STEVE GETS A SURPRISE
Mr. Fernald was surprisingly complaisant on Monday when the committee
from the second team waited on him at the Cottage. He gave them
permission to hold their banquet in the village and even said several
nice things to them about their share in the development of the
'varsity. He warned them against rowdyism, told them they must be back
promptly at nine o'clock and said he hoped they'd have a good time!
After which, much surprised and not a little embarrassed, the committee
backed out of the room and returned joyfully to spread the tidings. A
second committee, headed by Saunders, had already been appointed to
arrange for the banquet in case permission was secured and by Tuesday
everything was complete. I may say here that the event duly came off on
Thursday evening and was a big success. But as neither Steve nor Tom was
present, our interest in the banquet is slight.
On Monday the _Review_ came out. The school paper was published on the
twentieth of the month, and the December issue contained, among other
features, a rather interesting résumé of the football season by Mr.
Robey and a list of the games played to date. The coach's article was
too long to reproduce, but the summary of the season's contests was
brief enough to be set down here:
Sept. 30--Brimfield 10; Thacher 3
Oct. 4--Brimfield 10; Canterbury 7
Oct. 7--Brimfield 26; Miter Hill 0
Oct. 14--Brimfield 3; Larchville 17
Oct. 21--Brimfield 0; Benton 0
Oct. 28--Brimfield 27; Cherry Valley 6
Nov. 4--Brimfield 12; Phillips 0
Nov. 11--Brimfield 9; Chambers 30
Nov. 18--Brimfield 39; Southby 7
Brimfield had played nine games, of which she had won six, lost two and
tied one, not a bad record, as the _Review_ rather complacently pointed
out, for a school whose football history dated back but a few years. But
Brimfield didn't waste much time contemplating past performances. Had
the team won every game in its schedule by an overwhelming score, the
season would still be a dismal failure if it lost to Claflin, just as,
if it finally won its big game, the school would rise up and call it
blessed even had it lost every other contest of the season. In other
words, Claflin was the only foe that really counted, and the Claflin
game was the final test by which the Brimfield Football Team stood or
fell.
Claflin School, at Westplains, New York, some twelve miles distant from
Brimfield, was a larger school in point of enrolment, a very much older
school and far more "select." I don't intend to imply by that term that
the Claflin students were a finer set of fellows than those at
Brimfield. Doubtless they would have averaged up about the same. But
Claflin liked to be considered "select" and so I might as well accord
her the distinction. Claflin had been educating the youth of New York
and surrounding states for almost a hundred years, and nowadays fathers
applied for admission for their boys about as soon as the boys were
born. The school was in that respect like a club with a long waiting
list. If a boy wasn't "entered" by the time he was five or six years old
at the latest, he stood small chance of getting in when the time came.
Claflin had won from Brimfield three years on end, or ever since they
had been playing together. She had started out by according Brimfield a
mid-season date. The following year she had placed the game a week later
and last year she had put it last on her schedule, Brimfield having by
then proved herself an adversary of real merit. Oddly enough, Claflin
had for some time been without a special rival and had gladly bestowed
the honour on the Maroon-and-Grey as soon as the latter had shown
herself worthy. This fall Claflin had had an unusually successful
season, having played seven games and won all but the last, that with
Larchville. Larchville, who had defeated Brimfield 17 to 3, had also
taken the measure of Claflin to the tune of 12 to 6. Brimfield read of
it in the Sunday papers and took comfort. After all, Claflin was not
unbeatable it seemed. Her defeat by Larchville, coupled with Brimfield's
overwhelming victory over Southby, lent next Saturday's game a roseate
glow, viewed from a Brimfield view-point. In fact, by Monday Brimfield
was almost confident of at last winning from the Blue, and the question
of a proper celebration of the victory was up for discussion. Of course
it should be a whopping big bonfire, with a parade and speeches and
singing and plenty of music! But Brimfield had never yet celebrated such
a stupendous event and consequently there were no precedents to guide
them. Neither was it known what attitude faculty would take in regard to
such an affair. But a few choice spirits in the upper forms made
tentative arrangements to the extent of picking out a likely spot in a
corner of the athletic field for the fire and locating such loose
material as might come in handy as fuel.
