MILLS, HEAD COACH
"TO THE IN-FANTS OF 1905:
"GREETING!
"The class of 1904, an-i-mat-ed by the kind-li-est of sen-ti-ments, has,
at an ex-pen-se of much time and thought, form-u-lat-ed the fol-low-ing
RULES for the guid-ance of your todd-ling foot-steps at this the out-set
of your col-lege car-eers. A strict ad-her-ence to these PRE-CEPTS will
in-sure to you the ad-mi-ra-tion of your fond par-ents, the re-spect of
your friends, and the love of the SOPH-O-MORE CLASS, which, in the
ab-sence of rel-at-ives, will, with thought-ful, tender care, stand ever
by to guard you from the world's hard knocks.
"ATTEND, INFANTS!
"1. R-spect for eld-ers and those in auth-or-ity is one of child-hood's
most charm-ing traits. There-for take off your hat to all SOPH-O-MORES,
and when in their pres-ence al-ways main-tain a def-er-en-tial sil-ence.
"2. Tall hats and canes as art-i-cles of child-ren's attire are
ex-treme-ly un-be-com-ing, and are there-for strict-ly pro-hib-it-ed.
"3. Smok-ing, either of pipes, cig-ars, or cig-ar-ettes, stunts the
growth and re-tards the dev-el-op-ment of in-tel-lect. Child-ren,
be-ware!
"4. A suf-fic-ien-cy of sleep and plain, whole-some fare are strong-ly
re-com-mend-ed.
"Early to bed and early to rise
Makes little Freshie healthy and wise.
"Avoid late hours and rich food, es-pec-ial-ly fudge.
"5. That you may not be tempt-ed to trans-gress the pre-ceed-ing rule,
it has been thought best to pro-hib-it the Freshman Din-ner, which in
pre-vi-ous years has ruin-ed so many young lives. The hab-it of hold-ing
these din-ners is a per-nic-ious one and must be stamp-ed out. To this
end the CLASS OF 1904 will ex-ert its strong-est ef-forts, and you are
here-by warn-ed that any at-tempt to re-vive this lam-ent-able cust-om
will bring down up-on you severe chast-ise-ment.
"We must be cruel only to be kind;
Pause and reflect, who would be dined.
"Heed and prof-it by these PRE-CEPTS, dear child-ren, that you may grow
up to be great and noble men like those who sub-scribe them-selves,
"Pa-ter-nal-ly yours,
"THE CLASS OF 1904.
"You are ad-ver-tis-ed by your lov-ing friends."
This startling information, printed in sophomore red on big white
placards, flamed from every available space in and about the campus the
next morning. The nocturnal bill-posters had shown themselves no
respecters of places, for the placards adorned not fences and walls
alone, but were pasted on the granite steps of each recitation hall. All
the forenoon groups of staid seniors, grinning juniors and sophomores,
or vexed freshmen stood in front of the placards and read the
inscriptions with varied emotions. But in the afternoon a cheering mob
of the "infants" marched through the college and town and tore down or
effaced every poster they could find. But they didn't get as far from
the campus as the athletic field, and so it was not until Neil and Paul
and one or two other freshmen reported for practise at four o'clock that
it was discovered that the high board fence surrounding the field was a
mass of the objectionable signs from end to end.
"Oh, let them stay," said Neil. "I think they're rather funny myself.
And as for their stopping the freshman dinner, why we'll wait and see.
If they try it we'll have our chance to get back at them."
"R-r-revenge!" muttered South, who, with a lacrosse stick over his
shoulder and an attire consisting wholly of a pair of flapping white
trunks, a faded green shirt, and a pair of canvas shoes, had come out to
join the lacrosse candidates.
"King suggested our getting some small posters printed in blue with just
the figures ''05' on them, and pasting one on every soph's window," said
Paul, "but Livingston wouldn't hear of it. I think it would be a good
game, eh?"
"Faculty'd kick up no end of a rumpus," said South.
