DIPLOMACY
Martin’s statement that he had been assigned to left tackle position
was not believed very implicitly that night, although, in the press of
other matters demanding discussion, none expressed doubt. But the next
day proved that Martin had spoken no more than the truth, for when the
scrimmage commenced he was in Leroy’s place, and there he stayed not
only for the rest of the day but for the rest of the season. At left
half, Willard and Mawson each served, the latter yielding to Willard
near the end of the practice. The second team managed a field-goal that
afternoon, but the first scored three touchdowns and for once showed
plenty of punch.
With Lake at left end and Martin Proctor at left tackle, that side
of the line improved remarkably. For a few days Martin fitted none
too perfectly into the new position, but he had had much experience,
wanted badly to be something better than a second-choice player and
worked hard, with the result that long before the Kenly game he was
looked on as a remarkably good tackle. The weak spot in the team
continued, however, for no satisfactory alternative to Steve Browne
had been found. Browne tried pitifully hard to fill the difficult
requirements of the full-back position, but he failed utterly and
palpably. Linthicum was tried, and so was Austen, a half-back from the
second, but none suited. Kenly was developing a stiff line this year,
as proved by the last two games she had played, and more weight and
aggressiveness in the backfield was sorely needed at Alton. Discounting
his possible ultimate failure to find a satisfactory full-back, Coach
Cade experimented with plays built on the substituting of Bob Newhall
or Stacey Ross for a half or the full-back. The difficulty, however,
lay in the fact that the backfield man who played up in the line found
it hard to perform his temporary duties satisfactorily. Placing Bob
at full-back for straight plunges between tackles worked fairly well
and was accountable for some good gains against the second team, but
Browne in Bob’s place was as ill-fitting as a square peg in a round
hole and would doubtless prove in Captain Joe Myers’ words, “easy meat”
for Kenly. Coach Cade had a strongly-imbedded dislike for unbalanced
formations, anyhow, and, although he used shifts sparingly and was
responsible for the play that put Captain Myers behind the line so that
he might receive a forward-pass, he wanted no more “freaks” and frowned
on these new inventions even while he used them. And so matters stood
on that Wednesday morning preceding the Hillsport game when Willard,
having a whole fifty minutes between recitations, took a Latin book
over to the first base bleachers and draped himself over three seats in
the sunlight. It was a genuine Indian summer day, with no breeze, or
only just enough to disturb the straight column of smoke that came from
the big chimney behind Lawrence Hall, a very blue sky that melted to a
hazy, purplish gray toward the horizon and a flood of mellow sunlight
over all. By occasionally changing his position when the edges of the
planks pressed too fervently against him, Willard managed a whole page
of his book, making many marginal notes in his very small and extremely
neat writing. He was, though, getting somewhat drowsy when the sound
of footsteps came to him and he looked up to find Felix McNatt
approaching. McNatt had soiled hands and wore a triumphant expression,
and both were explained when, having climbed to Willard’s side and
seated himself there, he lifted the wooden lid of the grape basket he
carried.
“Agaricus pratensis,” he announced impressively.
“The same to you,” answered Willard, “and many, many of them.”
McNatt smiled humoringly. “I found them over near the farm. They are
rather scarce about here.”
Willard eyed the contents of the basket unenthusiastically. The
five mushrooms made very little appeal to him and he hoped McNatt
wasn’t going to ask him to help eat them. “Are they edible?” he asked
anxiously.
“Oh, yes, although my book says they’re not so tasty as many other
sorts.”
“They don’t look awfully appetizing,” murmured Willard. “Do you cook
them or what?”
“They’re excellent fried,” replied McNatt, gazing almost affectionately
into the basket. “Or you can stew them in milk.”
“No, thanks.” Willard shook his head. “I don’t like the smell of them.
They--they smell as if they were dead!”
“Of course they’re dead,” said McNatt a trifle impatiently. “Or I
suppose they are. Possibly they continue to live for a certain
time after they are picked: I must find out about that: it would be
interesting to know.”
“Very,” agreed Willard politely. “Are you going to eat them?”
To his great relief, McNatt shook his head. “No, there aren’t enough to
make a mess.”
