M’NATT JOINS THE TEAM
A great many years before the period of this story Alton Academy
manufactured its own illuminating gas from gasoline by means of a
machine in the basement of Academy Hall. The machine was connected by
pipe with a gasoline tank set in a covered pit some sixty feet from the
building. One fine day there was trouble with the gasoline supply and
one of the faculty members known as Old Grubby descended into the pit
to investigate matters. Just what occurred down there was never known,
but shortly after Old Grubby disappeared from sight he reappeared
with vastly more celerity, and his reappearance was accompanied by a
violent concussion that brought everyone rushing to the scene or to the
dormitory windows. A fortunate few gained points of vantage in time
to see the teacher’s ascent interrupted by the force of gravitation
and to watch his return to earth. This happened at a point many feet
distant from the crater that had once been a brick-lined pit, and was
quite spectacular. Fortunately, aside from a severe shaking up, some
contusions and a nervous shock, Old Grubby was uninjured, although just
at first it seemed to the horrified spectators that he had suffered a
direful fate, since he had gone into the pit with a luxuriant growth of
dark hair on his head and had subsequently descended from his flight
with his scalp as bare and polished as a pale-pink billiard ball!
None was more horror-stricken than the unfortunate gentleman himself,
however, when he realized his plight. Clapping both hands to his head,
he broke loose from the solicitous rescuers and ran agitatedly around
in circles. Such extraordinary behavior on the part of an ordinarily
sane gentleman was naturally adjudged to be the result of temporary
dementia produced by the accident, and so, of course, all those who had
arrived on the scene took up the chase. Old Grubby dodged and eluded,
giving vent to inarticulate ejaculations of dismay, and the chase might
have continued for quite a while had he not finally, with a cry of
relief and triumph, snatched a brown object from a lower branch of a
tree, clapped it on his shining head and dashed for his room.
The incident created a remarkable sensation; not so much that portion
concerned with the interesting explosion of the gasoline tank as
the resultant revelation. For many years Old Grubby had managed to
deceive the sharpest eyes in his classes and never had there been the
faintest of doubts expressed as to the naturalness of his beautiful
dark brown locks. And then before the eyes of the whole school he had
been exposed! After the first shock of incredulous surprise, Alton
Academy roared and rocked with laughter. Students and faculty gasped
and gurgled fraternally, and you may well believe that the spectacle
of the Principal seated on the lower step of Academy Hall, swaying
rhythmically from side to side and holding his head in his hands, did
nothing to quell the contagion. History has it that at the end of that
term Old Grubby resigned and took himself to distant fields where his
precious secret was not known.
Now this has no place in the present narrative save as a prelude to the
statement that not since its occurrence had the School known such a
sensation as was caused by the appearance of Felix Adelbert McNatt as a
member of the football squad!
McNatt reported on Friday afternoon, clad in ancient regalia that
included the disreputable green sweater, and the news spread like
wildfire. Society rooms, studies, tennis courts were deserted, and the
stands beside the gridiron were so filled that you would have thought
the Big Game was in progress. Disbelief vanished as the unmistakable
form of McNatt was descried on the field and amused conviction took
its place. “Hooray for McNutt!” shrilled an irrepressible freshman,
and the audience cheered loudly. “Regular cheer, fellows!” bawled a
junior, “with nine ‘McNatts’!” The response was thrilling, even if
the “McNatts” became “McNutts” in the performance, and after that the
new candidate had only to move a hand or a long leg to be greeted by
uproarious applause!
Whether McNatt realized the sensation he was producing, or the nature
of it, I can’t say. At least, he gave no sign. Perhaps he thought
that every practice witnessed a similar loyal attendance and that the
applause that fell to him was no more than was generally accorded.
McNatt, fortunately, was not self-conscious nor sensitive. If he had
been he might have found it difficult to perform the duties set him.
As it was, he worked hard and faithfully and with surprising ability,
proving at once that he had neither forgotten what he had formerly
known of football nor had allowed his long absence from the game to put
him out of condition. He tackled the dummy with the rest of the squad
and showed how it should be tackled, he swung a clever foot against the
ball and got thirty-five yards at a punt and he caught the returning
pigskin with ease and certainty. In short, McNatt that Friday afternoon
caused Coach Cade to stare and shake his head and almost rub his eyes
and the audience along the sidelines to change their laughter to
enthusiastic, ungrudging applause before the practice session was ended.
A mere five minutes with a squad in formation drill taught McNatt
the signals sufficiently for his purpose, and later, when the second
team came across, filled with ambition and an overwhelming desire
to see what all the laughing and cheering was about, and McNatt was
put in at full-back on the first, why, he made good from the first
moment. He clung doggedly to that green sweater, though others were
down to canvas, and it shone resplendent in every play. Kruger, whose
wont it was to take the ball for the second and go rearing through
inside or outside of tackle, saw his glory fade. The first time he
tried it he ran straight into a green sweater. Those nearest heard an
amazed “Whoof!” from Kruger, and then he was borne back and placed
expeditiously on the turf, and a chuckling referee added another
yard to the distance to be gained. But the best came when the first
team, having wrested the ball from a surprised second, sprang to the
assault. Cochran gained three past left guard and then Tarver called on
McNatt. Gil said afterwards that the full-back got to him so quick that
he almost missed the pass. Bob and Stacey did their part, and then a
green streak passed between them, smashed into a luckless second team
guard, caromed off a tackle and proceeded down the field, spurning
the backs much as a cannon ball might treat the attentions of so many
toy terriers, and, with an easy if ungraceful stride, ate up the
intervening sixty-seven yards and deposited the pigskin squarely behind
the goal. After which McNatt seated himself on the ball and waited for
the others to come along.
