pointed face, "you've done enough--don't get rash."
"I'll stop when it's time," said Smeed; "bring 'em on now, one at a
time."
"Forty-six, forty-seven, forty-eight, forty-nine!"
Suddenly, at the moment when they expected him to go on forever, little
Smeed stopped, gazed at his plate, then at the fiftieth pancake, and
said:
"That's all."
Forty-nine pancakes! Then, and only then, did they return to a
realisation of what had happened. They cheered Smeed, they sang his
praises, they cheered again, and then, pounding the table, they cried,
in a mighty chorus:
"We want pancakes!"
"Bring us pancakes!"
"Pancakes, pancakes, we want pancakes!"
Twenty minutes later, Red Dog and the Egghead, fed to bursting, rolled
out of Conover's, spreading the uproarious news.
"Free pancakes! Free pancakes!"
The nearest houses, the Davis and the Rouse, heard and came with a rush.
Red Dog and the Egghead staggered down into the village and over to the
circle of houses, throwing out their arms like returning bacchanalians.
"Free pancakes!"
"Hungry Smeed's broken the record!"
"Pancakes at Conover's--free pancakes!"
The word jumped from house to house, the campus was emptied in a trice.
The road became choked with the hungry stream that struggled, fought,
laughed and shouted as it stormed to Conover's.
"Free pancakes! Free pancakes!"
"Hurrah for Smeed!"
"Hurrah for Hungry Smeed!!"
[Illustration: chapter title decoration]
THE RUN THAT TURNED THE GAME
In this same fall of Hungry Smeed's arrival, when the Dickinson, the
Cleve, the Woodhull, the Griswold, the Hamill, the Kennedy, and the
Davis, were each separately convinced that the faculty was seeking to
prevent its winning the football championship, by filling the house
with boys under weight and under size, there arrived at the Kennedy the
now celebrated "Piggy" Moore. He did not come on the top of the stage
as new boys should, but drove up in a carriage, in the company of an
aunt, who departed with misgivings, after kissing him in the full sight
of the campus.
For she had raised Piggy on the bottle of gentle manners and rocked him
in the cradle of innocent and edifying ambitions until the manly age
of sixteen. His hands were soft and manicured, he entered a room with
grace and left it with distinction. His body was swathed in plumpness.
His face was chubby and well nourished, with fat, indolent eyes and
wide nostrils. He was five feet eight and weighed a hundred and fifty.
Without embarrassment or anxiety he went to his room, removed his
coat, folded it neatly on a chair, turned up his sleeves and proceeded
to spread on his bureau a toilet-set of chaste silver. He was neatly
arranging eight pairs of shoes, carefully treed, when his name was
shouted from the hall.
"Oh, Moore! Hello there!"
He emerged hurriedly to find Captain Hasbrouck in football togs, eyeing
him critically and without enthusiasm.
"Football practice, Moore!"
"It will take me an hour or so, I'm afraid," said Moore, smiling
politely, "that is, to put my things in order and get thoroughly
unpacked."
"Sir!"
Piggy was surprised. The voice was harsh, rude and ominous, and the
figure of Hasbrouck quite obscured the doorway.
"Yes, sir!" he said hastily. "I'll be right down, sir."
"Have you got any football togs?" said Hasbrouck, looking at the toilet
set.
"No, sir."
"A sweater?"
"No, sir."
"Well, we only want a little light practice. Get your things to-night
in the village. On the jump now!"
Moore hastily trooped down with the others and followed across the long
green stretches in the tingly September air, a little apprehensive of
what the term "light practice" might mean. The veterans in scarred
suits and rent jerseys marched gloriously in front, gambolling and
romping with the ball, shouting out salutations to parties who swarmed
over the campus from other houses on the way to the playgrounds. The
newcomers in hastily patched-up costumes, incongruous and absurd,
clustered together talking in broken, forced monosyllables. Suddenly
the advance halted and a shout went up.
"Here come the Dickinsons. Gee, look at the material they've got!"
Piggy, uncomprehending, beheld a group of thirty-odd boys swinging
toward them, shouting and laughing as they came. From the advancing
crowd came a challenging yell.
"We're going to wipe the earth up with you, Kennedy."
"Good-bye, Kennedy. Good-bye!"
From the Kennedys the challenge was flung back:
"We've got you where we want you."
"You'll be easy, Dickinson."
"We'll attend to the championship this year."
The two crowds halted while the leaders inspected their antagonists,
sizing up the new material. Moore, in a tailor-cut suit of English
tweed, a stiff collar and a derby hat, felt for the first time a little
out of the picture when Hickey of the enemy paused in front of him and
derisively asked:
"Where did that come from?"
