PEANUTS AND CONVERSATION
Thursday afternoon saw a slight let-up on the field. Preliminary work
was lighter and so much time was spent on signal drill that there was
only enough daylight left for one scrimmage period. That, however,
went to fifteen minutes. Coach Cade used all his second-string players
before the fracas was over, which means that both Bert and Keys served
as right, or Number 2, half-back. Chick, also, saw service and did
better than he had done before that week. The Second Team stuck to what
they fondly believed were Kenly formations and plays and, while these
went fairly well in midfield they petered out nearer the goal line.
Second got a nice placement kick over, but failed to score a touchdown.
First, using a more diversified attack than it had shown all season,
twice crossed the adversary’s line. There were several forward-passes
that went smoothly for short gains, two of them received by Chick; one
long heave, Galvin to Kruger, that was good for twenty-two yards; some
well-placed punts by Nip Storer and some good gains by the backs. The
most startling performance by the First, however, was an end-around
play featuring Fitz Savell. Fitz shot outside left end and reeled
off thirty-four yards before he was stopped by the Scrub’s safety
man. Bert made two gains of seven and eleven yards respectively on
off-tackle plays and once made a shorter though timely romp to a first
down outside end. Galvin and Storer first, and then Ness and Couch,
accounted for many advances through the line. On the whole the First
showed power, speed and smoothness of execution; although it must
be confessed that Bus Lovell, who followed Ted as general, had much
difficulty with his signals and slowed up the playing considerably on
occasions. What Bus did not do, however, was fumble!
There was a cheer meeting that evening in Assembly Hall--there had been
two or three previously--and Bert and Chick joined the throng and sang
and shouted as heartily as any. Mr. Fowler, the English instructor and
head of the Faculty Committee on Athletics, addressed the meeting and
kept it laughing for twenty minutes. (“Gee,” murmured Chick, “why can’t
he be like this in class?”) Mr. Cade said a few words and was followed
by Captain Jonas Lowe. Jonas was just as much at home on a platform,
just as much at ease addressing an audience, as a cow on a tight-rope.
He arose in painful embarrassment and lurched to the front with the
enthusiasm of a malefactor approaching the electric chair. Then he put
his large hands in the pockets of his capacious trousers, cleared his
throat and took his hands out again. By that time the applause had
dwindled to comparative silence, a silence punctured by chuckles and
snickers of amusement. Jonas clasped his hands tightly behind him,
rocked backward on his heels and frowned furiously. Then he spoke.
Fearful, perhaps, that he wouldn’t make himself heard, he opened his
remarks in a voice that, as husky as it was, might easily have been
heard on the far side of Haylow Hall.
“Fellows! And gentlemen! You know why you’re here--why I’m here. I’ve
got to say something about the Team and about licking Kenly Hall.
Well, that’s all right. We’ll do it. [Enthusiastic applause mingled
with laughter.] We’ll lick Kenly. We’ve got a pretty good bunch this
year and--and we’ve been well coached. Mr. Cade is a great guy. [More
applause.] Of course Kenly’s got a pretty good bunch, too. That’s what
they tell us, anyway. But we’ve got a pretty good--I mean, our team’s
all right, too. Got a good, strong line and a bunch of clever backs.
Fellows like Jim Galvin and Nip Storer and--and others. Got a center
you can’t beat, Lum Patten. Lum’s a great guy. [Cheers and laughter.]
Got a pair of fine tackles. Got good ends. Got some corking plays.
And we’re all fit. Got to thank Jake for that. Jake’s a great trainer.
[Cheers for Jake.] So we’re all set, like I told you, to play the best
game we know how, and if Kenly beats us it’s going to be a big surprise
to them, I guess. It will be to me, anyway. But she won’t do it. You
guys--you fellows do your part and we’ll do ours. That’s fair enough.
Got to have the support of the School. Got to know we have it. Helps
a lot. Plenty of cheering, you know. Everybody in line for a victory.
That’s the idea. All together in the right spirit. Lots of it, too.
Well, that’s all. We’ve got a pretty good bunch and we’ll do the best
we know how. Much obliged.”
Jonas, perspiring freely, retired to his seat amidst loud acclaim and
Freeman Naughton called for “a cheer for Captain Lowe, fellows, and
make it good!” After that they sang a few more songs, cheered the Team
vociferously and departed.
