NEIL IS TAKEN OUT
The Tuesday before the final contest dawned raw and wet. The elms in the
yard _drip-dripped_ from every leafless twig and a fine mist covered
everything with tiny beads of moisture. The road to the field, trampled
by many feet, was soft and slippery. Sydney, almost hidden beneath
rain-coat and oil-skin hat, found traveling hard work. Ahead of him
marched five hundred students, marshaled by classes, a little army of
bobbing heads and flapping mackintoshes, alternately cheering and
singing. Dana, the senior-class president, strode at the head of the
line and issued his commands through a big purple megaphone.
Erskine was marching out to the field to cheer the eleven and to
practise the songs that were to be chanted defiantly at the game. Sydney
had started with his class, but had soon been left behind, the rubber
tires of the machine slipping badly in the mud. Presently the head of
the procession, but dimly visible to him through the mist, turned in at
the gate, the monster flag of royal purple, with its big white E,
drooping wet and forlorn on its staff. They were cheering again now, and
Sydney whispered an accompaniment behind the collar of his coat:
"Erskine! Erskine! Erskine! Rah-rah-rah, rah-rah-rah, rah-rah-rah!
Erskine! Erskine! Erskine!"
Suddenly footsteps sounded behind him and the tricycle went forward
apparently of its own volition. Sydney turned quickly and saw Mills's
blue eyes twinkling down at him.
"Did I surprise you?" laughed the coach.
"Yes, I thought my wheel had suddenly turned into an automobile."
"Hard work for you, I'm afraid. You should have let me send a trap for
you," said Mills. "Never mind those handles. Put your hands in your
pockets and I'll get you there in no time. What a beast of a day,
isn't it?"
"Y--yes," answered Sydney, "I suppose it is. But I rather like it."
"Like it? Great Scott! Why?"
"Well, the mist feels good on your face, don't you think so? And the
trees down there along the railroad look so gray and soft. I don't know,
but there's something about this sort of a day that makes me feel good."
"Well, every one to his taste," Mills replied. "By the way, here's
something I cut out of the Robinson Argus; thought you'd like to see
it." He drew a clipping from a pocketbook and gave it to Sydney, who,
shielding it from the wet, read as follows:
Erskine, we hear, is crowing over a wonderful new play which
she thinks she has invented, and with which she expects to
get even for what happened last year. We have not seen the
new marvel, of course, but we understand that it is called a
"close formation." It is safe to say that it is an old play
revamped by Erskine's head coach, Mills. Last year Mills
discovered a form of guards-back which was heralded to the
four corners of the earth as the greatest play ever seen.
What happened to it is still within memory. Consequently we
are not greatly alarmed over the latest production of his
fertile brain. Robinson can, we think, find a means of
solving any puzzle that Erskine can put together.
"They're rather hard on you," laughed Sydney as he returned the
clipping.
"I can stand it. I'm glad they haven't discovered that we are busy with
a defense for their tackle-tandem. If we can keep that a secret for a
few days longer I shall be satisfied."
"I do hope it will come up to expectations," said Sydney doubtfully.
"Now that the final test is drawing near I'm beginning to fear that
maybe we--maybe we're too hopeful."
"I know," answered Mills. "It's always that way. When I first began
coaching I used to get into a regular blue funk every year just before
the big game; used to think that everything was going wrong, and was
firmly convinced until the whistle sounded that we were going to be torn
to pieces and scattered to the winds. It's just nerves; you get used to
it after a while. As for the new defense for tackle-tandem, it's all
right. Maybe it won't stop Robinson altogether, but it's the best thing
that a light team can put up against a heavy one playing Robinson's
game; and I think that it's going to surprise her and worry her quite a
lot. Whether it will keep her from scoring on the tackle play remains to
be seen. That's a good deal to hope for. If we'd been able to try the
play in a game with another college we would know more about what we can
do with it. As it is, we only know that it will stop the second and that
theoretically it is all right. We'll be wiser on the 23d.
"Frankly, though, Burr," he continued, "as a play I don't like it. That
is, I consider it too hard on the men; there's too much brute force and
not enough science and skill about it; in fact, it isn't football. But
as long as guards-back and tackle-back formations are allowed it's got
to be played. It was a mistake in ever allowing more than four men
behind the line. The natural formation of a football team consists of
seven players in the line, and when you begin to take one or two of
those players back you're increasing the element of physical force and
lessening the element of science. More than that, you're playing into
the hands of the anti-football people, and giving them further grounds
for their charge of brutality.
"Football's the noblest game that's played, but it's got to be played
right. We did away with the old mass-play evil and then promptly
invented the guards-back and the tackle-back. Before long we'll see our
mistake and do away with those too; revise the rules so that the
rush-line players can not be drawn back. Then we'll have football as it
was meant to be played; and we'll have a more skilful game and one of
more interest both to the players and spectators." Mills paused and
then asked:
"By the way, do you see much of Fletcher?"
"Yes, quite a bit," answered Sydney. "We were together for two or three
hours yesterday afternoon."
"Indeed? And did you notice whether he appeared in good spirits? See any
signs of worry?"
"No, not that I recall. I thought he appeared to be feeling very
cheerful. I know we laughed a good deal over--over something."
"That's all right, then," answered the coach as they turned in through
the gate and approached the locker-house. "I had begun to think that
perhaps he had something on his mind that troubled him. He seemed a bit
listless yesterday at practise. How about his studies? All right
there, is he?"
"Oh, yes. Fletcher gets on finely. He was saying only a day or two ago
that he was surprised to find them going so easily."
