TOMMY ISSUES AN ULTIMATUM
Very little was said on the way back to Upton, partly because there was
little time remaining before eleven o’clock and it was necessary to
hurry, and partly because both boys were busy with their thoughts. Once
Bert said in puzzled tones: “Funny Devore wrote to you in a railroad
envelope if he got fired a year ago, Chick.”
“Probably took a supply of them home,” answered Chick. “Just about
what he would do, swipe the office stationery. He must have run out of
letter-heads, though, because he wrote on a sheet of plain paper. Did
you hear what Johnny said? That Devore made his living shooting pool?
Gosh, he played me for an easy mark, all right! I’m going to find that
guy and push his face in if it’s the last thing I do.”
Nearing the dormitory Bert spoke again. “I didn’t mention it to Johnny,
Chick, but the day Devore came up to the room after his money, you
know, he tried to pump me. I didn’t think anything about it at the
time, but I guess he was after some dope on our plays.”
“And you didn’t tell him a blamed thing, I’ll bet,” replied Chick
bitterly. “It took me to spill the beans. You wait till I see that rat!”
There was an explanation to be made to Mr. Peghorn before they could
climb the stairs to Number 21. “Peg” didn’t seem to consider the excuse
sufficient, in view of Chick’s disreputable appearance, and promised
suspiciously to take the matter up with Mr. Cade, but he released them
presently and they were in the room when eleven struck. Bert went to
sleep soon after his head touched the pillow, but in the opposite bed
Chick lay and stared into the dark until long after midnight.
Bert went off to church the next morning without his room-mate, for
Chick’s head was badly swollen and he had no difficulty in getting
excused. After dinner the latter disappeared and Bert surmised that he
had gone over to see Mr. Cade. He returned about four, looking more
cheerful than Bert had seen him look for many days. Bert brushed the
Sunday paper away and sat up on the window-seat.
“Did you see him?” he asked.
Chick nodded, shied his cap to the bed and sat down. “Yes,” he said.
He stared thoughtfully at his shoes a minute and then raised his gaze
to Bert and announced earnestly: “He’s a mighty good chap, Bert.” He
waited, as though expecting contradiction, and when Bert only nodded,
he went on. “Say, he’s going to be married. He told me all about it
and showed me the girl’s picture. She’s a corker, Bert. He’s got it
bad, but I don’t blame him.”
“When’s it going to happen?”
“December, if it does happen.”
“Well, I thought you just said--”
“It’s like this. We had a long talk and he told me all about it. He
says it all depends on whether we beat Kenly, Bert. If we do he’s going
to quit here and give all his time to his business. He’s got a sort
of a law practice at home, it seems. Then he will get married around
Christmas time. But he says he won’t quit if we’re licked. Not unless
faculty asks him to, and I guess that isn’t likely after what he’s done
other years, eh? He says if this season turns out to be a failure he
will hang on until he comes through right. Wants to retire as a success
and not a failure. Something like that.”
“Still,” objected Bert, “I don’t see why he can’t get married just the
same. I fancy the girl isn’t going to mind if Kenly licks us!”
“No, but it’s something about money. As I understood it he doesn’t want
to marry until he’s settled down in his law practice and can stay at
home and attend to things. Anyway, that’s the dope. Of course I said I
hoped we’d beat Saturday, and--well, what do you suppose he said?”
“Said he hoped so, too, probably.”
“He said, ‘How hard do you hope it, Burton?’ I said that I hoped it a
whole lot, or something like that. ‘Well, do you hope it hard enough
to pitch in and help us?’ he asked. I said I sure did. Then--well, he
talked a lot. Made me feel sort of small, Bert. You know, when you come
right down to it, I’ve been an awful fizzle this fall!”
“What I want to know is, is he going to let you play?”
“I don’t know. I think so. He didn’t promise it, though. What he said
was that I was to start in to-morrow and forget everything but football
and beating Kenly and show what I could do. I guess he doesn’t feel
like sticking me in ahead of Fitz, and I don’t blame him, because, say
what you like, Fitz is a mighty good end, Bert.”
Bert suppressed a grin. “Then all he agreed to was letting you show
what you can do, eh?”
“He didn’t agree to anything,” responded Chick a trifle warmly. “He
made me see what a blamed poor piece of cheese I’ve been this season
and asked me to help him come through with a win. And that on top of
all this other business! I’ll say that’s fair enough, and I’m ready to
do everything I can so he can get married like he wants to. Of course I
want to beat Kenly, too, but I’m in it now so that girl won’t have to
wait another year. So he won’t, either. What’s wrong with that?”
“Not a thing,” replied Bert. “Only the girl must be a peach, Chick, to
get you all het up like this!”
“She is,” replied Chick stoutly. “But I’m not het up, you blamed cynic.
I’m just mighty grateful to Johnny for not raising the old Ned about
Les Devore. He might have been nasty, for I certainly did a lot of fool
talking with my mouth.”
