THE MANAGER GIVES A PARTY
Coles Wistar’s room in Lykes, which he shared with Ted Ball, First Team
quarter-back, looked full to capacity when Chick and Bert arrived there
that Monday evening. Once inside, however, accommodations of a sort
could be discerned, and Chick crowded onto a bed and Bert squeezed in
between Anstruther and Tommy Parish on the window-seat. Coles Wistar
was Football Manager, and it was largely a football crowd which was
present. There were George Anstruther, familiarly “Judge,” and Billy
Pillsbury, assistant managers, Ted Ball, Hank Howard, Pete Ness, Jim
Galvin and Nip Storer, all of the Team. Tommy Parish was present
because Pill had brought him and no one had yet thrown him out. Homer
Johnson, who roomed with Captain Lowe, had brought Jonas’s regrets and
remained to partake of hospitality. These, with the host, Chick and
Bert, formed the party, a round dozen in all.
Lykes Hall, reserved for the Senior Class Students, held fewer rooms
than the other dormitories, but, fortunately for Coles’ party, they
were larger than the rooms in Haylow or Upton or Borden, the latter
the Freshman domicile. Number 5 was well-furnished and attractive, for
Coles had excellent taste in such matters. There was a refreshing lack
of school and college pennants on the walls, this style of decoration
being represented by a single Alton banner hung above the double
windows. There were a good many pictures, most of them etchings, of
which Coles was a modest collector, a few framed photographs and one
lone trophy on the walls. The latter, placed above a closet door, was
a wooden panel some three feet long with a black, sanded background
against which gilt letters startlingly announced “EASTBOUND TRAINS.” It
was a memento of Ted Ball’s unregenerate freshman days, and although it
had always grated against Coles’ artistic sensibilities he had never
been able to persuade Ted to remove it. Ted acknowledged that it might
be a jarring note in the decorative scheme, but he had annexed that
trophy under extremely difficult circumstances, braving arrest and,
possibly, penal servitude, and, although nowadays self-condemnatory in
his explanation of its presence here, he was secretly very proud of
it. Ted was a rather stocky, bright-eyed chap of eighteen, fun-loving
and extremely popular at Alton. He was equally brilliant at studies
and as a quarter-back, a shining example to his team-mates which,
unfortunately, not many emulated.
The particular host of the evening, Coles Wistar, was unlike his
room-mate in many ways. Coles was tall, with a thin face and lightish
hair, wore glasses and looked intellectual. He had spent a year at a
junior preparatory school near Boston before coming to Alton and had
managed to acquire the broad A and a Bostonese accent. You could always
make a hit with Coles by inferring that he came from the Hub, although
as matter of fact, he lived in a small village in New Hampshire. In
spite of one or two trifling affectations he was no fool and was an
unusually capable manager. Conversation, interrupted by the arrival of
Chick and Bert, gathered momentum again. Tommy Parish, it appeared,
had, in the terse phraseology of Hank Howard, been “shooting off his
mouth again.”
“Says the Team’s the rottenest he’s seen since he came here,” explained
Hank to Chick. “The silly ass doesn’t know a thing about football,
anyway, but you’d think, to hear him go on--”
“Pshaw,” began Chick, “why pay attention to that coot? He just likes
to hear himself--” But Tommy, even in the midst of Coles’ scathing
rejoinder, overheard and challenged Hank’s assertion.
“All wrong, Howard. I know a heap more about football than most of you
guys who play it, or try to. Why wouldn’t I? All you fellows learn
is how to look after your own positions. You’re on the inside looking
cross-eyes at your own jobs. I’m on the outside looking in at the whole
works. Now let me--”
“Muzzle him, somebody,” said Nip Storer.
“Tie a can to him,” advised Jim Galvin.
“Let the silly ass talk,” laughed Ted Ball. “Go on and tell ’em, Tommy.”
“Sure.” Tommy looked entirely composed, quite unaffected by hostility.
