THE DOCTOR TELLS A STORY
TUESDAY, with the return of all first-string players to the line-up and
the appearance of Tom Hall once more at right guard, practice went about
a hundred per cent better, and those who turned out to watch it went
back to the campus considerably encouraged. The showing of the team
naturally had an effect on the spirit of the mass meeting that evening.
Ever since the Southby game the school had been holding meetings and
"getting up steam" for the Claflin contest, but they had been tame
affairs in contrast with tonight's. Brimfield was football-crazy now,
for the Big Game loomed enormous but four days away. Fellows read
football in the papers, talked football and, some of them, dreamed
football. The news from Claflin was read and discussed eagerly. The
fortunes of the rival eleven were watched just as closely as those of
the home team. When a Claflin player wrenched an ankle Brimfield gasped
excitedly. When it was published that Cox, of the blue team, had dropped
fourteen goals out of twenty tries from the thirty-five-yard line and
at a severe angle, depression prevailed at Brimfield. The news that the
Claflin scrubs had held the first to only one touchdown in thirty
minutes of play sent Brimfield's spirits soaring! Fellows neglected
lessons brazenly and during that week of the final battle there was a
scholastic slump that would undoubtedly have greatly alarmed the faculty
if the latter, rendered wise by experience, hadn't expected it.
The first team players were excused from study hour subsequent to Monday
in order that they might attend blackboard lectures and signal drills in
the gymnasium. On Tuesday night, after an hour's session, and in
response to public clamour, they filed onto the platform just before the
meeting was to begin at nine-fifteen and, somewhat embarrassedly, seated
themselves in the chairs arranged across the back. Mr. Fernald was
there, and Mr. Conklin, the athletic director, and Coaches Robey and
Boutelle, and Trainer Danny Moore, and Manager Morton and Childers,
captain of the baseball team. And Steve Payne was at the piano. Also,
sitting beside Mr. Robey, was Doctor Proctor.
Childers, who was cheer leader that Fall, presided, and, after the
assemblage had clapped and shouted "A-a-ay!" as each newcomer appeared
on the platform, opened proceedings with the School Song. Then Mr.
Fernald spoke briefly, Captain Edwards followed, each being cheered
loudly and long, and Childers introduced Mr. Robey. "What we are all
anxious to know tonight," said Childers, "is whether we're going to win
next Saturday. Mr. Fernald has said that he _hopes_ we shall, Captain
Edwards has said that he _thinks_ we shall, and now we're going to hear
from the only one who _knows_! Fellows, a long cheer for Mr. Robey, and
make it good! Are you all ready? Now then! One--two--three!"
"Brimfield! Brimfield! Brimfield! Rah, rah, rah! Rah, rah, rah! Rah,
rah, rah! Brimfield! Brimfield! Brimfield! Robey!"
When the cheering, and the shouting and clapping and stamping that
followed for good measure, had quieted down, Mr. Robey said: "Fellows,
Captain Childers is much too flattering. I'm not gifted with
second-sight, even if he thinks so. I don't know any more than he does
or you do whether we're going to win on Saturday. Like Mr. Fernald, I
_hope_ we are and, like Captain Edwards, I _think_ we are." Cheers
interrupted then. "But I don't want to make any prediction. I'll say one
thing, though, and that is this: If the team plays the way it _can_
play, if it makes full use of the ability that's in it, there's only one
thing that can happen, and that's a Brimfield victory! I've got every
reason to expect that the team _will_ do its utmost, and that is why I
say that I think we'll win. We must remember that we're going up against
a strong team, a team that in some ways has shown itself so far this
season our superior. I don't say that the Claflin eleven is any better
than ours. I don't _think_ so, not for a moment. Our team this Fall is
as good as last year's team. We've had our little upsets; we always do;
but we've come down to practically the eve of the game in good shape.
Every fellow has done his best and, I am firmly convinced, is going to
do a little better than his best on Saturday afternoon. And that little
better is what will decide the game, fellows. After the coaches have
done their part and the players have toiled hard and earnestly and
enthusiastically, why then it all comes down to _fight_! And so it's
fight that's going to win the game.
"You fellows must do your part, though. You must be right back of the
team, every minute--and let them know it. Cheering helps a team to win,
no matter what anyone may say to the contrary. Only cheer at the right
times, fellows. Just making a noise indiscriminately is poor stuff. But
I don't need to tell you this, I guess, because your cheer leader knows
what to do better than I do. But let the team know that you're right
with them, backing them up all the time, fighting behind them, boosting
them along! It counts, fellows, take my word for it!
