NOT ELIGIBLE
After a day like yesterday only one thing could be expected of the
weather, and so here was a rainy Sunday. After church came dinner,
and after dinner--well, nothing, it seemed, but a long and sleepy
afternoon. Leonard and Slim found reading matter and settled down, Slim
on the window-seat because he managed to reach it first, and Leonard
on his bed, with his own and Slim’s pillows under his head. Outside
the November afternoon was dark with lead-gray clouds and a fine,
persistent rain challenged Leonard’s optimistic prediction of clearing
weather by four o’clock. Slim grunted gloomily and hunched himself
more comfortably against the cushions. “It’s days like this,” he said,
“that account for the startling prevalence of crime during the month of
November in American preparatory schools.”
At three Leonard laid down his book, yawned and looked through the
window. It wasn’t raining as it had been an hour ago; it was raining
harder! “As a weather prophet,” reflected Leonard, “I’m a flivver.”
He yawned again. Then: “Let’s put on our coats, Slim, and get out,”
he suggested. “This is deadly.” There was, however, no response, and
Leonard lifted himself on an elbow and looked across. Slim’s book
was laid flat across his chest, and he was fast asleep. “Sluggard!”
grumbled Leonard. He pillowed his head in his hands and considered. He
might go to sleep, too, but he didn’t want to. He might arouse Slim and
persuade him to go out. Or he might let poor old Slim alone and splash
over to The Hill and see Johnny McGrath. That’s what he would do!
His final act before leaving the room was to slip a piece of paper
between Slim’s gently folded hands. On the paper was written: “Gone to
Europe. Back at five. Sweet dreams.” Mrs. McGrath answered Leonard’s
ring and told him that Johnny was up in his room and that he should go
right up. Meanwhile she divested Leonard of his dripping mackinaw and
bore it off to the nearest radiator to dry. Johnny was hunched in a
big chair when Leonard reached the head of the stairway and could see
into the room. His knees were close to his chin, and a big book was
propped against them. But the book was quickly laid aside when he saw
the visitor. He pushed a chair close to the radiator and forced Leonard
into it, bidding him put his feet to the warmth, and then drew up a
second chair for himself, beaming welcome the while.
“Sure, you’re an angel,” he declared, “to drop in like this, General.
Where’s Slim that he isn’t with you?”
“Fast asleep, the lazy coot. I guess last evening was too much for him,
Johnny.” They had progressed to the stage where “McGrath” had given
place to “Johnny.” “Did you hear about it?”
Johnny nodded and laughed. “Yes, young Shawley was telling me this
morning. I’m sorry I didn’t go down and see the fun. You and Slim were
too smart for them, eh?”
“Well, we got there, although I’ll confess they had us worried for
awhile. What I don’t understand is why they locked us in the room. They
must have known we’d have got out sooner or later.”
Johnny nodded again. “I’ll tell you about that. ’Twas Reilly put the
freshmen up to it, or most of it. They had it planned, they thought,
so Slim couldn’t get to the dinner. They expected he’d start early,
and there was about twenty of the freshies waiting for him down by the
gate, where they could have got him either way he’d gone.”
“Got him?” queried Leonard.
“Oh, sure, nothing rough, you understand. But they had a fake note from
Coach Cade asking Slim to stop and see him, and one of them was to
give it to him, the rest being out of sight. The coach went away over
Sunday at five-forty, but Reilly had in some way got him to leave the
key to his rooms. Well, the plan was that Slim was to call at the house
over there on the corner, and some one was to say ‘Come in,’ and the
room would be dark and then, the first thing Slim would know he’d be
safe in the big closet for the evening.”
“But Slim knew--we both knew--that Mr. Cade was going home, Johnny.”