"I haven't heard that they are doing much about these things," answered
Paul. "If the sophs can stick things around why can't we?"
"You'd better ask the Dean," suggested Neil. "Hello, who's that chap?"
They had entered the grounds and were standing on the steps of the
locker-house. The person to whom Neil referred was just coming through
the gate. He was a medium-sized man of about thirty years, with a
good-looking, albeit very freckled face, and a good deal of sandy hair.
The afternoon was quite warm, and he carried his straw hat in one very
brown hand, while over his arm lay a sweater of Erskine purple, a pair
of canvas trousers, and two worn shoes.
"Blessed if I know who he is!" murmured South. They watched the newcomer
as he traversed the path and reached the steps. As he passed them and
entered the building he looked them over keenly with a pair of very
sharp and very light blue eyes.
"Wow!" muttered Paul. "He looked as though he was trying to decide
whether I would taste better fried or baked."
"I wonder--" began Neil. But at that moment Tom Cowan came up and Paul
put the question to him.
"The fellow that just came in?" repeated Cowan. "That, my boy, is a
gentleman who will have you standing on your head in just about twenty
minutes. Some eight or ten years ago he was popularly known hereabouts
as 'Whitey' Mills. To-day, if you know your business, you'll address him
as _Mister_ Mills."
"Oh," said Neil, "he's the head coach, is he?"
"He is, my young friend. And as he used to be one of the finest
half-backs in the country, I guess you'll see something of him before
you make the team. I dare say he can teach even you something about
playing your position." Cowan grinned and passed on.
"Oh, go to thunder!" muttered Neil, following him into the building.
He found Mills being introduced by Devoe to such of the new candidates
as were on hand.
"You remember Cowan, I guess," Devoe was saying. "He played right-guard
last year." Mills and Cowan shook hands. "And this is Fletcher, a new
man," continued the captain, "and Gale, too; they're both Hillton
fellows and played at half. It was Fletcher that made that fine run in
the St. Eustace game. Gale was the captain last year."
Mills shook hands with each, but beyond a short nod of his head and a
brief "Glad to meet you," displayed no knowledge of their fame.
"Grouchy chap," commented Paul when, the coach out of hearing, they were
changing their clothes.
"Well, he doesn't hurt himself talking," answered Neil. "But he looks
as though he knew his business. His eyes are like little blue-steel
gimlets."
"Doesn't look much for strength, though," said Paul.
But when, a few minutes later, Mills appeared on the gridiron in
football togs, Paul was forced to alter his opinion. Chest, arms, and
legs were a mass of muscle, and the head coach looked as though he could
render a good account of himself against the stiffest line that could be
put together.
The practise began with ten minutes of falling on the ball. The
candidates were lined out in two strings across the field, the old men
in one, the new material in another. Neil and Paul were among the
latter, and Mills held their ball. Standing at the right end of the
line, he rolled the pigskin in front of and slightly away from the line,
and one after another the men leaped forward and flung themselves upon
it, missing it at first as often as not, and rolling about on the turf
as though suddenly seized with fits. Neil rather prided himself on his
ability to fall on the ball, and went at it like an old stager, or so he
thought. But if he expected commendation he found none. When the last
man had rolled around after the elusive pigskin, Mills went to the other
end of the line and did it all over again.
When it came Neil's turn he plunged out, found the ball nicely, and
snuggled it against his breast. To his surprise when he arose Mills left
his place and walked out to him.
"Let's try that again," he said. Neil tossed him the ball and went back
to his place. Mills nodded to him and rolled the pigskin toward him.
Neil dropped on his hip, securing the ball under his right arm. Like a
flash Mills was over him, and with a quick blow of his hand had sent the
leather bobbing across the turf yards away.
"When you get it, hold on to it," he said dryly. Neil arose with
reddening cheeks and, amid the smiles of the others, went back to his
place trying to decide whether, if he could have his way, the coach
should perish by boiling oil or by merely being drawn and quartered. But
after that it was a noticeable fact that the men clung to the ball when
they got it as though it were a dearly loved friend.
