THE RESULT OF A FUMBLE
Sydney Burr had trundled himself out to the field and had drawn his
tricycle close up to the low wooden fence that divides the gridiron from
the grand stand and against which the players on the benches lean their
blanketed backs. From there he had an uninterrupted view. It was a
perfect afternoon. Overhead a few white clouds drifted lazily about
against a warm blue sky. The sun shone brightly and mocked at light
overcoats. But for all that there was an October sparkle in the air, and
once in a while a tiny breeze from the north came across the yellowing
field and whispered that winter was not far behind.
Sydney had a rug thrown over his lower limbs and wore a warm white
woolen sweater. There was quite a dash of color in his usually pale
cheeks, and his blue eyes flashed with interest as he watched the men at
practise. Near at hand a panting group of fellows were going through the
signals, the quarter crying his numbers with gasps for breath, then
passing the ball to half-or full-back and quickly throwing himself into
the interference. Sydney recognized him as Bailey, the varsity
substitute. Sydney knew almost all the players by sight now and the
names of many.
Near the east goal two lines of heaving, charging men were being coached
by Mills in breaking through. Stowell, the big, good-natured substitute
center, was bending over the ball. Sydney could hear Mills's
sharp voice:
"Now draw back, defense, and lunge into them! Get the start on them!"
Then the ball was snapped and the two ranks heaved and pitched a moment
before the offense broke through and scattered the turf with little
clumps of writhing players.
"That was good, Tucker, good!" cried Mills. "You did just as I told you.
Now give the ball to the other side. Weight forward, defense, every one
of you on his toes. _Browning, watch that ball!_ Now get into them,
every one! Block them!"
At the other end of the field six fellows were kicking goal and six
others, stretched upon the turf, were holding the balls for them. Devoe
was coaching. Sydney could see Neil, the farthest away of any, lifting
the leather toward the posts from a difficult angle on the twenty-yard
line. Even as he watched, the ball sailed away from Neil's toe and went
fair over the cross-bar, and Sydney silently applauded. He set himself
to recognizing the other kickers. There was Gale, the tall and rather
heavy fellow in the crimson sleeves; and Mason, equally tall but all
corners and angles; and Smith, and Gillam, and Foster. Devoe seemed to
be laying down the law forcibly to Gale; he was gesticulating with his
hands and nodding his head like a Chinese mandarin. Sydney could not
hear what he was saying, nor could he see Gale's face; but in the
attitude of the captain there was exasperation, and in that of Gale
sullen impatience.
Another group at signal practise drew nigh, and Sydney gave his
attention to it. Reardon, the second eleven quarter, sang his signals in
a queer, shrill voice that was irresistibly funny. In front of Sydney he
raised himself, wiped his palms on his stained trousers, grimaced at one
of the halves, and took a deep breath. Then--
"_Signal_!" he cried. "_7--8--4--6!_"
Eight half bounded by him, full-back fell in behind and took the ball,
left half dashed after, and the group trotted away to line up again ten
yards down the field. But presently the lines at the east goal broke up
and trotted toward the benches, and Mills called the players in from all
parts of the field. The water-pail was surrounded and the thirsty
players rinsed out their mouths, well knowing the reprimand that awaited
should they be rash enough to take even one swallow. Sweaters were
hurriedly donned, Simson dealing them out from the pile on the ground,
and the fellows sank on to the benches. Neil saw Sydney, and talked to
him over the fence until he heard his name called from the line-up.
"I think I shall make a touch-down to-day," said Sydney. Neil shook his
head, smiling:
"I don't know about that; you're not feeling so fit to-day, you know."
"Oh, that doesn't matter," answered the cripple. "You just watch me."
