EXPERT ADVICE
As a result of these and similar cogitations he went to supper in a
chastened frame of mind and refused to accept any of the clapping that
greeted his appearance in dining hall as a personal tribute. Then,
afterwards, emerging alone, he ran into Tommy Parish in the corridor
and Tommy nailed him. Tommy, although he had recently finished a hearty
supper, was munching salted peanuts without evident effort. He held out
the small packet to Bert, but the latter shook his head.
“Won’t let you?” asked Tommy.
“I guess so, but I’m full up.”
Tommy observed him with patent incredulity. “After that chow?” he asked
jeeringly. “Yes, you are! Better have some. They’re fresh.” Then, as
Bert again declined: “Say, you got your oar in at last, didn’t you?” he
asked.
“Got my oar in? What are you talking about, Tommy?”
“Why, this afternoon. Pshaw, I knew you’d show them how it’s done
if they’d let you. And you did, too, Bertie. Yeah, you pulled off
something rather neat. I’ve been watching you right along; ever since
last fall. Been expecting you’d bust in before this, but I guess you’ve
got some pretty fair guys to run against. Savell, for instance. He’s
good. I said he was first time I saw him play. Just like with you,
Bert. I generally manage to pick the winners!”
“Are you trying to tell me that I’m a winner?” laughed Bert. Tommy
emptied the remaining peanuts from the sack to his mouth and contented
himself with a nod. “You’re a humorist, Tommy. Going my way?”
Tommy nodded again and fell into step. “You’re right about Fitz Savell,
though,” said Bert warmly. “Fitz is a winner and no mistake. Wasn’t
that a corking run of his to-day? Gee, but that fellow can twist!”
“Sokayou,” said Tommy.
“Come again?”
Tommy swallowed convulsively and obliged. “So can you, I said. Listen.
Savell’s mighty good, Bert, but he isn’t a bit better than you are.
Only thing is, he’s getting a chance to show and you aren’t. Say, know
what I told the fellows at our table the other night? Well, I told them
that by the end of the season you’d be the guy who’d be doing most of
our scoring.”
“Me!” Bert looked searchingly at his companion’s countenance, but he
failed to detect sarcasm therein. Instead, Tommy appeared to be quite
serious, even earnest. “What did the other fellows do?” inquired Bert.
“Hoot?”
“Oh, they didn’t believe it,” replied Tommy easily. “But we should
worry, eh?”
Bert laughed, not amusedly but with slight irritation. “You may mean
well, Tommy,” he said, “but I rather wish you wouldn’t make crazy
remarks like that, if you don’t mind. It makes me look rather an ass,
you know.”
Tommy’s slightly protuberant eyes expressed perplexity. “How do you
mean, ass?” he inquired. “How do you mean, crazy remarks? How do you
mean--”
“I mean that fellows might think that I agreed with you, of course,”
answered Bert, grinning in spite of himself. “I don’t want to look like
a conceited fool, Tommy.”
“Mean you don’t agree with me? Mean you don’t know you’re a cracking
good player? Pouf, you’re stringing me! Why, I sized you up a long time
ago, Bert. ‘There,’ I said to myself, ‘is a lad that’s going to show
’em some football before very long!’ Yes, sir, I generally manage to
pick the winners. I don’t play the game myself; I tried it once but I
wasn’t built just according to specifications; but that doesn’t keep
me from seeing what’s going on and what’s coming off. I sized you up
for a clever running back the first time I saw you in action. That
was last fall when you were on the Scrub Team, Bert. Why, I haven’t
missed a practice session since I came here, hardly! Fellows say I’m
fresh and shoot off my mouth.” Tommy shrugged, looked regretfully at
the rumpled sack he still held and tossed it in the general direction
of the rubbish barrel at the corner of Upton. “Maybe I do, but some
one’s got to tell the truth! Take Johnny Cade now. He’s too easy. Say,
know something? Well, if I was coach of this team, or any other team,
for that matter, I’d see that fellows jumped when I spoke to ’em. Yes,
sir, when I said ‘Hep!’ they’d hep! Johnny’s too--too soft. Oh, I know
he can be rough if he wants to, but that isn’t the trick. Fellows are
naturally lazy, Bert. You’ve got to prod ’em all the time if you’re
going to get ’em to pull. Johnny doesn’t prod. He just says ‘Gee’ or
‘Haw’ and the whole crowd move about as fast as a yoke of oxes--oxen, I
mean. That’s where I come in and do my little stunt, see? When I catch
a fellow soldiering I get after him, you bet. They don’t like it, of
course. Let ’em not!” Tommy smiled comfortably. “It’s for their own
good. They offer to punch my nose and knock my block off and all that,
but I notice they don’t do it. They know mighty well that when I say
they’re rotten they are rotten!”