Any one well acquainted with him--Pill, for instance--would have known
that he was having a thoroughly good time. “Sure I’ll tell them. Howard
says I don’t know anything about football. All right. I say I know more
about it than he does.”
“Quit your kidding,” growled Hank.
“He may know more or less about playing tackle, but I’ll bet he can’t
answer three questions I can put to him.”
“What sort of questions?” demanded Hank suspiciously.
“Questions on football. Questions covered by the rules which you’re all
supposed to know from A to Z, whether you’re a tackle or an end or a
back.”
“Heck, I don’t pretend to have all the rules at my finger ends,”
protested Hank. “There are too many of them!”
“Shoot ’em, Tommy,” said Jim Galvin. “Go on, kid.”
“All right, but these are for Howard, mind. The rest of you keep out.
First, your side kicks, Howard. You are on-side. The opponent prepares
for a fair catch. You are nearer the ball than he is. What would happen
if you made the catch?”
“I’d get socked ten or fifteen yards, of course,” answered Hank, “for
interfering with a free catch.” He spoke doubtfully, though, suspecting
a snag.
“Hold on,” exclaimed Nip eagerly. “You said he was on-side!”
“Keep out, you!” Tommy warned. There were chuckles from some of the
others and Hank looked harassed.
“How could I be on-side, I’d like to know? Even if I was--”
“Second question,” interrupted Tommy. “Your side has the ball ten yards
from the opponent’s goal line and on the fourth down makes a forward
pass over the line. You receive the pass. You stand with one foot on
the end line, but the ball reaches you a yard inside the zone and you
complete the pass. What about it?”
Hank looked about for aid, but met only grinning countenances. “The
ball came down _inside_ the zone?” he asked cautiously.
“A yard inside. You have to reach well out for it.”
“If I catch it it’s all right,” said Hank. “You said I had my foot _on_
the end line, not _over_ it. Anyway, if the ball was inside--”
Ted’s chuckle unsettled him, and he scowled his annoyance. “Hang it, I
didn’t say I could answer all the catch questions you could think of!
Just the same, I’ll bet I’m right about that. Ain’t I, Ted?”
“Third question,” said Tommy inexorably.
“Oh, shut up! Answer your own fool questions!”
“Behave, Hank!” admonished Coles. “Put the question, Tommy.”
“You’re captain of your team, Howard, and the other side has the ball
between your fifteen and sixteen yards. One of your side is caught
holding and the umpire penalizes you fifteen yards. What would you do?”
“What down was it?” asked Hank, mazed. “I mean, who had the ball?”
“The opponent, on your fifteen and a half. One of your gang is caught
holding in the line and the ump socks you the penalty and puts the ball
forward fifteen yards from where it was put in play. You’re captain of
your team. Get it?”
“Sure, but what can I do? The ball still belongs to the other fellow,
doesn’t it?”
Several of the listeners were exchanging puzzled glances, while Hank’s
forehead was a network of wrinkles. Of the dozen there only Tommy and
Bert appeared serene, Tommy owlishly regarding his victim, Bert leaning
back against the window-sill wearing a faintly amused expression. “That
your answer?” inquired Tommy.
“Gosh, I don’t understand what you’re getting at,” fumed Hank. “If my
side had the ball, all right, but you say it hasn’t. What would you
expect me to do, anyhow? Sass the umpire?”
“Look here, Tommy,” broke in Jim Galvin, “I don’t get that any more
than Hank does. What’s the answer?”
“I’ll tell you in a sec. First, how many of the questions did Howard
answer correctly?”
“None, so far,” said Jim. “He doesn’t seem to have answered the last
one at all yet.”
“Wait a minute!” Hank protested. “What was wrong with the first answer?
He asked--”
“You could have caught the ball yourself, Hank, if you were on-side,”
said Ted. “Shut up a second. What’s the catch in the last one, Tommy?”
“Why,” Tommy replied sweetly, “if I’d been captain instead of Hank I’d
have protested the placing of the ball half a yard from the goal line!”
“Gee, that’s right!” exclaimed Chick. “It ought to have gone to the
one-yard line! Isn’t that right, Tommy?”