Neil laughed, and hurrying off, was fitted with his head harness and
trotted out to his place. Sydney was mistaken, as events proved, for
he--in the person of Neil Fletcher--failed to get over the second's
goal-line in either of the short halves; which was also true of all the
other varsity players. But if she didn't score, the varsity kept the
second at bay, and that was a good deal. The second played desperately,
being convinced that Mills would keep his promise and, if they succeeded
in scoring on their opponents, give them the honor of facing Harvard the
following Wednesday. But the varsity, being equally convinced of the
fact, played quite as desperately, and the two teams trotted off with
honors even.
"Sponge off, everybody!" was the stentorian command from the trainer,
and one by one the players leaned over while the big, dripping sponge
was applied to face and head. Then sweaters were again donned and the
four laps around the field began, the men trotting by twos and threes,
or, in the case of the injured ones, trailing along behind.
The next day, Wednesday, October 16th, Erskine played Dexter. Dexter is
a preparatory school that has a way of turning out strong elevens, many
of which in previous years had put up excellent fights against Erskine.
On the present occasion Erskine went into the game with a line largely
composed of substitutes and a back-field by no means as strong as
possible. During the first half Dexter was forced to give all her
attention to defending her goal, and had no time for incursions into
Erskine territory. The home college ran up 17 points, Devoe missing one
goal. In the second half Erskine made further changes in her team. Cowan
took Witter's place at right-guard, Reardon went in at quarter in place
of Bailey, and Neil, who had watched the first half greedily from the
side-line, went in at left half.
It was Dexter's kick-off, and she sent the ball fully forty yards.
Reardon called to Neil to take it. That youth got it on his ten yards,
and by fine dodging ran it back to the eighteen-yard line. From there it
was advanced by straight line-plunging to Erskine's forty yards, and it
seemed that a procession down the field to another touch-down had begun.
But at this point Fate and Tom Cowan took a hand. Cowan was taken back
of the line for a plunge through tackle. With right half and full lined
up in tandem behind him he was given the ball and shot through easily
for several yards. Then, his support gone, he staggered on for five
yards more by sheer force of weight with two Dexter backs dragging at
him, and there, for no apparent cause, dropped the pigskin. The Dexter
quarter-back, running in to stop Cowan, was on it in a twinkling, had
skirted the right end of the _mêlée_ and was racing toward Erskine's
goal. It had happened so quickly and unexpectedly that the runner was
fifteen yards to the good before pursuit began. Devoe and Neil took up
the chase, but it was a hopeless task, and in another minute the little
band of crimson-adorned Dexter supporters and substitutes on the
side-line were yelling like mad. The Dexter quarter placed the ball
nicely behind the very center of the west goal, and when it was taken
out none but a cripple could have failed to kick it over the cross-bar.
As Dexter's left-end was not a cripple her score changed from a 5 to
a 6.
But that was the end of her offensive work for that afternoon. Erskine
promptly took the ball from her after the kick-off, and kept it until
Neil had punctured Dexter's line between left-guard and tackle and waded
through a sea of clutching foes twelve yards for a touch-down. Devoe
once more failed at goal, and five minutes later the game came to an end
with the final score 22 to 6. Dexter was happy and Erskine disgruntled.
In the locker-house after the game Mills had some sharp things to say,
and didn't hesitate to say them in his best manner. There was
absolutely no favoritism shown; he began at one end of the line and went
to the other, then dropped back to left half, took in quarter on the
way, and ended up with full. Some got off easy; Neil was among them; and
so was Devoe, for it is not a good policy for a coach to endanger a
captain's authority by public criticism; but when it was all over no one
felt slighted. And when all were beginning to breathe easier, thinking
the storm had passed, it burst forth anew.
"Cowan, I don't see how you came to drop that ball," said Mills, in
fresh exasperation. "Why, great Scott, man, there was no one touching
you except a couple of schoolboys tugging at your legs! What was the
matter? Paralysis? Vertigo? Or haven't you learned yet, after two years
of football playing, to hang on to the ball? There's a cozy nook waiting
on the second scrub for fellows like you!"
Cowan, his pride already sorely wounded, found the last too much for his
temper.
