FUMBLES
Bus Lovell provided what in stage parlance is termed the “comic
relief” that week. Bus had made three fumbles in Saturday’s game, and,
although he had recovered two of them, Coach Cade decided that Bus
needed discipline. So, when a light practice was over on Monday, Johnny
requisitioned a scarred and battered ball from Jake and gravely handed
it to Bus. “Lovell,” he said, “if you recall the talk we had in the
gymnasium one afternoon awhile back you’ll understand why I’m giving
you this. Fumbling, Lovell, is a bad habit for a quarter-back. Keep
this with you as a reminder of that fact.”
Bus tried to grin, got rather red and finally stammered: “You mean I’ve
got to keep it around, sir? Carry it with me like you said?”
A dozen interested spectators wore very broad smiles and there were
chuckles when Mr. Cade replied: “Exactly, Lovell. You’re not to part
with it for a moment except when you’re asleep. Then the ball rests
beside you. You might put it on a chair at the head of your bed. You
see, Lovell, the idea is to accustom yourself to the sight and feel
of it so that you’ll know what to do with it if you run across it in a
game.”
Conscious of the joyous amusement of those who had lingered for the
ceremony, Bus put on a good face. “Very well, sir,” he answered as
seriously as Mr. Cade had spoken, “I’ll certainly hang on to it.” He
put it under an arm and strode off, followed by the group of hilarious
team-mates.
His appearance in dining hall that evening was the signal for a deal of
razzing. Warned of his approach, the fellows clapped enthusiastically
as he stepped through the door with the football swinging in one hand
from the lacing. For an instant Bus was nonplused, but then, composing
his countenance, he placed the ball under an arm and made his way
gravely along the aisle. The honors might have been his if some wag
hadn’t started patting a foot in time to Bus’s tread. That set them
all going, and poor Bus paced the length of the hall to the rhythmic
_tramp-tramp_ of hundreds of feet. After that every one gave way to
laughter and the commotion continued until Mr. Kincaid, in charge,
arose and calmed it. Bus’s troubles hadn’t ended, though, for it at
once became a matter of duty on the part of his companions to deprive
him of his treasure. If Bus laid the football beside his plate some one
reached around behind him and sent it wobbling among the viands. If he
placed it in his lap it was instantly bobbing around under the table,
being kicked this way and that, or was out in the aisle endangering
the safety of passing trays. If he held on to it with both hands he
couldn’t eat! Bus began to suspect that the thing was less of a joke
than he had surmised. At least so far as he was concerned. During
the evening, if he laid the ball down for an instant it mysteriously
disappeared, and he learned that eternal vigilance was the price of
peace. He finally solved the difficulty by tying a cord through the
lacing and hanging the pesky thing around his neck.
By morning it had occurred to some one of Bus’s intimates that the
humorous possibilities of the football had not been nearly exhausted.
His appearance at breakfast had fallen rather flat, and the fun of
knocking the ball off his lap had somewhat palled. Hence a new way of
adding to the joy of life must be devised. The plan evolved required
Bus’s consent and participation, and, since Bus was not one to deprive
a friend of a little innocent amusement, he gave the first and promised
the latter. At quarter to eleven, Bus, who was a member of the Junior
Class, repaired to Room C, wherein had already gathered Mr. Kincaid
and some forty youths. Mr. Kincaid, on the small platform at the end
of the room, snapped his watch shut and nodded toward the door. One of
the class, awaiting the signal, arose and proceeded to close it. As
though he had waited outside for that moment--as in reality he had--Bus
entered, the faithful football snuggled in one arm, his book and pad in
hand and an earnest, detached look on his face. There were empty seats,
a very few, near the door, but Bus for once chose to sit close to the
preceptor and went sedately down the aisle to the very first row,
observed by the class with breathless interest and by the instructor
with interest which, if not exactly breathless, was quite as earnest.
Bus seated himself, placed the football--still attached to his person
by the cord--in his lap, folded his hands and raised an expectant gaze
to Mr. Kincaid. Mr. Kincaid leveled a pencil at the ball and asked
mildly: “What have you there, Lovell?”
