WALTON WRITES A NOTE
THE Southby game was played on the sixth of November, a fortnight before
the final contest with Claflin School, and practically marked the end of
the preparatory season. Brimfield would meet her blue-legged rival with
what plays she had already learned and the time for instruction was
passed. The remaining two weeks, which held but ten playing days, would
be devoted to perfecting plays already known, to polishing off the rough
angles of attack and defence and to learning a new set of signals as a
matter of precaution. Those ten days were expected to work a big
improvement in the team. Whether they would or not remained to be seen.
On the whole, Brimfield had passed through a successful season. She had
played seven games, of which she had lost one, won five and tied one.
Next week's adversary, Chambers, would in all likelihood supply a sixth
victory, in which case the Maroon-and-Grey would face Claflin with a
nearly clean slate. Claflin, on her part, had hung up a rather peculiar
record that Fall. She had played one more game than Brimfield, had won
four, lost one and tied three. She had started out strongly, had had a
slump in mid-season and was now, from all evidence at hand, recovering
finely. On comparative scores there was little to choose between the
rivals. If any perceptible advantage belonged to Brimfield it was only
because she had maintained a steadier pace.
There was a lay-off for most of the first-string players on Monday, a
fact which gave Harry Walton a chance to conduct himself very capably at
left guard during the four ten-minute periods of scrimmage with the
second. Don didn't go near the field that afternoon and so was saved any
of the uneasiness which the sight of Walton's performance might have
caused him. Rollins got back for a short workout and showed few signs of
his injury. The second team, profiting by some scouting done by Coach
Boutelle and Joe Gafferty on Saturday, tried out the Claflin formation
and such Claflin plays as had been fathomed against the first team and
made some good gains thereby until the second-string players solved
them. On Tuesday Harry Walton disgruntledly found himself again
relegated to the bench during most of the practice game and saw Don open
holes in the second team's line in a style that more than once brought
commendation from Coach Robey. Walton glowered from the bench until
Cotter disgustedly asked if he felt sick. Whereupon Walton grinned and
Cotter, with a sigh, begged him to scowl again!
The first team presented its full strength that afternoon, and Mr.
Boutelle's Claflin plays made little headway. With Rollins back in
place, the first team scored almost at will during three periods, and
even after an entirely new backfield was put in it continued to smash
the second up very effectually. Mr. Boutelle scolded and raved and
threatened, but all to scant purpose. The first got its plays off very
smoothly, played low and hard and, for once, played together. The final
score that day was the biggest ever piled up in a practice contest, 30
to 3. Had Mr. Robey allowed Rollins to try goals from touchdowns it
would have been several points larger.
Tom Hall had so far carefully avoided the field, but today he appeared
there and sat in the stand with Roy Draper and tried his best to be
cheerful. But his best wasn't very good. Already the feeling against him
had largely subsided, and the school, realising, perhaps, that Tom's
loss to the team did not necessarily spell defeat for it, was inclined
to be sorry for him. But Tom didn't realise that, since he still kept to
himself and was suspicious of advances. He hadn't quarrelled with the
school's verdict, but it had hurt him and, as he didn't like being hurt
any more than most of us, he avoided the chance of it. In those days he
stuck pretty close to his room, partly because the office required it
and partly because he had no heart for mingling with his fellows. Roy
Draper had to plead long and earnestly that afternoon to get him to the
gridiron. As badly as he felt about losing his place on the team,
however, Tom didn't begrudge Pryme his good fortune, and he was honestly
pleased to see that the latter, in spite of his deficiencies, would
doubtless fill the right guard position very capably in the Claflin
game. He studied Pryme's work attentively that afternoon, criticised it
and praised it and showed no trace of animosity.
"He will do all right," he confided to Roy. "Crewe will help him a lot,
and so will Thursby. If he could use his hands a bit better he'd be
fine. He holds himself nicely, doesn't he? On his toes all the time. I
hate to see a lineman play flat-footed. That's one trouble with Don
Gilbert. Don's doing a heap better than he did last year, though. I
guess he's every bit as good as Joe Gafferty. He's a regular whale on
defence, isn't he? He's a queer chap, Don, but a mighty nice one."
"Don," replied Roy in his somewhat didactic manner, "is the sort of
fellow I'd pick out to be cast away on a desert island with. He isn't so
scintillant, you know, but he'd wear forever."
"That's him to a T." Tom chuckled. "They tell me Harry Walton is as mad
as a hatter because Don butted in and grabbed that position away from
him. Can't say I altogether blame him, either. That is, there's no use
getting mad about it, but it is tough luck. Harry isn't a half-bad
guard, either."
"If he can play good football," answered Roy, "I'm glad to know it. I've
always wondered what Walton was for."
Tom laughed. "Oh, he isn't so bad, I guess. His manner's against him."
"I've noticed it," said Roy drily. "Also his looks and his remarks and a
number of other things. Larry Jones says he comes from the best sort of
family."
"A fellow's family doesn't prove anything, I guess."
"Evidently not. There's the whistle. Let's go back." Presently Roy
added, as they headed for Torrence: "I can quite understand why
Walton's family sent him to school."
"Why they sent him to school?" repeated Tom questioningly.
