An Old Enemy
Sandy Podder was the last person Garry and his chums cared to see at
that moment, torn and ragged as they were from their experience in the
hut and with their muddy clothes hanging on them soddenly.
But Sandy saw them and did not miss the opportunity of jeering at them.
He purposely passed so close to Cal's car as to splash more mud on them
and narrowly missed sweeping them from the running board. So slender
was the margin that Cal was forced partly to climb the grassy bank on
the farther side of the road to prevent being run down.
Yates shook his fist wrathfully after the disappearing car. He turned
and saw that the sudden swerve he had been forced to make had almost
thrown his father from his seat. The jolt had meant agony for the
wounded man. Cal Yates muttered furiously beneath his breath as he
stopped the car and helped his father to a more comfortable position.
"If it wasn't for you, Dad," he exclaimed, "I'd beat it back after
that skunk and whale him within an inch of his life! After I've got you
fixed, I'll do it, too! See if I don't!"
They reached the house, and the boys helped carry the wounded man
inside, where he was received with the tenderest consideration and
the doctor phoned for at once. Then the Lenox boys left, followed by
repeated thanks, promising to call soon to see how the wounded aviator
was getting along.
"We're sort of brothers-in-arms now," grinned Cal, as he bade the other
boys good-bye. "United for the downfall of one Sandy Podder. See you
again soon. S'long."
At the Grayson house the chums parted. They were sore and bruised,
eager for rest and a change to dry clothing.
"Meet you in the practice lot to-morrow, fellows," Garry called at
parting. "We'll need to get in some good practice, or Mr. Phillips
won't be able to see us with a telescope when it comes to making up the
team."
There was a good deal of excitement in several Lenox homes that night.
Mothers exclaimed at the sight of their tramplike young sons, and then
listened with bated breath as the boys told of the narrow escape they
had had either from being crushed by the airplane or being burned to
death.
Garry's mother was no exception, and Ella forebore to tease, in her
relief at having her brother returned to her safe and sound. Mr.
Grayson himself was scarcely less moved.
"Ross Yates," remarked Mr. Grayson later, when they had become calmer.
"I used to see that name frequently in the papers during the war.
He was one of the most daring of the American aces and must have a
trunkful of decorations. I'm glad you were able to be of service to
him."
It was a rather sorry-looking bunch of football players that met in the
lot back of Garry's home the following day. Their bruises were still
sore and irritating, despite hot baths and vigorous massaging.
"We're a fine bunch of cripples," declared Bill Sherwood, flexing his
lame right arm experimentally. "A team from an old men's home could put
it all over us."
"If Mr. Phillips could see us now, he'd have the jolt of his life,"
asserted Garry. "We've got to get the stiffness out of our joints some
way. So come on--let's snap into it."
As he spoke, Garry Grayson whipped the ball to Nick. The latter was
ruefully rubbing a sore knee. He saw the ball too late, made a frantic
grab at it, and missed.
A chorus of jeers greeted him, as he limped off sheepishly in pursuit
of the ball.
"Attaboy! The best miss I ever saw," gibed Ted.
"If Mr. Phillips had seen that, he'd have given you Ralph Wynn's place
right off the bat," added Rooster Long. "That's the kind of captain we
need to put pep into the team."
"Some one make that rooster stop crowing," grunted Nick, and,
forgetting his stiff knee, met the ball with his foot in a masterly
punt that, aimed for Rooster's head, hit him in the stomach and all but
knocked him over.
"Anyway, I know enough to hang on to the ball," retorted Rooster,
hugging the pigskin. "Which is more than some so-called football
players can say for themselves."
"Say, are we playing football or having a kidding match!" cried Garry
impatiently. "Pass me that football, Rooster. I want to find out."
After that they settled down to an hour of strenuous practice.
They brushed up on the signals, Garry giving the same set over and over
again until the play was made like clockwork, the swift punt, feint, or
forward pass timed to the fraction of a second.
In the interest aroused by the play sore muscles were ironed out
magically, and at the end of an hour's time the boys had almost
forgotten that there was anything wrong with them.