"Well, don't mention our talk to him, please; he might start to
worrying, and that's what we don't want, you know. Perhaps he'll be in
better shape to-day. We'll try him in the 'antidote.'"
But contrary to the hopes of the head coach, Neil showed no improvement.
His playing was slow, and he seemed to go at things in a half-hearted
way far removed from his usual dash and vim. Even the signals appeared
to puzzle him at times, and more than once Foster turned upon him
in surprise.
"Say, what the dickens is the matter with you, Neil?" he whispered once.
Neil showed surprise.
"Why, nothing; I'm all right."
"Well, I'm glad you told me," grumbled the quarter-back, "for I'd never
have guessed it, my boy."
Before the end of the ten minutes of open practise was over Neil had
managed to make so many blunders that even the fellows on the seats
noticed and remarked upon it. Later, when the singing and cheering were
over and the gates were closed behind the last marching freshman, Neil
found himself in hot water. The coaches descended upon him in a small
army, and he stood bewildered while they accused him of every sin in the
football decalogue. Devoe took a hand, too, and threatened to put him
off if he didn't wake up.
"Play or get off the field," he said. "And, hang it all, man, look
intelligent, as though you liked the game!"
Neil strove to look intelligent by banishing the expression of
bewilderment from his face, and stood patiently by until the last coach
had hurled the last bolt at his defenseless head--defenseless, that is,
save for the head harness that was dripping rain-drops down his neck.
Then he trotted off to the line-up with a queer, half-painful grin
on his face.
"I guess it's settled for me," he said to, himself, as he rubbed his
cold, wet hands together. "Evidently I sha'n't have to play off to give
Paul his place; I've done it already. I suppose I've been bothering my
head about it until I've forgotten what I've been doing. I wish
though--" he sighed--"I wish it hadn't been necessary to disgust Mills
and Bob Devoe and all the others who have been so decent and have hoped
so much of me. But it's settled now. Whether it's right or wrong, I'm
going to play like a fool until they get tired of jumping on me and just
yank me out in sheer disgust.
"Simson's got his eagle eye on me, the old ferret! And he will have me
on the hospital list to-morrow, I'll bet a dollar. He'll say I've gone
'fine' and tell me to get plenty of sleep and stay outdoors. And the
doctor will give me a lot of nasty medicine. Well, it's all in the
bargain. I'd like to have played in Saturday's game, though; but Paul
has set his heart on it, and if he doesn't make the team he'll have
seven fits. It means more to him than it does to me, and next fall will
soon be here. I can wait."
"_Fletcher! Wake up, will you_?"
Foster was glaring at him angrily. The blood rushed into Neil's face and
he leaped to his position. Even Ted Foster's patience had given out,
Neil told himself; and he, like all the rest, would have only contempt
for him to-morrow. The ball was wet and slimy and easily fumbled. Neil
lost it the first time it came into his hands.
"Who dropped that ball?" thundered Mills, striding into the back-field,
pushing players left and right.
"I did," answered Neil, striving to meet the coach's flashing eyes and
failing miserably.
"You did? Well, do it just once more, Fletcher, and you'll go off! And
you'll find it hard work getting back again, too. Bear that in mind,
please." He turned to the others. "Now get together here! Put some life
into things! Stop that plunging right here! If the second gets another
yard you'll hear from me!"
"First down; two yards to gain!" called Jones, who was acting as
referee.
The second came at them again, tackle-back, desperately, fighting hard.
But the varsity held, and on the next down held again.
"That's better," cried Mills.
"Use your weight, Baker!" shrieked one of the second's coaches, slapping
the second's left-guard fiercely on the back to lend vehemence to
the command.
"Center, your man got you that time," cried another. "Into him now!
Throw him back! Get through!"
Ten coaches were raving and shrieking at once.
"Signal!" cried the second's quarter, Reardon. The babel was hushed,
save for the voice of Mills crying:
"Steady! Steady! Hold them, varsity!"
"_44--64--73--81!_" came Reardon's muffled voice. Then the second's
backs plunged forward. Neil and Gillam met them with a crash; cries and
confusion reigned; the lines shoved and heaved; the backs hurled
themselves against the swaying group; a smothered voice gasped "Down!"
the whistle shrilled.
"Varsity's ball!" said the referee. "First down!"
The coaches began their tirades anew. Mills spoke to Foster aside. Then
the lines again faced each other. Foster glanced back toward Neil.
"_14--12--34--9!_" he sang. It was a kick from close formation. Neil
changed places with full-back. He had forgotten for the moment the rôle
he had set himself to play, and only thought of the ball that was flying
toward him from center. He would do his best. The pigskin settled into
his hands and he dropped it quickly, kicking it fairly on the rebound.
But the second was through, and the ball banged against an upstretched
hand and was lost amidst a struggling group of players. In a moment it
came to light tightly clutched by Brown of the second eleven.
"I don't have to make believe," groaned Neil. "Fate's playing squarely
into my hands."
Five minutes later the leather went to him for a run outside of left
tackle. He never knew whether he tried to do it or really stumbled, but
he fell before the line was reached, and in a twinkling three of the
second eleven were pushing his face into the muddy turf. The play had
lost the varsity four yards. Mills glared at Neil, but said not a word.
Neil smiled weakly as he went back to his place.
"I needn't try any more," he thought wearily. "He's made up his mind to
put me off."
A minute later the half ended. When the next one began Paul Gale went in
at left half-back on the varsity. And Neil, trotting to the
locker-house, told himself that he was glad, awfully glad, and wished
the tears wouldn't come into his eyes.