SUBS VS. SCRUB
With the beginning of the fourth week of the season, the football
situation at Alton Academy had become fairly well straightened out. The
squad was down to thirty-four, about as low as it was likely to go, the
Second Team had hit its stride and was providing tough opposition four
or five times a week, and, with the approach of the first important
contest, that with Lorimer Academy next Saturday, the preliminary
season was coming to an end in a fairly normal manner. The victory
over New Falmouth, while of no great consequence, had shown coach
and players and School that the Team possessed latent possibilities,
something which the School, at least had begun to doubt. One win out
of three starts was a record that was scarcely impressive. However,
if Alton was having her difficulties, so, too, was her rival, Kenly
Hall. Kenly had won her first game handsomely enough, had lost her
second without apparent rime or reason and had been able to do no
better on Saturday last than play Oak Grove to a scoreless tie. Since
Oak Grove was normally a small-caliber team, Kenly’s last performance
had brought encouragement to Alton. Kenly almost always turned out a
scoring eleven, and her inability to put anything over on Oak Grove
suggested that this fall, for once, she was minus heavy artillery.
On Monday the substitutes held the center of the stage at Alton,
since those who had played for any length of time on Saturday were
excused after signal work. The Second came across, rearing to go, and
engaged an adversary largely composed of second-choice substitutes.
Bert, somewhat to his surprise, was allowed to start at right half.
Lovell was at quarter for a while, and Tyron and Couch completed the
backfield. The scrimmage went slowly, for Mr. Cade was trying out two
new plays--new, at least, to the team--and the play was frequently
stopped for criticism or instruction. Mr. McFadden’s charges were an
eager, hard-fighting lot, and in the first ten minutes neither side
scored. Field-goals were barred to-day, except for which both First and
Scrub might have had three points. Bert tried his best to act on Tommy
Parish’s suggestion and keep his head up when he went at the line.
Sometimes he did it, but habit was strong and more times he failed.
Still, he comported himself fairly well, and when he was relegated to
the bench at the end of the first half was able to assure himself that
he had done as well as Tyron.
In the second half of the scrimmage Parkhurst started in Bert’s
position, but he was so weak on defense that he lasted but a few
minutes and gave way to Keys. The Second got under way when the
ball was fumbled by Riding, who had succeeded Lovell toward the end
of the first session, and picked up by a Scrub end. From their own
forty-two yards Mr. McFadden’s pets smashed along to the First’s
thirty-one, using a wide sweep that worked with all the efficiency of a
steam-roller. Shelfer, playing right end, was of so little use when the
play came on his side that Mr. Cade sent him off and looked about for a
substitute. Ends, however, were scarce this afternoon, and finally Fitz
Savell was tried. Fitz might have claimed immunity, since he had worked
rather hard Saturday, but that was far from his thoughts. At end, a
position he had played awhile a year back, Fitz fitted excellently,
so well that runs around the First Team’s right ceased after the next
attempt. Too close to the side-line to try a play around the other
end, Scrub piled into right guard for no gain and then shot off a
neat forward-pass to the left that was caught close to the boundary
and advanced for a total gain of seventeen yards. From the First’s
twelve yards the Second went over for a touchdown in three plays, the
final one being an unexpected plunge through a loose center by quarter
after a seeming attack on tackle had fooled the defenders. Couch was
slightly hurt in that play and Franklin took his place at full-back.
No goal was tried and the First kicked off again and the Scrub left
half was downed without a gain by Fitz Savell. One plunge netted two
yards and Scrub punted. Keys caught on his forty-three and the First
started to hammer the right of the adversary’s line and made good going
to the opposite forty. There, two smashes were stopped and Keys made
an ineffectual attempt to take a long heave from Franklin. Time was
taken out for the Scrubs and Coach Cade seized the opportunity to make
several changes. Two new linemen were brought in and Keys was sent off
to the showers. Coach Cade’s demand for another half-back brought Jake,
the trainer, to his feet.
“Half-back! Come on, one o’ you! All right, What’s-your-name!”
