THE NIGHT BEFORE
Thursday brought the season’s preparations to an end, saw the Second
Team disband--with noisy and appropriate ceremonies--and witnessed the
appearance of the Football Number of the “Doubleay.” The weekly was
still brimming with optimism on the subject of the Kenly game, but,
like more important publications, it was careful to leave itself an
avenue of retreat guarded by “Ifs.” Nevertheless the two-page article
was encouraging reading to those who wanted Alton Academy to win and
who were timorous about expecting her to. Of course there was the usual
biographical paragraph regarding each of the players and the absorbing
statistics of age, height and weight. And, finally, came “the probable
line-up for Saturday’s game,” as follows:
L.E. Kruger
L.T. Thomas
L.G. Wick or Meecham
C. Patten
R.G. Lowe (Captain)
R.T. Haines
R.E. Savell or Burton
Q.B. Ball
L.H.B. Storer
R.H.B. Ness or Hollins
F.B. Galvin
Bert rather expected Chick to voice objection to being relegated to
second place by the “Flubdub,” for the impression about the Academy
was that he had proved his right to start the game, an impression
that Chick doubtless shared. But there wasn’t even a murmur from him,
and Bert marveled. Bert had his own problem to solve, which was why
Ness’s name had been set down for the right half-back position. Ness
hadn’t played at right more than half a dozen times during the fall and
surely not since mid-season. He was first substitute for Storer, and as
such a very valuable member for the team. In the end, after mentally
considering all sorts of backfield combinations that included Tyron and
Keys and Walsh and even Parkhurst, Bert concluded that the “Flubdub”
had merely made a mistake. The “Flubdub” had been known to!
Commencing Tuesday, there was a cheer meeting every night that week.
Mr. Cade had advised the members of the squad to stay away from them,
and they did, but that didn’t prevent them from hearing a good deal of
the enthusiasm, for almost always the gathering in the auditorium, so
soon as the arranged program was concluded, adjourned to the campus and
started a fresh and impromptu celebration which usually kept up until
a faculty member appeared on the scene. Friday evening the outdoor
portion of the event was more than ordinarily prolonged and hectic, the
students marching from hall to hall, pausing in front of each for songs
or cheers or both, and finally winding up in front of the Principal’s
residence. In the dormitories, non-participants--squad members almost
without exception--leaned from open windows and looked and hearkened
with varying emotions. In 21 Upton, Bert and Chick and Dutch Kruger
foregathered at the casement and watched the ragged procession moving
across the sward from Haylow to the little mansard-roofed house
that stood by itself on the south edge of the campus. They were
singing “Gray-and-Gold,” and heard at that distance it sounded rather
impressive, rather stirring.
“Gray-and-Gold! Gray-and-Gold!
Let your colors brave unfold,
Wave away, bring dismay
To the foe we meet to-day.
March along, brave and strong,
Alton comes with cheer and song.
Naught can hold ’gainst courage bold!
Rah! Hurrah! for the Gray-and-Gold!”
The song ended and the cheering began. The dark mass spread fan-shaped
in front of the house. A light appeared in the hall. The cheering
subsided. “Can you hear him?” whispered Dutch. Chick shook his head.
“No. Just a word now and then. Not missing much, though, for Mac says
the same thing every year!” “‘Self-sacrifice and devotion,’” murmured
Bert. “I got that much.” The audience broke into a long “A-a-aye!”
of applause, was silent again. Chick yawned and drew away from the
window. “He’s good for another ten minutes, fellows.” “Well, I’m not,”
said Bert. Dutch held up his hand and waved an imaginary megaphone.
“Now, fellows!” he cried earnestly, aping a cheer leader. “Three long
sneers for Kenly! Every one into it! All together and let’s _go_!” The
imaginary megaphone was tossed aside, Dutch threw up his arms, bent
sideways, twiddled his fingers and swung his hands in an arc as he
straightened his body.
“_Sni-i-if! Sni-i-if! Sni-i-if! Ken-le-e-ey!_”
“Rotten!” scolded Dutch, shaking a fist in their faces. “They couldn’t
hear that across the field! Try it again and make it good, fellows!
_Come on!_”
“Can’t,” laughed Chick. “I’ve bust my sniffer!”
“Wait till I have a cold, Dutch,” said Bert. “Mac’s through. They’re
cheering again.” He went back to the window.
“_Doctor McPherson! Doctor McPherson! Doctor McPherson!_”
Then Freeman Naughton’s voice in the moment of succeeding silence, and
another cheer, loud and measured, ending with “Alton! _Alton!_ ALTON!”
The throng dispersed then, came trailing back over the grass in ones
and twos and larger groups, still singing, laughing, joyously noisy.
“Sometimes,” remarked Dutch, leaning over Bert’s shoulder, “it seems to
me the guys who get the most fun out of football are the ones who don’t
play!”
“You said a mouthful,” agreed Chick.
There was a final session in the gymnasium Friday evening. Some
thirty-five youths sat on the benches in front of the blackboard
and three coaches faced them. There was a much graver note apparent
to-night, the coaches spoke in lower tones, there was less mild
horse-play amongst the fellows. Mr. Cade drew and figured with his
chalk and asked questions, and now and then one or two of the players
arose and walked or trotted in front of the benches in explanation
of a point. There was no more drill, however, and only Mr. Cade made
anything approaching a speech, and that didn’t bear much resemblance.
After he had ended he held up a hand, anticipating Jim Galvin, who had
sprung to his feet. “No cheering, fellows! Leave that for to-morrow.