“Aren’t there? I should think those would make a mess all right, a
beastly mess!”
McNatt smiled, even chuckled. “I fancy you aren’t a mushroom lover,” he
said. “You wait, though. Some time I’ll get a fine lot of puff-balls
and we’ll have a feast. You’ll change your mind then.”
“Maybe I’ll change more than that,” said Willard sadly. “Maybe I’ll
change my habitation. Lots of folks have gone to heaven after eating
mushrooms, haven’t they?”
“No, not mushrooms,” said McNatt, “toadstools. There’s a difference.”
He covered the basket again, set it carefully between his feet and
gazed in silence for a moment across the field. Presently: “You are on
the football team, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” said Willard, “sort of. I’m a substitute half.”
“What sort of a team have we got this year?”
“Pretty fair, I think. Haven’t you seen them play?”
“I saw part of the first game, but you can’t tell much about a team so
early. I haven’t followed it very closely since then.”
“Well, we’re sort of getting together, I guess,” said Willard. “There
have been a good many changes made and so the team isn’t playing
together awfully smoothly yet. Mr. Cade’s having a lot of trouble
finding a full-back.”
“A full-back? Is that so?” McNatt seemed rather more interested than
previously. “What’s wrong there, Harmon?”
Willard explained as best he could and McNatt nodded assent. “He’s
right,” he declared. “To my way of thinking the full-back is the most
important man on the team. He’s got to be strong and clever and have
enough weight to carry him through the first defense. I don’t bank much
on the very heavy sort, though. They generally lack the proper mental
attributes. Do you know, Harmon, it’s strange to me that scientists
have never made a thorough study of the relation of mind quality to
body formation. Now take a type of fellow who is big of torso and
neck; large above the waist, you understand; probably he will have a
large head, too; most of them do. That fellow will be a persistent,
hard fighter when he’s started and he will have good sound judgment.
But he won’t be resourceful and he won’t be capable of quick decision.
See what I mean? I believe that a thorough study of the subject would
enable anyone to tell a man’s mental character off-hand by observing
his physical construction.”
“You’d better come out this afternoon and look over the substitutes,”
laughed Willard. “Maybe you could pick out a full-back for Mr. Cade.”
“Full-backs,” answered McNatt solemnly, “are very scarce. Good ones, I
mean. I remember that when I played here two or three years ago it was
difficult to find a satisfactory substitute.”
“It isn’t a substitute that’s bothering this year,” said Willard
ruefully, “it’s the real thing. Where did you play, McNatt? I mean what
position.”
“Full-back,” answered the other gravely.
“Full-back!”
“Yes, I played there my first year off and on, although I was only
fifteen. I was large for my age, though. The next year I played the
position until I was taken sick. After that I sort of fell out of the
game. Well, I must get back.” He picked up his basket, nodded and went
striding off toward Upton.
Willard watched him go thoughtfully. After a minute, though, he tucked
his pencil into a pocket, seized his book and hurried across to Lykes.
Luck was with him when he knocked at Number 2 and entered. Joe was
propped up on the window-seat, half hidden by a newspaper.
“Hello, Brand,” he said. “What’s on your mind?”
“More than is on yours, I guess,” answered Willard meaningly.
Joe laughed. “Think so? Well, that’s the first paper I’ve seen in a
week. I was looking over the Saturday games. Yale’s coming back all
right, isn’t she? That fellow Loughlin who played left tackle for
awhile is an Alton fellow. Wasn’t considered much good here, though, as
I remember.”
“Say, Joe, suppose a fellow played football this year and then didn’t
play for two years more. Would he be any good?”
“Good for what?”
“Football. I mean, could he--could he come back?”
“Oh! I don’t know, Brand. I guess it would depend on the fellow. Aren’t
thinking of giving up the game, are you?”
“No. Look here, Joe, suppose a fellow was a corking good full-back
three years ago and then didn’t play any more. Suppose he was to go
back to the game tomorrow. How long would it take him to--to remember
what he’d forgotten and--and find himself again?”
“Brand, it’s too early in the day for hypothetical questions,” replied
Joe, stretching and yawning. “It would depend on so many things, boy:
on how well the chap had kept himself in condition, principally. Got
any fellow in mind, or are you just doing this for exercise?”