Bert and Chick joined forces with “Judge” Anstruther, Billy Haines
and Hank Howard and wandered into Upton and up to the assistant
manager’s room. Judge could do weird and wonderful things on a strange
looking contraption that was about half-way between a guitar and a
mandolin--with leanings toward several other instruments--and they
had a musical evening. Hank Howard proclaimed his ability to play
beautifully on a harmonica and Billy Haines disappeared and returned
with one a minute or two later. After that, although Billy knew almost
none of the tunes that Judge knew, the program took on an added
interest. About the only thing the two performers could thoroughly
get together on was that ribald composition, “Oh, Doctor!” This was a
rimed insult set to music which Alton had once sung at the football
games with Kenly. Of late it had become taboo, however, and when it
sometimes threatened to break out it was quickly suppressed by the
cheer leaders. On such occasions as this, though, “Oh, Doctor!” might
be sung to the heart’s content without frantic “shushings.” So with
Judge Anstruther beating the strings of his exotic instrument and Billy
swaying ecstatically with his hands cupped about the borrowed harmonica
the others sang loudly:
“Oh, Doctor! Oh, Doctor, now won’t you hurry, pray?
There’s been a crime most awful committed down our way!
Pull on your breeches, grab your bag,
Drop the shafts on the old gray nag
And hurry, hurry, hurry, hurry, Doctor!
“Oh, Doctor! Oh, Doctor, and will the patient live?
He’s twisted, and he’s busted, he’s riddled like a sieve!
His center’s in a frightful shape;
I guess you’ll have to operate!
Oh, hurry, hurry, hurry, hurry, Doctor!
“Oh, Doctor! Oh, Doctor, the pearly gates we view!
They’re open very wide now! Oh, can’t you pull him through?
Old Kenly’s bad and getting worse;
Inform the sexton, send the hearse!
Oh, hurry, hurry, hurry, hurry, Doctor!”
By the end of the first verse reënforcements had appeared from
neighboring rooms, and when the song had been concluded the applause
was so hearty and insistent that the musicians had to begin again.
As the room was now filled to capacity the encore completely drowned
the music. A rumor that Mr. Offerman was on his way upstairs finally
reduced the chorus to its original number and sent Judge Anstruther
into the gentle strains of an Hawaiian melody. Mr. Offerman, however,
didn’t materialize and the party broke up in a disappointed mood.
The weather, which had been on the whole particularly obnoxious for a
fortnight, changed during Thursday night, and when Friday dawned the
world was drenched in a gray mist, the air was balmy and one rather
expected to hear bluebirds cheeping or cawing or whatever it is that
bluebirds do. Chill, cloudy days, cold, blustery days were no more for
the while and Indian summer had returned from over the purple hills. By
the time breakfast was over the haze had vanished under the warmth of
an ardent sun and brick walks and stone walls were steaming gently.
Groups of boys crowded the dormitory steps, windows were open, with
curtains aflutter, and the campus grass seemed to have grown a full
shade greener under its sere and yellow tips. Of course no one wanted
to do any work. That’s the trouble with such days. A fellow just wants
to stick his hands deep into his pockets and lean against something--if
he can’t sit down--and think long and lazy thoughts, thoughts on any
subject save study and recitations and English themes due at noon and
letters postponed since Sunday. It’s an effort even to yawn!
Fortunately practice was light that afternoon, for even the most
ambitious were unable to move out of a walk unless driven to it by the
sharp voice of authority. Footballs had a way of coming down yards
distant from their expected landing places and of slipping out of
nerveless fingers, and cleated football shoes had apparently added
several pounds of weight since yesterday. There was no scrimmage, and
after a signal drill of half an hour the squad was released. Most of
the First Team repaired to the second gridiron after getting back into
mufti and watched the Scrub play its one outside game of the season.
Southport Second was the opponent. Bert, his feet over the back of the
seat in front of him, basked in the warmth and took much pleasure in
watching his recent opponents in practice pant and perspire as they
charged over the gridiron. For once at least he was content to sit in
idleness and watch others gain the glory. Beyond him, widely spaced
since there was plenty of room on the stand to-day and the idea of
contact with another was obnoxious in such weather, sat other members
of the First, lazily, even somnolently. Occasional words of approval
aimed at the Second seldom reached the field. You might have all the
will in the world to shout loudly, yet what resulted was merely a
sleepy murmur. Into Bert’s paradise of contentment crept the serpent.
Well, he didn’t exactly creep, either; stumble would be a better word.
