RIGHT HALF HOLLINS
THE FOOTBALL ELEVEN BOOKS
BY
RALPH HENRY BARBOUR
LEFT END EDWARDS
LEFT TACKLE THAYER
LEFT GUARD GILBERT
CENTER RUSH ROWLAND
FULL-BACK FOSTER
QUARTER-BACK BATES
LEFT HALF HARMON
RIGHT END EMERSON
RIGHT GUARD GRANT
RIGHT TACKLE TODD
RIGHT HALF HOLLINS
[Illustration: Once more Bert gave an imitation of a corkscrew]
RIGHT HALF
HOLLINS
BY
RALPH HENRY BARBOUR
AUTHOR OF
LEFT END EDWARDS,
FULL BACK FOSTER,
RIGHT TACKLE TODD, ETC.
ILLUSTRATED BY
LESLIE CRUMP
[Illustration]
GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS NEW YORK
Made in the United States of America
Copyright, 1925,
By DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY, Inc.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I TOMMY PARISH, CRITIC 1
II BERT REFUSES AN INVITATION 16
III AN HUMBLE MEMBER 28
IV THE MANAGER GIVES A PARTY 42
V TOMMY MAKES A PREDICTION 56
VI MOONEY’S 68
VII BERT GOES THROUGH 82
VIII EXPERT ADVICE 94
IX SUBS VS. SCRUB 108
X CHICK MISSES A FORWARD-PASS 125
XI A SHAKE-UP 136
XII THE EDITOR CALLS 149
XIII AROUND THE END 161
XIV DEVORE COMES TO COLLECT 175
XV FUMBLES 192
XVI PEANUTS AND CONVERSATION 209
XVII BERT IS SENT FOR 225
XVIII MR. CADE RECEIVES 236
XIX TOMMY ISSUES AN ULTIMATUM 253
XX THE NIGHT BEFORE 266
XXI ALTON CELEBRATES 276
ILLUSTRATIONS
Once more Bert gave an imitation of a corkscrew _Frontispiece_
PAGE
From across the hall came an agonized wail of “Cut that out!” 52
On the next attempt Nip put the ball over the cross-bar 126
“Who did it? How did it happen?” 238
RIGHT HALF HOLLINS
CHAPTER I
TOMMY PARISH, CRITIC
“Put some glue on your hands, Chick!” advised Tommy Parish in a clear,
carrying voice from his seat in the front row of the stand. The sally
gained a ripple of laughter from the somewhat apathetic audience. Bert
Hollins, huddled under a blanket on the players’ bench, a few yards
away, turned a mildly indignant countenance toward Tommy and was met
with a wide grin and a jovial wink. Across the field, Chick Burton,
right end, captured the trickling pigskin and tossed it disgustedly
toward the referee. The disgust was natural, for Chick had just missed
his third forward-pass in that quarter.
Alton Academy was playing its first game of the season, with Southport
School, and the third period was well along. Southport had scored a
field-goal in the first quarter and Alton a touchdown in the second.
Nip Storer had failed to kick the goal after the latter event. It had
been drizzling ever since noon, and a wet ball and a slippery field
were not making for brilliant playing. For that matter, however, even
had the weather conditions been of the best it is doubtful if either
team would have put up a good game, for both were slow and ragged,
missing numerous opportunities to score and plainly badly in need of
practice. Perhaps Chick Burton was no worse than the others, but that
was a matter of opinion, and Tommy Parish’s opinion was to the effect
that Chick was the principal offender of the afternoon. If Chick had
caught just one of the throws from Jim Galvin, Alton would be in
possession of twelve points instead of six. At least, so Tommy thought.
Tommy sat with his knees hunched up almost to his chin and munched
peanuts. Tommy was usually munching something. He was a short, heavy
youth with a round face and a liability to boils on the back of his
brief neck. Indeed, it was quite an unfamiliar sight to see Tommy
without at least one protective arrangement of gauze and plaster
between his collar and the edge of his pale brown hair. Because his
seat was in the front row of the grand-stand, he was able to perch
his feet on the edge of the barrier and so form a sort of trough
between legs and stomach for the accommodation of his bag of peanuts.
When not dipping into the bag or deftly detaching the shells from
their contents he snuggled his hands under the edge of his thick blue
sweater. Since Tommy never wore a hat at school--whatever he did at
home--a fact which may account to some extent for the faded tone of
his hair, he presented a rather damp and bedraggled appearance. Drops
trickled down his somewhat button-like nose, encircled his slightly
protrusive ears and quivered on his round chin as it moved ceaselessly
and rhythmically during the process of mastication. But if moist, he
was quite happy. Give Tommy something to eat and something to look
on at and weather conditions meant nothing in his young life. His
was a cheerful disposition, and if those who smarted under the frank
expressions of his judgment frequently wanted very, very much to murder
him, Tommy cared not a whit. He believed in being outspoken, in giving
candid publicity to his opinions; in short, Tommy hewed to the line and
let the chips fall wherever they blame pleased!