“What about that? Could you remember saying anything to Devore that
would matter?”
“I said plenty,” answered Chick grimly. “I told him about two or three
plays; drew them out for him with a piece of billiard chalk on the
table one night. I remembered it last night after I got to bed. That
Number 14 was one of them. He insisted that we didn’t have anything
but old stuff and wouldn’t let me tell him anything different and I
drew the plays out so he could get them. Of course it was a perfectly
idiotic thing to do, but I never suspected that he was anything but the
dumb-bell he seemed to be.”
“Wow!” muttered Bert. “What did Johnny say to that?”
“Well, he took it mighty nice, like I’ve been trying to tell you. He
said he guessed we could get along without Number 14 if we had to, and
that a couple of other plays didn’t amount to anything anyway. He says
he thinks Devore’s game is mostly bluff; that Devore will come around
about next Saturday and pretend to be hep to our whole line of offense
and show that Number 14 and a couple of other plays to prove it. His
idea is that we’ll get cold feet and shove a lot of good plays into
the discard and get rattled generally. Johnny says Devore couldn’t get
the Kenly folks to touch his dope with a pair of tongs, and probably
doesn’t mean to try.”
“I can’t just see him going to Johnny with that line of talk,” mused
Bert. “I guess he’d be afraid to.”
“No, but he’d write a letter, maybe, or send some one else. Anyhow,
Johnny doesn’t seem worried much, and that makes me feel a heap better
than I did last night. There’s one thing, though, that’s not so good,”
he added glumly.
“What’s that?”
“He made me promise to keep away from Devore. Anyway, until after the
game. And I suppose by that time I’ll get over my mad and the little
rat never will get what’s coming to him!”
“Hard lines,” laughed Bert. “Maybe Johnny has something in mind for
Devore, though. I wouldn’t be surprised, Chick.”
Chick brightened. “Say, I never thought of that! I wonder! I hope he
has!”
Chick had a lot more to say, much of it repetition of what had gone
before, and talked until darkness settled in Number 21. Bert encouraged
him, heartily glad that the old enthusiastic Chick had returned.
Chick was all for self-sacrifice and service, eager to make amends,
filled with a new fervor of loyalty. It might not last, but Bert hoped
it would. The loyalty seemed to be more toward Mr. Cade than toward
the Team or the School, but that was not important. Results were what
counted.
There was a long, rather halting period of practice on Monday, with
most of the time given to smoothing out the plays to be used against
the ancient enemy. Bert shared the backfield with Ted Ball, Nip
Storer and Jim Galvin during the drill and during a large part of the
scrimmage with the Second. He discovered that he felt more at home
there than before, that he seemed to fit in better. Perhaps he only
imagined it, but it did appear as though Nip and he worked together
particularly well, and he had a feeling that Nip thought so too. He
began to suspect that Ted had known what he was talking about Saturday
evening and that it was possible after all that Mr. Cade meant to start
him against Kenly.
Chick was a revelation that day, and continued as such right through
the week, or at least until the end of practice on Thursday. Thursday
saw the last hard work of the season. Chick was like the player who
had held down the right end position last fall; into everything hard,
fighting every minute, taking knocks and giving them with a laugh,
tackling like a demon and tackling for keeps, pulling down passes
even when it seemed they couldn’t be reached and comporting himself
generally during those four last days like the brilliant player that he
really was. Fitz Savell fought him desperately, performing great deeds
himself in a despairing effort to hold his place, and the Team and the
School talked and marveled and credited a miracle. It was Tommy Parish
who advanced the theory, based on the two-inch wound that decorated
Chick’s forehead, that Chick had had an operation performed on his
brain!
Tommy didn’t accept Chick’s come-back with any enthusiasm. To Tommy
the rejuvenation was too good to be true; at least too good to be
permanent. He stated to all and sundry that it was merely a flash in
the pan, a grand-stand play that wasn’t to be taken seriously. He
wandered into Number 21 Thursday morning between recitations, when the
open door revealed Bert alone over a book, and eased himself against
the closed portal and lugubriously munched nuts until the host took
cognizance of his presence.
“Get out of here, Tommy, you and your everlasting peanuts,” said Bert
sternly. “I’ve got a recitation in fifteen minutes and two more pages
of this stuff to go over. Fade away, son!”
“These aren’t peanuts,” replied Tommy with funereal gravity, “they’re
pecans. Have some?”
“No, and you heard what I said.”
“Sure.” But Tommy didn’t move. “Say, tell me this, will you, Bert? Is
Chick going to get into that game day after to-morrow? First-off, I
mean.”
“How the dickens do I know? But why shouldn’t he? Hasn’t he been
playing corking good football lately?”
“Lately? Three or four days, yes. That doesn’t mean anything. Put him
in against Kenly and he’ll play as rotten as ever.”
“Oh, forget it, Tommy. And get out of here before I lam you with a
book.”
