BACK OF THE LINE
The next afternoon he again followed Caner about during signal work,
while Nick Blake barked his demands, and the squad scurried this
way and that in response. Then he went to the bench and watched the
second team hold the first to no score during two ten-minute periods.
He wondered whether Mr. Bonner had forgotten him, and was sometimes
inclined to hope he had. But he hadn’t, for when the third period
began, after a five-minute rest, with half a dozen second-string men
in the line-up, Monty found himself standing down near the east goal
in company with Weston, who had taken Blake’s place, and Brunswick and
Ordway, feeling a bit conspicuous and decidedly nervous. He sincerely
hoped the kick-off would not put the ball into his territory, for he
was certain he wouldn’t be able to catch it. Fortunately, perhaps,
it didn’t. It was Brunswick who fell heir to the slowly-descending,
revolving pigskin, and Brunswick, who, snuggling in behind the
interference, plunged along for ten yards or so under cover, and then,
deprived of assistance, swerved to the left, and gained another five at
the cost of a long run across the field. Monty had been spilled early
in the proceedings, and now he picked himself up, and trotted across
to the line-up, trying hard to recall some of the advice so generously
bestowed last evening.
But he forgot about advice in a twinkling, for he was doing his best
to clear out a hole inside left tackle for Ordway, and doing it, too.
His weight and strength told when he hurled himself between the panting
linesmen, and Hobo followed through for a fine four yards. Someone met
Monty’s charge with a hard shoulder, and he plowed up the turf. But he
didn’t mind that, for the ball was four yards nearer the west goal,
and the fighting spirit was aroused. Twice more Ordway was given the
ball, and twice more he won through, and it was first down. Then came
an unsuccessful plunge by Brunswick at the center, and then the signal
that made Monty’s heart pound a little harder. It was a delayed pass to
fullback that Weston called for, and to save his life Monty couldn’t
resist the impulse that made him shift his body a little to the right.
Instantly, Coach Bonner’s voice exploded.
“Hold up!” He darted in and faced Monty scowlingly, a very different
Mr. Bonner from the one who had listened smilingly to his camping
yarns. “You gave that play away, Crail!” he snarled. “Don’t shift
toward the point of attack, don’t look toward it! A child could have
guessed that play! Change signals, Quarter! All right! Let’s show
something now, First!”
“All right! Now get this, fellows!” cried Weston, after an insulting
glare at Monty. It was Brunswick again, around the end, with Monty
leading the way. But the second team end was waiting, and there was no
gain. Again came the signal with Monty’s number, but this time it was
a straight plunge into the center. He tried not to even wink. Then he
was plunging ahead, his eyes on the ball in Weston’s hands. He got it,
clasped it to him and bored into the opening. The halfs had crossed in
front of him, and were charging past right tackle, and the diversion
was fooling the opponent’s secondary defense. Monty banged through,
was stopped momentarily, squirmed another yard, and went down with
a quarter of a ton of the enemy on him. He had won the better part
of three yards, and, as someone literally lifted him to his feet, he
was inclined to be a trifle self-satisfied. But the self-satisfaction
vanished when Coach Bonner called: “You missed a foot then, Crail, by
holding the ball too low. When you’re stopped swing the ball up to your
chest. It’s just as safe there. Every inch counts, Crail. Remember that
next time.”
It was second down and seven to go, and Brunswick went back to punt.
Monty slipped into his place at left half. “Over further,” directed
Weston. “Watch that second team tackle, Crail.” Then came the signals,
the ball sped past Monty, the lines heaved, and a big second team man
charged down on him. In that instant Monty thought, “Why doesn’t he
hurry? Isn’t he ever going to kick?” Then the second team man was on
him, and Monty had his hands full. How it happened he couldn’t have
told, but somehow that opponent swung him to the left, and went inside
him, and someone collided with him as he staggered, and he went down,
sprawling. And when he could look around the teams, save for three or
four players, who, like he, had capsized, were jumbled furiously in
quest of a trickling ball.
“That was up to you, Crail!” called Mr. Bonner. “You let that man
inside you. Keep them out if you can’t stop them! You’ll have to do
better than that.”
The big second team fellow who had outmanœuvered him grinned at Monty
as the latter came up. There was nothing unkind in the grin, however,
nor in the comment that accompanied it. “You’ll learn, Crail,” said the
second team tackle.
Monty set his lips firmly, and trotted subduedly back to position. Tray
had captured the ball for the first, and it was first down back near
the twenty-five-yard line. Brunswick got a couple of yards off left
tackle, and Ordway added two more around right end. Then Brunswick
again went back. This time the big tackle was stopped in the line, and
the kick was not blocked. Second worked the ends for small gains, and
sent a forward pass obliquely across the field. It was not caught,
however. Then she punted, and Weston came back with the ball to the
first’s twenty-seven. Again Monty was called on, and again he struck
the line for three yards. Ordway got clean away past left tackle for
twelve. Monty slid off the same tackle for four, and was so thoroughly
jarred when he was downed that he had to have time called for him.