The game went on, Southport capturing the ball after Fitz Savell,
playing at half, had let it ooze from his arms. Tommy set his
strong, white teeth on a particularly attractive peanut and observed
reproachfully, “Why don’t you hand it to him, Fitz, ’stead of making
him pick it up that way? Where’s your manners, boy?”
Homer Johnson, two rows back, reached a long leg across the intervening
seat and placed a foot against the back of Tommy’s head. Tommy’s head
went suddenly forward with a jerk and two peanuts fell to the wet
boards, a total loss. “Cut out the merry quips, Tommy,” advised Homer.
“You weary me.”
Tommy turned his head cautiously. As a matter of fact he happened to be
free from boils at the moment, but affliction had taught him caution
in the matter of moving his neck and it had become second-nature. He
observed Homer without rancor. “Hello,” he said. “Great game, isn’t it?”
“The game’s bad enough, Tommy, without any help from you,” answered
Homer coldly.
“Oh, no, Homer, you’re wrong,” responded Tommy affably. “Nothing’s so
bad it can’t be helped. Constructive criticism, Homer, old timer, is
never inopportune, never _mal venu_.” Tommy delighted in French phrases
which he pronounced with a fine New England accent. He knew just how
far he could go with Homer Johnson without getting into trouble, and it
is doubtful if he would have risked that “old timer” had they not been
separated by a row of seats and their occupants. Homer was a senior
and Tommy still no more than a sophomore, although others who had been
his classmates last year were now juniors. Homer frowned but contented
himself with “Shut up, Tommy!” delivered sharply. Tommy smiled
placidly and slowly returned his gaze to the peanut bag.
“Crazy kid,” commented Freeman Naughton, grinning as soon as Tommy’s
head was turned away. “I’ve wanted to kill him fifty times since I’ve
been here!”
“He’d have been dead long ago if I’d yielded to my desire,” chuckled
Homer. “Tommy bears a charmed life, I guess. Gets away with stuff that
would get another fellow kicked from here to State street. Did you hear
what he got off on Jonas the other day? He and another fellow were
passing in front of Upton and the ball got away from him just as Jonas
came along and Tommy yelled, ‘Thank you, Jonas!’ Well, you know the way
Jonas moves when he isn’t playing football. He ambled along and picked
up the ball and looked at it and finally tossed it back, and Tommy
yelled, ‘Say, listen! I want to ask you something! Is your name Jonas
Lowe or is it Jonah Slow?’ I guess Jonas wanted to slaughter him, but
he let him live.”
Naughton--he went by the name of “Naughty,” naturally enough--chuckled.
“The cheekiest thing he ever did, though, was in our freshman year. I
guess I told you.”
“About Kincaid?”
“Yes. Kincaid had wandered off the lesson, the way he does, and was
telling the class something he’d seen in Rome or some place; something
about some ruins; and Tommy pipes up with: ‘Mr. Kincaid, haven’t those
ruins been there a long time?’ ‘Why, yes, Parish,’ says Kincaid, ‘some
thousands of years.’ ‘Then,’ says Tommy sweetly, ‘maybe they’ll keep,
sir, if we go on with the lesson.’”
The quarter came to an end with the score still 6 to 3, the teams
changed goals and Mr. Cade, the coach, familiarly known as Johnny,
hustled a set of bedraggled substitutes from the bench and sent them
trotting in to report. Jake, the trainer, wrapped the deposed ones in
dry blankets and circulated an already soiled towel about on which they
wiped their wet faces. The game started off on its final period with a
new backfield, save for Galvin, at full, and two new linemen. Southport
introduced two fresh ends, but made no other changes. Southport made a
determined drive for the Alton goal and got the pigskin as far as the
twenty-eight yards, where, after two attempts at the Gray-and-Gold’s
line had yielded scant returns, and a short forward-pass had gone
wrong, her left half dropped back and tried to duplicate his feat of
the first quarter. But this time he was hurried and the ball slanted
off to the left and passed well beyond the goal post. Storer punted on
second down and Southport got the pigskin again on Alton’s forty-six.
Once more she tried desperately to reach a point from which to score by
kicking. A wide sweep gained but two yards and a smash straight at the
center of the line was good for as many more. Then, however, a puzzling
double pass sent a back inside Dozier, at left tackle, and the runner
dodged and twirled to the thirty-three before he was nailed by Ball,
the Alton quarter-back.