“Right as rain, old dear.”
“Oh, thunder,” growled Hank disgustedly, “no one’s expected to know all
the kinks! And, look here, you fellows, what was wrong with that one
about the forward-pass into the end zone? I was inside and the ball was
inside and I made the catch. I’ll bet I answered that one right!”
“No, you didn’t, Hank,” laughed Ted. “Tommy said you had one foot on
the line. Rules say you mustn’t do it, see? On or over, either one,
queers you, Hank.”
“That’s crazy! I’ll bet the rest of you didn’t know it, either! Gee,
I’d like to ask you guys a few!”
“Go ahead,” advised Pill. “Show ’em up, Hank.”
Hank looked grim for a moment, and it was plainly to be seen that he
was doing some hard thinking. Then, as expectant silence prolonged
itself, a slow grin overspread his face and he shook his head. “No
use,” he said, chuckling. “I can’t think of any!”
“Well, it looks to me as though Tommy had won his point,” said
Anstruther. “So it behooves us to listen respectfully to his pleasant
criticisms of the Team. Go ahead, Tommy, and say your piece.”
Tommy shrugged. “I’ve said it. I said this year’s team was the punkest
I’ve seen here, and I say it again.”
“Well, you’ve seen quite a few,” remarked Chick, with a wink at Bert.
“How many years have you been here now, anyway, Tommy? This your fourth
or fifth?”
“Third,” replied Tommy untroubledly amidst the laughter. “I saw last
year’s team and the team before that, and I’m seeing this thing you’ve
got here now, and I say it ain’t so good, fellows. Mind you, I’m saying
this for your benefit, not because I want to crab.”
“Oh, no, you never crab, Tommy!” said Pill.
“What,” asked Coles in a patient voice, “strikes you as being the
principal--ah--weakness?”
“The players,” replied Tommy promptly, and allowed himself a wicked
grin.
A howl of derision went up. Then Coles inquired with a pretense of vast
respect: “Are they all rotten, Tommy?”
“Oh, no, there are three or four that look pretty good.”
“Thank Heaven!” cried Ted. “We’ve got something to build on!”
Chick, however, demanded scoffingly: “Say, for the love of Pete, who
gave you any license to set yourself up as a critic, Tommy? You’re
nothing but a fat loafer, and you know it. Cramming the football rules
doesn’t make you a judge of the game, youngster.”
Perhaps it was the reference to a tendency toward obesity that got
under Tommy’s skin. In any case, his cheerful calm vanished and he
answered warmly: “If I’m fat, Burton, it’s not in my head! And it
doesn’t take a critic to see what a rotten game you’re playing, either!”
“Lay off that stuff, Tommy!” ordered Coles severely.
“So I’m fat-headed am I?” demanded Chick, reddening. “Say, you blamed
little fat rotter--” He thrust himself off the bed and took a step
toward the window-seat, but Ted interposed.
“Calm yourself, Chick. Tommy doesn’t count. Besides, he didn’t mean
what he said, did you, you crazy ape?”
“Sure, I did,” responded Tommy, once more master of his emotions. “He
_has_ got a swelled head and he _is_ playing rotten.”
“If you can’t act like a gentleman--” began Coles angrily.
“Oh, put him out,” called Nip Storer.
Chick, held in subjection by Ted’s capable hand--it’s difficult to
get to your feet when some one is pushing against your chest--glared
wrathfully at Tommy. Tommy returned his gaze without a qualm. After
all, reflected Bert, beside him, he didn’t lack courage!
“I really think you’d better beat it, Tommy,” advised Ted coldly. “You
are a pesky nuisance, anyway, and I don’t know who let you in.”
“Then he goes, too,” said Tommy, nodding at the irate Chick. “He hadn’t
any call to say I was fat!”
“So you are,” declared Chick hotly. “You’re a fat fool!”
“Move both members be allowed to withdraw,” said Jim Galvin, grinning
enjoyably.