“A football, sir,” replied Bus innocently.
“Ah, a football!” The instructor seemed gratified, as though he had
suspected the object of being a football and was pleased to have the
accuracy of his surmise confirmed. The class maintained a silence quite
unusual, anxious to miss no whit of the fun. “You appear,” said Mr.
Kincaid, “to be quite attached to it.”
Bus recognized the jest with a polite smile and fingered the cord as a
further indication that he had “got” it. “Yes, sir,” he replied, “I am.”
“And”--Mr. Kincaid blinked, a method used to indicate guilelessness
which fooled nobody--“and the football seems to be quite as attached
to you. A truly beautiful friendship, Lovell.”
“Yes, sir.” Bus spoke more doubtfully.
“Yes, indeed,” went on the instructor musingly, “quite--ah--affecting.
Just what was it, Lovell, that drew you together, besides a similarity
of mental equipment?”
“Sir?” Repressed snickers from about him confirmed his suspicion that
Mr. Kincaid had scored. The instructor was affably patient.
“I asked what first drew you to each other, Lovell, but never mind
that. Instead, tell me whether you would be willing to part with your,
shall I say alter ego? during a brief period which I propose to devote
to the subject of Greek history.”
Bus was back on solid ground again. He had been waiting for that
question. He shook his head, sadly yet emphatically.
“Sorry, sir, but that’s impossible,” said Bus firmly.
“Impossible!” Mr. Kincaid clicked his tongue. “Dear, dear! And may
I ask--” He paused and peered intently. “Just hold the football
up a moment, please, Lovell. Ah, thank you. For the instant I had
you confused. Yes, I see. The football is the one with the look of
intelligence. As I was saying--”
But what he was saying was lost in the laughter, laughter in which
Bus joined only half-heartedly. Mr. Kincaid looked over the class and
blinked in gentle reproof. “As I was saying,” he continued, “I am
curious to know why you find it impossible to do without your affinity
for a mere half-hour or so, Lovell. I hope I am not too inquisitive.”
“Mr. Cade’s orders, sir,” answered Bus with relief. “I have to take it
everywhere, sir.”
“Ah, really? An extension course in Football, I presume. Remarkable
what strides that game is making, isn’t it? Is there more to your
story?”
Bus explained the situation and Mr. Kincaid listened with undisguised
interest. And at the end he settled back and said: “Well, well, what
a very clever idea of Mr. Cade’s! I shall be anxious to hear how it
succeeds, Lovell. And now, having exhausted, not unprofitably I’m sure,
some seven minutes of our allotted time, we will turn our attention to
less weighty matters.”
Whether or not it was due to the football and its accompanying
complications, the fact is that Bus was but illy prepared on the
subject of Greek History and, as Mr. Kincaid was flatteringly attentive
and called on him very frequently, made a poor showing. Just before the
gong rang the instructor stepped down from the platform. He held a book
in his hand and he stopped in front of Bus. “Lovell,” he announced,
“I regret to say that out of six questions sent your way you fumbled
four. To be sure, you may fairly be said to have recovered one, but
nevertheless the loss of ground was considerable. On one occasion, if
you recall, you lost almost a third of Greece! Fumbling, Lovell, is
a--ah--most reprehensible failing, and we must do our utmost to correct
it. Taking a leaf from the book of a greater master, certainly a more
successful instructor, than myself, Lovell, I intrust this volume to
you. It is, as you will observe, my own copy of West’s Ancient World,
Part One. You will find my name on the fly-leaf. I should dislike
having anything happen to it, so please guard it tenderly. Don’t let
it out of your sight, Lovell. Take it with you to recitations and
reflections, let it accompany you wherever you go, Lovell, especially
to the football field. At night place it beside you while you slumber.
Constant companionship, continued proximity, Lovell, will, I sincerely
trust, cure you of your lamentable habit of fumbling the facts of Greek
History. Class dismissed.”