And for a serpent he was undeniably rotund. Perhaps likening him to
a boa constrictor after a hearty meal might go unchallenged, but the
simile is inapt. And this particular serpent, even if he had had a
hearty meal, was still eating as he flopped down to a seat beside Bert
with a muttered: “_Saluer, mon brave!_”
“’Lo, Tommy,” responded Bert weakly. “That’s rotten French.”
“Sure. Have a peanut?” Tommy extended a sack and Bert managed to raise
his hand and dip into it. “Some weather, eh? Feel like a lotus eater.
Couldn’t find any lotuses--or is it lotii?--and had to get peanuts.”
“Penii,” corrected Bert.
Tommy grinned and tried to hit Watkins, of the Scrub, on the head
with a shell. His effort fell short and he sighed. “Who’s ahead?” he
inquired.
“Second. Two quarts.”
“Two quarts of what?”
“Perspiration. Scrubs just claimed a foul on Southport, but the referee
wouldn’t allow it.”
“Go ahead,” said Tommy. “I’ll bite. What was the foul, Mister Johnsing?”
“Southport trainer gave them sweet spirits of nitre to increase
their--er--humidity. Clearly against the rules.”
Tommy viewed him anxiously. “Better move back into the shade,” he
advised. “Gee, I didn’t realize the sun was so hot! No scoring yet, eh?”
“No. Where’s your hat, Tommy?”
“Ate it.” That was Tommy’s invariable answer to the pesky question.
“Help yourself.”
Bert groaned and dipped again. “Do you ever stop eating?” he inquired.
“Frequently. No practice for you guys to-day?”
“How do you mean, no practice?” said Bert indignantly. “We were at it
four hours. Anyway, it seemed that long. How come you weren’t on hand
with your invaluable advice, Tommy?”
“I was doing a composition and fell asleep. Woke up with my fountain
pen stuck in my left ear. Dreamed I was being hung.”
“I don’t get the relationship between the dream and
the--whatyoucallit--actuality,” sighed Bert.
“Nor I--at first. Guess the pen sticking into said ear suggested
hangman’s knot. Don’t they put the knot against the left ear?”
“Honest, I forget. Seems, to me, though, the last time I was hung it
was under my chin, but maybe it slipped. Here goes for a touchdown.”
“Bet you!”
“You’re on for a bag of peanuts.”
Bert lost, for Southport got her back up and selfishly refused to let
the Alton Scrub left tackle through the center, although all the latter
asked was a scant two yards. After Southport had punted from behind her
goal line the whistle blew, faintly as though exhausted, and the half
was at an end. The shadow of the roof crept over the front of the stand
and Bert perked up a bit.
“How are you betting on the Kenly game, Tommy?” he asked. “Still
bearish?”
“No, and never was. I said right along that we’d beat ’em if Johnny
Cade tumbled to himself and you fellows humped yourselves a bit. We’ll
win by a couple of scores next week.”
“What? I thought you were predicting total ruination, Tommy. What’s
changed the colossal mind?”
“Well, for one thing Johnny went and got rid of a lot of stiffs like
Tate and Meecham and your babyhood friend, Chick Burton.”
“Wrong, Tommy. Chick’s got a good chance to play, I guess.”
“You’re a rotten guesser, Bert. Oh, he might get in for a little old
minute or _deux_.”
“No, I mean for the whole _soixante_, young chap; anyway for _la
plupart_.”
“_Tant s’en faut_,” responded Tommy, “meaning you’re talking
foolishment. Chick’s no use this year, Bert, and Johnny’s discovered
it. You know it, too, just as well as I do.”
“Oh, come, why pick on Chick? Of course he’s had his bad days, but so
have all of them.”
“Not so _mal_ as Chick’s,” said Tommy decidedly. “If I thought there
was any chance of Johnny using Chick Burton against Kenly I’d--”
“What would you do, son?” asked Bert amusedly.
“Put a stop to it.”
Bert laughed. “Tommy, you’re delicious! Pass the peanuts. How would you
go about it, young fellow?”
Tommy wagged his head knowingly and screwed up his eyes as one who
could tell but wouldn’t. “Never you mind,” he murmured. “I could do it.”
“Who’s had a touch of the sun now?” jeered Bert. “Sounds like you and
Johnny are pretty thick. Does everything you say, eh?”
“That’s all right, Monsieur Alexandre _l’habile_!” (Bert groaned in
protest.) “I’m not talking through my hat--”
“That is to be seen,” murmured Bert. “Though why you didn’t say
_chapeau_--”
“And if I had to, if it was necessary for the--the success of the Team,
I could put a spoke in Burton’s wheel all right, all right!”
