THE BOY IN THE GREEN SWEATER
The following Wednesday, Willard received promotion of a sort. By that
time the number of candidates at practice had noticeably lessened and
the four squads had become three. Last year’s first team survivors and
a goodly number of the second team players formed Squad A, while some
twenty youths who showed particular promise made up Squad B. Into the
latter company Willard went. A third squad whose personnel changed from
day to day as new candidates appeared or old ones fell out, was known
officially as C, but popularly as “The Goats.”
Formation drill had begun and Willard ran through signals at the left
half-back position, alternating with another youth named Kruger. Only
the simplest formations were used and the pace never exceeded a trot.
Preliminary to this, there was tackling practice at the dummy each
day, and more or less passing and starting. After formation drill
Willard joined nearly a dozen other backfield candidates and put in
a half-hour of punting and catching and running. Willard’s kicking
education had been rather neglected, for at high school, during the two
years he had played, the full-back and quarter had shared the kicking
duties. Here, however, it was held that a back should be proficient
in every department of the game, and Willard showed up rather poorly
beside many of his rivals.
The second eleven came into existence the last of that week and the
first real scrimmage of the season took place on Friday between it and
the first in preparation for the initial contest the next day. Willard
was glad he had not been picked for the second, for he had not yet
given up hope of better things, and knew from experience how difficult
it is to make one’s way from the second team to the first. Several
fellows from Squad C were selected, however, and among them Kruger,
which left Willard for awhile in undisputed possession of the left
half-back job. It wasn’t long, though, before a weedy, temperamental
boy named Longstreth took Kruger’s place. Longstreth had been promoted
from the Goats and seemed to have an idea that his mission in life was
to inject what he called “tabasco” into Squad B. One way of doing it
was to aid in the coaching, and he simply oozed advice to both Coach
Cade and Richards, the quarter-back. The coach stood it patiently, but
Ned Richards ultimately turned upon him and wounded his sensibilities
horribly, so horribly that Longstreth became a changed boy and
deliberately let the squad worry along without “tabasco.” But most of
this was later on and subsequent to the Alton High School game, which
started the season for the Academy.
Willard watched that contest from the bench: or, rather, from a seat
on the ground near the bench, since the capacity of the bench was
limited. It wasn’t much of a game, even for a first one, and there
was nothing approaching excitement in it until, near the end of the
third ten-minute period, High School threw a scare into her opponent
by scoring a touchdown when Cochran, at right half, dropped the ball
and the High School left end scooted away with it for sixty-odd yards
and brought joy to the visitors. Academy’s quarter-back ought to have
stopped him, but Tarver made a miserable tackle and the runner wrenched
himself loose and went over the line without further challenge.
High School missed an easy goal and the score was tied at 6--6, for
the Academy had been able to put over but one touchdown against a
weaker but plucky enemy and Cochran had missed the goal as badly as the
opponent had later. The Academy rooters woke up from their lethargy
then, and there was some cheering during the remainder of the period
and throughout the last quarter. It was not until the latter was well
along, however, that Academy pulled the game out of the fire. Then,
working to striking distance by means of two forward-passes that
took the ball from midfield to High School’s thirty-yard-line, the
Gray-and-Gold hammered the opposing left side until it gave way and
Macon, on an end-around play, landed the pigskin over the goal-line.
This time, Cochran having given way to a substitute, Tarver tried for
a goal and made it, and the game ended a few minutes later with the
Academy on the long end of a 13--6 score.
Coach Cade used many substitutes during the final quarter, and Martin
Proctor was one of them, and Willard was delighted to see his chum put
up a fine game at right guard when Bob went out. At left half, the
position that Willard was especially interested in, Arnold Lake played
to the end of the third period and then gave place to Mawson. Both
played well and Willard was more certain than before that if he was
to make the first team this year it would have to be in some other
capacity than that of left half!
When the game was done the Squad A players who had not participated
were lined up against a Squad B eleven and there followed a short
scrimmage in which Willard played left half for B and had a lot of fun.
Squad A wasn’t formidable and it was no great stunt to gain outside
her tackles, and once Willard got nicely away and would have made the
only score of the scrimmage if an obnoxious youth named Hutchins, and
better known as “Hutch,” hadn’t pulled him down on the six yards. From
there, in spite of all her efforts, B couldn’t make much gain and the
fourth down found the ball a yard short of the line. The scrimmage
ended with a score and the empty stand attested the amount of interest
the game provided the onlookers who had remained after the big contest.
But Willard had enjoyed it and won a set of bruised fingers when one of
the enemy had set an ungentle foot thereon, and he was quite contented
the rest of the evening. But he did a lot of thinking and consulted
Martin on the advisability of trying for an end position, and showed no
gratitude when he was advised to fatten himself up and try for center!