"Oh, that's been specially raised for us."
"He has? In a hothouse, yes! What'll _he_ play?"
"He'll play all over the field. _He's_ a regular demon!"
"Huh!"
"We'll twist your tail, Dickinson."
"We'll skin you, Kennedy."
"Yes, you will!"
"Yes, we will!"
The groups departed, each vowing that it was disheartening the way the
faculty had favoured the other.
On the playground "Jock" Hasbrouck and "Fire Crackers" Glendenning held
a consultation while the old boys frolicked with the ball and the new
arrivals huddled in an embarrassed group.
The new material was excellent, beyond expectation, but no joy appeared
on the face of the captain.
"How in the deuce are we ever going to beat the Dickinsons with such
a bunch as that?" he said, with a shake of his head. "What do we need
anyhow?"
"Both ends, a tackle and the halves," said Fire Crackers, gloomily.
"Well, we've got to do our best, that's all," said the captain, with a
glance that made every newcomer miserable. "Let's see how we can line
up. Fatty Harris, get in at centre, there. Keg, you'll have to go in
at right guard. Buffalo, you stay at left."
The old boys, brawny and hard, formed into a centre trio.
"If you take left tackle we'd better put Walsh in at right to face
Turkey," said Fire Crackers. "Legs Brockett, there, plays end, he says."
Walsh and Brockett, eyes to the ground, took their places in the line
at a nod from "Jock."
"Duke Wilson, full; Fire Crackers, quarter. What then?" he said slowly
to his counsel. "Suppose we give Pebbles Stone a chance at half this
year?"
"What do you weigh, Pebbles?" asked Fire Crackers.
"One hundred and forty-five," brazenly answered the lithe, but rather
frail person addressed.
"Honest?"
"Honest to God, Jock."
"Stripped?"
"No--o-o. With ten pounds in me pockets."
"Well, get in there, you old liar, you've got the sand all right."
Pebbles, with a delighted whoop, sprang into line. Then Fire Crackers
and Jock stopped before a trim, cleanly-built boy with a suit that
looked worthy.
"You're Francis, ain't you?"
"Yes, sir."
"Played half?"
"Yes, sir."
"What do you weigh?"
"One hundred and fifty, stripped, sir."
"Take right half."
Francis, quickly, but with an air of ease, took his place. Only one
position remained vacant, left end. Hasbrouck glanced over the squad of
slight, overgrown boys, and his eye by a process of elimination, rested
on Moore, standing stiff and immaculate.
"Moore, get in to right end."
"Me?" said Moore in horror.
"Sir!"
"Sir."
"Quick!"
"But I--I've never played, sir!"
"Get into line!"
Piggy went sullenly, indignant and cherishing resistance. Hasbrouck
gave a professionally pessimistic glance at the whole and said:
"Well, fellows, we'll only take a little light practice to-day. Try a
few starts."
The candidates in threes and fours crouched on a designated line, dug
their toes in the sod and raced forward at the clap of a hand, for a
good fifteen yards.
"Take your place, Moore," said Jock finally. "Dig down and get off with
a jump."
Piggy, embarrassed by the stiffness of his collar and the difficulty of
retaining his derby without loss of dignity, made a lumbering attempt.
"Try again. You're not racing a baby buggy! Get back on your marks,"
said Hasbrouck, and moving to a position directly behind him, he
thundered: "Now, one--two--_three_!"
A stinging hand descended upon the crouching Piggy, who leaped forward
in indignant amazement.
"That helped," said Jock, with an approving nod. "Once more."
Piggy, red to the ears, a second time was forced to humble himself and
receive the indignity of such propulsion.
"Here, Piggy, catch!"
Moore had just time to spin around, when a football vigorously thrown,
smote him full in the stomach.
[Illustration: "A stinging hand descended upon the crouching Piggy"]
"Oh, butter-fingers!"
"Clumsy!"
"Get your arms in to it!"
"Now!"
Warned by a chorus of instructions Moore strove a dozen times to retain
the tantalising spinning oval, which constantly slipped his grasp with
a smart reminder as it bounded away.
"My boy, your education has been neglected," said Jock in disgust. "At
least try and learn how to fall on the ball. Watch."
Rolling the pigskin in front of him, he dove for it, pouncing on it as
a beagle on a rabbit.
"Now, Piggy, let her go!"
Moore, who loved his tailor-suit with the pride and affection which a
father bestows only on the firstborn, desperately essayed to secure the
pigskin with the minimum of danger possible.
