he swung in between Wendell and Torrence--the
gymnasium stood behind Wendell, and, save for the Cottage, as the
principal's residence was called, was the only building out of
alignment--he saw the entrances to dormitories and Main Hall thronged
with youths who evidently preferred the coolness of outdoors to the heat
of the rooms, while others were seated on the grass along the walk. It
almost seemed that the entire roster of some one hundred and eighty
students was before him. He answered many hails, but declined all
inducements to tarry, keeping on his way past Main Hall and Hensey until
Billings was reached. There he turned in and tramped to the right along
the first floor corridor to the open door of Number 6, a room on the
back of the building that looked out upon the tennis courts and, beyond,
the football and baseball fields. From the fact that no sound came from
the room, Tim decided that Don Gilbert had, after all, and in spite of
what Tim called a "hunch," failed to arrive. But when he entered his
mistake was instantly apparent. A maroon-coloured cushion hurtled toward
him, narrowly missing the green shade of the droplight on the study
table and, thanks to prompt and instinctive action on the part of Tim,
sailed on, serene and unimpeded, into the corridor. Whereupon Tim
uttered a savage whoop of mingled joy and vengeance and, traversing the
length of the room in four leaps, hurled himself upon the occupant of
the window-seat.