Again Southport tried the ends, first one and then the other, and the
ball went out of bounds on the second play. With about twenty-eight
to go on a third down and the ball well to the side of the gridiron,
a place-kick looked unpromising, and when the visitor set the stage
for it Alton was incredulous. Warnings of a forward-pass were cried,
but when the ball went back it sped straight to the kneeling quarter
and was set to the ground. The kicker was deliberate and Chick Burton,
slipping past the defense, almost blocked the ball, but it passed him
safely, sailed up and over the cross-bar and added another three points
to Southport’s score and tied the game.
Alton didn’t have a chance to better her figures during the few minutes
that remained. Southport, evidently as pleased with results as if she
had won, set herself on the defensive and held the enemy safely away
from her goal. The stand was almost empty by the time the last whistle
blew. In the front row of seats, however, Tommy Parish still huddled,
arising at last with a sigh of repletion and a deluge of peanut shells
to the ground. Then, sinking his neck into the collar of his sweater
and his moist hands into the pockets of his baggy breeches, he turned
from the scene of conflict and made his way back across the soggy field
toward Upton Hall. Ahead, the tired players plodded along by twos and
threes, blankets trailing, subdued and disgruntled. Toward the end of
the procession Coach Cade’s short, thick-set figure walked beside that
of Captain Lowe. Jonas was almost six feet tall and correspondingly
broad, and walked with a lumbering pace that added to the contrast
between him and Johnny. The gymnasium swallowed them up and Tommy went
on, passing within smelling distance of the kitchens in Lawrence Hall
and sniffing the air eagerly. This was a Saturday, and generally on
Saturdays the evening meal was extremely satisfactory. Tommy almost
regretted those peanuts. Still, nearly an hour must elapse before he
would be allowed to assimilate more food, and Tommy’s recuperative
powers were of the best. He reached the walk between Borden and Upton,
turned to the right and presently disappeared into the latter dormitory.
Up in Number 30 Tommy removed his outer garments, swathed his rotund
form in a garish blanket dressing-gown and subsided on the window-seat,
piling the several silken pillows behind his head. The view was not
cheerful just now. Through the mist-covered panes Tommy looked across
the Yard, damply green of turf, to Academy street and the white
residences beyond. There were few persons in sight. Up the middle
path came a figure in a shining yellow oil-skin coat, snuggling a
package under an arm; one of the fellows returning from a shopping
expedition, apparently. Tommy wondered whether the contents of the
package were edible. A few forms moved along Academy street, citizens
with umbrellas these. To the right, near the Meadow street side of the
Yard, a light appeared in Doctor McPherson’s house. (“Mac” was the
principal.) Occupying a corresponding position across the wide expanse
of maple dotted turf, Memorial Hall emitted two fellows carrying books
from the school library. Tommy watched them idly as they followed
the walk which led them to the front of Academy Hall. As they passed
Upton he recognized the taller of the two and had half a mind to raise
the window and exchange insults. But the effort was too great and he
contented himself with tapping a pane with the seal ring he wore.
Evidently the sound didn’t carry, for the youths disappeared from his
range of vision without looking up.
At Alton Academy the dormitories form a line across the top of the
campus: Haylow first, near Meadow street, then Lykes, then--with
Academy Hall intervening--Upton and Borden. Back of Academy is
Lawrence, which is the dining hall, and well over toward River street,
hiding behind Borden, is the Carey Gymnasium. The land descended gently
each way from the dormitory row, in the front toward Academy street and
the town, in the rear toward the open country. On the latter slope, a
slope too gradual to really deserve the name, was the athletic field,
with the quarter-mile track, diamonds, tennis courts and sufficient
territory besides for the accommodation of such mildly important bodies
as the soccer and lacrosse teams. Like many New England preparatory
schools, Alton possessed an appearance of age out of proportion with
fact, an appearance largely due to the maples that shaded the walks and
the ivy that grew almost to the eaves of the older buildings. Not that
Alton was a new school, for it was not, but it was younger than many;
younger, even, than its principal rival, Kenly Hall, over at Lakeville.
Tommy was getting quite drowsy now and would probably have fallen
comfortably asleep if Billy Pillsbury hadn’t selected the moment
for his homecoming. Billy, generally called “Pill” was sixteen, a
sophomore--although, unlike Tommy, he was new at it--and held the proud
and important position of Second Assistant Football Manager. Pill was
a slight, pink-cheeked, trim-looking youth, with dark hair swept back
from a classic brow and held swept by some fragrant concoction that
Tommy found particularly nauseating--or pretended to. Pill entered with
the aspect of one wearied by the weight of authority imposed on him and
sank into a chair. Tommy viewed him without enthusiasm.
“Gee, what a day!” sighed Pill.
“Yes, rotten,” responded the other, carefully misunderstanding.
“Doesn’t look much like clearing, either.”
“Oh, the weather!” Pill put that aside with a wave of a slender hand.
“I meant the--the work. And that game! Say, wasn’t that criminal,
Tommy?”
