THE FELLOW WHO REFUSED.
Coached by Dash Winton, a former Dartmouth College player, the Oakdale
Academy football team thus far had not lost a game for the season, and
there was now but one more game to be played, which, however, was the
one the boys especially desired to win; for, could they defeat Wyndham,
the school that during the past three years had held the county
championship, they would themselves win the title of champions.
As usual, Wyndham had a strong eleven; so strong, indeed, that in
almost every respect it had wholly outclassed its opponents, thus far
not having been once scored against; therefore, having won some of her
contests by the narrowest possible margin and succeeded only once in
blanking the enemy, it was no more than natural that Oakdale should
feel more or less apprehension over that deciding battle so soon to be
fought. Another reason for apprehension lay in the fact that Oakdale’s
battered rush line contained several cripples; but it was likely that
only the coach and Eliot, the captain, had detected certain alarming
indications that the players were “going stale,” a calamity which they
had privately discussed. In his heart Winton feared he had driven the
youngsters too hard, when better judgment should have held them
somewhat in restraint for the great battle of the season.
The autumn days had grown so short that there was little time to
practice between the closing of the afternoon session at the academy
and the coming of nightfall. As soon as possible, on being let out, the
boys rushed from the academy to the gymnasium, jumped into harness and
hurried onto the field, where they invariably found the coach waiting.
Night after night they put in a brief practice game against the scrub,
which contained a number of grammar school boys and was strengthened by
the regular substitutes and, usually, by Winton himself.
But even this work had ceased to be properly beneficial, especially in
developing defensive tactics; for the time had passed when the scrub
could force them to exert themselves to the utmost. Indeed, the only
substitutes obtainable were few in numbers and sadly deficient in real
football qualifications, so that even the least astute knew that
disqualifying injuries to two or three regular players, occurring in
the game with Wyndham, would be almost certain to weaken the team
hopelessly.
The great desire for reliable substitutes had led Roger Eliot to ask,
almost to beg, Rodney Grant to come out for practice. For even though
Grant might know little about the game, there was a chance for him to
acquire some rudimentary knowledge, and, being a strong, lithe,
athletic fellow, there was a possibility that he could be used to fill
a gap at a time of extreme emergency. Eliot’s entreaties, however, had
proved unavailing, the Texan flatly declining to practice, without
giving his reasons for the refusal.
This new boy, entering Oakdale in the midst of the autumn term, where
he appeared unannounced and unacclaimed, had at first seemed to be
quiet and retiring to the verge of modesty. Of late, however, beset,
almost pestered, by his schoolmates, his manner had undergone a
decisive change, and it was not at all remarkable that various lads
besides Berlin Barker had come to regard him as a braggart.
In the midst of practice on the afternoon of Grant’s feat as a jumper,
Hunk Rollins, filling the position of right guard for the regulars,
gave his right knee, injured in the last game, a twist that sent him
hobbling off the field. There was a pause, in which Eliot consulted
Winton concerning a substitute.
“No use to try Springer or Hooker,” said the coach in a low tone.
“Neither is fitted for the place. In fact, we haven’t a man.”
Ben Stone, the left guard, an uncomely chap who, nevertheless, had
become amazingly popular with the boys, chanced to overhear these
words. In a moment he joined them.
“Why don’t you ask Grant again, captain?” he suggested. “I don’t know
why it is, but I have a notion that he can play the game.”
“Grant?” said Roger in surprise. “I’ve asked him once, and he refused.
Where is he?”
“Sitting alone over yonder on the seats,” answered Ben, with a movement
of his head. “I saw him come in shortly after we commenced work.”
“Oh, yes,” muttered Roger, perceiving the solitary figure of Rod Grant.
“There he is. Confound him! why doesn’t he come forward like a man and
get into it? I did my best to induce him.”
“Let me talk to him,” said Winton, starting quickly toward the young
Texan.
Barker, observant, strolled over in the wake of the coach.
Reaching the lower tier of seats, Winton shot a sudden question at
Rodney Grant:
“Do you know anything about football?”
“Mighty little,” was the surprised answer.
“But you do know something? You’ve played the game, haven’t you?”
“Not much.”
“That’s an admission that you’ve played it some. We need you to fill a
hole in the line—just for this practice game, you understand. Come on.”
“I reckon you’ll have to excuse me, sir,” said Grant. “I don’t believe
I’ll play football.”
“This isn’t a regular game; it’s practice. You’ve got a little
patriotism, haven’t you? You’ve got some interest in your school and
your school team, I hope? It won’t hurt you to practice. Come, we
haven’t any time to lose before it gets dark.”
