"PRIN." GETS IN THE PRACTICE
If Dodge and Bayliss devoted any time to farewells among their
late fellow-students before quitting Gridley the fact did not
seem to leak out.
Yet despite the absence of two young men who considered themselves
of such great importance the Gridley High School appeared to go
on about the same as ever.
It was the season of football, and nearly of the school's interest
and enthusiasm seemed to spend itself in that direction. Coach
Morton did all in his power to push the team on to perfection;
the other teachers worked harder than ever to keep the interest
of the students sufficiently on their studies. The girls, as
well as the boys, suffered from the infection of the gridiron
microbe.
Five more games with other High School teams were fought out,
and now Gridley had an unbroken record of victories so far for
the season.
Such a history can often be built up in the athletics of a High
School, but it has to be a school attended by the cream of young
manhood and having an abundance of public interest and enthusiasm
behind it all.
Not at any time in the season did Coach Morton allow the training
work to slacken. Regularly the entire squad turned out for field
work. If the afternoon proved to be stormy, then four blasts
on the city fire alarm, at either two o'clock or two-thirty, notified
the young men that they were to report at the gym. instead.
There, the work, though different, was just as severe. The result
was that every youngster in the squad "reeked" with good condition
all through the season.
It is in just this respect that many a High School eleven fails
to "make really good." In a team where discipline is lax some
of the fellows are sure to rebel at spending "all their time training."
Where the coach exercises too limited authority, or when he is
too "easy," the team's record is sure to suffer in consequence.
Many a High School eleven comes out a tail-ender just because
the coach is not strict enough, or cannot be. Many a team composed
of naturally husky and ambitious boys fails on account of a light-weight
coach. On the other hand, the best coach in the country can't
make a winning eleven out of fellows who won't work or be disciplined.
Coach Morton's authority was unbounded. After the team had been
organized for the season it took action by the Athletics Committee
of the Alumni Association to drop a man from the team. But coach
and captain could drop the offender back to the "sub" seats and
keep him there. Moreover, it was well known that Mr. Morton's
recommendation that a certain young man be dropped was all the
hint that the Athletics Committee needed.
Under failing health, or when duties prevented full attention
to football training, a member of the team was allowed to resign.
But an offending member couldn't resign. He was dropped, and
in the eyes of the whole student body being dropped signified
deep disgrace.
In five out of the won games Dick Prescott had played left end,
and without accident. Yet, as it was wholly possible that he
might be laid up at any instant, the coach was assiduously training
Dan Dalzell and Tom Reade to play at either end of the line.
Other subs were rigorously trained for other positions, but Dan
and Tom were regarded as the very cream of the sub players in
the light-weight positions.
Dan had played left end in one of the lesser gables, and had shown
himself a swift, brilliant gridironist, though he was not quite
as crafty as Prescott.
Tom Reade had less of strategy than Dan but relied more upon great
bursts of speed and in the sheer ability to run away from impending
tackle.
Now the boys were training for the team's eighth game, the one
to be played against the Hepburn Falls High School, a strong
organization.
"Remember that a tie saves the record, but that it doesn't look
as well as a winning," Coach Morton coaxed the squad dryly, as
they started in for afternoon practice.
"We miss the mascot that the earlier High School teams used to
have," remarked Hudson.
"Yes? What was it?" inquired coach.
"Why, bully old Dr. Thornton used to drop in for a few minutes,
'most every practice afternoon?" replied Hudson. "I can remember
just how his full, kindly old face, with the twinkling eyes, used
to encourage the fellows up to the prettiest work that was in
then. Oh, he was a mascot---Dr. Thornton was!"
Coach Morton was of the same mind, but he didn't say so, as it
would sound like a rejection on the present unpopular principal,
Abner Cantwell.
This afternoon there was no real team practice Mr. Morton wanted
certain individual play features brought out more strongly. One
of these was the kicking of the ball.
