AN HUMBLE MEMBER
Chick--his full name, by the way, was Charles Sumner Burton--concluded
on Monday that Coach Cade’s preoccupation in the matter of getting to
the station in time for his train Saturday night had kept him from
realizing the other’s offense. Of course, being a trifle late into bed
was no hanging matter, but Johnny had been more than usually strict
during the ten days or so of school, and Chick had no wish to be called
down. Johnny was mild-mannered and soft-spoken enough when things went
right, but when they didn’t he could be decidedly caustic. He was about
thirty years of age, a short, solidly-built, broad-shouldered and
deep-chested man with the blackest of black hair that reminded one of
the bristles on a shoe-brush. His countenance presented the not unusual
contrast of a smiling mouth and a fighting chin. Tradition had it that
some ten years before Johnny Cade had been a very difficult man to stop
when he had the ball in his arms and his head down! Chick believed
it, and it was far from his plan to interpose any sort of opposition
between Johnny and his desires.
Besides, Chick liked Mr. Cade a whole lot. In a way of speaking, Johnny
had made a football player of Chick during the last two years. Of
course Chick didn’t give all the credit to the coach; he felt that he
himself had contributed largely to the result; but he did acknowledge a
considerable obligation and was correspondingly grateful. Chick liked
him for other reasons, too, which were the reasons that swayed most of
those who knew Johnny. The coach was acknowledgedly square, quite as
prompt and generous with praise as with blame; if he worked his charges
hard, he set the pace himself; he was easy of approach, liked a joke
and never took advantage of his authority, which was that of a faculty
member. In short, he was, in school parlance, a “white man.” He had
been in charge of the Alton teams for a number of years and had turned
out winning elevens in most of them. There was a rumor current this
fall to the effect that the end of the present season would likewise
be the end of Johnny’s coaching career, but the report lacked official
confirmation and the School hoped it wasn’t correct.
That Monday afternoon was largely given over to the first principles of
football, which was one way of informing those who had taken part in
the Southport game that their labors had not been wholly satisfactory.
About sixty fellows had reported since the beginning of the term and
these were divided into three squads at present: Squad A, which
consisted of nineteen players who had served on the First Team last
year; Squad B, which contained the members of the former Second Eleven
and a few fellows who had shown promise on the various scrub teams, and
Squad C, composed of those whose ambition excelled their experience and
a half-dozen or so who had entered school this fall and who were as yet
unknown quantities. But to-day, whether you were a Squad A or a Squad
C man, you tackled the dummy until you were thoroughly covered, even
impregnated, with the still-damp loam of the pit, passed and caught and
fell on the ball in the most rudimentary manner and, if you happened to
be a candidate for a line position, duck-waddled and, with your head
and shoulders thrust into the charging harness, did your best to drag
two restraining youths with you over the slippery turf. If you happened
to have to set your heart on holding down a backfield position you were
spared the harness but worked just as hard at starting and at various
other tasks cunningly devised to teach celerity, accuracy and the rest
of the football virtues.
There are always those who resent what, in class room, would be termed
review work. To a fellow who had played against Kenly Hall for two
seasons, being returned to the drudgery of kindergarten stuff was
a ridiculous imposition in the judgment of several of the Squad A
members. Chick was among those who resented the imposition, but he
showed his resentment less than most of the others. He had a hunch that
it might be just as well not to court the limelight this afternoon,
that if he could survive practice without coming to the notice of the
coach he would not be likely to awaken memories, memories dating back
to Saturday night at some four minutes to ten o’clock! So Chick, albeit
his soul revolted, ground his face into the dirt and filled his ears
with it at tackling practice and maintained a cheerful countenance,
abstaining, even when at the end of the waiting line farthest from Mr.
Cade, from joining in the grumbles and sarcasms delivered in guarded
tones.