Bus remained behind for a minute after his convulsed class-mates had
hurried forth, but it was no use. Mr. Kincaid meant just what he had
said, as absolutely ridiculous as it all was! Bus departed with the
football bobbing from his neck and West’s Ancient World clutched
desperately in one hand. He tried putting it into a pocket, but it
was just too large for that. In the corridor the news was already
circulating, and Bus was made to pause and exhibit his latest incubus
until, patience exhausted, he tore himself from detaining hands and
fled. In his room he flung the book distastefully away from him, only
to rescue it in a panic, fearful that he had harmed it. Then he put
it on the table and glowered at it until, presently, a sense of humor
came to his aid and he gave a chuckle. Somewhere, he recollected, his
room-mate had a canvas haversack, and he searched until he unearthed
it. In it he placed Mr. West’s masterpiece and adjusted the straps to
his shoulders. Finally he surveyed himself in the mirror. Just what
he resembled, with the haversack on his back and the football against
his stomach, he couldn’t decide, but, at least, he looked different!
Fortunately, perhaps, he had but one more recitation before dinner and
one after, and at neither of them was he asked to explain his singular
likeness to a peddler, for the story had reached even to the ears of
the faculty. At dinner his arrival in hall was even a greater personal
triumph than last evening, but he didn’t mind the razzing a bit. Being
the sensation of the hour was compensation enough!
To Mr. Cade, who dwelt outside the campus, the tidings had not reached,
and so at three-thirty, when Bus paraded onto the field, trailed by a
throng of expectant team-mates, the coach was not prepared for the
spectacle. Bus was appropriately attired in gray canvas pants, gray
jersey, gray-and-gold striped stockings, scuffed shoes and hip pads,
and he swung a black leather head guard. But he also wore a battered
football in front and a mildewed canvas bag at his back, a bag on which
appeared in faded black characters the inscription “Troop II, B.S.A.”
Bus invited notice and won it instantly.
“Lovell, you might rid yourself of that football during practice,” said
Mr. Cade, laughing a little.
“Yes, sir.” Bus moved toward the wheelbarrow, where the balls awaited
distribution in a big canvas sack, thereby presenting a rear view to
the coach. Mr. Cade stared. Wide grins overspread the faces of the
players.
“What’s he got on his back?” the coach demanded in puzzled tones of
Coles Wistar. Coles choked and turned aside. The coach looked more
puzzled, and then suspicious. “Lovell!” he called.
“Yes, sir?” Bus returned, freed of the football.
“What”--Mr. Cade pointed--“is that contraption?”
“Haversack, sir. The Ancient World is inside.”
“The ancient--_what_?”
“World, sir,” answered Bus gravely. Every one else was shouting with
laughter by now. Mr. Cade laughed, too, suspecting that Bus had
contrived a joke to turn the tables.
“The ancient world, eh? So you’re Atlas. Is that it? Come clean,
Lovell. What’s the point?”
“I didn’t do very well in Greek History class this morning, Mr. Cade,
and Mr. Kincaid said I was to carry West’s Ancient World around with
me, sir. Just like the football, you know. He said I fumbled too many
questions.” Bus was grinning now. Mr. Cade’s face was a study for a
moment. Then he chuckled, and then he laughed, and laughed until the
tears came.
“He wins, Lovell,” he gasped finally. “Take it off. That’s a good one!”
“Think I’d better, sir?” asked Bus doubtfully. “He said--”
Mr. Cade wiped his eyes. “I think it’s safe,” he answered. “I--I’ll
assume responsibility, Lovell. And, Lovell.”
“Yes, sir?”
“Just so that Mr. Peghorn doesn’t follow suit and hang a glass retort
about your neck, we’ll say no more about the football. I--I know when
I’m beaten, Lovell!”
Bus removed the haversack with a sigh of relief. “I guess the
football’s done its bit, anyway, sir,” he said earnestly. “If I fumble
again, Mr. Cade, I--I’ll eat the fool thing!”