Monday's practice was short and easy. Even the second had an off-day.
The 'varsity players were given a blackboard lecture in the meeting-room
in the gymnasium after supper and were put through an examination on
plays and signals. On Tuesday the practice was as stiff as ever. Coach
Robey was not altogether satisfied with the defence, and there were
forty-five minutes of the hardest sort of scrimmage in which the second
was given the ball at various distances from the 'varsity goal and told
to put it over. The field was closed to spectators that day and it was
hard hammer-and-tongs football all the way. "Boots" drove the second
with whip and spurs and the second responded nobly. But the best it
could do was to drop a field-goal over the bar in the third period of
the scrimmage, after having been held a half-dozen times by a desperate
adversary. Steve played about as well that afternoon as he had ever
played in his life. For once he had no worries on his mind. To be sure,
there was still his falling-out with Tom and his quarrel with the school
at large, but those things seemed rather to lend him a new strength than
to bother him. He played with a dash and a reckless disregard for life
and limb that made Coach Robey observe him with a new interest. Tom
performed with his customary steadiness and more than once put it over
on Fowler and on Churchill, who substituted him. They were some three
dozen very tired youths who finally straggled back to the gymnasium when
the work was over.
On Wednesday the last real practice of the season was to be held, since
the Thursday performance was more in the nature of an exhibition for the
school than real work, and on Friday afternoon the team was to journey
over to Oakdale, on the Sound, and remain there until Saturday forenoon.
But the weather proved unkind on Wednesday. In the middle of the
forenoon the wind veered around to the south and a drizzle of rain set
in. By three o'clock the drizzle had grown into a very respectable
downpour and the gridiron was slow and slippery. But Mr. Robey was not
to be deterred and, with Danny Moore anxiously hovering about like a hen
with a batch of ducklings, the 'varsity was put through a half-hour of
signal work, punting and catching. Then the second, wet and muddy, came
across to the first team gridiron and the two elevens leaped at each
other again. Danny followed close behind, cautioning and scolding, and
more than one player was dragged out of the mêlée and sent off to the
gym in spite of the coach's pleas and protestations.
"I'll not have them hurted," reiterated Danny stubbornly. "'Tis no sort
of a day for hard work, Coach. I've got 'em through this far an' I'll
not be havin' them breakin' their legs an' arms for the sake of a bit of
practice, sir."
"Hang their arms and their legs!" fumed Mr. Robey. "They might as well
not have any as start the game Saturday half-baked! Give me a chance,
Danny!"
"'Tis takin' big chances, sir, playin' 'em on this sort of a field."
"Then we'll take chances!" growled the coach. "Now get in there, first,
and rip it up! Show what you can do! You've got six to go on third down;
put it over! Wait a minute! Thursby! Get in there for Innes and hold
that centre of the line steady."
"Trot all the way in, my boy, and get a good rubbin'," directed Danny to
the discomforted Innes. "Hi! Put your blanket on! Are you crazy?"
"Play lower there, Hall! Throw them back, second!" entreated "Boots."
"Don't let them have an inch!"
Then the first piled through Brownell for three yards, slipping in the
mud, panting, grunting to the accompaniment of thudding feet and the
_swish_ of wet canvas. Above the players a cloud of steam hovered as
they disentangled themselves. Danny darted into the confusion. Benson
was on his back, thrashing his arms.
"Water!" bawled Danny.
A helper raced on with a slopping pail. Danny's fingers went exploring.
"Ankle," groaned Benson, and Danny shot a triumphantly accusing look at
Coach Robey. In a minute Benson was being helped off and the game was on
again, but Mr. Robey showed a distinct aversion to meeting the trainer's
glance. Later, in the gymnasium, it was known that Benson had hurt the
bad ankle again and would not be able to play the game through on
Saturday, even if he was allowed to get into it at all. Coach Robey
accepted the tidings with a shrug and a scowl.
"Fine!" he said sarcastically. "Claflin's left end is the best player
they've got. Roberts will stand a fine chance against him! Look here,
Danny, I thought you said Benson's ankle was all right?"
"So I did! And so it was all right!" sputtered Danny. "But I didn't say
he could go out an' play on a field like that to-day, did I?"
"All right. It can't be helped now. Where's Captain Miller?"