"And now there's one other thing I want to say before I make way for
someone who can really talk. It's this, fellows. Don't forget the team
that has helped us all season, the team that doesn't get into the
limelight. And don't forget the coach, who has worked just as hard,
perhaps a good deal harder, to develop that team than I've worked. I'm
going to ask you to show your appreciation of the unselfish devotion of
Coach Boutelle and one of the finest second teams Brimfield has ever
had!"
Mr. Robey bowed and retreated and Childers jumped to his feet.
"A cheer for Coach Boutelle, fellows!" he shouted. "A long cheer and a
whopper!" And, when it had been given lustily: "And now one for the
second team!" he cried. "Everyone into it! One--two--three!" The
enthusiasm was mounting high now, and, after the cheer had died away,
there were demands for a song. "We want to sing!" proclaimed the
meeting. "_We want to sing!_"
Childers held up a hand. "All right, fellows! Just a minute, please!
We've got a guest with us this evening, an honoured guest, fellows.
Those of you who know football history know his name as well as you know
the names of Heffelfinger and DeWitt and Coy and Brickley and--and many
others in the Football Hall of Fame! I know you want to hear from him
and I hope he will be willing to say a few words." Childers glanced at
Doctor Proctor and the latter, smiling, shook his head energetically.
"He says he will be glad to, fellows," continued Childers mendaciously,
amidst laughter, "and so I'm going to call first for a cheer for--if the
gentleman will pardon me--'Gus' Proctor, famous Princeton and
All-America tackle, and after that we're going to listen very
attentively to him. Now, then, everyone into this! A long cheer for
Doctor Proctor!"
"I'm an awfully poor speaker, fellows," began the doctor, when he had
advanced to the front of the platform. "I appreciate this honour and if
I don't do justice to the fine reputation your--your imaginative cheer
leader has provided me with you must try to forgive me. Speaking isn't
my line. If any of you would like to have a leg sawed off or something
of that sort I'd be glad to do it free of charge just to prove
that--well, that there's something I _can_ do fairly decently!
"I saw your team practice yesterday and I thought then that perhaps an
operation would benefit it. Then I saw it again today and discovered
that my first diagnosis was wrong. Fellows, I call it a good team. I
think you've got material there that's equal to any I've ever seen on a
school team. Your coach says he won't prophesy as to your game on
Saturday. I've known George Robey for ten years. He isn't a bad sort,
take him all around, but he's a pessimist of the most pessimistic sort.
He's the kind of chap who, if you sprang that old reliable one on him
about every cloud having a silver lining, would shrug his shoulders and
say, 'Humph! More likely nickel-plated!' That's the sort he is, boys.
Now I'm just the opposite, and, at the risk of displeasing George, I'm
going to tell you that, from what I've seen of the Brimfield football
team in practice, I'm firmly convinced that it's going to win!"
Loud and prolonged cheering greeted that prediction, and it was fully a
minute before the speaker could proceed.
"I've played the game in my day and I've coached teams, boys, and I
think I've got a little of what your coach disclaimed. I mean a sort
of--well, not second-sight, but a sort of ability to tell what a team
will do from the looks of the players on it. In my profession we have to
study human nature a lot and we get so we can classify folks after we've
looked them over and watched them awhile. We make mistakes sometimes,
but on the whole we manage fairly well to put folks in the classes they
belong in. Doing that with the members of your team I find that almost
without exception they class with the kind of fellows who _don't like to
be beaten_! And when a fellow doesn't like to be beaten he isn't--not
very often.
"I think I can read in the faces I see here tonight a great deal of that
same spirit, and if the team has it and you fellows behind the team have
it, why, I wouldn't give a last year's plug-hat for Claflin's chances
next Saturday!
"Football," continued Doctor Proctor presently, "is a fine game. It's
fun to play and it's a wonderful thing to train a fellow's body and
mind. I've heard lots of folks object to it on various scores, but I've
never heard an objection yet that carried any weight. More often than
not those who run football down don't know the game. Why, if it did no
more than teach us obedience and discipline it would be worth while. But
it does far more than that. It gives us strong, dependable bodies, it
teaches us to think--and think quick, and it gives us courage, physical
and moral. I'm going to tell you of an incident that I witnessed only a
few weeks since if you'll let me. I fear I'm taking up too much
time----"
There were cries of "No, no!" and "Go ahead!"