Rooster was practicing a place kick. Garry thought he was sending the
ball too high, and told him so.
"By the time that pigskin lands, the other fellows will be all set for
it," Garry contended. "They will have time to plan a counter-attack and
our play will be spoiled. Anybody'd think you were trying to kick the
clouds out of position."
"Say, listen, Garry," Rooster protested. "I couldn't kick that high.
Honest I couldn't. You give me altogether too much credit. I can feel
the blushes coming."
"Not a bit too much credit," grinned Garry. "Throw over the pigskin and
I'll give you an example of how that kick looked to me. Then you can
see how much too high it was."
Reluctantly Rooster surrendered the ball. Nick held it in position and
Garry swung back his foot.
Plunk! The toe of Garry's shoe met the pigskin with a hollow sound
that was music in the ears of his chums. All the force of his body
was behind the kick, and the boys watched the ascent of the ball with
interest.
High, high, higher it sailed.
"That's a sky ball, sure enough, Garry," chuckled Ted, then broke off
and stared in amazement.
The ball, ever mounting, was directly over the roof of a house near the
field. As the boys watched, it settled gently and landed on the top of
the chimney!
"Jumping Jupiter! Now you've gone and done it, Garry!" cried Nick
Danter.
"Cock-a-doodle-doo!" crowed Rooster. "I may be a high kicker, Garry, my
lad; but I've never aimed for a chimney top yet."
"Some peachy kick," grinned Bill. "How in the world did you do it, old
boy!"
Garry, staring at this new achievement, shook his head.
"You can search me!" he muttered. "Though you've got to admit it's a
high kick," he added, with a grin. "The question now is--how are we
going to get the ball down again!"
"Yeah, that's the question," said Rooster, coming to stand by Garry
and squinting up at the football. "If we had wings now, it would be
perfectly simple."
"It's simple, anyway," rejoined Nick. "Some one go to the door of that
house and ask to be allowed to go on the roof. Once there, the rest is
easy."
"Yes, once there," admitted Garry, scratching his head in perplexity.
"It's plain to be seen that you don't know who owns that house."
"Well, who does!" asked Ted, puzzled.
"An old crab who's likely to set his dog on us for trespassing,"
explained Garry. "He hates all sorts of sports on principle, and
especially football. It's old Jacob Fish, the retired banker. He was in
to see my dad about it once, and said that if he had his way he'd make
a law forbidding football practice so close to private dwellings. To
shut him up, dad told him that he would be personally responsible for
any damage we might do."
The boys looked thoughtful.
"That sure complicates matters," affirmed Rooster. "But we've got to
get that ball, whatever happens."
"Sure we have," agreed Garry. "But we might as well be foxy. I've got
an idea."
"Hold on to it," begged Nick.
"Shoot and let us know the worst," urged Ted.
"We've got a ladder back of our house," explained Garry, growing more
confident as his plans took shape. "If I can get that around to old
Fish's house without being seen, I can climb up the back to the roof."
"Simple as rolling off a log," admitted Nick.
"Let's hope you don't roll off the roof," grinned Rooster, but Garry
had already started off full tilt for the house.
The other boys went with him and helped him with the greatest caution
to carry the ladder around to the back of the retired banker's house.
Having accomplished this without discovery, they felt elated. It would
take only a few seconds now to climb the ladder, scramble up the
sloping roof, and toss the recovered treasure into the field.
They placed the ladder very cautiously against the house, making as
little noise as possible. Rooster and Bill held it steady, while Garry
swarmed up it like a monkey.
He reached the roof and paused there to wave his hand at his chums.
Then he made his way up the slope and soon reached the top. He gripped
the chimney and reached for the ball.
Meanwhile, his chums had been watching his movements with such interest
that they did not hear the stealthy steps of Jacob Fish until he was
nearly upon them.
Then he jumped round the side of the house, his grizzled whiskers
quivering with anger. He shook his fist at Garry.
"What are you doing there, you young scamp?" he shrilled. "You get off
my roof!"