“I’m going. Don’t be so jumpy. Say, you want to look after your nerves
for a couple of days, Bert, or you’ll be shot to pieces by Saturday.
You ought to take long walks and--”
“I’m going to take a short walk in just about three seconds,” answered
Bert grimly, “and it’s going to end where you’re standing, Tommy.”
“No, but honest, Bert. Long walks are what you need.” Bert pushed back
his chair and Tommy moved with a celerity no one would have suspected
him capable of. “All right, all right! Keep your dickey on! But, say,
let me tell you something, will you?”
“Yes, if you make it mighty short.”
“Well, it’s this. I don’t approve of Johnny starting Chick next
Saturday and I’m going to see that he doesn’t.”
“You are! _You_ are! Don’t make me laugh, Tommy! How are you going to
do it?”
“I know a way. I warned you a week ago that I didn’t intend to see the
Team beaten, when it doesn’t need to be, by playing second-raters. You
tell Chick for me that I’m out to get him. I don’t want to tell tales,
but when it’s a duty--”
“Tommy, you’re sickening,” said Bert. “You’ve got it in for Chick for
no reason at all and you’re making an ass of yourself about it. You
take my advice and shut up, or--”
“I have not got it in for Chick,” declared Tommy emphatically. “Maybe
I don’t like him much, but that’s got nothing to do with this. This
is something between me and--and my conscience! I--I’ve got feelings.
Just because I can’t play football, or much of anything, fellows think
I don’t know about such things. I’m just a joke because I’m sort of
stumpy and have boils on my neck! Well, I’ve got more--more patriotism
than most of ’em, doggone ’em!” Tommy actually choked and a tear
trickled from the corner of one eye. “I’m for the School and the Team,
Bert, and I want to see Kenly everlastingly licked. And that’s why I
say Johnny hasn’t any right to take risks by playing Chick Burton or
any other fellow who isn’t a topnotcher. If he wants to put Chick in
for a little while after the game’s cinched, all right. I’m not kicking
about that. But Chick’s just soldiered all season, and you know it, and
Johnny knows it, and what he’s been doing the last two or three days
can’t make up for a whole two months of rotten playing!”
“Well, for Heaven’s sake!” gasped Bert.
“Shut up!” said Tommy, blinking hard. “I tell you I’ve got feelings!
And that’s why I’m going to tell Johnny what I know about Chick, even
if it is low-down. I’m thinking about the Team, I tell you, and Chick
and Johnny--and you, too--can go to the dickens!”
“What do you know about Chick?” demanded Bert, not certain whether he
wanted to laugh or get mad.
“I know that he hasn’t been keeping hours more than a third of the
time. You said Mooney was a friend of Chick’s in the village. Well, I
found out about Mooney’s, and I’ve seen Chick shooting pool there many
a night long after ten o’clock. And that’s why he’s been so rotten all
season. One reason, anyway. I’ve got as much interest in the Football
Team as any one else, and I’m not going to see a fellow who won’t even
keep in training get placed on--”
“Johnny knows all about that, Tommy,” interrupted Bert, “and so you can
save your breath.”
“Yes, he does! That’s likely, isn’t it?”
“It’s true nevertheless. He’s known it all the season. Don’t go and
tell tales when there’s nothing to be gained by it, Tommy.”
“I don’t believe it! He’s your chum and you’re just trying to save him.
But you can’t fool me like that, Bert. I’ve warned you, mind! You tell
Chick what I say, because I don’t want to do him dirt.”
“Sounds like it,” laughed Bert. “What do you call it then?”
“I’m working for the Team, I tell you! I’d do the same thing if it was
you, or Ted Ball, or Jonas Lowe! Chick’s double-crossed Johnny and the
rest of us all the fall and he can’t pull any grand-stand stuff now and
get away with it while I’ve got a tongue. He’s cheated, and he’s got to
take his medicine!”
“Tommy, I tell you that Johnny knows all you’re going to tell him. I
give you my word. You’ll just make yourself look silly if you go to him
with--”
“You’re lying, Bert.” Tommy shook his head gently. “It’s all right,
though. He’s your friend.” Tommy’s hand wandered toward a pocket
mechanically. “I’m sorry I’ve got to do this.” He stuffed a few
nut kernels in his mouth and opened the door behind him. “Tell you
what I’ll do, Bert. I’ll give Chick until after dinner to think it
over. That’s fair. You tell him I say he’s got to keep off the team
Saturday. If he agrees to that I’m satisfied. But you let me know, see?
If I don’t hear from you by half-past one I’m going to Johnny and spill
the whole thing.”
“Oh, go to the dickens,” fumed Bert. “Get out of here, you crazy nut!
Beat it!”
“One-thirty,” said Tommy hopefully as he disappeared. “You talk to him,
Bert. Tell him I say it’ll be all right--”
The door slammed shut just before a copy of “Eugénie Grandet” reached
it.