But “What’s-your-name” didn’t get well onto the field before he was
turned back. “This man doesn’t know these plays, Jake,” called the
coach. “Who else is there?”
“Not a one, Coach. They’ve all been worked.”
“Well, send some one. Hollins, you come.”
So Bert went back, even more surprised than before, and Mr. Cade said:
“Take it here, Hollins. Let’s see what you can do. We ought to get a
score this time.”
It was fourth down and Don Riding called for kick formation with
Franklin back. Bert took his place behind right tackle, the signals
started and the ball shot back. Franklin, however, had had woefully
little practice at taking the pass from center and he made a poor job
of it. The cry of “_Ball! Ball!_” arose piercingly as the lines swayed.
Bert jumped to the right to head off an opponent who was leaking
through, and just at that moment something bounded against his leg.
He threw himself outside and let the adversary stumble past him. Then
he was running toward the trickling ball, one of several in pursuit.
A lucky, half-hearted leap on the part of the pigskin coincided with
Bert’s swoop, and he straightened up, tucking the ball tightly to him,
and started ahead. A falling player sent him staggering to the right,
but he recovered and headed in. It looked like a forlorn hope, for the
enemy seemed closing in on him. Then, however, Tolman shot past him
and went crashing into the nearest of the foe and Bert sped around the
falling forms and found his pace.
It wasn’t difficult after that. Only one tackler threatened and a
straight-arm sent him spinning aside. Bert had picked up the ball near
the Scrub’s forty-yard line and by the time he was racing over the
twenty he was a good two yards in advance of the nearest foe. The Scrub
safety man had run in at the warning of the fumble and he was a poor
third when the goal-line was reached. Bert crossed it winded but serene
and yielded gracefully to the vindictive tackle of the first pursuer.
Mr. Cade, trotting slowly up, said: “Good work, Hollins! Nice dodging.
Never mind the try-for-point, fellows! First kicks off!”
Returning somewhat breathlessly up the field, Bert puzzled over the
coach’s reference to dodging. Bert couldn’t remember having dodged
once! However, he had won praise from Mr. Cade, and that was certainly
good luck! For that matter, the whole proceeding, he reflected, had
been a matter of luck! He guessed the touchdown wouldn’t raise his
stock much.
Yet, on Tuesday, the indications were that it had, and that he had
slipped overnight a little farther up the list. He knew this by two
tokens. One was the speculative look he surprised on Larry Keys’
countenance. The other was the fact that when Larry, who had succeeded
Pete Ness at right half, went out in the second session of the
scrimmage game Jake’s summons was: “Hollins! Go in at left half, boy!”
He played some six minutes that day, remembering better now to keep his
head up and look for the opening. Once that proceeding served him well,
for on an off-tackle play something went wrong and his own full-back
and the opposing end were blocking the hole. Seeing it in time, he
sped on out, closely pursued by the Scrub left end, side-stepped an
enemy back and went around for seven yards. Then he stood and listened
while Coach Cade made a few critical remarks to Oscar Couch. The
First took revenge to-day for yesterday’s 6 to 6 tie, piling up three
touchdowns on the enemy. One of these was put across while Bert was in,
and, although it was Couch who took the ball over, Bert had a fine part
in the conquest of those last eight yards and felt as triumphant as any
one when, the heap of bodies having been disentangled, the pigskin was
found to be well across the mark.
That afternoon Fitz Savell had another try at end, left this time, and
Joe Tate looked extremely worried during the experiment. There was no
doubt that Savell had the making of a brilliant end-rush, although
since that position seemed well supplied with talent there was no
apparent reason for sacrificing a good backfield man. Finally Tate was
restored to his place and Fitz was later seen at left half once more.
Returning to Upton from the gymnasium after practice, Chick voiced
uneasiness to Bert. “Wonder what Johnny’s idea is in letting Fitz play
end. The man’s a half-back and a mighty good one, and it would be a
queer piece of business to try to make an end of him in the middle of
the season. Anyway, we’ve got four good ends right now.”