Bert paused on the steps of Upton and stared at Tommy with a new
interest. Tommy, feeling unsuccessfully about his pockets for further
provender, gazed complacently across the twilit campus. Yielding to an
impulse, Bert asked: “Doing anything, Tommy?”
“No, I guess not. I did think of going to the movie, but it’s one of
those vamp pictures, and they make me sick.”
“Come on up to the room then and tell me more about it,” invited the
other.
“About what? Got anything good up there?”
“Great Scott, you’re not still hungry!”
Tommy grinned. “Pouf, I’m never really hungry, I guess, but I can
generally eat.”
“You mean you do generally eat,” laughed Bert. “Maybe I can dig up
something to keep life in your poor thin body. Come on.”
“I haven’t been in here for a long time,” said Tommy as he selected the
easiest chair and relaxed with a sigh. “You and Chick still hit it off?
He’d get on my nerves mighty quick, I guess. He’s what I call a hard
frost.”
“Chick’s a fine chap when you know him,” said Bert. “He and I have been
friends a long time.”
“Meaning I’m to quit throwing off on him, eh? Oh, all right. He’s not
bad, even if he is trying to see how rotten he can play.”
“Rot,” replied Bert warmly. “Chick’s doing as well as any fellow on the
team, Tommy, and you know it.”
“You’re a liar,” responded Tommy sweetly, “and _you_ know it! Ever
since he got thrown down at the election last winter he’s been as sore
as a boil, and ever since he started to play football last month he’s
been just passing the time. I’m not the only one who knows it, either,
if you don’t--or pretend you don’t. Johnny’s got his number, believe
me! Some fine day Chick’s going to wake up and find himself on the
outside looking in!”
“Nonsense,” muttered Bert. But he was uneasily conscious that there
might be some truth in Tommy’s prediction. Chick had been rather poor
this fall, and it was scarcely possible that Coach Cade hadn’t noted
the fact. Bert tossed a half-emptied box of drug-store candy into
Tommy’s lap and, because the other had jarred him, said irritably: “Go
ahead and kill yourself, you silly pig!”
Tommy removed the lid and peered dubiously into the box. “Not much
chance of killing myself with what’s here,” he stated derisively. “Have
some?”
“No, thanks.” Bert sat down at the study table and thoughtfully rolled
a pencil between his palms. “Rather a thankless job, yours, Tommy. I
mean fellows don’t take kindly to your criticism, eh?”
Tommy shrugged, crossed his knees and regarded a chocolate
disapprovingly. Beyond a doubt it had been confined too long in that
box! “If you mean I’m not popular, you’re right. But popularity never
got any one anything much. Look at History. Men who really did things,
men who won success, were unpopular. Look at--at Cæsar, and Napoleon
and Lincoln and--”
“Your examples are not so good, Tommy,” Bert laughed. “The gentlemen
you refer to were rather unfortunate in the end, weren’t they?”
“What of it? They did big things while they were alive. If you’re one
of these popular, well-liked guys about all you get is a slap on the
back. When there’s a real plum to be handed out the popular guy takes
tickets at the door. Every one likes him fine, but when there’s a big
job to be done no one even sees him. The job goes to some rough-neck
who has so many enemies he has to carry a gun! No, sir, being liked is
a handicap, Bert. If you want to be something and get somewhere talk
rude, step on folks’ toes and get yourself hated. It’s the surest way.”
“Tommy, you certainly get hold of some funny notions,” said Bert, half
admiringly. “It must take a lot of your time to think them up.”
Tommy waved a hand carelessly. “I like to think,” he said. “Most
fellows don’t. When you call my ideas funny, though, you just mean that
they don’t happen to be yours. That’s typical of your class, Bert.