A shriek of derision burst forth.
"No, my dear Miss Moore, I did not ask you to lie down and pillow your
head upon it," said Jock in disgust. "That is _not_ what is called
falling on the ball. Go at it like a demon; chew it up, mangle it!
Here, Morning Glory," he added, turning to a scrubby little urchin who
was gambolling about, "take this young lady and show her how it's
done."
To Piggy's culminating mortification, the diminutive Morning Glory,
with a contemptuous sneer, began to instruct him in the new art, with a
rattling fire of insults which drew shrieks of laughter from the squad.
"Now then, old ice-wagon--get your nose in it."
"Don't spare the daisies, dearest."
"Jump, you Indian, jump!"
"Ah, watch me--like this."
The urchin hurled himself viciously on the ball, ploughing up the soft
turf, and bounding gloriously to his feet, with scornful, mud-stained
face, cried:
"Ah, what're you afraid of! Now then, old house-boat!"
Piggy's collar clung limply to his neck, half the buttons of his coat
had gone, streaks of yellow and green decorated the suit a custom
tailor had fashioned for fifty dollars cash, but still he was forced to
go tumbling after the ball, down and up, up and down, head over heels,
at the staccato shriek of the Morning Glory, like the one dog in the
show who circles about the stage, tumbling somersaults.
"That's enough for to-day," came at last Jock's welcome command. "We
must begin easily. To-morrow we'll get into it. Practice over! Moore,
jog around the circle six times and cut out pastry at supper."
* * * * *
During the dinner a great light dawned over Moore, as he sat silently
investigating his new masters with sidelong, calculated glances. He
went to his room and with one sweep eliminated the solid silver toilet
set, removed the trees from his boots, packed away the pink embroidered
bedroom slippers so neatly arranged under the bed and pruned
solicitously among the gorgeous cravats. Then he went to the village
and, under skilful prompting, bought a pair of corduroy trousers, a
cap, a red-and-black jersey, the softest pair of football trousers in
stock, a jersey padded at the elbows and shoulders, a sweater, a pair
of heavy shoes, a nose protector, and a pair of shin-guards. Incased in
every possible protection he reported next day for the dreadful ordeal
of tackling and being tackled.
"So you've all got your togs," said Fire Crackers, surveying the squad
of freshmen on the field. "Let's see how you made out."
With Keg Smith and Jock, he passed them over in inspection, punching
and poking the new suits with brief interjections, until Moore was
reached. Before that swollen figure the three halted in mock amazement.
"Who's this?" said Keg, with a blank face.
"It's Moore, sir," said Piggy innocently.
"What's happened to you?" continued Fire Crackers with great
seriousness.
Moore, perceiving he had blundered again, grew red with mortification,
while Fire Crackers stripped the sweater from him and examined the
jersey.
"Say, just see what Bill sold him!" he exclaimed. "Isn't it a shame how
he'll impose on the green ones? Look at that bed ticking! And those
pads! Gee, I'll fix that!"
Before Moore could protest, Fire Crackers had ripped off the
protections and flung them away.
"Now you'll feel easier," he said with a friendly smile. "Bill
Appleby is an infernal old swindler: selling you shin-guards and a
nose-protector! Huh! Throw 'em away."
"Thank you, sir," said Moore gratefully, "I'll make him take them back."
"That's right," said his inquisitor with a queer nod, "you're pretty
green at this, aren't you?"
"I have never done much, sir."
"Well, let me give you a pointer; when you tackle, you want to grit
your teeth and slam down hard, then you don't feel it at all."
"Thank you, sir."
"And when you're tackled," continued Fire Crackers with perfect
seriousness, "just let yourself go limp; then you can't break any
bones--see?"
"Yes, sir."
"You like the game, don't you?"
"Oh, very much."
Fire Crackers' advice did him scant good. On the whole it was probably
the most painful afternoon he had ever known in his life. He had no
instinct for tackling, that was certain. His arms slipped, his hands
could not fasten to anything and he accomplished nothing more than to
go sprawling, face downward.
"Funny you don't get on to that," said Jock, shaking his head. "I tell
you what you do. Run down the line and take a few tackles; then you'll
see how it's done."
Moore stood balancing, looking down to where Jock's one hundred and
sixty-five pounds were gathering for a model tackle. Every natural
instinct in him bade him turn tail and run.
"Come on now!" cried Jock, spitting on his hands. "Hard as you can."
Piggy went as a horse goes to a road-crusher, faltering and finally
stopping dead. The next moment, Jock, cleaving the air in a perfect
dive, caught him about the knees and threw him crashing to the ground.