“Sure was. Every fellow on the team deserves hanging.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” protested Pill. “They’re all right. Trouble is,
they haven’t had enough practice, Tommy.”
“Why not? Ten days ought to give them some idea of the game!”
“They weren’t any worse than Southport.”
“What of it? Last year we licked Southport something like 23 to 0. And
the year before by-- Well, I forget what it was.”
“I don’t,” returned Pill triumphantly. “It was 6 to 6, the same as
to-day. And that year we licked Kenly, and last year we didn’t! So you
can’t prove that the team’s going to be rotten that way!”
“I’m not saying it’s going to be rotten,” answered Tommy placidly. “All
I say is that it was rotten to-day. Look at the way Burton played, for
instance. He had three chances with forward-passes and missed every one
of them. Touched them all, too. Why, we’d have had a touchdown any time
if he could have frozen onto just one of them!”
“Chick was sort of out of tune,” acknowledged Pill. “He’s been that way
ever since work started. Looks to me as if he was still sore about the
captaincy.”
“Think so?” Tommy looked interested. “Say, I’ll bet you’re _tres_
right! I thought he and Jonas Lowe weren’t acting awfully thick!”
“Oh, they get on all right,” said Pill. “Still, I do think that Chick
was awfully disappointed last winter. Maybe you can’t blame him,
either. Why, I’d have bet my shirt that they’d make him captain, Tommy!”
“Yes, so would I, I guess. The trouble with Chick Burton is that he’s a
mighty pleasant guy, and most every one likes him a lot and all that.
But when it comes to choosing a leader, why, Chick doesn’t--er--inspire
confidence. That’s the way I get it, and I guess that’s the way the
team felt last December. It was a surprise, though, when they elected
Lowe. Guess Jonas was as surprised as any one, even Chick. Think he
will make a good captain, Pill?”
“Jonas?” Pill looked frankly dubious. “Gee, I don’t know, Tommy. He’s a
corking old scout, and the fellows like him well enough; and he knows
a lot about football; his own position and the other chap’s; but it
doesn’t seem to me that he’s what you’d call a born leader.”
“Huh, neither is Chick.”
“Yes, he is, too! Chick’s the--the slap-bang, hit-or-miss sort that--”
“Mostly miss to-day,” interpolated Tommy.
“--that fellows take to. He may be wrong, but he makes you think he’s
right. And he has--well, dash, you know; and a jolly way of banging
into everything; sort of a ‘Come on, gang, let’s go!’ fashion that
wins the crowd. What I think about Chick is that if he had made the
captaincy he’d have been a poor leader, Tommy, but every one would have
forgiven him and, if we’d lost to Kenly, would have said: ‘Well, it
wasn’t Chick Burton’s fault! It was just rotten luck!’”
“He’s sure got a pal in you,” said Tommy. “I didn’t know you two were
so _amical_.”
“Your French is rotten, as usual. We aren’t very friendly, either, for
that matter. I mean, I don’t know him very well. Say, that’s a funny
thing about Chick Burton. He gets on finely with every one, but you
never see him chummy with a soul. Ever notice that?”
“Oh, I don’t know. What about Hollins? He and Chick look to be pretty
thick.”
“Well, they room together, you know, and I heard they were pals before
they came here. But outside of Bert Hollins he doesn’t take up with any
fellow, so far as I see.”
Tommy chuckled reminiscently. “You ought to have seen the pained look
on Bert’s face this afternoon when I razzed Chick once for missing a
throw! Say, that poor nut thinks Chick invented football, I guess.”
Pill, having finally set about the task of removing his damp clothing,
chuckled as he kicked off a shoe. “I’ll bet! Bert thinks Chick is just
about all right, I guess. Talk about Damon and Pythias!”
“Well, I fancy it’s a bit one-sided,” replied Tommy pessimistically.
“Friendships generally are.”
“Oh, I don’t know. Chick’s a senior and could have gone into Lykes this
fall if he’d wanted to. But he stayed here in Upton so’s he could be
with Bert. That looks like he thought a good deal of him, doesn’t it?”
“Maybe and peradventure,” Tommy yawned. “Hurry up and get dressed. I’m
starved. I see Bert’s still trying to play football. This is his third
season, isn’t it?”
“Second. He’s a junior. I dare say he will make the team this year. He
told me the other day that he’d put on seven pounds since last fall.
He isn’t a bad player. He might have got placed last fall if he hadn’t
been so light. Johnny had him in a few minutes to-day, at the last.”
“Well, I’d like to see him make it,” said Tommy reflectively. “He’s
sure tried hard and long, and I’m strong on the nil desperandum stuff,
Pill. Who do we play next week?”
“Banning High. Bet you you’ll see a different game next Saturday,
Tommy.”
“If I don’t,” responded the other, “I’ll ask for my money back! Say,
_pour l’amour de Michel_, do we eat or don’t we?”