After several had worked with the pigskin Morton called out:
"Now, Prescott, you take the ball, and drop back to the twenty-five-yard
line. When you get there name your shot---that is, tell us where
you intend to put the ball. Where doesn't matter as long as it
is a long kick and a true one. After you name your shot, then
run swiftly to the center of the field. From there, without a
long pause, kick and see how straight you can drive for the point
you have named."
"All right, sir," nodded Dick. Tucking the pigskin under his
arm, he jogged back to the twenty-five-yard line.
"Right over there!" called Dick, pointing. "I'll try to drop
the ball in the front row of seats, second section past the entrance."
"Very good, Prescott!"
No one was sitting in the section named by Prescott, but a few
onlookers who had been squatting in a section near by hastily
moved.
"The duffers! They needn't think I am going to hit them with
the ball," muttered Dick. Then he started on a hard run.
Just at center he stopped abruptly, swung back his right foot
and dropped the ball.
It was a hard, fast drive. The ball arched upward, somewhat,
though it did not travel high.
But to Dick, standing still to watch the effect of his kick there
came a sudden jolt. A man had just appeared, walking through
the entrance passage. His head, well up above the sloping sides
of the passage at this point, was not right in line with the ball.
And that man was Principal Cantwell!
Several members of the squad saw what might happen, but every
one of them was too eagerly expectant to make a sound to prevent
the threatened catastrophe.
Dick saw and half shivered. Yet in his desire to say something
in the fewest words of warning, all he could think of was:
"Low bridge!"
Nor did Coach Morton succeed in thinking of anything more helpful,
for he shouted only:
"Mr. Cantwell!"
"Eh?" asked the principal, turning toward the coach and therefore
not seeing the ball that was now nearly upon him.
Mr. Cantwell, on this afternoon, having a few calls in mind, had
arrayed himself in his best. He wore a long black frock coat
which, he imagined, made him look at least as distinguished as
a diplomat. In the matter of silk hats, being decidedly economical,
Mr. Cantwell allowed himself a new one only once in two years.
But new one had been due; he had just bought one, and now wore
this glossy thing in the latest style.
There was no time for more warning.
The descending ball was in straight line with that elegant hat.
Bump! The pigskin struck the hat full and fair, carrying it from
the principal's head.
On sailed hat and football for some three feet, the hat managing
to run upside down.
R-r-r-rip! The force with which the football was traveling impaled
the hat on a picket at the side of the stand. Then, as if satisfied
with fits work, the football struck and bounded back, landing
at the principal's feet.
For one moment Mr. Cantwell was dumb with amazement.
Then he saw his impaled hat and realized the extent and tragedy
of his loss. The angered man went white with wrath.
"What ruffian did that!" he roared.
But the boys, unable to hold in any longer, had let out a concerted
though half-suppressed "whoop!" and now came running to the spot.
"Who kicked my hat off?" demanded the principal, pointing tragically
to the piece of headgear, through the crown and past the rim of
which the picket now stood up as though in triumph.
"You---you got in the way of---the ball, sir," explained Drayne,
trying hard to keep from roaring out with laughter.
"But some one kicked the ball my way," insisted the principal,
with utter sternness. "Don't tell me that no one did! That football
could not By through the air without some one propelling it.
Now, young gentlemen, who kicked that ball?"
"I did, Mr. Cantwell," admitted Dick, pushing his way through
the throng. "And I'm very sorry that anything like this has happened,
sir."
"On, you did it, oh?" demanded the principal, eyeing the young
man witheringly. "And you actually expect an apology to restore
my new and expensive hat to its former pristine condition of splendor?"
"I didn't know you were there, sir," Dick explained. "You didn't
appear until just after I had kicked the ball."
"Prescott is quite right, Mr. Cantwell," put in Coach Morton.
"None of us knew you were here in the passage until the ball
had been kicked---not, in fact, until the ball was almost upon
you."
"Then, when you saw me, why didn't you call out to warn me?" demanded
the principal, still fearfully angry, though trying to keep back
unparliamentary language.
