STEVE WINNOWS SOME CHAFF
Two days later the third squad ceased to be and all but four of its
members retired to private life. Of those four, one was Steve. Steve
went on to the second team as substitute end. With him went Carmine,
Peters and Saunders, while from the second a batch of half-a-dozen
youths disappeared. That was the eighteenth of October. The candidates
who had survived this final cut were safe to finish the season out. Of
them some twenty-four were on the 'varsity and sixteen on the second.
The preliminary season was ended, and with the next game, that with
Benton Military College, which was to be played at Hastings-on-Sound,
the serious work might be said to begin.
The second, under Brownell, became a separate aggregation, moved to its
own training table in the dining-hall, had its own signals and practised
on its own gridiron. It even had its own coach, for a graduate named
Boutelle--soon shortened to "Boots"--appeared on the scene and took
command. "Boots" was a rather large man of thirty-odd years who had
graduated from Brimfield before the days of football there. He had
learned the game very thoroughly, however, at college, and was
enthusiastically eager to impart his knowledge. He was a friend of Mr.
Robey, and it was understood that he was giving his services as a favour
to the head coach. But it was soon evident that he was thoroughly
enjoying it, and he entered into his task with heart and soul. In fact
he was so anxious to develop a good team that one of the first things he
did was to unwittingly fall foul of the faculty. The third day there he
announced that until further notice there would be morning practice
between ten and twelve for all who could attend it. Morning practice
lasted one day. Then faculty drew the attention of Mr. Boutelle to the
rule which forbade the use of the athletic field to students during
recitation hours. Mr. Boutelle was disgusted and tried to argue about it
with the principal, but had to give in finally. But in spite of being
required to limit practice to the afternoon hours, the second came fast
and there were some very pretty games between it and the 'varsity in
those days.
Steve started in as a second choice right end, a chap named Sherrard
having first claim to the position. Tom was plugging along at right
guard and doing well. He was a trifle light for the place, but he was a
steady player and a heady one and it took him less than a fortnight to
oust his rival from the position. Tom was a surprise both to himself and
to Steve. Steve had never taken his chum very seriously as a football
player, probably because Tom was not the spectacular sort, but he was
forced to acknowledge now that the latter had beaten him at his own
game!
The members of the second didn't see the Benton game for the reason that
"Boots" wouldn't consider it at all. What, waste an afternoon looking on
when they might be holding practice? Not if he knew it! But the absence
of some sixteen members of the second team didn't keep Brimfield from
being well represented at that contest, for most every other fellow in
school journeyed across to Hastings-on-Sound with the 'varsity and
witnessed a very good, if in one way unsatisfactory, game. For Brimfield
and Benton tussled with each other through four ten-minute periods
without a score. Perhaps Benton had slightly the better of the argument,
although not many Brimfieldians would acknowledge it. At least, it is
true that Benton came nearer to scoring than her adversary when, on
Brimfield's five-yard line, she lost possession of the ball by a fumble.
On the other hand, Brimfield tried one field-goal from an impossible
angle and missed.
The next Monday, with several of the regulars out of the 'varsity
line-up, the second won a 6 to 0 victory, and "Boots," choosing to
ignore the 'varsity's weakness on that occasion, requested the second to
observe what could be accomplished by making the most of their
opportunities to practice! The fellows, quite as well pleased as their
coach, although not taking to themselves so much credit as he accorded
them, smiled, and said, "Yes, sir," very politely and winked amongst
themselves. But they liked "Boots"; liked him for his enthusiasm and for
the tireless energy he displayed in their behalf. If you can't make the
'varsity it is at least something to be able to help develop it, and
that is what the second was doing, very loyally and gladly. And when in
the process of aiding in its development it was possible to beat it, the
second shook hands with itself and was cock-o'-the-walk for days after!
Steve, like most others on the second, had relinquished hope of getting
on the 'varsity. A month ago he would have scornfully refused to
consider anything less than a position on the first team, but Steve had
had his eyes opened not a little. There _was_ a difference between the
sort of football played by Brimfield and the kind played by the
Tannersville High School team, and Steve now recognised the fact.