Brunswick made it first down a moment later, with Monty interfering,
and the ball was past the middle of the field. Offside put the first
back, however, and Ordway’s attempt to knife through was stopped.
Brunswick took the ball on a wide end run for no gain. Brunswick went
back, but the pigskin was thrown to Ordway, and that fleet-footed youth
made eight around the left of the line. Monty got the signals mixed
that time and started the wrong way, and Weston was on him savagely.
“What was wrong with you, you idiot?” he demanded. “If you don’t get
the signal, sing out.”
Brunswick faked a kick and threw forward to Tray, and the latter
was forced over the side line. But the tape gave the first team its
distance. Weston got two straight ahead through center, and Monty tried
the right end and banged squarely into the arms of an opposing tackle
for a yard loss. Brunswick punted to the second’s five yards, and Tray
threw the catcher on the ten. Second was put back half the distance to
goal for holding on the next play, and then punted to her thirty-two.
Monty had the ineffable pleasure of diving into the big second team
tackle as he romped down the field, and sending him sprawling over
the ground. The tackle only grinned as he picked himself up. Monty
experienced a fine glow of satisfaction. The quarter ended with the
ball on the second’s twenty-eight in possession of the first team.
“That’ll do, Crail,” said Mr. Bonner. “Trot in and don’t hang around.
Fenton! Fullback, here!”
Monty trotted obediently to the field house, although he would much
rather have walked, and subsided, panting on a bench. It had been for
him a strenuous quarter of an hour. Playing in the line, and back of it
were two vastly different things, he decided. As he got out of his togs
he went over his performance in memory, and wondered just how bad he
had been. If criticism was a criterion, he had played perfectly rotten,
he thought, but he knew enough of football practice by now to realize
that even the best players on a team are sometimes “bawled out” by the
coaches. On the whole, he guessed, he had done no worse than might
have been expected of an inexperienced fullback, and he took heart and
dragged himself wearily to the shower, one hand rubbing a set of very
lame ribs where the too intimate knee of a tackler had settled.
The rest of the players trooped in before he had completed a very
leisurely dressing. To his surprise, Gus Weston, who had twice looked
as if he could have choked him with much pleasure, came across and sat
down beside him. “You did pretty well, Crail,” he said, as he began to
unloose his shoes. “It’s always hard for a fellow who has played in the
line to come back of it. He’s got to be a heap more active. You’ll get
the hang of it in a few days, though.”
“I’m sorry about getting that signal wrong,” said Monty humbly.
“What signal was that? Oh, yes, I’d forgotten. Oh, we all do that. Say,
you mustn’t mind what I do when a play goes wrong, Crail. I’m likely
to call you all sorts of things. It’s part of the day’s work. A fellow
gets sort of nutty when he’s running the team.” Weston kicked his shoes
off, picked them up with a groan, and nodded encouragingly. “Speed up a
little, Crail, and put more pep into it and you’ll come along fine.”
Monty looked gratefully after Weston as the latter went back to his
locker. He had minded what Weston had said――and looked――but after
this he wouldn’t. He put his things away, slammed the locker door and
started out. On the steps he encountered Coach Bonner and Burgess, the
manager. They were busy with their heads over the afternoon’s report,
but the coach glanced up, smiled and nodded.
“Not bad, Crail,” he said. “A little more punch tomorrow, though.”
Monty went across to the tennis courts to find Leon, but that youth
had finished his game and departed. On the way back to Morris, Monty
puzzled over the recent criticisms. Weston had advised him to speed
up and get more pep into his playing, and Coach Bonner had spoken of
more punch. Pep and punch were undoubtedly synonymous, and since both
critics had observed a lack of those qualities he had probably been
deficient in them. But he couldn’t see how it was possible to play
any harder than he had played, nor any faster. It seemed to him that,
while he had undoubtedly blundered, he had been a marvel of speed and
grim determination. If they expected him to play faster or hit the line
harder tomorrow they were, he feared, doomed to disappointment. He
shook his head over the problem as he skirted the house. “I guess,” he
muttered, “I’m not cut out for a fullback!”
Collins, the colored factotum, who tended the furnaces in Morris and
Fuller, emerged from the cellar as Monty passed the bulkhead. Collins
was lazy and undependable, and forever in hot water around the place,
but everyone liked him, Monty especially. Collins touched his hat and
scraped.
“I give you good evening, Mr. Crail. A tolerably sharp evening, sir.”
“Hello, Collins,” responded Monty, pausing. “Yes, it is a bit chilly.
How’s the old scrap pile down there?”
It was one of Collins’ pleasant fictions that the heating plants in
the two dormitories were so old and decrepit that they no longer
could perform what was expected of them, a fiction which proved very
convenient when he sought an excuse for not providing enough heat.