“Who’s the fourth?” asked Bert. “Tate and Shelfer and Kruger, sure,
but who’s the other?”
Chick grinned. “Your Uncle Dudley, son. Of course I oughtn’t to call
myself good, but you’ll excuse it.”
“Yes,” answered Bert, suddenly serious, “you are good, Chick, when you
want to be, but it seems to me that you haven’t been up to your real
form this fall. Not always, I mean.”
Chick looked affronted for a moment. Then he laughed. “What’s the idea,
Bert?” he asked. “Think I’m getting a swelled head, or what?”
“No, but I mean it, Chick. I supposed you knew it, too, or I wouldn’t
have mentioned it.”
“Oh, come,” protested Chick, “don’t lay it on! I don’t say I’ve always
played at top-notch. No fellow can, I guess. But I’ve kept my end up as
well as any of them, haven’t I?”
“Perhaps,” said Bert. “I may be wrong, of course. Only it has seemed to
me that you--well, that you don’t try as hard as you did, Chick; don’t
take as much interest in the game. Perhaps I imagine it. Anyway, you
mustn’t get sore because I spoke about it.”
“Sore! Of course not.” But he did sound a trifle irritated. “I thought
I’d been playing a pretty good article of football, old scout, and your
information is rather jarring. Any one tell you this, or did you just
discover it for yourself?” Chick’s eyes narrowed suspiciously.
“My own idea entirely,” replied Bert lightly. “I dare say I’m not a
competent judge of how end position should be played. Of course, Chick,
I want to see you playing way ahead of every one and so I’m probably
over-critical. You know how you’re playing better than I do.”
“I’d ought to,” agreed Chick. Then, when they were in the room, he
reverted to the subject. “Funny idea of yours,” he mused. “Thinking I’m
off my game, I mean.” He laughed uneasily. “Hope Johnny doesn’t catch
it! Fact is, Bert, I haven’t been feeling quite as peppy as I ought to
so far this fall. Maybe it sort of shows in my playing, eh? I don’t
believe it, though. I’ll bet I’ve played just as good a game as Joe
Tate right along. Don’t you think I have?”
“Why, I don’t know, Chick. I’ve said I’m no judge of how end ought to
be played. Last year, if you’ll remember, you played a better game than
Joe, a whole lot better.”
“That means you don’t think I have, eh? I don’t see how you figure it.
Take last Saturday, for instance--”
“I won’t do it,” laughed Bert. “If you say you’re playing up to top
form that’s all there is to it, Charles.”
“Top form? Of course I’m not. No fellow reaches top form as early in
the season as this. All I do say is that I’m doing just as well as Joe
or any other end! And if Johnny thinks he can scare me by bluffing with
Fitz Savell he’s wrong!”
“I don’t think he had anything like that in mind,” said Bert. “Fitz is
too good a back to turn into an end. Tell you what, Chick. Cut out the
pool for the rest of this week, get to bed on time and then see if you
don’t feel a lot zippier!”
“Oh, piffle! How is playing a little pool going to affect my football?
Don’t be an ass, Bert! Anyway, I’ve got a date with Les Devore for
to-morrow night. Maybe I’ll quit for a while after that. Got to recoup
my losses first, though! That guy has certainly been putting the
harpoon into me lately!”
“Did you lose again last night?” asked Bert.
“Well, I didn’t exactly win. That fellow’s middle name is Lucky, Bert!”
“I guess it must be. Pretty good reason for letting him alone for a
while, isn’t it? I mean a fellow can buck against a better game, Chick,
but a run of luck is something else.”
“I guess that’s so,” agreed Chick thoughtfully. “When we started
playing I could beat him two times out of three, but now, with
everything breaking his way, I’m doing well if I get one game in four.
But, heck, his luck can’t last! And when it stops, believe me, Bert,
I’m going to lay him out stiff!”
“I’d lay off awhile and give the luck a chance to catch up,” said Bert
lightly.