Perhaps he secretly still thought himself deserving of a place on the
'varsity--frankly, I think he did--but whereas a month ago he would not
have hesitated to make the fact known, he had since learned that at
Brimfield it was not considered good form to blow your own horn, as the
saying is.
But if he was disappointed at falling short of the final goal of his
ambition, he was nevertheless having a very good time on the second.
There was a lot of fine fellows there and the spirit of camaraderie was
strong, and grew stronger as the season progressed. The second was
perhaps almost as proud of their organisation as was the 'varsity of
theirs, and when, the week after the Benton game, they once defeated and
twice tied the other team, you might have thought they had vanquished
Claflin, so haughty and stuck-up did they become!
Steve played under a severe handicap that week, for once more he and
"Uncle Sim" were at outs. With Mr. Daley's assistance and encouragement,
and by a really earnest period of application on his own part, he had
successfully weathered the previous storm and had even been taken into
Mr. Simkins' good graces. But football is a severe taskmaster, if one
allows it to become such, and what with a strong desire to distinguish
himself on the second--animated to some extent by the wish to show Mr.
Robey what he had missed for the 'varsity--and a commendable effort to
profit by Marvin's teaching, he had soon begun to ease up on his Greek
and Latin, which were for him the most difficult of his courses. And now
"Uncle Sim" was down on him again, as Steve put it, and on the eve of
the Cherry Valley contest he was in a fair way to have trouble with the
Office. Mr. Simkins' patience, perhaps never very long, was about
exhausted. He had reason on his side, however, for Steve was by no means
the only student who was in difficulties at that time. On Friday morning
Mr. Simkins had indulged in sarcasm.
"Well, well," he said, leaning back in his chair and folding his hands,
"I dare say it is too much to require you young gentlemen to study when
it is such fine weather for football. What a pity it is that lessons and
play conflict, is it not, Wilson?"
Wilson was too canny to make audible reply, however, and the instructor
proceeded blandly.
"I wonder if Mr. Fernald would postpone recitations until after you
have finished football for the year. I think I'll suggest it to him.
For, really, you know, this sort of thing is only wasting my time; and
yours too, young gentlemen, for you might be out kicking a
leather-covered bag of wind around the ground instead of sitting here
cudgelling your poor brains--eh? Let us say heads, rather. The evidence
is too slight to warrant the use of the first word--cudgelling your
heads, then, trying to 'fake' lessons you've never looked at. I
sympathise with you deeply. I commiserate. I--I am almost moved to
tears. My heart goes out to you, young gentlemen."
Mr. Simkins looked so sad and woebegone that the older boys, who knew
him well, trembled in their shoes. The room was very silent. With Mr.
Simkins the storm was always in proportion to the calm, and the present
calm was indeed portentous. The instructor fought for a moment with his
emotions. Then he sighed.
"Well, until we have permission to discard recitations, I presume we
must go on with them, such as they are." His gaze roved sympathetically
over the class, most of whom showed a strong desire to escape his
attention. Finally, "Edwards," he said softly and, as it seemed to
Steve, maliciously, "let us proceed with the dull and untimely lesson.
Kindly translate the tiresome utterances of this ignorant man who
preferred wisdom and eloquence to athletics and football, Edwards. You
may begin where your--hm--brilliant predecessor regretfully left off.
For the moment, pray, detach your thoughts from the verdant meadows and
the sprightly football, Edwards. And--ah--don't, _please_ don't tell me
that you are not prepared. Somehow that phrase afflicts my ears,
Edwards, and were you to make use of it I should, I fear, be driven
to--ah--strong measures. Now, Edwards, if you will be so kind."
Well, Steve was _not_ prepared, as it happened, but he knew better than
to say so, and, putting on an expression of confidence and pleasure as
though Mr. Simkins had offered him the rarest of privileges, he plunged
bravely into a paragraph of Cicero's Orations. But it was hard going and
he was soon stumbling and hesitating, casting about desperately for
words. A long, deep sigh travelled from the platform.