"Yes, it was to get rid of him."
"You've certainly got your little hammer with you," said Tom, with a
smile. "What's Harry done to you?"
"Not a thing. I wouldn't advise him to, either. I just don't like him,
Tom. Can't stand being in the same room with him. Well, see you later,
old chap. And, say, think over what I said about--you know."
"Oh, that's all right," replied Tom, with a shrug of his broad
shoulders. "Fellows can think what they like about me. I don't blame
them. But you can't expect me to like it!"
"I know, Tom, but they don't feel that way now. It was just for a day or
two. I've heard a lot of fellows say lately that it's nonsense blaming
you, Tom. So come out of your shell, like a sensible chap, and show that
you don't feel any--any ill-will."
"Well, I don't, I suppose. As for coming out of my shell, I'll be
crawling out pretty soon. Don't bother about me, Roy. I'm feeling fine.
So long."
Perhaps what Tom really meant was that he was feeling a whole lot better
than he had a few days before, for he certainly had not become quite
reconciled to the loss of his position with the team. He was getting
used to the idea, but he wasn't happy over it. When he squarely faced
the fact that when Claflin came trotting onto the field on the twentieth
he would be sitting in the grand stand instead of being out there in
togs, his heart sank miserably and he hardly knew whether he wanted to
kick something or get off in a corner and cry. At such moments the
question of whether his school fellows liked him or detested him
bothered little. If he could only play against Claflin, he assured
himself, the school might hate him to its heart's content!
Going on to Billings and his room, he considered what Roy had told him
of the altered sentiment toward him, but somehow he didn't seem to care
so much today. Watching practice had brought back the smart, and being
liked or disliked seemed a little thing beside the bigger trouble.
Still, he thought, if Roy was right perhaps he had better meet fellows
half-way. There was no use in being a grouch. As a starter and in order
to test the accuracy of Roy's statement, he decided that he would drop
in on Carl Bennett, who roomed in Number 3. Bennett was a chap he
rather respected and, while they had never been very close friends, Tom
had seen a good deal of the other during the Fall. But Bennett was not
in and Tom was making his way back to the stairs when the door of Number
6 opened and Harry Walton came out. Perhaps it was Roy's dressing-down
of that youth that prompted Tom to be more decent to him than usual. At
all events, Tom stopped and hailed him and they conversed together on
their way up the stairs. It wasn't until later that Tom, recalling
Harry's grudge against Don, wondered what had taken him to the latter's
room. Then he concluded that Harry had probably been calling on Tim, and
thought no more of it. Just now he asked Harry how he was getting on
with the team and was a little puzzled when Harry replied: "All right, I
guess. Of course, Gilbert's got the call right now, but I'm going to
beat him out before the big game. Did you see practice today?"
"Yes. You fellows put up a great game, Harry."
"I didn't get into it for more than ten minutes. Robey's playing Don
Gilbert for all he knows." Harry laughed disagreeably. "Robey's a bit of
a fox."
"How's that!" Tom inquired.
"Oh, he's sort of keeping me guessing, you see. Thinks I'll get worried
and dig harder."
"Huh. I see. You seem mighty certain of that place, Harry."
"Sure, I'm certain. You just wait and see, old top." Harry nodded and
entered his room across the hall, leaving Tom a trifle more sympathetic
toward Roy's estimation of him. Walton certainly did have a disagreeable
manner, he reflected.
As a matter of fact, Harry hadn't been calling on anyone in Number 6 for
the simple reason that he had found no one at home. Moreover, he had
expected to find no one, for he had left Tim at the gymnasium and seen
Don and Harry Westcott sitting in the window of the latter's room in
Torrence as he passed. What he had done was leave a hastily scrawled
note for Don on the table in there, a note which Don discovered an hour
later and which at once puzzled and disturbed him.
"Come up and see me after supper will you," the note read, with a superb
disdain of punctuation, "I want to see you. Important. H. Walton."
"What's he want to see you about?" asked Tim when Don tossed the note to
him to read.
"I don't know." Don frowned thoughtfully.
"I hope he isn't going to make trouble about that old business."
"What old business?" asked Tim carelessly, more interested in a set of
bruised knuckles than anything else just then.
"Why, you know Harry saw us climbing in the window that night."
"Saw us climb--Well, what of it? That was years ago. Why should he want
to make trouble about that? And how could he do it? I'd like to see him
start anything with me."
"Oh, well, I just happened to think of that."
"More likely he's going to ask you to break a leg or something so he can
get your place," chuckled Tim. "Don't you do it, Don, if he does. It
doesn't pay to be too obliging. Ready for eats?"
"In a minute." Don dropped the note and began his toilet, but he didn't
speak again until they were on their way down the stairs. Then: "If it
should be that," he remarked, "I wouldn't know whether to punch his head
or laugh at him."
"Don't take any chances," advised Tim grimly. "Punch his head. Better
still, bring the glad tidings to me and let me do it. Why, if that idiot
threatened to open his face about us I'd give him such a walloping that
his own folks wouldn't recognise the remnants! Gee, but I'm hungry
tonight! Toddle along faster and let's get there before Rollins and Holt
and the rest swipe all the grub."