“Yes, maybe I’d better,” muttered Chick. “After to-morrow.”
What happened at Mooney’s Wednesday night Bert didn’t learn. He was
asleep when Chick returned, and since the latter made no mention of
the previous evening’s events when morning came Bert didn’t inquire.
Chick seemed in good spirits, whistling while he dressed, but Bert more
than half suspected that much of the gayety was assumed. As a matter
of fact, Chick was not the sort to arise from bed blithe and singing.
It usually took him ten minutes to get his eyes thoroughly open, and
during that period he was more the bear with the sore head than the
nightingale! So if Chick whistled with intent to deceive he selected
the wrong method.
Bert was rather too taken up with his own affairs for the rest of that
week to pay very much attention to Chick’s, nevertheless he did make
note of the fact that neither on Thursday nor Friday evenings did Chick
resort to Mooney’s. Evidently then Chick had decided to act on Bert’s
suggestion and allow Mr. Lester Devore’s phenomenal luck at pool to
become exhausted. Perhaps, too, although he had not accepted Bert’s
hint with much enthusiasm, Chick thought it wise to take no chances.
Certain it was that he got to bed both nights by ten o’clock, or
almost, and that his performances on the gridiron seemed animated by
more vim.
Meanwhile Bert discovered that from an unimportant third substitute
he had advanced in the period of a few days to the rôle of a player
of consequence. Perhaps the degree of consequence wasn’t great, but
certain it was that he never failed to get into the scrimmage line-up
and that Coach Cade, suddenly and rather disconcertingly aware of
his existence, gave him a good deal of attention. The attention was
sometimes embarrassing, as when on Wednesday afternoon Bert balled
a play all up and found himself on his back with two of the enemy
kneeling on his diaphragm and the pigskin, tightly clasped, some six
yards back of the point it had started from. Bert had heard of coaches
who became tempestuous and profane under less provocation, but Mr. Cade
was not one of them. Mr. Cade might raise his voice a note or two,
but he never lost control of it--or of himself. He didn’t even call
names; that is, not hard names. He might refer in a gentlemanly manner
to a fellow’s apparent lack of mentality and address him as a “poor
goat,” or he might, in cases where a lineman failed to show sufficient
aggression, use the allowable term “loafer.” But such appellations
left no smart. However, it is not to be assumed from this that Mr.
Cade was tongue-tied. Not a bit of it. He had a surprising command
of the English language and a remarkable fluency in the use of it. He
also displayed a positive genius in the correct choice of words. If
one could only remain sufficiently detached, as it were, during one of
Johnny’s best orations one could without a doubt vastly improve one’s
rhetoric.
But remaining detached was difficult, and on the occasion alluded to
Bert profited not a whit in the matter of increasing his vocabulary or
perfecting his speech. He did, however, profit in another way. After
Mr. Cade had lucidly and in detail explained your mistake, you didn’t
make that particular mistake again. Oh, you might turn right around
and make another, but not that one! No, sir, never again; or, anyway,
not for a long, long time! Bert’s ears got very warm and he looked so
long and steadily at Johnny’s old sweater that he could have drawn a
plan of it weeks later and located every hole exactly. Then suddenly
the call-down was over and Mr. Cade was saying cheerfully: “All right,
First! Let’s go now, and stop fooling! Let’s have a first down!”
But of course Bert wasn’t the only one to incur the coach’s displeasure.
Even as experienced a hand as Nip Storer got his on one occasion. Bert,
standing by while play ceased, felt sympathetic for Nip, but his
sympathy was evidently misplaced since, as soon as Johnny had ended, Nip
turned away with a jovial wink. Well, perhaps after you had played two
years you got hardened, Bert thought. But as for him, he was still
subdued. Chick was on the carpet, also, once, and to Bert it seemed that
Mr. Cade’s voice was just a trifle colder than before. Chick never took
any too kindly to criticism, even from the coach, and he looked slightly
contemptuous, slightly mutinous during the proceeding. Bert wished he
wouldn’t, for Mr. Cade could not fail to notice it, and Bert was fearful
that the coach had already set down more than one black mark against
Chick.