“Seconded,” said Anstruther. “The secretary is directed to expunge the
remarks of both gentlemen--I mean rough-necks--from the records.”
“Forget it, you two,” advised Ted. “Mutual apologies are in order. How
about it, Tommy? If you want to stay, son, you’d better behave.”
“Do we get the apples?” asked Tommy soberly.
“Sure,” Ted answered amidst laughter.
“I apologize,” said Tommy. “Just the same--” But Bert’s elbow colliding
with his ribs interrupted his qualifying addenda.
“All right,” agreed Chick, restored to better humor. “He isn’t fat.
He’s merely plump.”
Tommy looked doubtful for a moment, but Coles pulled a box of apples
from under a bed and the doubt vanished. During the subsequent
half-hour Tommy was much too busy to indulge in what he termed
constructive criticism. No one counted the number of Northern Spies he
demolished, but it was considerable. Conversation proceeded briskly
but somewhat unintelligibly. In the middle of the feast “Dutch” Kruger
arrived, bearing a fat black case, and was hailed tumultuously. He
devoured two apples hastily, urged on by impatient watchers, and would
have started a third. But Jim Galvin deftly took the apple away from
him and substituted the black case. Dutch’s protests were drowned.
Good-naturedly he produced a shining saxophone.
“‘Football Blues,’ Dutch!”
“Aye! Attaboy, Dutch! I want to sing!”
“What time is it?” asked Dutch anxiously.
“Only nine. Lots of time, boy. Give us ‘The Football Blues.’”
Dutch grinned, nestled the mouthpiece against his lips and blew. At the
same time he began to pat the floor with his feet and sway from his
hips. The saxophone nodded and curveted. Most of the assemblage broke
into song, tapping the floor, too, swaying as Dutch swayed. Tommy, a
large red apple in one hand, his eyes staring fixedly, hypnotically at
the musician, heaved his plump shoulders ludicrously. From across the
hall came an agonized wail of “_Cut that out!_” which, however, failed
to make itself heard in Number 5. Up and down the corridor doors were
set open and in more than one room a toiler at his books gave over
toiling for the while and pursed his lips.
[Illustration: From across the hall came an agonized wail of “Cut that
out!”]
The thing was a composition of Dutch’s own, words and music, and if
the rimes wouldn’t always bear inspection the tune was enough to make
you lenient. “The Football Blues” had made Dutch famous throughout
the school and he was much in demand. There were many verses, which
recounted the experiences of an ambitious youth essaying to play
football, but it was the chorus that made the hit. The saxophone wailed
and sobbed and yowled, Dutch’s eyes roamed from floor to ceiling,
ecstatically bright, and the crowd roared lustily from bodies that
swayed and shook.
“They rolled me round in the mud and rain.
When I riz to my feet and yelled with pain
A big guy knocked me flat again!
They kicked my face and punched my nose,
They gouged my eyes and wrenched my toes
And from my back tore all my clothes!
The doctor came and said to me;
‘You’re as fine a wreck as ever I see!’
They bore me off on a window blind,
But they left a leg and an arm behind.
I wrote to the coach from the hospital:
‘I’m going to live, but I’m far from well.
If I don’t report, sir, please excuse,
For I’ve got the Football Black-and-Blues,
The Blues, the Blues, the Black-and-Blues,
I’ve got the Football Black-and-Blues!’”
They had to have all the verses, which were numerous, and after they
were exhausted Dutch played other melodies and the concert continued
until Coles warned that it was nine-thirty and, grabbing another apple
or two, the guests went off. On the way to Upton, Chick, recalling his
grievance, observed disgustedly: “I don’t see why Coles had to have
that pesky nuisance there. He’s the freshest kid in school. Gosh, some
one ought to turn him over and give him a good whaling!”
“Tommy Parish? Yes, he is trying. He seems to love to start an argument
and get every one peeved. Funny chap.”
“Funny? He’s crazy! The next time he gets fresh with me I’ll slap his
pudgy face, no matter where it is.”
“Well, I guess you’d always find it in about the same place,” said
Bert.