To an unbiased onlooker it might have appeared that the smiling,
shock-haired man in the faded and torn sweater and the old khaki
trousers had some reason for trundling the stuffed effigy along the
wire for the benefit of Squad A, because, after all, quite a few
members of that coterie performed extremely poorly at the task of
wrapping their arms about the dummy and dragging it to earth, and not
much better at throwing their bodies in front of it in blocking. In
fact, those who appeared to have really mastered these sciences were
to be counted on the fingers of two hands, omitting the thumbs! Even
Captain Jonas Lowe, who, with Andy Dozier, left tackle, towered inches
above all the others and looked the perfect football lineman, failed
to win commendation to-day; a fact which aided Chick considerably to
endure the indignity put upon him. Chick had not yet forgiven Jonas for
winning the captaincy over his head, something which, of course, Jonas
wasn’t in the least to blame for, although if you had charged Chick
with harboring resentment at this late day he would have denied the
allegation indignantly. He would probably have felt rather insulted.
Certainly he would have reminded you that he had himself put the motion
to make Jonas’s election unanimous, and he would have pointed out that
he and the new captain were the best of friends. The latter assertion
would, however, have been only negatively true. That is to say, he and
Jonas were friends merely to the extent of never being unfriendly,
which constitutes a relationship somewhat different from that implied
by Chick. Whether Jonas realized that Chick still begrudged him the
leadership of the team, would have been hard to say, but it was
perfectly apparent that if he did realize it he was not in the least
troubled about it. There was something rather Jovian about the big,
cumbersome, placid Jonas. You got the impression of one gazing calmly
down from Olympus, untroubled by petty mortals and their affairs.
Of those who did win a word of praise from Johnny Cade this afternoon
one was Bert Hollins. There were quite a few things in the line of
football essentials that Bert was good at, and tackling, whether of
the dummy or a hard-running enemy, was one of them. Bert’s relation to
the team was somewhat peculiar. Last season, after trying very hard
to make the Second until well into October, he had succeeded only in
getting hurt in his third scrimmage. He had attended practice with a
crutch under his left arm for a week and watched it from the bench for
nearly a week more. Then, almost before he had limbered that injured
knee up again, there had come a demand from the First for a light,
fast backfield man and Mr. McFadden, coach of the Scrubs, had sent
Bert across on approval. That had been a big moment in the boy’s life,
that sudden elevation to the First Team, and he had tried desperately
hard to make good. In a manner he had succeeded, for he had shown
about everything except weight and experience. One without the other
might have served, but together they kept him in the background. He
played in two of the late-season contests and won good words, and, as a
reward, was sent in by the coach near the end of the big game to earn
his letter. There had been no opportunity for a signal display of
brilliancy. He had not seized the ball and dashed sixty or seventy or
eighty yards down the field for a touchdown and consequent victory.
None of the thrilling, dramatic feats which story tellers love to
relate, and which sometimes really are performed, fell to his portion.
As a matter of unromantic fact, he had the ball but once and lost
better than two yards in an ill-advised attempt to knife through inside
tackle. Better men than he had repeatedly failed at that play already.
He emerged from that fray with no more glory than he had entered, but
he had at least emerged a full-fledged member of the Alton Academy
Football Team, with the right to wear a big golden-yellow A on his
gray sweater, a tiny yellow football on his cap and a gray-gold-gray
ribbon on his straw hat in summer. There were other privileges and
benefits, too, although of secondary importance. For instance, he could
reserve four seats in the center of the stand for the Kenly games, he
could cast a vote in the election of captain--a prerogative he had
subsequently exercised--and his countenance, together with some thirty
other countenances, would grace the wall of the gymnasium for posterity
to gaze upon with awe--or boredom.
Bert was mighty proud of his membership, but his satisfaction was
dulled by the suspicion that he didn’t really deserve the honor. There
were fellows--he could think of half a dozen, perhaps--who played
better football than he did and who had not won the coveted A. In
short, Bert secretly looked on himself as a Letter Man in name only!