"That will do, Edwards," said Mr. Simkins sorrowfully. "Your rendering
is novel and interesting. It is, possibly, an improvement on the
original matter, but the question very naturally arises, Edwards,
whether we have the right to improve on Cicero. Of course he had his
limitations, Edwards, and his faults, and yet"--Mr. Simkins shook his
head slowly and thoughtfully--"on the whole, Edwards, I think perhaps we
should accept him as we find him, viewing his faults with a leniency
becoming great minds, tolerating much, Edwards, for the sake of
the--ah--occasional golden kernel to be detected in his mass of chaff by
such giant intellects as yours. You _do_ detect an occasional kernel of
sense, Edwards?"
Steve, miserably pretending a huge interest in the cover of his book,
forebore to reply.
"You don't?" Mr. Simkins seemed both pained and surprised. "But I assure
you they are there, Edwards, few in number perchance, but really to be
found. Perhaps--hm--perhaps it would be a pleasant, at all events a
profitable, occupation for you to make an earnest search for them. If
you will see me after class, Edwards, I shall esteem it a pleasure to
indicate a few pages of chaff for you to winnow. Thank you. Pray be
seated."
That was why Steve was in anything but an enviable frame of mind that
Friday evening. Mr. Simkins had pointed out exactly four pages of chaff
for his winnowing, and the winnowing was to be done with pen and ink and
the "occasional golden kernels" indicated by Steve on the margin of his
paper. Steve was angry and depressed.
"What's the use of trying to get along with him?" he demanded of Tom.
"He has it in for me, and even if I had every lesson down pat he'd be
after me all the time just the same. If it wasn't for--for the team I'd
quit right now."
"Don't be a chump," replied Tom good-naturedly. "You know yourself,
Steve, you haven't been studying lately."
"Well, where's a fellow to get time to study?" asked Steve. "Look at
what I have to do this evening!"
"You won't do it if you don't sit down and get started," said his chum
soothingly. "You tackle the other stuff and then I'll help you with that
Latin. I guess we can get through it together."
"It'll take me an hour to do those six pages," grumbled Steve. "I wish
Simkins would choke!"
Steve got by on Saturday, with difficulty, but had a hard time of it
when the instructor requested him to give his reasons for selecting
certain passages of the immortal Cicero as being worthy of especial
commendation. The rest of the class found it very amusing, but Steve
failed to discern any humour in the proceedings. Fortunately, Mr.
Simkins was merciful and Steve's martyrdom was of short duration. After
that, for a few days at least, Steve's Latin was much better, if not the
best.
The game with Cherry Valley deserves only passing mention. Viewed
beforehand as a severe test of the Brimfield team's defence, the contest
proved a walkover for the Maroon-and-Grey, the final score standing 27
to 6. Cherry Valley was weak in all departments of the game, and her
single score, a touchdown made in the fourth period, was hammered out
when all but two of the Brimfield players were first and second
substitutes. Of Brimfield's tallies two were due to the skill of
Hatherton Williams, who twice placed the pigskin over the bar for
field-goals, once from the twenty-five yards and once from near the
forty. The Brimfield backs showed up better than at any time in the
season, and Norton and Kendall gained almost at will. There was still
much to criticise and Mr. Robey was far from satisfied with the work of
the eleven as a whole, but the school in general was vastly pleased.
Coming a week after that disappointing 0 to 0 game with the military
academy, the Cherry Hill game was decidedly encouraging.
So far Erie Sawyer had treated both Steve and Tom with silent contempt
whenever he encountered them, although his scowls told them that they
were by no means forgiven. Naturally, since Eric was on the 'varsity and
the two chums on the second, they saw each other practically every
afternoon on the field or in the gymnasium. But it wasn't difficult to
avoid a real meeting where so many others were about. Roy Draper
pretended to think that Eric was only biding his time, waiting for an
opportunity to murder the two in cold blood, and delighted to draw
gruesome pictures of the ultimate fate of his friends.
"I guess what he will really do," he said on the Sunday afternoon
following the Cherry Valley game when he and Harry Westcott were in
Number 12 Billings, "is to decoy you both over to the Sound some fine
day and drown you."
"Just how will he manage it?" asked Tom, who was tumbling everything in
the room about in his search for a mislaid book.