Thursday there were no misadventures for Bert. He even scored a mild
triumph by breaking away from the congested area after a delayed pass
and streaking something over thirty yards into the less populated
section of the field. He might have kept on and quite lost himself in
the vast open spaces around the Second Team’s goal line if a pesky
long-legged youth named Simpkins hadn’t pursued him and eventually
attached himself to his legs. Bert never had liked the name of
Simpkins, and to-day he liked it less than ever. On Friday the
work-out was light and confined principally to the essentials. But
the Scrub paid a brief visit and indulged the First Team substitutes
in a ten-minute scrimmage. Because of the dismissal of the regulars,
Bert found himself starting the trouble at right half-back, with
Tolman beside him and “Ben” Franklin playing full-back. That wasn’t
much of a contest, for the Second took things into her own hands and
marched up the field after the kick-off in a disgustingly irresistible
manner, pushing the opposition contemptuously aside and eventually
scoring without once losing possession. Bert, among others, was used
rather roughly, and on one occasion caused a cessation of hostilities
while Jake soused him with water and pumped air into his lungs. Such
occasions can be extremely unpleasant while they last, but once over
leave no painful effects, and consequently Bert was both surprised and
indignant when Jake, in charge because Mr. Cade had accompanied the
regulars to the gymnasium, a few moments later called him out. Not
being in such awe of the trainer as he was of the coach, Bert voiced
his indignation when he reached the side-line.
“What’s the idea, Jake?” he remonstrated. “I’m all right! Losing your
breath isn’t anything to stop playing for!”
Jake viewed him with a cold and fishy eye and spoke briefly. “Shut your
trap,” said Jake.
Well, after that there was just one thing to do, and Bert did it. He
shut his trap.
Scrub threatened a second time, but lost the ball when Parkhurst
intercepted a forward-pass and had to be satisfied with her six
points. Although the session had been but half-length, casualties
were heavy on both sides, with the First Team substitutes receiving
the lion’s share of the injuries. None of them was serious, but they
were uncomfortable enough to engender resentment, and back in the
gymnasium, already deserted by the regulars, acrimonious debate ensued
up and down the aisles between the lockers. Bert, still feeling rather
outraged because of the way in which he had been treated by the Scrub,
and indignant because Jake had pulled him out in the middle of the
fight, was not in a mood for ragging. So, when Laidlaw, a Scrub end,
referred to an occasion when Bert had failed to stop his mad career,
Bert resented it. One word led to another, a shoe was thrown, a bench
was overturned, an appreciative audience, forgetting its own disputes,
closed about and Bert had the extreme satisfaction of knocking Laidlaw
to the floor in something under sixty seconds. Laidlaw, undaunted
if staggered, would have continued the engagement, but Jake issued
wrathfully forth from the rubbing room and made remarks which indicated
that the bout didn’t have his sanction. So the audience, jeering
good-naturedly, dispersed, leaving Bert to fondle a swelling chin and
Laidlaw to staunch a flowing nose. Then Bert came on Laidlaw’s shoe and
politely if coldly returned it to him, and Laidlaw said “Thanks” very
gravely and departed to his shower. And ten minutes later, meeting
on the way out, they both grinned and, without a word uttered, parted
somewhat better friends than before.
The next morning the Alton Team piled into two busses and hit the trail
for Lorimer, while the School cheered the departure and prepared to
follow later by train. Bert sat beside Chick and was secretly very
elated and somewhat excited. Last season, although he had witnessed
every game that Alton had played away from home, he had never made
the journey with the Team. If proof was lacking of his new status
on the Eleven this happening supplied it. Here he was, with Captain
Jonas, large and good-humoredly taciturn, but two seats away, Chick
at his right shoulder and Hop Meecham at his left, really and truly,
positively and absolutely at last one of the gang! The October morning
was gray and chill, with a suggestion of mist at intervals, but Bert
didn’t know that the sun wasn’t shining!