But he meant to correct all that. This fall he was going to deserve
the prize he had won. He was going to try so blamed hard that success
simply wouldn’t be able to escape him! He had added several pounds
since last winter and at least an inch of height, and he had handled
a football nearly every day during the summer, generously obeying Mr.
Cade’s injunction to the members of the squad. If all the milk he had
drunk and all the eggs he had eaten could have been mixed together the
result would have been an omelet as big as--well, I don’t know how
big. But I do know that in August Bert’s mother had to call the family
physician in to advise a bilious boy to omit eggs from his diet for
the rest of the summer. Perhaps what had kept Bert from attaining the
height of Captain Jonas and the rotundity of Lum Patten by the middle
of September was the fact that when he wasn’t throwing or kicking a
football around he was playing tennis or swimming.
No matter how he figured it, Bert couldn’t make himself out better
than a third-choice substitute half-back. Storer, Ness, Savell, Keys
and Tyron were the mainstays, and then there were at least three
other backfield candidates who, in Bert’s estimation at least, were
held in higher esteem than he. And goodness only knew who else might
suddenly spring into the spot-light before the season was over! Well,
if hard work and the most determined efforts would avail he meant
to land considerably nearer the head of the list than he was now.
What he feared more than all else was a repetition of last fall’s
catastrophe. He was light and so subject to rude handling, and last
season’s experience had proved how surprisingly easy it was to get
hurt. Why, he had merely stumbled over some fellow’s legs and been out
of the game for almost a fortnight with a wrenched knee! Even as late
as early summer the silly thing had twinged him occasionally, although
he had been careful not to mention the fact. He believed it to be as
good as ever now, but he was haunted by the fear that it might not
be, that he would hurt it again and be laid off. Being laid off was a
fatal thing sometimes. Like time and tide, football seasons wait for
no one, and more than one poor fellow on the injured list has watched
a hale substitute run off with his position under his very eyes. Fear
of another injury to that left knee or to some other portion of his
anatomy was threatening to become an obsession, although he didn’t
realize it.
Going back to Upton after practice was over, Bert asked Chick whether
Coach Cade had said anything about Saturday night. Chick laughed. “Not
a word, old scout. Know what I think? Well, I think he was so taken up
with getting that train that he forgot all about seeing me. Anyway, he
didn’t say a word to-day. Didn’t even look cross-eyed at me!”
“That’s luck,” said Bert. “Take my advice, Chick, and don’t get caught
again.”
“Not going to, believe me. Another time I’ll come home by River street,
even if it is longer. It’s a safe bet Johnny doesn’t wander around over
there!”
“Maybe not, but the safest thing is to be in the dormitory by
nine-thirty, and that’s your play from now on. You can’t be quite
certain about Johnny. Maybe he’s forgotten about meeting you the other
night and maybe he hasn’t. I wouldn’t want to bet either way, Chick.”
“Oh, well, he’s got too many other things to worry about, I guess. Say,
he had an awful cheek to work A Squad the way he did to-day. Regular
beginners’ stuff! Gosh, I’ve got more dirt in my hair than I’ll be able
to get out in a dozen shampoos. Funny thing was, though,” added Chick
as they started upstairs, “that we tackled the dummy like a lot of
pups!”
“The tackling in the Southport game was pretty rotten,” said Bert. “I
don’t believe there were more than two clean tackles made by our gang,
Chick.”
“And I made them both?” laughed Chick. “Thanks!”
“You did not! You were as bad as any of them. Pete Ness made one
corking tackle the time he got that Southport guy over by the
side-line, and I think it was Billy Haines made the other. Generally we
just sort of tagged the other fellow on the shoulder and let him by!”
“Well, you’ve got to be polite to your guests,” replied Chick,
grinning. “I did miss my tackles pretty awfully, though, and I know it
as well as you do, old scout. Fact is, Bert, I haven’t been playing
my real game yet. I guess it takes a fellow a week or so to get back
into harness, eh? Oh, by the way, I told Coles we’d be around to see
him this evening. He’s got some apples his folks sent him from New
Hampshire or somewhere and he wants them eaten up before they go bad.
