M’NATT ON SCIENCE
The boy in the green sweater, if left to his own devices, would have
passed Willard some fifteen feet away, but curiosity got the better of
the latter and when the other was opposite to him he spoke.
“Hello,” he said.
The fellow stopped, turned his head and viewed the boy on the stone
wall, quite without surprise, for a long moment. Then he shifted his
gaze to the forked stick that he still held extended before him and
shook his head slowly.
“I suppose I haven’t got the power,” he remarked thoughtfully.
“What power?” asked Willard.
“Why, the power, or whatever you like to call it, to make this thing
work. Have you ever tried it?”
“I don’t know what you’re doing,” answered Willard, getting down from
the wall. “What’s the branch for?”
“Haven’t you ever seen a water-finder?” Willard shook his head,
puzzled. “Well, you take a piece of witch-hazel or willow--some say
alder or ash will do--and hold it like this by the top branches and
walk over the ground. When you come to a place where there’s water
below, the lower end there will tilt downwards. I’ve seen it done
twice.”
“Oh, I’ve heard of that, but I never saw it tried,” answered Willard
interestedly. “I supposed it was just nonsense. Did you ever see it
succeed?”
The other nodded soberly. “Both times. Old Man Hildreth, back home, did
it twice one time for my father, and when we dug where he told us to
we came to water. One time it was a regular spring that we found and
the other time it was more like a well. I mean we had to dig pretty far
down before we came to the water. Old Man Hildreth used witch-hazel,
and that’s what I’ve got here. I had to hunt nearly an hour before I
found any.”
“Let’s see.” Willard took the Y-shaped piece and looked at it
curiously. There was, however, nothing about its appearance to indicate
the power attributed to it by the boy in the green sweater. Willard
shrugged. “I guess you’ve got to go where you know there’s water,” he
said. “It doesn’t look to me as if there’d be much water on top of
this hill.”
“You mostly find springs on hillsides,” replied the other mildly, “and
that’s why I’ve been looking around here. Maybe I’m too high up now,
though.”
Willard seized the branches as he had seen the other hold them and
experimentally walked a few steps forward. Nothing happened. For that
matter, he hadn’t expected anything would happen.
“You must hold them tight,” advised the other, “so you’ll feel the
influence.”
Willard gripped harder and circled about the green sweater. Once,
possibly because his muscles were so tense, he thought he felt a
tremor, but, when he turned and went back over the spot, the phenomenon
was not repeated. “Look here,” he asked, “what do you want to find
water for, anyway? There’s a whole river just full of it down there.”
“I wanted to see if I could do it,” answered the other.
“Oh!” Willard looked at the witch-hazel wand in his hands and down the
gently sloping meadow. “Let’s go down there and try it,” he suggested
finally.
“Very well.” Side by side, Willard still holding the water-finder, the
two went down the hill. Willard’s countenance, although he didn’t know
it, wore an expression of concentration and expectancy. At the foot of
the hill his companion seated himself on a rock and Willard began a
systematic exploration of the surrounding territory. When ten minutes
or so had passed it dawned on him that he was extremely warm and that,
while there was bound to be water underground, since the river was not
far distant and very little lower, the forked stick had absolutely
failed to register even a tremor of interest! He joined the youth in
the green sweater and handed the stick to him in disgust.
“That’s no good,” he said. “Why, I could find water two feet from here
if I had a shovel! That’s just bunk!”
“I suppose you and I haven’t the right powers of divination,” replied
the other composedly. “I’ll try again some day with a piece of willow.”
Willard said “Humph!” as he seated himself on the rock, and a minute’s
silence ensued. Then: “I’ve seen you at school, haven’t I?” Willard
asked.
“I presume so. My name is McNatt, and I’m in Upton. What is your
class?”
“Junior,” replied Willard. “This is my first year. I suppose you are in
the senior class.”
McNatt nodded. “I’ve been here four years. This is my fifth. I was sick
my sophomore year and had to go home twice. Once I was away two months
and another time I was gone five weeks. That put me behind and I had
to take the year over. I guess I could have made it up, but the doctor
wouldn’t allow it. I don’t mind at all, though. I like it here. The
only thing is that the fellows I came along with have gone and I don’t
know many now. But then I never was much for making acquaintances.”
Willard viewed him curiously. McNatt was perhaps nearly nineteen,
he thought. His head was large and his features prominent: a very
beak-like nose extended well over a wide mouth, his rather pale eyes,
which might have been either green or blue for all Willard could
determine, were deepset under heavy brows and his chin jutted out
almost aggressively. But in spite of his features McNatt did not
impress Willard as being a forceful youth, nor did his expression,
voice or manners suggest it. He had a pleasant, deep voice and spoke
slowly, almost hesitantly, and, while he didn’t smile frequently, his
countenance bespoke good humor. He had very dark-brown hair, and there
was a good deal of it, and it was perceptibly wavy under the rim of
his straw hat. The straw hat, like the rest of his attire, had seen
better days. In fact, McNatt’s trousers, of blue serge that had changed
to plum-color on the knees, would not have greatly interested an old
clothes man! The garment that clothed the upper part of his body was
equally disreputable, a dark-green coat-sweater with many darns and one
pocket that was trying hard to get away. The shoes alone appeared to be
of recent origin, but as they were caked with mud along the soles the
fact would have escaped casual observation.