“You seem to be willing to stick on the bench all season,” he said
aggrievedly, “but I don’t see any fun in that. If I--”
“How do you mean, stick on the bench?” demanded Martin. “I’m not going
to stick on any bench. Haven’t you noticed how pale and wan Bob is
getting to look? He won’t last much longer. I think it’s sleeping
sickness or something else slow and certain. He won’t acknowledge he’s
sick, but I can tell! There’s a worried look about his eyes and Cal
Grainger says he sleeps more than he used to.”
“Oh, shut up!” said Willard, grinning.
“Fact, though! You look at Bob some time when he doesn’t know
he’s--ah--under observation and you’ll see what I mean. Sleeping
sickness is very insidious, Brand, but always fatal. I’m sorry for Bob,
of course, but I’m not hypocritical about it!”
“Bob will be playing guard and you’ll be lugging the water pail when we
meet Kenly,” retorted Willard. “I’m in earnest, though. Why shouldn’t I
try for end instead?”
“Because you’re a half-back, sonny. Playing end is something else
again, and you’d have to learn a lot of new tricks, and the season
might be over before you’d learn ’em.”
“Well, I’d be ready for next year,” murmured Willard.
“If that’s all you’re looking for, stay where you are. They’ll be using
half-backs as well as ends next year, unless the Rules Committee gets
gay again!”
“Well, of course I do want to make the team this fall,” acknowledged
the other.
“Naturally. So do I. I wanted to last fall, too, but a cruel fate
willed otherwise.”
“Oh, you don’t care,” scoffed Willard. “You haven’t any--any--ambition.”
“Ambition? Get out! I’m full of ambish! But I don’t propose to be
unhappy because I can’t have the whole pie. I like the fun of playing,
Brand, and I don’t worry much because I don’t always get into the
game. After all, I’m doing my bit, you know. Someone’s got to be
second-choice. Besides, think what a comfort it is to Joe and Bob to
know that if they have to leave the game there I am ready to take their
places and carry on the good work! Don’t you suppose that thought helps
’em to weather many a--many a dark hour?”
“No, I don’t,” answered Willard disgustedly. “But I guess it helps them
to go on playing sometimes when they’re all in! The idea of letting
you in--”
“Don’t say it!” warned Martin, laying a hand significantly on a book.
“Them’s hard words! Listen, Brand: are we going to the lecture or
aren’t we not?”
“What’s it all about?”
“The Cliff Dwellers of--of Montana, or some place.”
“Arizona?”
“Maybe,” replied Martin cautiously. “Anyway, the fellow’s good. He
was here last year. Let’s go. I’ve always wished I’d been born a
cliff-dweller. There’s something awfully fascinating in the idea of
shinning up a tree-trunk and climbing through a window when you’re
ready for bed! Think what fun there must have been at a prep school in
those days. When the fellow who lived above you was climbing up all you
had to do was reach out and push the tree-trunk away. Gee, you miss a
lot of innocent amusement by being born too late!”
Sunday dawned cloudy and dismal, with occasional sprinkles of rain.
Breakfast was a half-hour later, and when that was over there was
nothing much to do but furbish up for church. But shining one’s shoes
and brushing one’s Sunday suit doesn’t consume much time, no matter
how thorough and deliberate one may be, and after Willard was ready
there still remained the best of an hour. The steam heat had not yet
been turned on and the dormitory was chill and unsympathetic. He tried
to write a letter to the folks at home, but only got as far as: “Dear
Father and Mother.” Martin’s usually placid humor was perceptibly
rumpled this morning, and efforts to engage him in conversation
resulted in grunts and growls. Willard was heartily glad when it came
time to start off for church, even though he felt uncomfortable in a
derby and detested carrying an umbrella.
Dinner was at one, a heavy repast topped off with ice cream and cake
that left the diner feeling like an anaconda who had just swallowed a
goat. Willard, who had failed to get placed at Joe’s table and was with
an unusually uninteresting group at the far end of the hall, arose from
the board wishing he had not accepted young Stanley’s offer of his ice
cream. Or perhaps it was the cake that was to blame. In any case, he
felt horribly full and sluggish, and when, at the door, Bob brightly
suggested a nice long tramp over to Banning to see the new railway
bridge that was under construction he shook his head and pleaded
letters to write. Banning was three miles away, and Willard wasn’t sure
he could even get back to his room before going to sleep!
“Well, if you change your mind, come on over to the room,” said Bob.
“We won’t be starting for half an hour, I guess.”