“Maybe, but likely he wouldn’t have remembered it, or perhaps he’d have
figured that Mr. Cade was going on a later train. Anyway, that’s how
they had it fixed. But you fellows didn’t start along early enough, and
the gang had to go to supper. So Shawley locked you in the room, to
keep you there until they could get out from supper. He’d swiped the
key earlier in the afternoon, do you see. Well, when you did start out
they knew it was too late to spring that fake note on you and so they
fixed to keep you away from the restaurant. That is, Slim. They didn’t
care so much whether you got there. You were only a--a complication, as
you might say. Remember, I tipped Slim off the other evening. I didn’t
know then what the scheme was, but I knew they were after him.”
“So that was it,” mused Leonard. “We saw the freshies hiding around
behind trees when we got back from the game, but I didn’t suppose they
meant anything much. Neither did Slim; until we found ourselves locked
in the room.”
“How was it Slim got there finally?” asked Johnny. “Young Shawley says
you were in a taxicab, with Slim’s white sweater on--”
“Yes, we changed clothes. That is, I put on Slim’s sweater and he put
on my coat and an old felt hat I was wearing. You see, they’d already
seen Slim with that sweater on, and so they’d be looking for it again.
I got in the taxi on Market street and Slim walked away around by
Morrison street, coming back on Moody. We’d fixed ‘zero hour’ at seven
fifteen so he’d have time to get to the corner when I did. Of course
the freshies thought I was Slim as soon as they saw the white sweater,
and I didn’t show myself before I had to. Slim just walked into the
crowd, with my hat pulled down over his face, and while the freshies
were all clustered around the taxi he sauntered along down the street,
no one paying any attention to him. It was as easy as pie.”
“Sure, I wish I’d been there,” chuckled Johnny. “And they say you
butted a cop out of your way afterwards and no one could stop you!”
“I didn’t butt him. He made a dive at me and I side-stepped, showing
the value of football training, Johnny.”
“Did you have a good dinner?”
“Did we? Wow! And, gee, I was so hungry I couldn’t eat fast enough. We
didn’t get through until half-past nine, pretty nearly!”
“I suppose you heard about Renneker and Jimsy Carnochan?” asked Johnny.
“No. Who’s Jimsy-- Oh, I remember! What’s happened?”
“Sure, nothing much--yet,” answered Johnny, “but I’m fearing something
may. It seems that Jimsy and a couple of other town fellows were coming
along River street last night when Renneker and Red Reilly and three or
four other chaps were coming back to school. They’d been over watching
the freshies, you know.”
“I know; we passed them,” assented Leonard.
“Well, I got it from Jimsy this forenoon after church. According to his
tell, our gang was taking up the whole sidewalk, walking five or six
abreast, maybe, and one of the fellows with Jimsy objected and shoved
into them, and there were some words. Jimsy says the juniors started
the trouble, but maybe he’s prejudiced. Anyhow, he and Renneker squared
off and punched each other a couple of times, no harm being done, do
you see, and the others shoving in spoiling it. From what Jimsy says, I
get it that Renneker laughed and wanted to shake hands, and Jimsy was
still ugly. He’s that way when he’s mad. He said something to Renneker
about ‘having the goods on him,’ and then Renneker and the others went
on. Well, now Jimsy’s awfully sore, General, and I’m fearful he’ll be
telling what he knows around town, and it’ll get to the Academy. I
argued with him, but he’s stubborn. There’s English blood in him, I’m
thinking.”
Leonard laughed. “That’s what makes him stubborn, eh?”
Johnny grinned. “Sure it is,” he answered stoutly. “Every one knows the
English are mules for stubbornness.”
“Oh, well, he’ll probably get over his grouch,” said Leonard
cheerfully. “And, even if he should spill the beans, it wouldn’t be
likely to reach faculty’s ears.”
“Maybe not,” allowed Johnny. “Not that I’d trouble much if it did,
for it looks to me like this big fellow isn’t any marvel, anyway, and
some one else might play his position fully as well and maybe better.”
He looked meaningly at Leonard, but the latter chose to disregard the
insinuation.