“I’ve got someone in mind,” answered Willard earnestly. “There’s a chap
here who used to play football three years ago, and from what he says
he must have been pretty good. Anyway, he was regular full-back on the
team. Then he was taken sick and had to quit, and he never went back.”
“Who’s that?” demanded Joe, sitting up.
“McNatt,” answered Willard.
“McNatt! Oh, I thought you’d discovered someone, Brand. I guess
McNatt’s a joke.”
“He did play, though, didn’t he?” Willard persisted.
Joe nodded. “Yes, he did, and that’s a fact.” He paused and kicked
thoughtfully at the paper on the floor. “He played all one year, I
think, either on the second or on the first as substitute. The first
year I was here he played for awhile. That was his second year. Seems
to me he stopped about the middle of the season. I don’t remember much
about him, though. But, great gosh, the fellow’s no football man!
Just--just look at him!”
“He’s out of training, of course,” agreed Willard, “but seems to me if
he was good enough to be regular full-back three years ago he might be
worth trying now.”
“That’s so, Brand! Look here, you tell him to come on out and we’ll
give him a fair show, as late as it is. It would be worth a dollar of
any fellow’s money to see McNutt playing football!”
Willard shook his head. “I’m not sure he’d do it, Joe.”
“Why not? What’s the idea?”
“Well, I don’t believe he cares for it any more. He’s a funny duck,
McNatt. I guess it would take a lot of persuasion to get him back.”
“But I thought from what you said that he wanted to try it,” said Joe,
puzzled. “What _does_ he want?”
“To be let alone, I think,” answered Willard, smiling. “No, the idea
was mine, Joe. McNatt hasn’t any more ambition to play football than
I have to--to collect mushrooms! But when he told me about having
played full-back I remembered that we are hard up for a fellow for that
position, and so I came over here to speak to you about it.”
“Well, dog my cats,” exploded Joe, “if the fellow can play football
it’s his duty to do it! Doesn’t he know that? Where is he? I’ll have a
talk with him. I don’t suppose he’s worth bothering with, but there’s
always a chance! And we can’t afford to miss it!”
“What are you going to say to him?” asked Willard.
“Say to him? Why, that we need his services, of course. I’ll tell him
that if he shows up decently he will stand a good chance of playing
against Kenly. I guess that ought to fetch him.”
“That might fetch some fellows, Joe, but I’m afraid it wouldn’t fetch
McNatt.” Willard shook his head gently. “I may be wrong, but I guess
he’s about as stubborn as they make them. You know you can tell a lot
about a fellow’s--er--character by his physical formation, Joe, and
McNatt’s got long legs and--and everything.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” answered the other
impatiently, “but, stubborn or not, he will play football if I get
after him!”
“All right.” Willard shrugged his shoulders. “If I were you, though,
I’d go at him sort of easy.”
“Oh, I’ll be easy enough,” said Joe untroubledly. “He’s in Upton, isn’t
he? What’s the number? Forty-nine?” Joe looked at his watch and got to
his feet. “I’ve got twenty minutes before French. I’ll run over and see
him. Of course nothing will come of it, though. A fellow who’s been out
of training as long as he has can’t come back in three or four weeks.
Besides, I dare say he’s forgotten all the football he ever knew.”
Willard parted with Joe at the entrance. “Good luck,” he called as Joe
went off. “Try diplomacy first, Joe!”
Joe smiled back confidently and waved a careless hand.
It was not until he reached the gymnasium in the afternoon that Willard
learned the result of Joe’s visit to Number 49 Upton. Joe was still
angry. “The fellow’s a perfect fool,” he snapped in reply to Willard’s
polite inquiry. “And he’s as stubborn as a mule! Sat there and talked
for ten minutes about how the full-back position ought to be played
and then calmly told me he wouldn’t try for the team for a thousand
dollars!”
“And then you bullied him,” laughed Willard.
“I told him what I thought of him,” answered Joe grimly. “He made me so
blamed mad I could have punched his head. Just sat there and blinked
and shook his silly bean! And when I’d flayed him alive he wanted to
know if I wouldn’t like to see his mineral collection. Oh, the chap’s
plain nutty!”