"No one can help an occasional accident," he blurted. "If I did fumble,
there's no reason why you should insult me. Lots of fellows have fumbled
before and got off without being walked on. I've played my position for
two years, and I guess I know how to do it. But when a fellow is singled
out as a--a scapegoat--"
"That will do, Cowan," interrupted Mills quietly. "You've lost your
temper. We don't want men on this team who can't stand criticism--"
"Criticism!" sneered Cowan, looking very red and ugly.
"Yes, criticism!" answered Mills sharply, "and scolding, too, my friend.
I'm here to turn out a team that will win from Robinson and not to cater
to any one's vanity; when it's necessary, I'm going to scold and say
some hard things. But I've never insulted any fellow and I never will.
I've had my eye on you ever since practise began, Cowan, and let me tell
you that you haven't at any time passed muster; your playing's been
slovenly, careless, and generally mean. You've soldiered half the time.
And I think we can get along without you for the rest of the season."
Mills, his blue eyes sparkling, turned away, and Stowell and White, who
for a minute past had been striving to check Cowan's utterances, now
managed to drag him away.
"Shut up!" whispered White hoarsely. "Don't be a fool! Come out of
here!" And they hauled him outside, where, on the porch, he gave vent
anew to his wrath until they left him finally in disgust.
He slouched in to see Paul after dinner that evening, much to Neil's
impatience, and taking up a commanding position on a corner of the
study-table, recited his tale of injustice with great eloquence. Paul,
who had spent the afternoon with other unfortunates on the benches, was
full of sympathy.
"It's a dirty shame, Tom," he said. "And I'm glad you waded into Mills
the way you did. It was fine!"
"Little white-haired snake!" exclaimed Cowan. "Drops me from training
just because I make a fumble! Why, you've fumbled, Paul, and so's
Fletcher here; lots of times. But he doesn't lay _you_ off! Oh, dear,
no; you're swells whose names will look well in the line-up for the
Robinson game! But here I've played on the team for two years, and now
off I go just because I dropped a ball. It's rank injustice!
"I suppose he thinks I've got to play football here. If he does he's
away off, that's all. I could have gone to Robinson this fall and had
everything I wanted. They guaranteed me a position at guard or tackle,
and I wouldn't have needed to bother with studies as I do here, either."
The last remark called a smile to Neil's face, and Cowan unfortunately
glanced his way and saw it.
"I dare say if I was willing to toady to Mills and Devoe, and tell
everybody they're the finest football leaders that ever came down the
pike, it would be different," he sneered angrily. "Maybe then Mills
would give me private instruction in goal-kicking and let me black his
boots for him."
Neil closed his book and leaned back in his chair, a little disk of red
in each cheek.
"Now, look here, Tom Cowan, let's have this out," he said quietly.
"You're hitting at me, of course--"
"Oh, keep out, chum," protested Paul. "Cowan hasn't mentioned you once."
"He doesn't need to," answered Neil. "I understand without it. But let
me tell you, Cowan, that I do not toady to either Mills or Devoe. I do
treat them, however, as I would any one who was in authority over me. I
don't think merely because I've played the game before that I know all
the football there is to know."
"Meaning that I do?" growled Cowan.
"I mean that you've got a swelled head, Cowan, and that when Mills said
you hadn't been doing your best he only told the truth, and what every
fellow knows."
"Shut up, Neil!" cried Paul angrily. "It isn't necessary for you to
pitch into Cowan just because he's down on his luck."
"I don't mind him," said Cowan, eying Neil with hatred. "He's sore about
what I said. I dare say I shouldn't have said it. If he's Mills's
darling--"
Neil pushed back his chair, and rose to his feet with blazing eyes.
"Kindly get out of here," he said. "I've had enough of your insults.
This is my room; please leave it!" Cowan stared a moment in surprise,
hesitated, threw a glance of inquiry at Paul's troubled and averted
face, and slid from the table.