Willard said he would, being quite certain that his mind was incapable
of any change. When he reached Number 16, Martin, too, was disgustingly
active. “Come on, Brand,” he cried. “We’re going over to see the new
bridge at Banning. Get an old pair of shoes on.”
“I don’t want to see any bridges,” replied Willard morosely. “I--I saw
one once.”
“What if you did, you chump! You never saw this one. Don’t be a piker.
Look, it’s going to clear up!”
Willard gazed through the window with lackluster eyes and shook his
head feebly. “I’ve got to write home,” he murmured, subsiding into a
chair.
“You look more as if you were going to sleep,” said Martin in disgust.
“All right, sonny, see you later.”
Martin went out, slamming the door behind him and whistling gayly down
the corridor. Willard shook his head again. He had never noticed
before how objectionably noisy Martin was! Several rooms away a
graphophone was playing loudly and boys were singing. Everyone,
reflected Willard, seemed to be unnaturally animated today. He guessed
they hadn’t eaten two plates of ice cream! After a long time, during
which he stared somnolently at his shoes, he pulled himself out of the
chair with a groan and reseated himself at the table. Half an hour
later he signed the fourth page of his letter “Your aff. son, Willard”
and folded it quickly lest he yield to the temptation to read it over.
He knew that if he did that he would never send it!
When it was ready for mailing he walked to the window and looked out.
It really was clearing! Even as he looked, the sun broke through for a
moment and shone weakly on the damp field and the running track beyond.
He felt a good deal better now and he wished he had gone to Banning
with the others. Well, he hadn’t, and rather than moon around in that
chilly room he would slip on an old suit and take a walk. Possibly he
would meet the crowd coming back later. He changed from his Sunday
attire to an old pair of knickerbockers, a sweater, golf stockings,
old shoes and a cap and set forth, proceeding first to the mail box
in front of Academy Hall and getting rid of his letter. Stacey Ross
hailed him from a third-story window of Lykes as he made his way past
toward the athletic field, and he stopped and exchanged badinage for a
moment, declining Stacey’s invitations, the first of which was to “Come
on up,” and the second to “Go to the dickens!”
He knew that the river lay somewhere to the west and not more than a
mile distant, and he set out to find it. His way led him across the
athletic field and over the stone wall that bounded it and so into a
meadow that descended gradually to a winding fringe of woods a quarter
of a mile away. Whether the woods hid the river he didn’t know. It
didn’t seem likely, however, for he had a notion that the stream was
quite a considerable one: in fact, it must be if the railroad was
building a large and expensive bridge across it some two miles further
inland!
Before he reached the woods he had thrice been ankle-deep in water,
but it was only marsh water and the trees, he found, hid only a narrow
and shallow brook. By this time the sun was really out, although not
very brightly, and the woods and the stream, with its mossy stones
and bordering ferns, looked very pretty. He wondered if there were
any trout there, and pursued it for some little distance looking
for likely holes. When he had satisfied himself that no respectable
trout would deign to live in such a brook he made his way across it by
jumping from stone to stone, only once missing, and went on through
an alder growth on the other side. When he emerged he was at the foot
of a second meadow interspersed with outcropping ledges and clumps of
white birches and maples and wild cherry trees. Afar at the left, near
where the road presumably wound, was a farm with a white dwelling and a
red barn and many comical haycocks that looked golden in the sunlight.
Ahead of him a stone wall crossed the summit of the field, pricked out
at intervals with spindling cedars whose somber foliage stood darkly
against the clearing sky. The September sun, freeing itself from the
clouds, shone warmly in Willard’s face as he went on up the rise. When
he reached the wall he saw the river below him, a broad, curving ribbon
of blue. But it was a good half-mile away yet, and he sat himself on
the wall to rest before going on.
The sun felt pleasant to him and, after he had sat there a few minutes,
he began to lose interest in a nearer acquaintance with the river.
Instead of going on in that direction, he decided, he would turn to
the left and try to reach the road. Doubtless Bob and Martin and
the others would be returning before very long. Turning his gaze
southward, he became aware of the fact that he was not alone. Some two
hundred yards away a figure was approaching, a figure which appeared
at first glance to be that of a man wearing a dark green sweater and
advancing up the slope at a strangely deliberate pace. A second look,
however, showed that the person was a boy of perhaps eighteen years
and that as he walked he held the end of a forked stick in each hand
and was oblivious to all else. He was a tall and rather heavy youth
with extremely long legs that moved with machine-like precision and
regularity over the grass. His slightly bent head prevented a clear
sight of his face, but Willard thought he recognized the boy as one he
had glimpsed once or twice about school. Why he should be pacing along
here a mile from home, however, a Y-shaped branch in his hand, was a
mystery, and Willard watched curiously as he came nearer and nearer.