“Gordon Renneker’s playing a lot better game than he did awhile back,
Johnny. Yesterday he was corking in the last part of the game with New
Falmouth.”
“It might be,” Johnny admitted. “I didn’t go. But if I was you I’d be
sort of glad if Renneker wasn’t around, General.”
“Oh, nonsense! There’s still Stimson and Raleigh and Falls.”
“You’ve got Raleigh and Falls beat right now,” declared the other with
deep conviction. “And I wouldn’t wonder if you could play as good a
game as either of the others, in spite you aren’t so big.”
“You’re crazy,” laughed Leonard. “Anyway, Johnny, I’m not kicking. I
do think that Mr. Cade will give me a show in the Oak Grove game next
Saturday, and if I make good in that it’s likely I’ll get into the
Kenly Hall fracas for a time.”
“This Oak Grove game’s the last before the big one, isn’t it?” mused
Johnny. Leonard nodded. “Then you’ve got only the two weeks,” continued
the other reflectively. “Man, you’ve got to work! My money’s on you,
though, General, and whether this big fellow is playing or isn’t
playing I’ll be looking for you to be right there when the last fight
starts.”
“I wish I had your confidence, Johnny,” laughed Leonard. “Unless by
‘right there’ you mean on the bench.”
“I do not,” said Johnny decisively. “I mean playing at right guard or
left and giving the other fellows what-for!”
“Oh, well, I hope you’re right.”
“I know I’m right.”
“Any English blood in you?” asked Leonard.
Yet on Monday it almost seemed that Johnny’s hopefulness was not
without cause, for Leonard found himself treated with a new--well,
deference is hardly the word: let us say respect, although even that
word is scarcely the right one. Call it what you like, however, and the
fact remains that the new order of things entailed much harder work
than Leonard had done before. With less than two weeks remaining before
the final contest of the season, Coach Cade appeared to be striving
to present a team of worn-out and exhausted cripples for Kenly Hall’s
amusement. Yet, probably because he had brought them along fairly
slowly so far, the players proved capable of performing a lot of work
and receiving a lot of punishment in that fortnight. The time had come
to round off the corners, to smooth down the rough places, to acquire
subtleties without forgetting fundamentals. There were new plays to
learn, too, and, a little later, new signals. Perhaps Leonard worked
no harder than any one else; perhaps, because he had more to learn,
it just seemed harder. But he got on famously. There was no doubt
about that. He was fast and mettlesome and used his head. By the last
of the week he had been accepted by those in the know--and some who
weren’t--as a certain performer against Kenly Hall. When he spoke of
sore muscles or contused shins or strained ligaments Slim browbeat him
shamefully.
“What of it?” Slim would demand fiercely. “Expect to play football
without getting bruised a little? Don’t be a pill. Why, you’ve got
Renneker and Stimson lying awake nights trying to think up some way
of beating you! Here, let’s see your old leg. Where’s that bottle of
arnica? Hold still, you silly ass! Sure, I knows it hurts, but you
needn’t throw a fit about it!”
“Fit yourself!” Leonard would snap indignantly, being thoroughly weary
and sore all over. “Look at the way you went on when you got a black
eye that time!”
“It wasn’t the bruise I minded, it was simply the damage to my manly
beauty. These sore places of yours won’t ever show, General, even if
you play in a bathing-suit!”
Then, on Friday, Jimsy Carnochan returned from a brief visit to New
London and took his pen in hand, thereby considerably “gumming up” the
Alton Academy football situation.
To Jimsy’s credit be it said that he didn’t hide behind any such
anonymity as “A Friend” or “Wellwisher” or “Fair Play.” No, sir,
Jimsy came right out and signed the bottom of that chirographic
bombshell plainly with his name, thus: “James Duffy Carnochan.” It
was a bombshell, too, if for no other reason than that it exploded
so unexpectedly. It was addressed to Coach Cade, and it reached that
already harassed gentleman by the first mail delivery on Saturday
morning. It ran as follows:
Mr. John Cade,
87 Academy street,
City.