Danny bent his head backward toward the rubbing room. "In there," he
answered shortly.
"Heard about Benson?" asked the coach.
Andy, looking a trifle pale and tired, nodded silently as the rubber
kneaded his back. Mr. Robey frowned a moment.
"You'll have to change over," he said finally. Andy grunted agreement.
"And we'll have to take Turner or Edwards from the second to-morrow and
beat him into shape."
"Edwards is the better," said Andy.
"I suppose so. If he played the way he played yesterday and to-day he
might have a chance against Mumford. Still----"
"I'd better take that end," said Andy. "Let Roberts start the game at
left and then put in Edwards--unless Benson mends enough."
"He won't," said the coach pessimistically. "You can't play end with a
sore ankle. He's out of it, Andy. Tough luck, too. I'll find Edwards and
tell him to join the squad to-night. He's got to learn signals and plays
and----" The coach's voice dwindled into silence and he gloomed
frowningly out the window. "I wish now I'd let Danny have his way," he
lamented. "We could have run through plays indoors and had a hard
practice to-morrow. Well----" He shrugged his shoulders again and his
gaze came back to Andy. "How are you?" he asked. "You look a bit
fagged."
"I'll be all right after supper," replied the captain. "I'll be glad
when Saturday night comes, though." And he smiled a trifle wanly as he
slipped off the table.
Mr. Robey grunted. "So will I. Somehow, this year seems to mean more,
Andy. Still, there's no use in worrying about it. Much better not think
of it any more than you can help."
"I know," agreed Andy as he wrapped a big towel about his glowing body
and moved toward the door, "but when you're captain it--it's a whole lot
different. There's Edwards over there. Shall I call him?"
The coach nodded. "I think so. He's better than Turner, isn't he? Left
end is Turner's position, though."
"Edwards'll take to it quick enough. He's got more bulldog than Turner
has, too. I guess he's the man for us. Oh, Edwards! Will you come over
here a minute?"
Steve pushed his way through the crowded aisles, past Thursby who winked
and grinned and whispered "You're going to catch it!" past Tom who
turned his head away as he approached, past Eric Sawyer, a big hulk in a
crimson bathrobe, who scowled upon him, and so to where, by the rubbing
room door, the captain and coach awaited him. It was Mr. Robey who
brusquely made the announcement. The coach was anxious and tired to-day
and his voice was harsh.
"Edwards, you join the 'varsity to-night. We may have to use you at left
end. Benson's pretty badly hurt, I understand. Be upstairs at
eight-fifteen promptly. You've got to learn the signals and about
fifteen plays before Saturday. Tell your coach I've taken you, please."
"Yes, sir." Steve's eyes, round and questioning, turned to the captain.
Andy smiled a little.
"Rather sudden, eh?" he asked. "Do your best to learn, Edwards. Get the
signals and plays down pat. There isn't much time, but you can do it if
you'll put your mind on it. You wanted to make the 'varsity, you know,
and now you've done it, and here's your chance to make good, Edwards.
But you've got to work like thunder, old man!" He laid a hand on Steve's
shoulder and his fingers tightened as he went on. "Everyone's got his
hands full right now, you see, and there's no one to coach you much.
You've got to buckle down and learn things yourself. You can do it, all
right. And on Saturday, if you get in--and I can't see how you can help
it--you've got to play real football, Edwards. Think you can do all
that?"
"Yes." Steve's heart was thumping pretty hard and his breathing was
uncertain, as though he had raced the length of the field with a pigskin
tucked in the crook of his arm, and his gaze sought the floor for fear
those two would read the almost tragic ecstasy that shone in them.
"Yes," he repeated, "I'll learn. And I'll--I'll play!"
"All right. You'd better join the 'varsity table to-night. See Lawrence
about it. That's all." Coach Robey nodded and turned away. Andy Miller,
following, paused and stepped back. One hand clutched the folds of the
big towel about him, the other was stretched out to Steve.
"I'm glad, Edwards," he said in a low voice as Steve's hand closed on
his. Steve nodded. He wasn't quite certain of his voice just then.
"You'll do your best for us, won't you, old man?"
Steve gulped. "I--I'll play till I drop," he muttered huskily.