Later, passing down the line in front from end to end, the head coach
threw the ball swiftly at the feet of one after another of the
candidates, and each was obliged to drop where he stood and have the
ball in his arms when he landed. When Mills came to Neil the latter was
still nursing his resentment, and his cheeks still proclaimed that
fact. After the boy had dropped on the ball and had tossed it back to
the coach their eyes met. In the coach's was just the merest twinkle, a
very ghost of a smile; but Neil saw it, and it said to him as plainly as
words could have said, "I know just how you feel, my boy, but you'll get
over it after a while."
The coach passed on and the flush faded from Neil's cheeks; he even
smiled a little. It was all right; Mills understood. It was almost as
though they shared a secret between them. Alfred Mills, head football
coach at Erskine College, had no more devoted admirer and partizan from
that moment than Neil Fletcher, '05.
Next the men were spread out until there was a little space between
each, and the coach passed behind the line and shot the ball through,
and they had an opportunity to see what they could do with a pigskin
that sped away ahead of them. By careful management it is possible in
falling on a football to bring almost every portion of the anatomy in
violent contact with the ground, and this fact was forcibly brought home
to Neil, Paul, and all the others by the time the work was at an end.
"I've got bones I never knew the existence of before," mourned Neil.
"Me too," growled Paul. "And half a dozen of my front teeth are aching
from trying to bite holes in the ground; I think they're all loose. If
they come out I'll send the dentist's bill to the management."
A few minutes later Neil found himself at left half in one of the six
squads of eleven men each that practised advancing the ball. They lined
up in ordinary formation, and the ball was passed to one back after
another for end runs. Mills went from squad to squad, criticizing
briefly and succinctly.
"Don't wait for the quarter to pass," he told Paul, who was playing
beside Neil. "On your toes and run hard. Have confidence in your
quarter. If the ball isn't ready for you it's not your fault. Try
that again."
And when Paul and Neil and the full-back had plowed round the left end
once more--
"Quarter, don't hold that ball as though your hand was frozen; keep your
hand limber and see that you get the belly of the ball in it, not one
end; then it won't tilt itself out. When you get the ball from center
rise quickly, put your back against guard, and throw your weight there.
And it's just as necessary for you to have confidence in the runner as
it is for him to have faith in you. Don't fear that you'll be too quick
for him; don't doubt but that he'll be there at the right instant. Keep
that in mind and you'll soon have things going like clock-work. Now once
more; ball to left half for a run around right end."
When practise was over that day the new candidates were unanimous in the
opinion that they had learned more that afternoon under Mills than they
had learned during the whole previous week. Neil, Paul, and Cowan
walked back to college together.
"Yes, he's a great little coach," said Cowan, "and a nice chap when you
get to know him; no frills on him, you know. And he's plumb full of
pluck. They say that once when he played here at half-back he got the
ball on Robinson's forty yards and walked down the field and over the
line for a touch-down with half the Robinson team hanging on to his
legs, and said afterward that he thought he _had_ felt some one tugging
at him!" Neil laughed.
"But he doesn't look so awfully strong," he objected.
"Well, I guess he was in better trim then," answered Cowan. "Besides,
he's built well, you see--most of his weight below his waist; when a
chap's that way it's hard to pull him over. I remember last year in the
game with Erstham I got through their tackle on a guard-back
play, and--"
But Neil had already heard that story of heroic deeds, and so lent a
deaf ear to Cowan's boasting. When they reached Main Street a window
full of the first issue of the college weekly, The Erskine Purple, met
their sight, and they went in and bought copies. On the steps of the
laboratory building they opened the inky-smelling journals and glanced
through them.
"Here's an account of last night's election," said Cowan. "That's quick
work, isn't it? And you can read all about Livingston's brilliant
career, Gale. By the way, have you met him yet?"