"I did call out, sir," replied Dick. "There was mighty little
time to think, but I called out the two quickest words I could
think of."
"What did you call?" demanded the principal.
"I yelled 'low bridge!'"
"A most idiotic expression," snorted the principal. "What on
earth does it mean, anyway?"
"It means to duck, sir," Prescott answered.
"Duck?" retorted Mr. Cantwell, glaring suspiciously at the sober-faced
young left end. "Now, what on earth does 'duck' mean, unless
you refer to a web-footed species of poultry?"
"Prescott was rattled, beyond a doubt, Mr. Cantwell," interposed
Coach Morton. "So was I---the time was so short. All I could
think of as to call out to you by name."
"With the result that I looked your way--- and lost my row hat,"
snapped the principal. He now turmoil to take the spoiled article
off the paling. He looked at it almost in anguish, for he had
been very proud of that glossy article.
"It's a shame," muttered Drayne, with mock sympathy.
"That's what it is," agreed Dave Darrin innocently. "But---Mr.
Morton---I think the matter can be fixed satisfactorily. If
you call this to the attention of the Athletics Committee won't
they vote to appropriate the price of a new hat out of the High
School athletics fund? You know, the fund is almost overburdened
with money this year."
"That might not be a bad idea," broke in the principal eagerly.
"Will you call this to the attention of the Committee, Mr. Morton,
For it was in coming here to watch the young men that I lost my
fine, new hat."
"Now, I'm heartily sorry," replied Mr. Morton, "but I am certain
the members of the committee will feel that money contributed
by the citizens of the town can hardly be expended in purchasing
hats for anyone."
"But-----" Mr. Cantwell began to expostulate. Then he stopped,
very suddenly. Just as plainly as anyone else present the principal
now saw the absurdity of expecting a new hat out of the athletics
fund. Mr. Cantwell shot a very savage look at innocent-appearing
Dave Darrin.
"My afternoon is spoiled, as well as my hat," remarked the principal,
turning to leave with as much dignity as could be expected from
man who bore such a battered hat in his hands.
"The hatter might be able to block your hat out and repair it,"
suggested Hudson, though without any real intention of offering
aid. "Our coachman had that sort of trick done to played-out
old silk hat that Dad gave him."
"Mr. Hudson," returned the principal, turning and glaring at this
latest polite tormentor, "will you be good enough to remember
that I am not extremely interested in your family history.
"Back to your practice, men!" called the coach sharply, after
the last had been seen of the back of the principal's black coat.
"It was too bad!" muttered Dick, in a tone of genuine regret.
"Say that again, and I'll make an effort to thrash you, Prescott!"
challenged Hudson, with a grin.
"Well, I am sorry it happened," Dick insisted. "And mighty sorry,
too."
"You couldn't help it."
"I know it, but that hardly lessens my regret. I don't enjoy
the thought of having destroyed anyone else's property, even if
I couldn't help it and can't be blamed.
"Prescott said he didn't know I was there!" exclaimed Mr. Cantwell
angrily to himself. "Bosh! That boy has been a thorn in my side
ever since I became principal of the school. Of course he saw
me---and he kicked wonderfully straight! Oh, how I wish I could
make him wear this hat every day during the balance of the school
year! Such a handsome hat---eight dollars!"
"It's a shame to tell you," confided Dave Darrin, as he and Dick
headed the sextette of chums on the homeward tramp, "but you're
certainly looking in great condition, old fellow."
"I feel simply perfect, physically," Dick replied. "I have, in
fact, ever since I first began to train in the baseball squad
last season. It's wonderful what training does for a fellow!
I know there's a heap of bad condition in the world, but I often
wonder why there is. Why, Dave, I ought to knock wood, of course,
but I feel so fine that it seems as though nothing could put me
out of form."
At that moment young Prescott had no idea how easily a few minutes
could bring one from the best possible condition to the brink
of physical despair.