They set about preparing for the Kenly game that afternoon. Only one
contest intervened, that with Alton High School next Saturday, and that
was frankly only a practice engagement. From now on every minute of the
daily sessions on the gridiron and of the nightly “skull-drills” in
the gymnasium would be devoted to the laudable ambition of defeating
Kenly Hall. There was a twenty-minute encounter with the long-suffering
tackling dummy and much punting and running back of punts before the
formation drill began. Bert found himself opposite Storer on the squad
that followed Ted Ball up and down the field. Walsh was on Bus Lovell’s
squad, where, too, at his old position at the tip of the right wing,
Chick was holding forth. Chick and Shelfer were dividing that honor
of late, with Chick showing far more of finished playing and Shelfer
impressing the coaches by his sheer determination. I say coaches,
because a former Alton player named Lake had arrived and was giving his
serious attention to the linemen, the guards and tackles especially.
Still later that week two other graduates showed up, but they remained
only a few days and spent more time exchanging reminiscences on
the side-lines than in actual coaching. However, their counsel was
valuable to Mr. Cade, and they really did help in the evenings, when
the blackboard was hauled out on the gymnasium floor and the plays
were drawn thereon and the players, rubber-soled, walked and trotted
through them. The new signals were being learned, and that alone was a
very fair task, especially for two or three of the squad whose memories
were not of the best. There were eleven line plays inside the ends, six
outside, three forward-passes and one punt. These were numbered from 2
to 25, inclusive, omitting 10, 11, 20 and 21. Any number ending in 0
signified a punt. Two series, one of two plays and one of three, were
indicated by the numbers 11 and 21. To commit these to memory was a
task that called for real concentration.
This Tuesday there were many mistakes made, and Bert made his share.
Twice he confused Number 8 and Number 13. The former play was left half
through left tackle and the latter was left end around right end, and
there was no similarity either in the numbers or the plays. Yet Bert
for some, perhaps psychological, reason got mixed badly. It was well
toward the end of the week before he rid himself of the haunting fear
that he would forever confuse 8 and 13!
However, quarter-backs and coaches were lenient to-day; the former,
perhaps, because they were none too certain themselves of the new
signals. Even Ted Ball, who had won the reputation of being a shark at
calling signals, faltered more than once. Mr. McFadden, who had scouted
Kenly Hall several times during the season, came over at four-fifteen
with a team drilled in Kenly plays, and most of the rest of the session
was given over by the First to defensive work. Whether the Second
had really perfected itself in the rival’s style and methods was
problematical, but certain it is that the First experienced no great
difficulty in stopping the Scrub, even when Mr. Cade gave the ball
to the latter on the First’s ten-yard line. Bert played through one
ten-minute period of the scrimmage and comported himself well enough to
win a word of commendation from Mr. Lake, who, with Mr. Cade, hovered
about the team like a sternly anxious hen over a brood of young chicks.
“That’s the game, What’s-your-name! Don’t start off blind, but wait
till you see where the play’s coming. You stopped that nicely, fellow!”
Bert stopped more than one ambitious Scrub back during his ten minutes
of service, or helped stop them, and suffered painful if honorable
wounds in consequence. But he didn’t mind while he was in. Only after
he had been relegated to the bench to make way for Walsh, did he fully
appreciate his injuries. Then he went over to Jake and had two fingers
taped together above a splint and a nice square of plaster applied
to his left cheek. The Scrub in its imitation of Kenly was doing a
conscientious job!
Walsh stayed in only some four minutes and then yielded to Keys. Walsh
was plainly proving rather a disappointment to the coach. He had
weight and was a hard fellow to stop when he got well started, but he
was almost phenomenally slow and, to-day at least, mixed signals badly.
Bert wasn’t afraid of Walsh nowadays, but he was afraid of Keys. It
seemed to Bert that Keys was bound to have the call for right half-back
position by Saturday; and it was a fair assumption that whoever played
on the first-string against Alton High would start the game against
Kenly. Of course Keys wouldn’t play the big game through, and sooner
or later, Bert assured himself, he, Bert, would get in. But sometimes
a back had the good fortune to stick it out right to the end, or to
within a few minutes of it, and Bert wasn’t going to be satisfied with
merely saying, “How do you do? Good-by!” to the referee. He watched
rather glumly while Keys performed the duties of a half-back and
credited Larry with doing considerably better than he really did.