Piggy rose with difficulty.
"Do you get it now?" said Jock solicitously.
"I think I do," said Moore faintly.
"Well now, try one on me," said Jock, brightening. "Put your shoulder
into it and squeeze it. Remember now."
Piggy remembered only the sensation of being tackled, and with the
thought of that greater evil, improved astonishingly.
"That's the way to learn," said Jock approvingly. "Now, notice how I
pull your legs from under you, and try to get that."
That evening after supper, Moore valiantly determined to take the bull
by the horns. Seizing a favourable opportunity, he accosted his captain
with the resolution of despair, and told him point blank that he would
not be eligible for the team.
"Why not?" said Jock aggressively.
"I don't know anything about the game, sir," said Moore defiantly, "and
I don't like it."
"Is that the only reason?"
"I don't want to play, sir--that ought to be enough."
"We're not _asking_ you what you want to do."
"But, sir, I don't like it," said Moore, beginning to shrink under the
cold, boring gaze of Hasbrouck.
"That has nothing to do with it, either."
"Nothing----"
"Certainly not. We don't want you; in fact, we're crying because we've
got to take you. You're a flubdub and a quitter. But there's no one
else, and so, Piggy, mark you--we're going to make a demon out of you,
a regular demon. Mark my words!"
All of which was accomplished easily and naturally within a short two
weeks by the discipline and tradition which has put courage into the
hearts of generations of natural cowards.
The crisis came in the first game of the series; when for the first
time, Piggy beheld the terrifying spectacle of an end run started in
his direction. At the sight of the solid front of bone and muscle ready
to sweep him off his feet and send him tumbling head over heels, he
shut his eyes and funked deliberately and ingloriously.
The next moment Jock had him by the small of the neck; Jock's hand
jerked him to his feet and Jock's voice cried:
"You cowardly little pup! You do that again and I'll tear the hide off
you!"
Piggy, chilled to the bone, went to his position. The opposing team,
with a shout of exultation, sent the same play crashing in his
direction. Piggy, desperate with fear, tore through the advancing mass,
found the runner and hurled him to the ground. Jock smiled contentedly.
Moore was a coward, he knew, but from that time forth, no passing
menace before him could compare with the abiding terror that waited
behind.
* * * * *
Had Moore been possessed of even moderate courage the task would have
been difficult, for then it would have resolved itself into a mere
question of natural ability. But being an arrant and utter coward,
his very cowardice drove him into feats of desperate recklessness.
For always, in lull or storm, in the confusion of the mêlée or the
open scramble down the field to cover a punt, Moore felt the ominous
presence of Hasbrouck just at his shoulder and heard the sharp and
threatening cry:
"Get that man, you, Piggy!"
So blindly and rebelliously he served the tyrant, and unwilling and
revolting learned to despise fear, little suspecting how many reckless
spirits of other teams had been formed under the same rude discipline.
The earlier contests developed the strength of the two long-time
rivals, the Kennedy and the Dickinson, between whom at last lay the
question of supremacy. The last week approached with excitement at
fierce heat. Every day a fresh rumour was served up: Hickey, the wily
Dickinson quarter, had a weak ankle; Turkey, the captain, was behind
in his studies; a Princeton 'varsity man was over, coaching the enemy;
the signals were discovered and a dozen trick plays were being held in
reserve, each good for a touchdown.
Each night on the Kennedy steps, the council of war convened and
plans were discussed in utter gravity for temporarily crippling and
eliminating from the contest Turkey, Slugger-Jones, Hickey and the
Butcher. For, of course, it was conceded that Jock, Tom Walsh and
Fire Crackers would probably be maimed for life by the brutal and
unscrupulous enemy.
Piggy, whose critical sense of humour had been under early
disadvantages, took this as exact truth and beheld the horrible day
arrive with an absolute conviction that it would be his last. He did
not sleep during the night; he could eat nothing during the day; his
fingers trembled and snarled up the lacings as he forced himself into
his football clothes. Then he stood a long moment, viewing his white
face in the mirror--the last look, perhaps--and went weakly to join the
squad below. He heard nothing of the magnificent address of Jock to his
followers; one idea only was in his head: to sell his life as dearly as
possible.
While the captains conferred and tossed for position, the two teams,
face to face at last, paced up and down, eyeing each other with
contempt, breathing forth furious threats.