"Of course you can put me out of your room," he sneered. "For that
matter, I'm glad to leave it. I did think, though, that part of the shop
was Paul's, but I dare say he has to humor you."
"The room's as much mine as his," said Paul, "and I want you to stay in
it." He looked defiantly over at his friend. Neil had not bargained for
a quarrel with Paul, but was too incensed to back down.
"And I say you sha'n't stay," he declared. "Paul and I will settle the
proprietorship of the room after you're out of it. Now you get!"
"Maybe you'll put me out?" asked Cowan with a show of bravado. But he
glanced toward the door as he spoke. Neil nodded.
"Maybe I will," he answered grimly.
"Cowan's my guest, Neil!" cried Paul. "And you've no right to put him
out, and I sha'n't let you!"
"He'll go out of here, if I have to fight him and you too, Paul!" Paul
stared in wonderment. He was so used to being humored by his roommate
that this declaration of war took his breath away. Cowan laughed with
attempted nonchalance.
"Your friend's a bit chesty, Paul," he said. "Perhaps we'd better humor
him."
"No, stay where you are," said Paul. "If he thinks he's boss of me he's
mistaken." He glared wrathfully at Neil, and yet with a trifle of
uneasiness. Paul was no coward, but physical conflict with Neil was
something so contrary to the natural order that it appalled him. Neil
removed the gorgeous bottle-green velvet jacket that he wore in the
evenings, and threw open the study door. Then he faced Cowan. That
gentleman returned his gaze for a moment defiantly. But something in
Neil's expression caused his eyes to drop and seek the portal. He
laughed uneasily, and with simulated indifference laid his hand on
Paul's shoulder.
"Come on, old chap," he said, "let's get out before we're torn to bits.
There's no pleasure in staying with such a disagreeable fire-eater,
anyhow. Come up to my room, and let him cool off."
Paul hesitated, and then turned to follow Cowan, who was strolling
toward the door. Angry as he was, deep in his heart he was glad to avoid
conflict with his chum.
"All right," he answered in a voice that trembled, "we'll go;
but"--turning to Neil--"if you think I'm going to put up with this sort
of thing, you're mistaken. You can have this room, and I'll
get another."
"I'd suggest your rooming with Cowan," answered Neil, "since you're so
fond of him."
"Your friend's jealous," laughed Cowan from the hall. Paul joined him,
slamming the door loudly as he went.
Neil heard Cowan's laughter and the sound of their steps as they climbed
the stairs. For several moments he stood motionless, staring at the
door. Then he shook his head, donned his jacket, and sat down again. Now
that it was done, he was intensely sorry. As for the quarrel with Cowan,
that troubled not at all; but an open breach with Paul was something new
and something which, just at this time especially, might work for ill.
Paul was already so far under Cowan's domination that anything tending
to foster their friendship was unfortunate. Neil was ashamed, too, of
his burst of temper, and the remainder of the evening passed
miserably enough.
When Paul returned he was cold and repellent, and answered Neil's
attempts at conversation in monosyllables. Neil, however, was glad to
find that Paul said nothing further about a change of quarters, and in
that fact found encouragement. After all, Paul would soon get over his
anger, he told himself; the two had been firm friends for three years,
and it would take something more than the present affair to
estrange them.
But as the days passed and Paul showed no disposition to make friends
again, Neil began to despair. He knew that Cowan was doing all in his
power to widen the breach and felt certain that left to himself Paul
would have forgotten his grievance long ago. Paul spent most of his time
in Cowan's room when at home, and Neil passed many dull hours. One thing
there was, however, which pleased him. Cowan's absence from the field
worked a difference from the first in Paul's playing, and the latter was
now evidently putting his heart into his work. He made such a good
showing between the day of Cowan's dismissal and the following Wednesday
that he was scheduled to play right half against Harvard, and was
consequently among the little army of players and supporters that
journeyed to Cambridge on that day.