He says the training table starts Wednesday evening, Bert.”
“I wonder if I’ll get on it.”
“Sure! Why not? At that, though, you’ll be lucky if you don’t. You get
beastly tired of the grub after about a month of it.”
“I saw Mr. McFadden at the field to-day,” said Bert. “I guess they’ll
be starting the Scrub Team pretty soon.”
“Next week, probably. Good thing, too, for the place is all littered up
over there now.”
“I hope it doesn’t occur to Johnny to put me back where he got me,”
Bert observed ruefully. “I dare say fellows do get dropped to the
Second sometimes, don’t they?”
“Yes, but I don’t think you need to worry about that. You’ll get along
all right, Bert. I have a hunch that Johnny’s going in for a fast
backfield this year, and when it comes to speed you’ve got it all over
some of the chaps. It was that lot of heavy, slow backs that spilled
the beans for us last year, if you make inquiry of me. Things went a
heap better in the last quarter, after some of those truck horses had
quit!”
“I’d hate to go back to the Second,” mused Bert.
“Gosh, you can find more things to worry about!” laughed the other.
“Last week you were afraid you were going to break a leg or something.
You’re the original calamity howler, Bert!”
Bert smiled. “I suppose it’s because I want so hard to make good this
year, Chick,” he answered apologetically.
“You’re going to, old scout, so buck up. Not that you’ve any right to
expect it, either. Most fellows don’t get a position nailed down until
their senior year.”
“You did. And so did Lowe.”
“Exceptions proving the rule, Bert. As for Jonas, I’ll say he played in
a good deal of luck last fall. If Peabody hadn’t gone bad on account of
studies and getting all worked up over the way Mac and the rest of the
Faculty nagged him there for a while Jonas would still be a sub, I’ll
bet. Mind you, Bert, I’m not saying he isn’t a good player when he gets
started, but no one would have discovered it if Dick had held his job.
Why, up to the Lorimer game or after Jonas was kicking his heels on the
bench more times than he was playing!”
“Yes, I guess there was some luck in that,” acknowledged Bert. “But
Jonas certainly filled Peabody’s place mighty nicely after he got it.
Who’s going to make left end position this fall, Chick?”
“Left end? Why, I guess Joe Tate’s pretty certain of it. Just as
certain as I am of right end.” Chick’s laugh suggested that there
wasn’t much doubt in his mind about that!
“Kruger was awfully good Saturday for the little while he played,” said
Bert.
“Oh, Dutch is good, too. One of the best. But I guess Joe’s got it
cinched. Where you’re going to see some surprises, though, before
Johnny has knocked the outfit into shape is between Joe and center.
Meecham won’t last at guard and I wouldn’t give an awful lot for Andy
Dozier’s chance at tackle. Unless I miss my guess Nat Wick will have
Meecham out of there inside of a fortnight.”
“But Dozier’s a crackajack, Chick! Why, last year--”
“All right, but what happened in the Kenly game? They ripped him to
pieces in just about twenty minutes, didn’t they?”
“I heard he was sick. Some one said he was up in Patten’s room for an
hour that morning and Lum and two or three others were dosing him with
everything from hair oil to Seidlitz powders! I remember myself that he
looked like the dickens just before lunch.”
“Funk, probably. I’ve seen fellows worse than he was before a big game.
They get over it by the time to start. Gosh, I’ve been sort of teetery
myself!”
“You! Bet it was something you’d eaten then,” jeered Bert. “You’ve got
about as much--as much whatever it is as a goat!”
“Is that so? I’ll have you understand that I’m a man of very
delicate--er--susceptibilities. Highly strung, nervous, you know.
Temperamental! That’s the old word I wanted.”
“Put your coat on and let’s get over to supper,” said Bert. “You’re
saying things that don’t mean anything!”