"He will probably tie heavy weights to your necks and drop you into a
deep hole in the ocean," replied Roy promptly. "Then you will be eaten
by sharks."
"And what would we be doing all the time he was tying the weights to
us?" asked Steve sarcastically.
"Nothing, because he'd chloroform you first," returned Roy triumphantly,
much pleased with his readiness. "You'd be insensible."
"Meaning without sense," murmured Harry. "It wouldn't take much
chloroform."
"Huh! Don't you talk!" said Steve. "You'll never have brain-fever!"
"Ha!" scoffed Harry. "Sarcasm, the refuge of small intellects!"
"Come on," said Tom. "It's nearly three-thirty. Bother Sawyer, anyway.
He's not troubling me any."
"That's all right," replied Roy, as he got up from the window-seat, "but
when you wake up some fine morning and find yourself bathed in your own
life's blood you'll wish you'd listened to me."
"I can't help listening to you. You talk all the time. Besides, I
shouldn't call it a fine morning if I woke up dead. I--I'd think it was
a very disagreeable day! Are you coming, Steve?"
"I suppose so," replied Steve with a groan. "I wish practice was in
Halifax, though. I'm tired to-day." He got up from his bed, on which he
had been lying in defiance of the rules, and stretched himself with a
yawn.
"You'll be tireder when the first gets through with us," said Tom
grimly. "Robey will sick all his subs on us to-day, I guess; and subs
always think they have to kill you just to show how good they are."
"If anyone tries any funny-business with me to-day he will get in
trouble," growled Steve as he pulled his cap on and followed the others
through the door. "I just hope someone will try it on!"
Tom's prediction proved correct. The first-string men were given easy
practice and faced the second for only ten minutes in scrimmage. Then
they were trotted off to the gymnasium and the 'varsity substitutes took
their places. Steve relieved Sherrard at right end in the second period
and played so poorly that he received more than one "calling-down" by
"Boots." His temper seemed to be in a very ragged condition to-day, and
he and Lacey, who played at left tackle on the first, got into several
rumpuses in which hands were used in a manner not countenanced by the
rules of football. Finally, Steve was sent off to make way for a second
substitute, who played the position so well during the few minutes that
remained that Steve became even more disgruntled. When practice was over
he joined Tom, Roy and Harry--the latter pair having watched proceedings
from the stand--and made his way to the gymnasium in a very poor state
of mind. Roy, who didn't believe in humouring folks, tried to twit Steve
on his "scrapping" with Lacey, but Steve flared up on the instant and
Roy was glad to change the subject. After that, Steve was gloomily
silent until the gymnasium was reached.
As chance had it, the first-string fellows had just completed dressing
and begun to leave the building as the others arrived there, and Steve,
leading the way through the big door, collided with a boy who was on his
way out. There was really plenty of room for the two to pass each other,
but Steve was not in a frame of mind to give way to anyone and the
result was that the other chap received the full force of Steve's
shoulder.
"Who are you shoving?" demanded an angry voice.
Steve turned and confronted Eric Sawyer. "Don't take all the room if you
don't want to be shoved," answered Steve belligerently. Eric was
accompanied by a younger fellow, who instantly withdrew to the safety of
the further side of the hall. "You're too big, anyway," continued Steve.
Tom and the others, at his heels in the open doorway, gasped and stared
at Steve in amazement. Eric's countenance depicted a similar emotion for
an instant, and I think he, too, gasped. Then he sprang forward and
gave Steve a push that sent him staggering away from the door.
"You fresh kid!" he growled. "You keep out of my way after this or
you'll get hurt. I've stood about all of your nonsense I mean to!"
Steve leaped back with clenched hands and flashing eyes, but Harry
stepped between, while Tom and Roy caught hold of Steve.
"That'll be about all, Sawyer," said Harry quietly. "You can't fight a
fellow a head smaller than you, you know."
"Don't you butt in," growled Eric. "I don't intend to fight him, but
I'll give him a mighty good spanking if he bothers me any more. Come on,
Whipple."