DEAR SIR:
You might like to know that one of your football players isn’t
eligible to play on your team. His name is Renneker but it
wasn’t that last August when he played first baseman for the
Maple Leafs baseball team of New London, it was George Ralston.
He got twenty-five dollars for playing first baseman and if you
don’t believe it please communicate with John Worrall in Care
Broady Silk Mill, New London. Worrall managed the Maple Leafs
and paid the money to Ralston or Renneker cash before the game
started, as he will tell you. I guess he can’t deny it anyway,
not if you ask him right out.
Wishing you a successful season,
Resply yours,
JAMES DUFFY CARNOCHAN.
Coach Cade frowned, read the epistle a second time, laughed shortly and
thrust it into a pocket. He had received similar communications before
to-day, sometimes written in good faith, sometimes purely mischievous.
Then he reflected that here must be an example of the former sort,
since the writer had not only signed his name but, evidently as
an after-thought, placed an address on the flap of the envelope.
Nevertheless, in the press of other matters Coach Cade forgot the
letter for several hours, and it wasn’t until he pulled it forth from
his pocket when seeking another document that he recalled its annoying
existence. This was just after early dinner was over at training table,
and Gordon Renneker was still in sight by the dining hall door. The
coach excused himself to Tod Tenney and made after the player.
“Renneker,” he said, overtaking the big fellow just outside the hall,
“got a minute to spare?”
Renneker assented and followed the other along the path that led
around to the gymnasium. Coach Cade produced the letter and handed it
to Renneker. “Got that in the morning’s mail,” he explained. “I’m not
taking any stock in it, you understand, but you’d better see it.”
Gordon Renneker read the epistle through calmly and handed it back,
with a smile. The smile, however, was not quite natural, and the coach
noted the fact. “Well,” he asked, “what about it?”
“I’d say,” replied Renneker, “it’s a case of mistaken identity.”
“Probably,” agreed Johnny, eyeing him sharply nevertheless. “I presume
you never played baseball on this team?”
“No,” answered the other. The coach waited for further words, but
Renneker seemed to have finished with the subject. The coach frowned.
He put the letter back into a pocket.
“Know this fellow Carnochan?” he asked.
“No. I never heard of him before.”
“H’m, funny he has it in for you, then.”
Renneker shrugged. “He may know me, Coach,” he suggested. “I think I’ll
look the beggar up and ask him what’s on his mind. What’s the address?
Mind if I have the letter?”
“I’ll give you the address and you can set it down. Got a pencil? ‘164
Orchard street, 2nd Bell.’ You know, of course, that if you had played
on that team, and received money for doing it, you couldn’t play here,
Renneker.”
“Naturally.”
“All right. When you see this chap you’d better convince him that he’s
mistaken. We don’t want him writing that sort of a letter to Kenly Hall
or shooting off his mouth to the newspapers.”
“He wouldn’t do that, would he?” exclaimed Renneker with evident
dismay. “Talk to the newspapers, I mean.”
“I don’t know, son. Look here, Renneker, there’s something in this.
You’d better come clean, my boy, and save trouble later.”
There was no answer for a minute. Renneker was studying the ground
intently. Coach Cade didn’t like the look on his face. Finally Renneker
looked up and laughed shortly.
“I fancy you’re right,” he said. “I’ll hand in my togs.”
“What! But, great Scott, man, you don’t mean to tell me--”
“I’m not telling anything,” answered Renneker evenly. “I’m just not
denying.”
“And you came here with this thing hanging over your head and let us
waste our time on you, knowing that it was bound to come out! Renneker,
I’d like to--to--”
“Wrong, sir. I didn’t know it would come out. I’m sorry. If there’s
anything more I can say, I’ll say it, but it doesn’t occur to me at the
moment. I’m just--awfully sorry, Mr. Cade.”
He turned and went off, unhurriedly, shoulders back.