THE GAME WITH THE ETONIANS
Most of the California schools and colleges play Rugby football,
like the English and the Australians. But a good many schools which
prepare students for eastern colleges still play the American game,
and among these are Santa Benicia, Hike’s school; the great San
Dinero Preparatory School, where the sons of millionaires learn polo
and (say the Santa Benicians) brush their teeth with gold brushes;
and the Berkeley Etonian School.
The Etonians were not very dangerous, but the Santa Benicians liked
to make a good meal on them, about October, to whet their teeth for
Dumnor High School, and the big San Dinero game. In the game with the
Etonians, the team assumes what is likely to be its final shape; so
all the friends of the players come out with yells concealed in their
throats, to cheer particular friends.
Poodle Darby, wearing a large and gaudy sweater, was very conspicuous
on the home-ground bleachers, as the crowd flocked in for the Etonian
game. He was explaining that, as Hike had been not only captain and
right-half, on the Freshman team of the year before, but also easily
the best player, Hike was certain to make good in the position of
left-half on the school team, in which he was to be finally tried out
at this game.
In the dressing room, Hike was putting on his shin-guards, singing.
He was not nervous. Though he was anxious lest the coach or captain
might take him out of the game, he was mad with desire to get into a
scrimmage—or to be flying swiftly, in the _Hustle_, against a head
wind; he didn’t much care which. It seemed advisable, first, however,
to attend to the Etonians. He paid little attention to the knot about
Poodle, which cheered him as he came out on the field. He merely
started getting up steam by passing the ball.
When the team ran up against the Etonians after about the first down,
they had the surprise of their lives. This time, they were not facing
one of the mobs of half-sized boys which the Etonians usually called
a team, but a sturdy bunch with play like clock-work and a grit that
made up for their lack of weight. The Santa Benicians tried again and
again to rush the ball through the line, but the Etonians hung on
like bull-pups.
Once, Hike got clear with the ball, but he was tackled by two
Etonians and came down in ten yards. Once, Bunk Tarver, at
right-end, recovered an onside kick, just at the end of the first
half, and made the only touch-down of the first half. Snifty Carter
missed his goal-kick. The Santa Benicians on the bleachers cheered
only half-heartedly. Where were the brilliant team-plays, the forward
passes, the long runs, and the magnificent punts which they expected
to see brought out of cover during this game? Where, oh, where?
And the coach, a Princeton crack, asked the same; only he asked it
over and over, making most uncomplimentary references to a “bunch
of butter-fingered dough-heads,” as he addressed the team between
the halves. He warned Taffy Bingham, the right-tackle, that he was
playing carelessly, and that the line would get a hole bored in it,
unless he watched out. Taffy deliberately turned his back and paid
little attention. The coach, who hated Taffy’s sneers, longed to be
able to put some one else in his place, but had no one so good.
Early in the second half, Taffy was playing more carelessly than
ever, though Bill McDever, captain of the team, and right-guard, used
terrific language to him. And just then the Etonians got through,
brushed Taffy aside, tossed on a trick, and landed a touch-down.
Furthermore, they kicked goal successfully—and now their score was
ahead of the Santa Benicians.
Poodle was biting the front of the seat above him, and kicking as
though dying of three or four diseases at once, while the hundred
rooters that the Etonians had brought danced all over each other.
Then the Etonians held the Santa Benicians down for fifteen terrible
minutes, till Hike, Hike Griffin, got around left end on a fake kick,
and made a forty-yard run, while the whole school gasped, afraid to
breathe. A fast little Etonian, caught at him as he passed, but he
shook the sprinter off with a laugh, and loped ahead. The breeze hit
his face; he made b’lieve—just plain made b’lieve—that he was driving
the _Hustle_ before Congress and the President; gritted his teeth,
and fled toward the Etonian goal. As he reached a clear field, the
Santa Benicians all rose and bawled, “Hike, Hike, hike; hike, Hike,
hike!” He hiked.
He made that touch-down. Captain Bill McDever reached him, pounded
him on the back, and grinned, asking cheerfully, “What were you
running so fast for? Nobody near you. Save your wind.” Poodle had
sneaked into the field. He got there just in time to explain. “Hike
forgot his handkerchief and went back to get it,” before he was
ordered off the field.
Then, to add to the general joy, Snifty Carter kicked goal, safely.
For the rest of the game, not another score was made. But the game
was won for Santa Benicia and—but let Poodle explain—“and Hike had
that job as right-half cinched for the rest of his life, with a raise
every week!”
The team was stripping off sweaters and socks, when Taffy Bingham
came up to Hike.
“Griffin,” he said, “that was a great run you made. And it was my bum
playing that made it necessary. You made me want to buck up and—Shake
hands, Griffin—uh—_Hike_, old man!”
The coach said nothing, but he was very glad, because he knew that
this meant all the bad blood between Hike and Taffy had flowed by.
And Hike rejoiced, because he hated to have any one hate him. Also,
he now realized that he must have made a good run. He had been too
busy to think much about it. Timidly, he approached the coach and
asked, “Do you think I’ll have a chance to stick on the team, now?”
“Well, if you don’t put some _form_ into your running, and quit
thinking about chewing gum and aviating when you ought to get into
the game, we’ll use you for taking tickets,” growled the coach.
As that was all he said, Hike rejoiced, for he knew that he was
practically safe for three years of playing! Otherwise the coach
would have eaten him at one bite.
Lieutenant Jack Adeler was reading, that evening, amid a confusion of
diagrams of wireless instruments, and plans of motors, when Mousey
Tincom and four other Sophomores knocked.
“Please, sir, Lieutenant Adeler,” begged Mousey, “we heard that
you’ll give out the list of Soph. corporals to-morrow, and that
Griffin may be left out, because you were afraid it would look—not
look right—if you appointed—Hike, being a personal friend of
yours—Please, sir, we don’t want to butt in, but the whole class,
honest, sir—”
“Does the whole class really want him?” queried Lieutenant Adeler.
“Yes, sir.”
“All right. I understand.”
Next day when the military appointments were announced, Hike’s name
was among the corporals. And the only complaint the school made was
that Hike was not first sergeant.