Anything strange--I mean unfamiliar--you call funny.”
“My class? Meaning the Junior?”
“No, class in society.” Tommy rejected an unpromising piece of candy
and searched farther. “Wealthy and conservative, you know. Hide-bound
New England. All that sort of thing.”
“I’m New England, if you like,” agreed Bert, amused, “but I’m not
exactly wealthy, and I do hope I’m not hide-bound. That doesn’t sound
comfortable. Aren’t you New England yourself, you crazy coot?”
“No. I live there, but that’s all. We’re from Western New York
originally. My father’s folks were Welsh and my mother’s Irish.”
“I might have known there was Irish in you,” said Bert. “That’s how you
come to like a scrap so well, Tommy.”
“I don’t like scraps. You never saw me pick a quarrel yet. No one ever
did. Sometimes fellows resent what I say to ’em, but that’s their
fault.”
“You came pretty close to having a scrap on your hands the other night
over in Coles Wistar’s room,” Bert reminded him dryly.
“What of it? I didn’t start it. Chick called me a fat loafer, didn’t
he? Then I said he was playing a rotten game of football, which was the
gospel truth, and he got on his ear! He’s short-tempered, that guy.”
On the heels of that assertion Chick hurried into the room, looked
surprised to see who the visitor was and said, “Hello, Tommy,” not
very enthusiastically before turning to Bert. “Coming along?” he asked.
“Mooney’s? I think not, Chick.”
“Thought you said you would. You can change your mind quicker than any
fellow I ever saw! Where’d you get to after supper? I wanted you to go
over to Jim Galvin’s. Well, if you won’t come, all right. I’ve got to
hurry.”
“Hope you have luck,” said Bert as Chick found a cap and stuck it on
the back of his head.
“Well, it’s about time I did,” rejoined Chick as he opened the door.
“See you later, old scout.”
“Mooney?” asked Tommy, when Chick had departed. “Who’s he?”
“Oh, just a fellow who lives in town. Chick goes to see him now and
then.”
Tommy accepted the explanation, but a close observer would have
suspected that it didn’t altogether satisfy him. He laid the now empty
box on the window-seat with a sigh of mingled regret and repletion,
stretched his rather pudgy legs out and then startledly clapped a hand
to the back of his neck. He wiggled his head sidewise several times,
and then up and down, while Bert gazed at him in puzzlement. Finally
he sighed again, this time with pure concern, and murmured: “Darn the
luck! Another Job!”
“Another what?” asked Bert.
“Job. That’s what I call them,” explained Tommy, evidently very low in
his mind. “Job had ’em, you know.”
“Had what?” Bert was still in the dark.
“Gee, don’t you read your Bible?” asked Tommy irritably. “Boils, of
course! I’m always having ’em. Makes me sick. I’ll bet it’s the water
here.”
“You don’t suppose eating so much has anything to do with it?” Bert
inquired innocently. “Candy and peanuts and that sort of stuff?”
Tommy shook his head cautiously, once more extending an exploring hand
to the back of his neck. “I don’t believe so,” he replied soberly. “I
tried dieting once. Didn’t eat any candy for a whole month. But it
didn’t make any difference. I had Jobs just the same. I guess it’s the
water, maybe, or something. Guess I’d better go up and put stuff on it.”
“Too bad,” said Bert as sympathetically as he could manage. “I hope you
won’t get it.”
“Oh, I’ll get it,” answered the other resignedly. “I always do.” Then,
more cheerfully, he added: “Anyway, I won’t have Gym class for a while!”
At the door Bert stopped him. “By the way, Tommy, I wish you’d tell me
something.” Tommy paused, turned and, holding a hand to the incipient
boil, looked inquiring. “What you said about my playing,” went on Bert
with some embarrassment. “You didn’t really mean it, eh?”
“What do you care if I did or didn’t?” asked Tommy, suddenly a
pessimist. “You’re like all the others. Think I don’t know anything
about football just because I don’t play it.”
“No, honestly, Tommy, I don’t think that. Fact is, I believe you know a
lot about it. That’s why I’d like to know whether you really think I’ll
make a player. You see, I’ve tried pretty hard, but I don’t seem to do
as well as most of the others.”