“What made you think of this stunt?” asked Willard, nodding at the
witch-hazel stick.
McNatt’s countenance expressed faint surprise. “Why, I’ve always been
very interested in scientific matters,” he replied gravely.
“Oh,” said Willard, “do you call that science?”
“I’m not sure,” answered the other slowly. “The diving-rod, as it is
sometimes called, has been in use a great many years both for the
discovery of water and metals. Taking science in its broader sense
of truth ascertained and systematized, almost anything not capable
of classification as an art may well be termed a science. While
the affinity existing between the diving-rod and water or metals
underground may be viewed as a phenomenon, yet when we make use of that
affinity to produce systematic results we enter the realm of science.”
Willard blinked. “I--I suppose so,” he agreed vaguely. “Can you find
gold that way, too?”
“It has been done, I think,” said McNatt. “I haven’t been able to find
much data on that subject, though.”
Willard looked more respectfully at the witch-hazel switch. “I guess it
wouldn’t be much use looking for gold around here, though,” he said.
“How would you know whether you had found gold or water if the thing
dipped?”
McNatt considered in silence a moment. Then he shook his head. “I
can’t say,” he replied. “Perhaps you couldn’t tell. Though, as gold
is generally located away from water you would hardly expect that the
diving-rod was indicating anything but gold.”
“Isn’t gold sometimes found in the beds of rivers and streams?” asked
Willard. “Seems to me your diving-rod would get sort of mixed, wouldn’t
it? And how about silver? Can you find silver that way, too?”
McNatt looked almost distressed. “As a matter of fact,” he said, “I
haven’t devoted any study to the use of the diving-rod in the location
of metals. Your questions open up an interesting field, though, and
some time I’ll go into the subject thoroughly. And still, as I haven’t
yet demonstrated the--ah--power of the instrument in the finding of
water, possibly it would be idle to extend the experiments. There’s
one possible explanation of failure that just occurs to me. Old Man
Hildreth said he used a hazel stick. He didn’t say whether it was the
hazel of the nut tribe--”
“I think it must have been,” said Willard emphatically.
“Or the witch-hazel. The ordinary hazel is a member of the oak family,
but does the witch-hazel belong to the same family? There are certain
similarities between the two, and yet they may not be botanically
related.” McNatt presented a puzzled countenance to Willard. “What
would be your opinion?”
“Search me,” said Willard cheerfully. “I thought a hazel was a hazel.”
“I’m afraid not. That may account for my lack of success. You see,
I jumped to the conclusion that the witch-hazel was the proper one,
probably because the word ‘witch’ suggested--ah--divination. So I may
have been wrong.” McNatt’s face cleared and he looked quite cheerful
again. “I’ll have to try again. Only--” He paused and pursed his lips
dubiously. “Do you happen to know if the hazel grows about here?”
“Haven’t the slightest idea,” said Willard.
“Nor I. I’ll have to look that up when I get back. It’s strange that
the encyclopedias give so little information on the subject of the
diving-rod. I wonder--” McNatt fell silent, and after a minute Willard
arose.
“Well, I guess I’ll be getting back,” he announced. It was, he
concluded, too late to meet Martin and the others now.
“Back?” repeated McNatt, coming out of his trance. “Yes, that’s so.
It must be--” He searched under the edge of his sweater for something
evidently not there. “Have you a watch? I seem to have forgotten mine.”
“Twenty to five,” said Willard.
“Then we’d better start.” McNatt gazed thoughtfully, almost sorrowfully
at his witch-hazel stick and laid it gently on the rock. “I may try
that again some time, but I rather think I was mistaken; I rather think
it should have been the corylus americana.”
“Something nutty sounds more likely,” said Willard gravely. To his
surprise, the other chuckled.
“That hadn’t occurred to me,” he replied. “You see, some of the fellows
call me McNutt. By the way, what’s your name?”
Willard told him and McNatt nodded. “Harmon: the name’s familiar. I
remember now. There is a fellow of that name who plays football. Quite
a remarkable full-back, I think.”
“Gordon Harmon? Did you know him?”
“I read about him. He played on one of the high school teams in New
York City, I believe. Is he a relation of yours?”
“Brother.”
“Really?” McNatt turned and viewed Willard with real interest. “Well!
Think of that! I dare say you’re sort of proud of him.”
“I suppose so,” replied Willard doubtfully. “I don’t think I ever
thought whether I am or not,” he added, laughing.
“You should be if what they say of him is true,” said McNatt earnestly.