Steve, struggling against the grasps and pleas of Tom and Roy, strove to
get between Eric Sawyer and the door. "Spank me, will you?" he said
angrily. "You let me be, you fellows! Take your hands off me! I'll show
him he can't push me around!"
"I won't push you the next time," laughed Eric contemptuously. "I'll
turn you over my knee! You, too, you other freshie." He glared at Tom,
but Tom was too busy with Steve to make reply. "You want to both of you
keep away from me after this."
And, with a final scowl, Eric went out, followed by his companion who
ventured a weak and ingratiating smile as he passed. By that time the
hall was half-full of curious spectators, and Steve, finding his enemy
gone, allowed himself to be conducted to the stairway.
"I'm not through with him yet," he declared. "I'll teach him to push me
around like that!"
"Oh, cut it!" said Roy disgustedly. "Don't be a silly ass, Steve. You
began it yourself and you got what was coming to you. A nice fight you
would put up against Sawyer!"
"It's no affair of yours," replied Steve hotly. "No one asked you to
butt in on it, anyway. You too, Tom! The next time you keep out of my
affairs. Do you understand?"
Tom said nothing, but Roy shrugged his shoulders as they entered the
locker room. "If you want to make a fool of yourself, all right, Steve.
I won't interfere again. Don't worry."
"I'm no more of a fool than you are," responded Steve. "You fellows make
me sick. Just because Sawyer's a little bigger, you let him kick you all
over the shop."
"He's never kicked me," drawled Harry. "But if he tried to I'd run. I
may not be a hero, but I know what's what! Put your head under the cold
water tap, Steve."
Steve replied to that advice with a scowl, and Harry and Roy turned back
to make their way upstairs again and across to Torrence.
"He acted like a silly kid," said Roy crossly.
"Yes, he was in a beast of a temper to-day, anyway. Wonder what's the
matter with him. He's like a bear with a sore head. He had pluck to
stand up to Sawyer, though. I'd have run."
"So would he, probably, if he hadn't been so mad," chuckled Roy. "You
can be awfully brave if you get mad enough!" Then he added more
seriously: "Sawyer will get him some day surely, after this."
"Oh, Sawyer isn't as bad as he's painted, I guess," replied Harry. "The
trouble with Steve is that he's pig-headed or something."
"He fancies himself a bit," said Roy. "He will get over it after he's
been here longer. You can't help liking him, though, and I'll be sorry
if he gets out."
"Why should he get out?" asked Harry in surprise.
Roy shrugged. "Maybe he won't, but he will if he doesn't get a hunch
and buckle down to study. 'Uncle Sim' has got it in for him hard. Some
fine day Steve will get an invitation to the Cottage, Josh will tell him
a few things, Steve will get lumpy and--good-night! You see if it
doesn't turn out that way."
"Why the dickens doesn't he study, then?" grumbled Harry. "He's got
brains enough."
"Oh, sure, he's got the brains," answered Roy as he held open the door
at Torrence, "but he hasn't discovered yet that there's someone else to
think of besides Steve. If he doesn't want to do a thing he
won't--unless he's made to. Look at the way he played to-day! Just
because he felt lumpy he didn't think it was worth while to do anything
but scrap with that other chap. Folks won't stand for that very long and
some day Steve will wake up with a bang!"
"You going over to swim?" asked Harry when they had reached their room.
Roy shook his head gently. "Not this afternoon, I think, thanking you
just the same. I'd be afraid Steve would pull me under water and drown
me!" Roy chuckled as he seated himself and, thrusting his hands in his
trousers pockets, surveyed his shoes smilingly. "Poor old Steve! He's in
for a heap of trouble, I guess, before he gets ready to settle down as
a useful member of our charming little community."
"Seems to me," said Harry, "about the best thing you do to-day is
predict trouble for folks. You're as bad as What's-his-name's raven; you
croak."
"The gentleman's name was Poe," returned Roy sweetly. "But perhaps
you've never studied American literature."
"I thought Poe was a football hero at Princeton or somewhere," laughed
Harry. "What did he ever do for American literature?"
"American history was more in his line," replied Roy. "Football history.
Find your ball and let's go down and pass. I won't croak a single,
solitary croak, old thing."