Chick played a full period and showed himself superior to Fitz Savell
as a defensive end. Unfortunately, though, he erased whatever good
impression he may have made on the coaches when he failed miserably
just at the end of the scrimmage to get into position for Galvin’s long
throw down the field. Chick confessed later that he mistook the signal.
Neither side scored that afternoon and the battle ended with honors
fairly even when it was almost too dark to see the ball ten yards away.
Jake fussed and grumbled a good deal during the succeeding half hour,
for it seemed that about every other man on the two teams had managed
to get himself hurt in some fashion. The injuries were only casual and
to be expected, but Jake, swashing iodine around and snipping tape,
was a growling pessimist. At this rate, he confided to his grinning
patients, there wouldn’t be a whole team left by a week from Saturday!
The evening sessions for the First Team interfered badly with Chick’s
pool program. Mr. Cade generally dismissed them by eight-thirty,
although you couldn’t count on it, but that left Chick only an hour
in which to subjugate Mr. Devore and retrieve his losses, and an
hour wasn’t nearly enough. So Chick, by Wednesday of that week, was
tiptoeing into Number 21 around eleven o’clock, which was a very
risky proceeding and one not calculated to sending him leaping out of
bed, bright-eyed and refreshed, at seven o’clock the next morning.
But getting even with Lester Devore had become almost an obsession
with Chick, and school laws and training rules were forgotten. Bert
was always fast asleep long before the truant returned, although he
sometimes awoke enough to realize that his room-mate was moving about
and to wonder what time it was.
It was on Thursday that Bert, finding mail in the box downstairs,
tossed a letter across the table to Chick with the remark: “If you’re
expecting any freight, Charles, it has arrove.” Chick looked at the
corner of the buff envelope, which bore the name of the railroad
followed by the legend “Freight Department,” and scowled. Bert busied
himself with a letter of his own until an indignant exclamation from
the other caught his attention.
“What a nerve!” growled Chick. “Wants me to pay him ten dollars right
away because he’s ‘got use for the money’! Maybe I haven’t got use for
it, too; or would if I had it! Why didn’t he say something about it
last night?”
“Oh, that’s Devore writing to you, eh?” said Bert. “Well, see here,
Chick, can’t you pay what you owe him and then keep away from him for a
while? How much is it, anyway? Only ten?”
Chick shrugged, hesitated and answered: “No, it’s more than that,
counting last night. It’s--it’s sixteen-twenty-five now.”
Bert whistled. “How much have you got?” he asked.
“About three and a half. And I owe you--”
“Never mind what you owe me. I’ve got five--no, about four-fifty.
That’ll make eight. Borrow a couple somewhere and get it to him. After
all, he’s got a right to it, I suppose.”
“You lend me a couple and I’ll pay him five,” said Chick. “That’s
enough for him. He knows he’ll get it all when I have it. I wouldn’t be
owing him so much if he didn’t always say, ‘Oh, that’s all right. Pay
when you get ready!’ I tried to get ten from the old man, but he’s as
tight as a bow-string, hang it. Wrote back that I was thirty dollars
overdrawn already! Gosh, he keeps track of every sou he lets go of!
Next dad I have won’t be a banker, I’ll bet!”
“Well, here’s two,” said Bert, “and for goodness’ sake put some more
with it and hush him up. And for Pete’s sake, Chick, stop playing
pool with him until you get yourself squared. What time did you come
wandering in last night, anyway? It seemed like the middle of the night
to me.”
“Oh, it wasn’t that bad,” said Chick. “Thanks for this, Bert. That
makes six fifty, doesn’t it? You’ll have to remember because I’m likely
to forget. I’ll slip over to Mooney’s after dinner and leave it for
him.”
“Doesn’t he have any home?” inquired Bert. “Doesn’t sleep at Mooney’s,
too, does he?”
“He says leave it at Mooney’s,” answered Chick, “so that’s what I’ll
do. I hope he chokes!”
“Well,” murmured Bert, “I won’t go that far, but hanged if I’d loosen
the knot if he was choking!”