The Egghead assured Fatty Harris that the first scrimmage would be
his last. Fatty Harris returned the compliment and suggested that the
Egghead leave a memorandum for the hearse. The Coffee Cooler looked
Buffalo Brown over and sneered; Keg Smith did as much to the Butcher
and laughed. The diminutive Spider at right end, approached his dear
friend Legs Brockett, his opponent, and muttered through his teeth:
"I'm going to slug you!"
While these friendly salutations were taking place, Flea Obie and Wash
Simmons, the Dickinson halves, approached Piggy, who, sick at heart,
was stamping his feet and churning his arms to convey to Red Dog,
opposite, the impression that he was thirsting for his blood.
Wash gave Piggy one withering glance and said loudly to the Red Dog:
"This fellow's a quitter. He's got yellow in his eyes. Smash him good
and hard, Red Dog. Don't waste any time about it, either."
"He's got a chicken liver," said Red Dog, who looked a reed beside the
sturdy Piggy. "He shuts his eyes when he tackles! I'll fix him. Huh!"
"Ah, go on now, go on, go on," said Piggy, with a desperate attempt at
lightheartedness.
Flea Obie, lovely no longer in mud-stained jacket and pirate band
around his forehead, strode up to Piggy and added:
"Old Sport, let me give you a word of advice. When we strike your end,
the best thing you can do is to lie down _quick and soft_. _Savez?_"
Luckily for Piggy, whose imagination was panic-driven by this perfectly
innocuous braggadocio, the torrent of conversation was checked by a cry
of exultation.
The Kennedy had won the toss and chose the kickoff. Bat Finney, umpire
from the Fourth Form, called the two teams together and said solemnly:
"Now I want it understood by you fellows this is going to be a
gentleman's game. No roughing it, no slugging, nothing brutal. Take
your sides."
Immediately the air resounded with war cries:
"Get in there, Dickinson."
"Chew 'em up, Kennedy."
"Hit 'em hard, Buffalo."
"Sock 'em, Turkey."
"Knock 'em out, boys!"
Piggy, at left end with his eye on the ball, waited hopelessly for
Jock to send the oval spinning into Dickinson territory. He was
shivering, in a dead funk. The whistle blew, the run was on. Piggy went
perfunctorily, helplessly down the field to where the dreaded Hickey,
ball under arm, was dodging toward him. Suddenly the vigorous form of
Wash Simmons hove into view, headed directly for him. He wavered and
the next moment was knocked off his feet, while Hickey, the way thus
cleared for him, went bounding back for a run of forty yards.
Meanwhile Piggy was in the hands of Jock, who administered to him
before the eyes of every spectator, a humiliating and well-placed kick.
"You funked, I saw you funk, you miserable shivery little coward!" he
cried, shaking his fist in his face. "You jump in there now and cripple
a few of those fellows or I'll massacre you!"
He added a few words which shall remain sacred between them and
shoved him into place. The old fear awoke triumphant in Piggy. He
rushed in like a demon, whirling over the field, upsetting play after
play, making tackles that brought Flea Obie and Wash Simmons to their
feet rubbing their sides. Nothing could stop him, for at last he was
panic-stricken, utterly and horribly afraid.
The two teams, evenly matched, fought each other to a standstill. The
first half closed without any perceptible advantage. The second half
continued the deadlock, the precious minutes slipping away. Such a
struggle had never been known in a House contest. Several eyes were
closed, several bandages had appeared. The frenzy of battle had taken
possession of the descendants of Goth and Viking. Challenges to future
encounters were flung recklessly and recklessly accepted. After each
mêlée little clusters of battling boyhood were disentangled with
difficulty, while Bat Finney, the umpire, joyfully proclaimed:
"No roughing it, fellows--remember, this is a _gentleman's_ game."
The dusk began to cloud the field and the players, one of those
tragic, melancholy mists that come only at the close of a desperate
second half. Two minutes only to play and the ball in the Kennedy's
possession, exactly at midfield, without a score.
"6-5-8-15-2-3!" shrieked Fire Crackers, grimy and unrecognisable.
The team, converging swiftly for a revolving mass play on tackle,
strove wearily to make headway against the reeling Dickinsons, who,
too fagged to upset the play, could only hold, surging and twisting.
Piggy, scrambling and pushing, head down in the mêlée, whirled and spun
with the revolving mass. Then his feet tripped and he went underneath,
shielding his head from the vortex of legs that swirled above him.
Suddenly, lying free, a scant five yards in front of him, he perceived,
to his horror, the precious ball! With a lurch, he freed himself from
the mass, scrambled to his feet, picked up the ball and set out,
break-a-neck, for the far-away goal. Five yards behind was Hickey, the
fleet quarter, bounding after him.