Paul shook his head. "No, and I'm bearing up under it as well as can be
expected."
"You're not missing much," said Cowan. "Hello, here's the football
schedule! Want to hear it?" Paul said he did, Neil muttered something
unintelligible, and Cowan read as follows:
"E.C.F.B.A.
"SCHEDULE OF GAMES
"Oct. 12. Woodby at Centerport.
" 16. Dexter at Centerport.
" 23. Harvard at Cambridge.
" 26. Erstham at Centerport.
Nov. 2. State University at Centerport.
" 6. Arrowden at Centerport.
" 9. Yale at New Haven.
" 16. Artmouth at Centerport.
" 23. Robinson at Centerport."
"By Jove!" said Cowan. "We've got seven home games this year! That's
fine, isn't it? But I'll bet we'll find Woodby a tough proposition on
the 12th. Last year we played her about the 1st of November, and she
didn't do a thing to us. And look at the game they've got scheduled for
a week before the Robinson game! That'll wear us out; Artmouth will put
just about half of our men on the sick-list. And--Hello!" he said,
dropping his voice; "talk of an angel!"
A youth of apparently nineteen years was approaching them. He was of
moderate height, rather slimly built, with dark eyes and hair, and
clean-cut features. He swung a note-book in one hand, and was evidently
in deep thought, for he failed to see the group on the steps, and would
have passed without speaking had not Cowan called to him. Housed from
his reverie, Fanwell Livingston glanced up, and, after nodding to Cowan
and Neil, turned in at the gate.
"I suppose you want congratulations," said Cowan. "Well, you can have
mine."
"And mine," added Neil. "And Gale here will extend his as soon as he's
properly introduced. Mr. Gale--Mr. Livingston."
"Victory--Defeat," added Cowan with a grin. The two candidates for the
freshman presidency shook hands, Paul without enthusiasm,
Livingston heartily.
"Congratulations, of course," murmured the former.
"Thank you," answered the president. "You're very generous. After all, I
dare say you've got the best of it, for you'll have the satisfaction of
knowing that if the fellows had chosen you you would have done much
better than I shall. However, I hope we'll be friends, Mr. Gale."
Livingston's smile was undeniably winning, and Paul was forced to
return it.
"You're very good," he answered quite affably. "I hope we will."
Livingston nodded, smiled again, and turned to Cowan.
"Well, they tell me you fellows are in for desperate deeds this year,"
he said.
"How's that?" asked Cowan.
"Aren't you in on the sophomore councils? Why, I'm told that if the
freshmen don't give up the dinner plan I'm to be kidnaped."
"How'd you hear--" began Cowan. Then he paused with some confusion. "Who
told you that rot?" he asked with a laugh.
"Oh, it came in a roundabout way," answered Livingston. "I dare say it's
just talk."
"Some freshman nonsense," said Cowan. "I guess we'll do our best to keep
you fellows from eating too much, but--" He shrugged his big shoulders.
Livingston, observing him shrewdly, began for the first time since
intelligence of the supposed project had reached him to give credence to
it. But he laughed carelessly as he turned away.
"Oh, well, we have to keep you fellows amused, of course, and if you
like to try kidnaping you may."
"I wish the sophs would try it," said Neil warmly. Cowan turned to him.
"Well, if they did--_if_ they did--I guess they'd succeed," he drawled.
"Well, if they do--_if_ they do," answered Neil, "I'll bet they won't
succeed."
"You'd stop us, perhaps?" sneered Cowan.
"Easily," answered Neil, smiling sweetly; "there are only a hundred or
so of you."
"There's no one like a week-old freshman for self-importance," Cowan
said, laughing in order to hide his vexation.
"Unless it's a third-year sophomore," Neil retorted.
"Oh, well," Paul interposed, "it's all poppycock, anyhow."
"That's all," said Livingston.
"Of course," agreed Cowan.
Neil was silent.