“Huh,” said Tommy, evidently mollified, “you’re a player right now.
Say, want to know how to break into fast company right away? All right,
I’ll tell you.” Tommy lowered his voice, glancing left and right along
an empty corridor, and became gravely confidential. “Don’t put your
head down, Bert. Keep it up and use your eyes. Look for the opening.
Sometimes it isn’t where it ought to be, you know. All right. If you
look sharp you can find it. If you put your head down and just follow
the interference blind you run into a snag half the time. Get the idea?
Look where you’re going! _Employer la oeil, mon ami! Aussi, chercher la
trou!_ Thanks for the feed. Night!”
When Tommy had gone toward the stairs with a rather dejected amble,
Bert closed the door, sat down and considered the advice. Of course
Tommy was a good deal of a nut, but he evidently did use his bean,
Bert reflected, and he did seem to know something about the art of
football playing. Bert tried to remember whether he did or didn’t put
his head down when he took the ball. He couldn’t decide until he got
to his feet, stooped, with the knuckles of one hand on the carpet,
listened to an imaginary signal and jumped forward, his hands wide for
a mythical ball. When his hands were clasped against his stomach he
stopped abruptly in his journey of the room, for he had discovered what
he sought. The instant he had clasped the imagined ball to him he had
dropped his head!
He went back to his chair and considered again. What he had just done
he doubtless always did. In which case Tommy’s advice deserved respect.
Hitting the line with the head down might be an excellent plan under
some conditions, and Bert recalled that he had seen it done time and
again, but when you were crossing over or running wide it plainly
wasn’t the wise proceeding. He guessed that “Head up!” was right.
To-day, for instance, he had gone through without difficulty because
the hole was awaiting him, a fine wide opening made by four of his
team-mates and neatly cleaned out by Fitz Savell, but suppose the hole
hadn’t been so wide, or hadn’t been there at all. In that case he would
have smashed up against Fitz or an enemy forward and there’d have
been no gain, because there wasn’t any doubt in his mind that he had
run blindly, his head lowered and his eyes on the ground. Well, that
wouldn’t do. He would practice keeping the old bean up and look where
he was going. Of course, once free of the line he had probably been in
the habit of raising his head and using his eyes, but going through it
he had fallen into the way of the plunging backs who, with ball hugged
to stomach and body bent sharply over it, shot themselves forward like
human battering-rams. Funny, he thought, that no one had noted that and
corrected him before. Funny that it should have been first pointed out
to him by a chap who didn’t play and was popularly considered a joke!
A few minutes later Bert took himself off to a room down the corridor
and played two games of chess at which he was badly beaten because he
kept thinking about football and Tommy Parish’s prediction most of the
time. At ten o’clock he was in bed, if not asleep. Even if you couldn’t
slumber you could obey the rules. Chick was still out when the hour
struck. In fact, it was nearly a quarter past when he stole in. Bert
gave him a drowsy greeting and got a grunt in reply. Plainly the luck
had not gone Chick’s way to-night and he was rather out of temper. He
made a good deal of unnecessary noise during the process of preparing
for bed, with the result that eventually Bert became fully awake.
“You’re a noisy brute, Chick,” he yawned.
For reply Chick slammed a drawer emphatically. But presently, having
put out the light and found his bed, speech came to him. “Well, why
don’t you ask me if I won?” he demanded.
“I will. Did you?”
“Oh, sure! One game out of three! Talk about luck! Say, that fellow
couldn’t miss to-night if he tried!”
“Sometimes, I think, he does try,” murmured Bert.
“What?” Then, as Bert didn’t repeat the observation, he continued
disgustedly: “I had him thirty-one to six on the last game and he went
out without a break! The balls just rolled everywhere he wanted them
to, the lucky stiff! Gee, it would make you sick!”
“Did you bet with him?”
“Naturally. And lost, too.”
“How much?”
“Plenty,” answered Chick briefly. “But I’ll get it back, don’t you
worry. He’s had luck for a week now, but it can’t keep up all the time,
and I’ll sure make a killing soon. He certainly got my goat to-night,
though!”
“Tough luck,” murmured Bert. “Well, good night.”
“Not so blamed good,” Chick growled.