And see that you’ve something to cheer for! Every one straight to the
dormitories now and get to bed before ten o’clock. Squad dismissed!”
But not all the squad, for he detained Ted Ball and Chick and Bert.
Mr. Lake and Mr. McFadden remained also, deep in a discussion. Mr.
Cade straddled a bench and brought forth a voluminous document from
a pocket. “Thought you’d be interested, Burton,” he said. “And you,
too, Hollins. Ball knows about it.” Chick accepted the three sheets of
paper, unfolded them and read, with Bert looking over his shoulder.
The letter was addressed to Mr. Cade and ran as follows:
“Some of the fellows on your team have been doing a lot of
talking around town lately and giving secrets away right and
left. The writer isn’t telling any names but if you don’t
believe it look at the end and see. Some unscrupulous parties
have given this information to the Kenly Hall football coaches
and you’ll be in a mean jam if you use these plays and a lot
more against them. They know more than a dozen of our best
plays, formations, signals and so forth and I’m telling you
this as a sympathizer so you won’t get caught napping and try
those plays and so forth on Kenly. It’s rotten business, Mr.
Cade, and some one ought to be made to suffer, but you know
how it is when people get a chance of making a little money.
Take the advice of a well-wisher and don’t try the plays you
were intending to use because you’ll get licked hard if you do.
Kenly Hall is hep to the whole works and is looking for those
plays. I would sign my name only the fellows who are doing
this dirty trick would make it hot for me if they knew I had
squealed. Yours for Fair Play, and best wishes for success,
“UNKNOWN.”
Followed two sheets on which were drawn, rather neatly, three football
plays, among them Number 14. There were one or two minor inaccuracies,
but any one familiar with such matters could easily have fathomed the
diagrams. Chick handed the documents back, looking questioningly at Mr.
Cade. “What are you going to do, sir?” he asked anxiously.
“We’re going to use the plays; that is, that 14; the others are
already discarded, you know. The whole business is a bluff, just as we
suspected. You can read that in every line.”
“Gee, I hope so!” muttered Chick. “Aren’t you going to do anything to
Devore, sir?”
“N-no, not exactly.” Mr. Cade smiled. “It may comfort you to know,
however, that Joe Manter--I mentioned Joe, didn’t I?--has covered the
money put up by Mr. Devore’s--er--syndicate. About two hundred dollars,
I believe. Joe got odds of four to five.”
“You mean he’s bet two hundred dollars that we’ll win?” asked Chick
incredulously.
The coach nodded. “About a hundred and seventy, I believe. I don’t know
how much of the two hundred belongs to Devore, but if Kenly loses he’s
bound to be unpopular around town for awhile!”
“A hundred and seventy’s a good deal of money for a newspaper reporter
to have,” observed Bert. Mr. Cade met his gaze and nodded gravely.
“He didn’t put it all up himself, Hollins. I understand that three or
four others went into it. Personally I don’t approve of betting. In the
present case, however, as a means of applying punishment where it’s
richly deserved--well, I find justification for it!”
“But--but, gosh,” exclaimed Chick. “If we don’t win the game Manter
loses his money!”
“Undeniably, Burton,” replied the coach cheerfully. “There is generally
an element of uncertainty in betting.”
“Well, I hope we win,” sighed Chick.
“And so do I. If Joe loses his wager--” and Mr. Cade glanced briefly
at Bert-- “I shall feel, to some extent, as though it were a personal
loss!” He arose in token that the conference was at an end and the
three boys said good night. Outside, Ted chuckled.
“Bet I know who the three or four are,” he said. “He and McFadden and
Lake!”
“Do you suppose so?” asked Bert. “Say, we’ve got one more reason for
winning, Chick; to part Devore from his money!”
“I’d like to part him from his head,” growled Chick.
As the chums entered Upton, Bert descried Tommy Parish ascending the
stairs. Tommy looked back and accelerated his pace, but in the next
corridor he was still in sight as Chick opened the door of Number 21,
and as Bert prepared to follow Chick in a loud hiss came from farther
down the hall. Tommy was beckoning. Bert obeyed the summons and Tommy
came half-way back and spoke in whispers.
“Say, Bert, I thought you’d like to know that I didn’t spill that to
Johnny. I meant to, but--well, it seemed too rotten mean. Maybe we’ll
get beaten to-morrow, but--but there are some things a fellow just
can’t do, eh? Well, so long. _À chaque jour suffit sa peine, _old_
fève!_”
Bert felt a bit disappointed in himself that night. Chick was very
evidently nervous and wakeful and would have talked on and on long
after the light was out, but for the life of him Bert couldn’t keep
his eyes open more than twenty minutes after his head was on the
pillow! Recalling the confessions of Ted Ball and Lum Patten, he
concluded that there was something missing in his make-up. He pictured
Ted lying awake with Coles Wistar reading poetry to him through the
small hours and felt a trifle sorry for himself. Quite evidently he was
missing an excitement, a thrill, that belonged to a normal football
player on the eve of a big game. He answered Chick more and more at
random, his voice growing sleepier and sleepier, until finally--
He awoke to a gray world. There was mist on the window panes and
the steam pipes were clattering loudly. Chick still slumbered,
the bed-clothes tossed and snarled about him. The clock said
six-forty-seven. Bert tried to go back to sleep for the remaining
twelve minutes, but he couldn’t. If excitement had passed him by last
night it was in full possession of him this morning. He swung out of
bed, shivering, and looked reprovingly at the misted windows. What a
day for the Big Game!