But the boy on the seats shook his head. “I thank you for the invite,
but I allow I’d better keep out of it. You’ll certain have to get some
one else.”
Barker’s cold, irritating laugh sounded at Winton’s shoulder. “He’s
afraid! He hasn’t even got sand enough to take part in a practice game.”
“You’re a——”
Rod Grant cut himself short with the third word trembling on his lips.
Involuntarily he had started up and was coming down over the seats.
“Say it—say it if you dare!” cried Barker, springing past Winton. “I
wish you would.”
The young Texan faltered on the lowest seat. “Never mind,” he said
slowly. “I judge maybe I’d better keep my tongue between my teeth.”
“You’re right, you had,” Barker flung back, his aggressiveness and
insolence increasing, if possible, with the hesitation of the other.
“What are you here for, anyhow? If you haven’t got sand enough even to
practice, why do you come out here and sit around watching the rest of
us? You’d better get off the field before some one runs you off.”
Grant stepped down to the ground. “I sure hope nobody will try it,” he
muttered.
By this time Winton had Barker by the shoulder.
“Why are you butting in here?” he exclaimed warmly. “If you would let
him alone, perhaps I’d get him to——”
“Don’t you believe yourself, Mr. Winton. You couldn’t get him to do
anything but talk and blow. I’ve been up against this same chap once
before to-day, and he knows what I think of him. He’s a white-livered
coward, that’s what’s the matter with him.”
Again it seemed that the boy from Texas would be taunted beyond
endurance, and for a moment he crouched slightly, as if on the verge of
springing at his insulter.
“Come on,” invited Barker. “You know how many bones there are in the
human hand, even if you are afraid to examine a skeleton at short
range. Come on, and I’ll let you feel the bones in my fists.”
These loud words had brought the boys flocking to the spot. Not a few
of them believed for a moment or two, at least, that the impending
fight between Barker and Grant must take place then and there, and,
boylike, they welcomed it as a test of the stranger’s courage. Imagine
their disappointment when Rod Grant dropped his half lifted hands by
his sides and turned away.
“I’ll get off the field,” he muttered huskily. “I’m going, and I hope
Mr. Barker will let me alone in future. He’d sure better.”
They watched him depart in the direction of the gate.
“That proves what he is,” said Berlin.
“By jinks, I guess yeou’re right,” acknowledged Sile Crane. “He is a
coward.”
“Fellows,” said Ben Stone, “I may be wrong, but I don’t believe he
refused to fight because he was afraid.”
“Perhaps not,” said Winton, shrugging his shoulders; “but I’d like to
know why he refused to practice. Come on, boys, we’ll put some one in
Rollins’ place and go ahead.”
It was quite dark when Stone, having shed his football togs, left the
gymnasium and strode down the street toward the cottage of the Widow
Jones, where he roomed. As he was passing through the front yard gate
some one called to him, and he saw a figure hurrying toward him. It was
Grant, who came up and stopped with his hand on the fence.
“Stone,” said the Texan, “I heard what you said as I was leaving the
field to-night, and I want to thank you. It’s mighty agreeable to know
that one fellow, at least, was inclined to stand up for me.”
“Look here, Grant,” said Ben, “I wish you’d tell me why you swallowed
Barker’s insults. There must have been a reason.”
“There was; but I can’t tell you—not now, anyhow.”
“Why didn’t you fight him?”
“I—I didn’t want to,” faltered Rod.
“You weren’t afraid, were you?”
There was a moment of silence.
“Yes,” answered Grant in a low tone, “I was afraid.”
“I didn’t think that,” muttered Ben in disappointment.
“I can’t explain it now,” Grant hastened to say. “Sometime I
will—perhaps. I won’t forget that you stood up for me. I can hear some
of the fellows coming. Good night.” He turned sharply, and a moment
later his figure melted into the darkness down the street.
Puzzled and wondering, Stone reached the door of the cottage and
stopped there, listening involuntarily to the voices of several fellows
he could see approaching. They were nearly opposite the house when he
heard Chipper Cooper laugh loudly and say something about frightening
the Texan into fits.
“If we can make it work it will be better than a circus,” said the
voice of Fred Sage. “Are you sure you can get the old thing, Sleuth?”
“I’ve a skeleton key that will admit us,” replied Billy Piper.
“Oh, a skeleton key!” chuckled Chipper Cooper, as they passed on.
“That’s the kind of a key for this job. Eh, Barker?”
Barker was with them. He said something, but Stone could not understand
his words.
With his hand on the doorknob, Ben stood there speculating. “They’re
putting up some sort of a job on Grant,” he murmured. “I wonder what
they mean to do?”
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