"I'll try to be brief. Last Fall I was travelling on a train out my way,
to be exact some eighty miles west of Cincinnati, when we had an
accident. A freight train was slow about taking a side track and we came
along and banged into it. It was about five o'clock in the morning and
most of the passengers were asleep. A wreck's a nasty thing in any case,
but when it happens at night or before it is light enough to see it is
worse. The forward cars of our train and the freight caught fire from
the engines, and there was a good deal of loose steam around, and things
were pretty messy for awhile. There happened to be another doctor on the
train and, as soon as we got our bearings, we started a first-aid camp
alongside the track. Some of the passengers, mostly in the day coaches
up front, were badly burned and we had our hands full.
"There is always more or less confusion in an affair of that sort and
it was some minutes after the accident before the rescue work got under
way. But one of the first rescuers I noticed was a young chap, a boy in
fact, probably about seventeen years old. He didn't have a great deal
on, I remember, but he was certainly Johnny-on-the-spot that morning! It
was he who brought the first patient to me, a little dried-up Hebrew
peddler I judged him, who had been caught under some wreckage in the
forward day-coach. He had a broken forearm and while I was busy with him
I saw this young chap climbing in and out of windows and wading through
wreckage and always coming out again with someone. How many folks he
pulled away from the flames and the scalding steam I don't know, but I
never saw anyone work harder or more--more efficiently. Yes, efficiently
is just the word I want! And I said to myself at the time: 'That fellow
is a football man! And I'll bet he's a good one!' You see, it wasn't
only that he had courage to risk himself, but he had the ability to see
what was to be done and to do it, and do it quick! Why, he was pulling
injured women and children and men from those burning, overturned cars
before a grown-up man had sensed what had happened! And later on, when
we'd done what we could for the burned and scalded bodies and limbs, I
got hold of the boy for a moment. I asked him his name and he told it,
and then I said: 'You've played football, haven't you?' And he said he
had, a little. He wasn't much of a talker, and when some of us said some
nice things about what he had done he got horribly fussed and tried to
get away. But someone wanted to shake hands with him, and he wouldn't,
and I saw that his own hand was burned all inside the palm, deep and
nasty. 'How did you do that?' I asked him as I dressed it. Oh, he didn't
know. He thought he'd got his hand caught between some beams or
something; couldn't get it out for a minute. It wasn't much of a burn!
Well, the wrecking train and a hospital train came along about then and
I lost sight of that chap, and I didn't see him again.
"I've told the story because I think it bears me out when I say that
football is fine training. I don't say that that boy wouldn't have been
just as brave and eager to help if he hadn't been a football player, but
I do maintain that he wouldn't have known what to do as readily or how
to do it and wouldn't have got at it as quickly. And when the flames are
eating their way back from car to car quickness means a whole lot!
That's the end of my story, boys. But while I've been telling it I've
been looking for some sign to tell me that you recognised the hero of
it. I don't find the sign and I'm puzzled. Perhaps you're so accustomed
to heroes here at Brimfield that one more or less doesn't stir you. For
the satisfaction of my own curiosity I'm going to ask you if you know
who I've been talking about."
A deep silence was the only answer. The doctor's audience looked
extremely interested and curious, but no one spoke.
"I see. You don't know. Well, perhaps I'd better not tell then." But a
chorus of protest arose. The doctor hesitated, and his gaze seemed to
rest intently on a spot at one side of the hall and about half-way back.
Finally, when silence had fallen again: "I guess I will tell," he said.
"It can't do him or you any harm. It may help a little to know that
there's one amongst you fine enough to do what I've described. I've
never seen that boy from the moment the wrecking train reached the scene
of the wreck until tonight, and so I've never spoken to him again. But
as I sat on the platform here awhile ago I looked and saw him. I don't
forget faces very easily, and as you can understand, I wasn't likely to
forget his. As I say, I haven't spoken to him yet, but I'm going to
now."
There was a silence in which a dropped pin would have made a noise like
a crowbar. Half the audience had turned their heads in the direction of
Doctor Proctor's smiling gaze, but all eyes were fixed on his lips. The
breathless silence lengthened. Then the doctor spoke.
"How is your hand, Gilbert?" he asked.