“He is sort of peculiar,” agreed Willard soberly.
“Peculiar!” Joe laughed mirthlessly. “He’s crazy in the head. Know what
I think? Well, he showed me a lot of mushrooms he had there; nasty,
smelly things they were, too; and I’ll bet he eats ’em and they’ve
affected his mind. I don’t know what to do with him!”
“Guess you’ll have to forget it and just let him alone,” said Willard
soothingly.
“I can’t afford to let him alone,” protested Joe impatiently. “Why,
gosh, if that fellow can play full-back the way he can talk it he’d be
a wonder! Look here, Brand, you see what you can do. I talked my head
off and it didn’t have any effect on the poor fish. You--you have a go
at him, will you? And do it today. Honest, that fellow ought to show
whether he’s any good or not. It’s his duty! Of course we can’t _make_
him play, but you’d think he’d _want_ to!”
“All right,” agreed Willard, “I’ll see what I can do, Joe, but I
haven’t much hope. If your diplomacy failed, why, I’m not likely to
succeed.”
Joe looked at Willard suspiciously. “Hang it, I was diplomatic,” he
protested. “I was as sweet as sugar to him until he shut his mouth
tight and said he wouldn’t do it.”
“If he had his mouth shut,” said Willard, “I don’t see how he could say
anything, Joe. Maybe he hummed it, though?”
“Oh, go to the dickens!” growled the other.
There was an unusually hard and protracted practice game that
afternoon, and Willard played at left half through fifteen strenuous
minutes during which the second, given the ball over and over to test
the first team’s defense, hammered and banged until she finally got
across the line for a score. Willard, like most of the others, got
some hard knocks and when he was released he felt very little ambition
for the task that Joe had set him. But supper helped a lot, and at
half-past seven he set out for McNatt’s room. Even when he knocked at
the door of Number 49 he hadn’t decided what he was to say.
Not only McNatt was in this evening, but his roommate, Winfred Fuller.
Fuller was a sophomore, a smallish, anemic-appearing youth who, or so
Willard fancied, wore a harried, apprehensive look, as though life
with McNatt’s toads and beetles and strange messes was gradually
affecting his mind. Fuller sat, straightly uncompromising, on the
edge of a chair and gazed at Willard with owlish fixity during the
first ten minutes of the latter’s visit, and Willard was heartily glad
when, muttering some excuse, the boy took himself off. McNatt was most
hospitable and offered to cook a few choice mushrooms that he had
picked that afternoon under someone’s stable if Willard fancied them.
But Willard explained that, being on a diet, mushrooms were a forbidden
luxury, and McNatt was not offended. After that the talk turned to
the subject of football “situations” and McNatt was reminded that he
had found the memorandum of which he had spoken on the occasion of
Willard’s last visit, and stretched a hand toward the littered table.
But unfortunately the paper had again disappeared, and although McNatt
searched long and determinedly, making the confusion more confused, it
refused to be discovered. Finally, giving up the quest, McNatt sat down
again, stretching his long legs across the floor and thrusting a pair
of large, very chapped hands into his pockets.
“Myers came to see me this morning,” he remarked placidly. “He’s
captain of the football team this year. But you know him, of course.
I forgot you were on the team, Harmon. Queer fellow, Myers: awfully
obstinate and opinionated, don’t you think?”
“Well, he’s likely to have rather pronounced views on any subject that
he’s very much interested in,” replied Willard cautiously. “Football
for instance.”
McNatt chuckled. “It was football he came to see me about. He wanted
me to play full-back. It seems the fellow they’ve got isn’t very
satisfactory. You told me that, too, I think.”
“Yes, I did,” said Willard, “and I’m mighty glad you’re going to help
us out, McNatt!”
McNatt frowned and shook his head. “Oh, but I’m not. I told Myers I
couldn’t, you know. He--I don’t think he liked it.”
“You’re not!” exclaimed Willard incredulously. “But--but why?”
McNatt stared a moment as though a trifle surprised. “Why, I’m out of
football, Harmon! I thought I told you that. I haven’t played since
my second year here. I’ve given it up completely. You see, I hadn’t
any patience with the fuddling way they taught it. Everything’s so
hit-or-miss. No science at all. You acknowledged that yourself, Harmon.”