“I followed his work last season with much interest. A natural-born
full-back, I’d call him. By the way, do you play, too?”
“A little. I’m out for the team.”
“Full-back? But no, you’d be too light. End, maybe?”
“Half,” said Willard. “I’ve played there some.”
“Hm.” McNatt looked him over critically. “Yes, you might do well there.
You look fast. Ten pounds more wouldn’t hurt you, though.”
“You talk like a football chap yourself,” said Willard. “Do you play?”
McNatt shook his head. “I used to, but I got--ah--out of sympathy with
it. You see, Harmon, football is capable of being reduced to an exact
science, but played in the haphazard manner that they play it here it
lacks interest. I haven’t played recently.”
“Well, I don’t see how you can reduce it to any exact science,” Willard
objected. “Of course, if you knew beforehand what the other fellow was
going to do--”
“You miss my meaning,” interrupted the older boy. “See here, Harmon.
You start with a playing space so many yards in length and so many
yards in width. You oppose a team of eleven players with a team of
a like number. You may do a certain number of things legitimately.
Each situation developed in the course of a football game calls for a
certain move. But that’s what coaches and quarter-backs don’t realize.
They think that a situation is unprecedented and, instead of making the
move that is called for, they confusedly try something they shouldn’t,
a play never intended for the situation.”
“But how the dickens are you going to know what play the situation
does call for?” demanded Willard. “The situations make themselves, and
they’re all different!”
“Not at all. There are only a certain number of situations that can
eventuate and they are quite capable of tabulation. For the purpose of
argument, suppose we set the number at three hundred. Very well, there
are consequently three hundred correct moves. Suppose it is A’s ball on
B’s twenty-yard-line on third down with five to go, B has demonstrated
that gains between her tackles are practically impossible. A is weak at
kicking field-goals, but has proved capable of gaining on runs outside
B’s right tackle. B has a good defense against forward-passes and has
defeated A’s attempts to gain that way. Now, then, what is A’s correct
play?”
“Why, a skin-tackle play, of course, at the weak end,” replied Willard.
“At least, theoretically. But suppose the back who carries the ball
slips or turns in too soon or--”
“No science, no matter how exact, is proof against the fallibility of
those engaged in its demonstration,” said McNatt gravely. “The point
I am trying to prove is that here is a situation that is neither
unprecedented nor novel and that, capable of being recognized, has its
proper solution which may be scientifically applied.”
“Maybe,” said Willard, “but, gee, how many situations would there be to
recognize? About a thousand, I’d say!”
“Many less, I think. I’ve never attempted to tabulate them, but it
would not be a difficult task. Science has performed far more difficult
feats.”
“I dare say, but--but--look here, McNatt, if each team played football
like that, I mean if each team had the right answer to every situation
that might happen, why, gee, neither one would win!”
“You’re wrong, Harmon. You’re forgetting the element of human
fallibility. Put two chess players at the board, give them each a
similar knowledge of the game, and what happens? Do they play to a tie?
Very seldom. One wins and the other loses. So it would be in football
with each team applying science. One team would excel because she
applied it more exactly, perhaps more instantly.”
Willard shook his head. “It sounds crazy to me,” he said. “And I don’t
think I’d want to play if everything was cut-and-dried like that. Hang
it, McNatt, it’s accident and chance that makes the game interesting.”
“I don’t agree with you. I think those things retard the development
of it, Harmon. As it is now, individual skill rules. Why, look here.
Suppose armies fought that way. Suppose a field general said to his
subordinates: ‘I don’t know how to meet this situation. You fellows see
what you can do. Maybe we can push back his left wing or maybe we can
punch a hole in his center, do something, but don’t bother me!’”
Willard laughed. “That’s not a fair comparison, though, McNatt,” he
answered. “At least, in football, the coach or the quarter-back has a
plan and carries it out, even if it isn’t the right one!”
“A wrong plan is no better than no plan. Haphazard football is just as
silly as haphazard war would be, Harmon. Fellows who teach football
talk about the science of it, but they don’t study it. Their science
begins and ends with finding out the other fellow’s weak spot and
attacking it.”
“Sounds like pretty good science to me,” said Willard.
“It is good as far as it goes, but it’s only the beginning. Well,
here’s my way. I’m glad to have met you, Harmon. I’d be glad to
continue the subject sometime if you care to visit me. I’m in Number
49. I’ve got some things that might interest you, too; rather a good
collection of minerals gathered around here, for one thing: nearly two
hundred specimens.”
“Thanks, I’ll look you up some time,” said Willard, “but I guess I’ve
had enough of that argument. It’s too deep for me, McNatt! So long.”
Willard turned toward Haylow and, when he had gone a little way, looked
back. McNatt had stopped near Lawrence Hall and was staring up into
the sky. All Willard could see there was a streaky white cloud. He
shook his head as he went on again. “‘McNutt’ is right, I guess,” he
muttered.