Tug persuaded Reddy, B.J., Pretty, and Bobbles, who had not been
trying for the team, to come out on the field. He even coaxed the busy
Sawed-Off into postponing some of his work for a few days to help them
out. He thus had almost the old Lakerim eleven at his command; and
that very night, in that very room, they concocted and practised a few
secret tricks and a few surprises for Clayton, who was neither very
fertile in invention nor very quick to understand the schemes of
others.
Clayton was too sure of his own position and power to pay any heed to
the storm that was brewing for him, and was only too glad to see more
Lakerim men on the scrub team for him to abuse.
The next day Tug persuaded some of the others of the scrub eleven to
"lay off" for a few days, and he also persuaded the captain of the
scrub team to give him command for a week. Then he took his new
eleven, seven of them old Lakerim veterans, out on the field, and
worked with them early and late.
To instil into the heads of his men the necessity of being in just the
right place at the right time, Tug drew a map of the field on a large
sheet of paper, and spread it on his center-table; then he took
twenty-two checkers and set them in array like two football teams. He
gathered his eleven into his room at night, told each man Jack of them
which checker was his, and set them problems to work out.
"Suppose I give the signal for the left-guard to take the ball around
the right-end," he would say, and ask each man in turn, "Where would
you go?"
Then the backs drew their checkers up to position as interference, and
the tackles and guards showed what particular enemies they were to
bowl over. Many ridiculous mistakes were made at first, and each man
had a good laugh at the folly of each of the others for some play that
left a big hole in the flying protection. But they could practise at
night and worry it out in theory, while their legs rested till the
next day's practice.
When he could find an empty recitation-room at an idle hour,
"Professor Tug," as they soon called him, would gather his class about
him and work out the same problems on the blackboards, each man being
compelled to draw an arrow from his position at the time of the signal
to his proper place when the ball was in play.
The game now became a true science, and the scrub took it up with
a new zest. This indoor drill made it easy also to revive a trick
popular at Yale in the 'Eighties--the giving of one signal to prepare
for a series of plays. Then Tug would call out some eloquent gibberish
like "Seventy-'leven-three-teen," and that meant that on the first
down the full-back was to come in on the run, and take the ball
through the enemy's left-guard and tackle; on the second down the
right half-back was to crisscross with the left half-back; and on the
third down the right-guard was to scoot round the left-end.
The beauty of this old scheme was that it caught the enemy napping:
while he was lounging and waiting for the loud signal, the ball was
silently put in play before he was ready. On the fatal day Tug found
that the scheme was well worth the trouble it took. It has its
disadvantages in the long run, but on its first appearance at Kingston
it fairly made the varsity team's eyes pop with amazement.
Tug did not put into play the whole strength of his eleven, but
practised cautiously, and instructed his team in the few ruses Clayton
seemed to be fond of. He was looking forward to the occasion when a
complete game was to be played before the townspeople between the
varsity and the scrub; and Clayton was looking forward to this same
day, and promising himself a great triumph when the Academy and the
town should see what a rattling eleven he had made up.
The day came. The whole Academy and most of the town turned out and
filled the grand stand and the space along the side lines. It was to
be the first full game of the season on the Academy grounds, and every
one was eager to renew acquaintance with the excitements of the fall
before. You have doubtless seen and read about more football games
than enough, and you will be glad to skip the details of this contest.
It will be unnecessary to do more than suggest how Clayton was simply
dumfounded when he saw his first long kick-off caught by the veteran
full-back Punk, and carried forward with express speed under the
protection of Tug's men, who were not satisfied with merely running in
front of Clayton's tacklers, but bunted into them and dumped them over
with a spine-jolting vigor, and covered Punk from attack on the rear,
and carried him across the center line and well on into Clayton's
territory before Clayton realized that several of his pets were mere
straw men, and dashed violently and madly into and through Punk's
interference, and downed him on the 15-yard line; how the spectators
looked on in silent amazement at this unexpected beginning; how
promptly Tug's men were lined up, a broad swath completely opened with
one quick gash in Clayton's line, and the ball shoved through and
within five yards of the goal-posts, almost before Clayton knew it was
in play; how Clayton called his men to one side, and rebuked them, and
told them just what to do, and found, to his disgust, that when they
had done it, it was just the wrong thing to do; how they could not
hold the line against the fury of the scrub team; how the ball was
jammed across the line right under the goal-posts, and Clayton's head
well whacked against one of those same posts as he was swept off his
feet; how Tug's men on the line were taught to avoid foolish attempts
to worry their opponents, and taught to reserve their strength for the
supreme moment when the call came to split the line; how Sawed-Off,
though lighter than Clayton's huge 200 pound center, had more than
mere bulk to commend him, and tipped the huge baby over at just
the right moment; how Tug now and then followed a series of honest
football maneuvers with some unexpected trick that carried the ball
far down the field around one end, when Clayton was scrambling after
it in the wrong place; how Tug had perfected his interference until
the man carrying the ball seemed almost as safe as if Clayton's men
were Spaniards, and he were in the turret of the U.S.S. _Oregon_; how
little time Tug's men lost in getting away after the ball had been
passed to them; how little they depended on "grand stand" plays by
the individual, and how much on team-work; how Tug's men went through
Clayton's interference as neatly as a fox through a hedge; how they
resisted Clayton's mass plays as firmly as harveyized steel; how
Clayton fumed and fretted and slugged and fouled, and threatened his
men, and called them off to hold conferences that only served to give
Tug's men a chance to get their wind after some violent play; how
Tug was everywhere at once, and played for more than the pleasure of
winning this one game--played as if he were a pair of twins, and only
smiled back when Clayton glared at him; how Punk guarded the goal from
the longest punts the varsity full-back could make, and how he kicked
the goal after all but one of the many touch-downs the scrub team
made; how little Jumbo, as quarter-back, passed the ball with never a
fumble and never a bad throw; how, when it came back to his hands,
he skimmed almost as closely and as silently and as swiftly over the
ground as the shadow of a flying bird, and made long run after long
run that won the cheers of the crowd; how B.J., Sawed-Off, and Pretty,
as right-end, center, and left-end, responded at just the right
moment, and how Pretty dodged and ran with the alertness he had
learned in many a championship tennis tournament; and how Reddy, as
left half-back, flew across the field like a firebrand, or hurled
himself into the line with a fury that seemed to have no regard for
the bones or flesh of himself or the Claytonians; how--