Willard nodded. “Yes, that’s true. But, look here, McNatt, it seems
to me the game of football needs fellows like you; fellows, I mean,
who--er--who realize what’s wrong with it and have the--the courage and
brains to remedy it.”
McNatt tilted back and shook his head slowly. “They won’t listen,
Harmon,” he said. “I tried Myers today. He couldn’t see what I meant at
all. Just got very impatient and told me I was a slacker. I’m afraid
Myers has a one-track mind, Harmon.”
“Joe is awfully anxious to beat Kenly,” replied Willard, “and he takes
it for granted that every other fellow is just like he is. He loses
sight of the fact that there are fellows here in school like you,
McNatt, who don’t give a whoop whether Alton wins or doesn’t.”
McNatt shook his head almost violently. “You mustn’t say that,” he
protested. “Although not actively participating in football any
longer, Harmon, I am still vastly interested in it and follow it very
carefully. And, naturally, I want Alton to defeat Kenly. Yes, indeed,
decidedly! You mustn’t--ah--consider me unpatriotic.”
“Oh,” murmured Willard. “I didn’t understand. I thought--”
“Yes?” encouraged McNatt.
“Why, only that, not being willing to help the School out by going back
to the team, you didn’t--didn’t care very much!”
McNatt smiled gently. “I’m afraid you’re rather like Myers,” he chided.
“You can only see what’s directly in front of your eyes. Myers couldn’t
understand that I might find other things more important than football.
I explained that my scientific pursuits meant more to me than playing
full-back on the eleven.”
“Then I’m not like Joe,” responded Willard, smiling, “for I can
understand it. I suppose what does puzzle me, McNatt, is your not being
willing to apply your science to the bettering of the game and the
defeat of the enemy. Seems to me you’ve got a big chance to demonstrate
your theories and to help the School at the same time.”
McNatt looked surprised. “But I’ve explained that they won’t listen!”
he said.
“Don’t ask them to listen,” replied Willard smilingly, yet very
earnestly. “_Show them!_”
“Show them? You mean--”
“Exactly! Go out and play full-back as it should be played.
Scientifically. According to your ideas. Prove there’s something in it,
McNatt. Afterwards you can talk and they’ll listen.”
McNatt drew his hands from his trousers pockets and rubbed them
thoughtfully together. “I wonder if it could be done,” he muttered.
“You see, Harmon, it isn’t the playing of one position that counts, but
the conduct of the whole game, the--the _modus operandi_. And yet--” He
relapsed into silence again.
“Being there, though, right on hand, would help, wouldn’t it?” Willard
asked. “I mean, you’d be in a better position to offer your advice and
aid. And maybe you might play full-back so well that they’d realize
that--that science has its place in football.”
“Do you know,” exclaimed McNatt quite excitedly, “you almost persuade
me to try it, Harmon! By golly, you do! This man that is coaching this
year--I forget his name--; is he the sort you can talk to? You know
some of these coaches are so--so _set_! You can’t get them to listen to
anything at all!”
“I don’t think Mr. Cade is that sort,” replied Willard reassuringly.
“I’d say he was quite open to conviction, McNatt. In fact--” and here
Willard smiled to himself--“in fact, I think I can promise that he
will listen to anything that promises success for the team. There’s
one thing, though, that might bother you, old chap. You’ve been out of
training a good while and of course condition’s got a heap to do with
playing football well.”
McNatt shook his head impatiently. “My condition’s all right,” he
answered. “I’ll have to read up on the new rules, though. They’ve made
several changes since I played before. I suppose I ought to see Myers
and tell him I’ve changed my mind.”
“I’ve got a rules book,” said Willard, “and I’ll bring it over to
you the first thing in the morning. As for telling Myers, I wouldn’t
trouble. I’m quite likely to run across him myself this evening and
I’ll pass the good word to him if you like.”
“I’d be very much obliged,” answered McNatt gratefully, “but don’t go
out of your way, please. Funny you should turn up here tonight, Harmon.
I’m glad you did, though, I really am. I wouldn’t have realized what an
opportunity this thing affords me if you hadn’t!”