Bert frowned. “Don’t talk silly, Tommy! Just what are you getting at,
anyway?”
But Tommy shook his head again, filled his mouth with peanuts and
looked suddenly extremely secretive, even stupid. Bert grunted. “That
sort of talk isn’t nice, Tommy. Better lay off.”
“All right.” Tommy used a superior tone that made the other frown
again. “’Nough said. Have a peanut. Go on. I’ve got another bag coming
to me.”
Bert declined, and after a minute he asked: “What other reason have you
for changing the old mind? Besides the changes in the team, I mean.”
“Well, I’ve seen Kenly play, for another thing.”
“You have? When?”
“Last Saturday. Goodall and I went over.”
“How were they?” asked Bert eagerly.
“Good. They’ve got a nice-looking gang.”
“Well, then--”
“But we can beat them if we play lively football. They’re sort
of--well, not exactly slow, but--now what’s the word?”
“Use your French,” advised Bert.
“Don’t have to. Uninspired’s what I wanted. That’s how they struck
me. They looked like a team that could drag a heavy load all day but
wouldn’t have sense--no, imagination enough to run away!”
“Run away! Why should they run away?”
“I was speaking metaphorically,” said Tommy with dignity. “What I mean
is, those guys will do what the coach tells them to do all right, but
they haven’t--aren’t-- Now, look here, you know as well as I do that
there’s such a thing as football sense--or something. When a team
hasn’t got it and runs against something that isn’t--er--provided for,
if you see what I’m trying to get at--”
“You’re talking about self-reliance, aren’t you?”
“Well, I mean those guys aren’t the sort to rise to the occasion. They
lack football--football--”
“Instinct!”
“That’s it,” said Tommy relievedly. “Instinct. And initiative, too. I
guess initiative’s what I’ve been trying to think of.”
“And you think we have those things?”
“Yes, most of you have. You have, for one. So has Ted Ball and Nip
Storer and Galvin and Kruger and--”
“Gosh, I don’t believe I have, Tommy! Ted, yes; and maybe those others.
But me--” Bert shook his head doubtfully. “Anyway, how can you tell by
seeing a team in action once whether it’s got initiative, Tommy?”
“I can,” answered the other stoutly. “It shows in the way they go about
things, the way they handle themselves. You can’t fool me. Say, did I
tell you that you were good and that you’d make the team or didn’t I?”
“You did,” acknowledged Bert.
“Yes, and I said you’d do most of the scoring against Kenly, too,
didn’t I?”
“Something of the sort. Don’t you wish you hadn’t?”
“No. Things generally come out the way I say they’re going to, Bert.
You wait until a week from to-morrow and then tell me if I was right or
wrong.”
“I will, Tommy. And I’ll do this, too. If you prove right I’ll buy you
enough peanuts to last you to Christmas!”
Tommy chuckled. “Better not get rash, _mon demi-derrière_. I get
awfully hungry when cold weather comes. Besides, you might pay that bet
first!”
“Shut up! Here’s a dime. Go eat yourself to death.”
“Better give me another and be on the safe side,” laughed Tommy.
“Here they come again. Go on in there, you mutts, and do something!”
Tommy’s voice arose to something approaching its wonted penetration and
vehemence, and the stand spoke approval and encouragement.
“That’s the stuff, Tommy! You tell ’em, boy!”
Tommy looked over his shoulder, grinned and shot a peanut at the
nearest speaker. “_Fermer votre_ trap, Hink!” he admonished.
Possibly Mr. McFadden had talked like a Dutch uncle during intermission.
At all events, the Second Team came back strong and played a rather
different brand of football during the third and most of the fourth
quarter. The stand woke up and cheered encouragement and Tommy offered
caustic criticism, and the Alton Scrub marched on to glory. Glory was
represented by a single touchdown, minus the point which should have
followed, and one field-goal. The touchdown came soon after the
resumption of hostilities in the third period and the field-goal closed
the ceremonies in the fourth. Between the two events Southport made a
determined but fruitless effort to score and hurled passes to all points
of the compass. Tommy observed disgustedly that they’d wear out the sod,
throwing the ball around on it like that. From which you are to
understand that the passes were usually not completed.
Chick had gone to the room directly after practice, announcing
a virtuous resolve to do some studying that football--and other
interests--had interfered with, but when Bert reached Number 21 he
found the student sound asleep on the window-seat, an open book astride
his chest.