“Well, sir, she’s just holding together. I got her going pretty good,
and I reckon she’ll carry along till morning if the fire don’t fall
down through the grate or something. You been playing football, Mr.
Crail?”
“I’ve been trying to, Collins, but they tell me I’m not fast enough for
them.”
“Land sakes, sir, don’t you pay no attention to what they tells you.
Why, you’re one of the best players they’ve got this year. Yes, sir, I
hear that everywhere I go.”
“Collins, you’re a very polite liar, aren’t you?” laughed Monty.
“Me, sir?” Collins looked horribly hurt. “That’s no lie, Mr. Crail,
sir. Everybody’s talking about your playing, sir.”
“All right. Did you――er――want to see me about any little matter,
Collins?”
“Yes, sir, I did, and that’s a fact,” beamed Collins. “You’ve been
mighty accommodating to me, sir, and I’m not forgetting it.” He glanced
warily toward the windows and lowered his voice. “If you could make me
the loan of two-bits till pay-day, Mr. Crail, I’d be extremely obliged
to you, sir, I would so.”
“What is it this time?” asked Monty gravely. “No more of the children
sick, I hope?”
“No, sir; it ain’t that. It’s――――”
“The one that had the whooping-cough is well again, is she? And the one
that had appendicitis? And the one that had bubonic plague?”
“Didn’t any of them have that last thing, Mr. Crail. I reckon that’s
all they ain’t had, too.” Collins chuckled. “No, sir; it ain’t the
children, sir. It’s my lodge dues, Mr. Crail. I just got to pay them
tonight or I loses my standing. They’s awfully strict about dues, Mr.
Crail.”
“I see. All right. Here you are. That makes――how much, Collins?”
“Four dollars and a quarter, sir. Yes, sir, exactly four and a quarter.
Thank you kindly, Mr. Crail. Just you speak to me about it when pay-day
comes, case I forgets it.”
“Sure, but when is pay-day, Collins? Fourth of July?”
“No, sir, pay-day’s the first of every month.”
“Oh. Well, you sort of forgot me last time, didn’t you?”
“I’m afraid I did,” said Collins regretfully. “I’m afraid I did, sir,
and that’s a fact. Money don’t last no time at all these days, sir, and
I reckon it was all gone before I remembered about you, sir. But next
time――――”
“Next time it is, Collins,” said Monty cheerfully. “Don’t spend it all
in one place now. Scatter it, scatter it!”
“Yes, sir; thank you, sir,” chuckled Collins. “I’ll scatter it like it
was bird seed, Mr. Crail!”
Monty went upstairs smiling. It was always worth a quarter to hear
Collins’ excuses for not repaying the loans made him, and Monty was not
the only one who parted with some such sum almost weekly, although it
is probable that he was more complaisant than the others. There was a
note from Leon on the table, and Monty took it to the window and read
it.
Come over to Jimmy’s after supper. There’s a meeting of the
Clan. The password is “What’s in a name?” Don’t fail, on peril
of your life!
Monty smiled as he crumpled up the note, and tossed it into the
wastebasket. The Clan was a purely fictitious organization of Jimmy’s
devising which had for its chief object the annihilation of the
faculty. Jimmy had appointed himself Grand Visor, Leon was Custodian
of the Crown, Dud was Leader of the Band, and Monty held the exalted
office of Little-Button-on-Top. He was still smiling when Alvin
Standart entered, and Alvin seized the opportunity to nag.
“Hello, Hero!” he greeted. “Make any more wonderful touchdowns today? I
hear they have put you at fullback so you won’t get hurt by the rough
linesmen.”
“You’ve got it, Standart. What’s the book?”
“New catalogue,” replied Alvin, laying the pamphlet in his hand very
carefully on his own chiffonier. “Just out.”
“Catalogue of what?” asked Monty.
“School catalogue, you idiot.”
“Oh! Let’s have a look.”
“Go and get one of your own. They have them at the office. I want to
send this one home, and don’t want it mussed up.”
“Snakes, but you’re an obliging _hombre_! Take your old catalogue, and
fall out the window with it, will you?”
“Can’t you get one of your own, I’d like to know?”
“Maybe, if I mention your name. Standart, every day I associate with
you I discover some new and lovable quality.”
“Oh, go to the dickens!” muttered Alvin.
Instead, Monty went in to see Joe Mullins. He ate an exceptionally
hearty supper as a result of his exertions on the gridiron, and after
chatting for awhile on the front steps, made his way through the early
darkness across the campus to Lothrop. He was feeling in particularly
good spirits this evening, and very kindly toward the whole world, and
as he climbed the slate stairway to Number 14 he wondered smilingly
what new absurdity Jimmy had thought up for the Clan to accomplish. Had
he known what awaited him he would have smiled less genially.