Not for seasons of football on Alton Field had there been such a wild
paean of delight as arose to the blue October sky just then! Reversing
the usual order, McNatt had arisen from the ridiculous to the sublime,
and Alton loved him for it! Joy and laughter were mingled in that
long-continued outburst, continued since the sight of the elongated
McNatt seated unconcernedly on the football down there moved the
onlookers to new merriment. Cochran kicked a goal and the game went
on, and the audience breathlessly awaited another enlivening spectacle.
But another such incident would have been too much for the Law of
Probabilities. McNatt smashed and wormed and twisted his way through
the second team’s astonished line time after time for good gains,
but when eleven outraged and argus-eyed youths are watching for the
appearance of one green-sweatered enemy that enemy hasn’t much chance
of escaping detection and detention, and for that reason McNatt didn’t
again get free that afternoon. But he did gain every time he was given
the ball, which is glory enough, while the fact that the opponents
played for McNatt every time the lines heaved afforded Cochran and
Mawson--or, later, Willard--an absence of attention that enabled them
to do wonders.
Before the end of the game McNatt was taken out, not, it appeared,
because he was exhausted or had lost any of his enthusiasm, but
probably because Jake, the trainer, willed it so. After that he sat on
the bench, surrounded by admirers, and explained gravely his views on
Science as a Foundation for Football.
Yes, the advent of Felix Adelbert McNatt was certainly a sensation,
and as such it served as a topic of conversation for not only the
rest of that day but for many days following. After the first flush
of delight occasioned by the finding of such a wonder, captious ones
asked why McNatt hadn’t been discovered before, dwelling on the fact
that he had been there right along and could have been discovered as
long ago as the season before last if those in charge of football had
known their business! But on the whole the School was much too well
pleased to indulge in criticism. The one weak position on the team
had been strengthened and a victory over Kenly loomed large. Willard
received almost tearful thanks from Joe and warm commendations from the
coach. The latter’s evident gratitude gave Willard the courage to offer
advice. “You see, sir,” he confided, “McNatt’s got a lot of queer ideas
about how football ought to be played, and he really agreed to join the
team because he hopes to--to sort of reform things. He asked me if you
were the sort of man he could explain his theories to and I said you
were. So, if you don’t mind, I guess it would be a pretty good plan
to sort of--sort of humor him, Mr. Cade, and let him tell you about
Science.”
“He can tell me about Science and Art, too, if he will play the way he
played yesterday!” replied the coach emphatically. “And if he can talk
the way he tackles I’ll listen to him all night. And you may tell him
so!”
But McNatt was biding his time. He didn’t mean to spoil his chances to
put the game of football on a proper scientific basis by introducing
his ideas too early. He meant to erect a firm basis first, to show
by the scientific playing of a single position the plausibility of
his theory that all positions were capable of like treatment, both
individually and collectively in the form of the team. Also, he wanted
to establish cordial relations with the powers, the coach and captain,
before beginning his proselytism. Meanwhile, as Willard learned later,
he devoted much time to further study of the subject, collecting much
data and drawing interesting if not altogether convincing conclusions
from it. As it turned out, McNatt was far too busy playing his position
as it should be played to do much more that season than drive the
entering wedge of reform into the football situation. He spent all
one evening in Mr. Cade’s rooms on one occasion and expounded to his
heart’s content, referring at intervals to a wealth of memoranda,
and was listened to courteously and patiently. And on numerous
other occasions he held forth to such as would listen, and, while
his audience was secretly amused, outwardly his remarks met sober
and reverent attention. Perhaps some day--even when you are reading
this story for all I know--McNatt will be hailed as the Prophet of
Scientific Football and the game will be played according to his ideas.
In which case, all I can say is that I shan’t care to see it!
The day after McNatt’s first appearance with the team was the day of
the Hillsport game. Hillsport School was a much smaller institution
than Alton Academy, but it made up for lack of numbers by self-esteem
and aggressiveness. It had held a place on Alton’s football schedule
for four years, during which time it had met with one defeat, had
played one tie and had won one victory.
The victory had come to it last year, on Alton Field, and in the
ecstasy of triumph the Hillsport supporters had tarried in town long
enough to record that triumph for posterity. Loyal Altonians on their
way to church Sunday morning found to their horror and indignant
surprise that the legend: “H. S. 14, A. A. 6,” appeared in large green
characters on a dozen hitherto blank walls and boardings! The worst of
it was that the insulting inscriptions were there to stay. Perhaps the
elements would, in the course of years, subdue, perhaps obliterate,
those vivid brush streaks, but today they looked as glaring as they
had on that first calm Sabbath morning. Alton had viewed and exclaimed
and muttered vengefully for some days, but as time passed familiarity
bred indifference, and now it was only when a visiting relative
innocently asked the meaning of the cryptic signs that indignation and
a thirst for revenge welled again in the Alton breast.
Last year’s defeat and those insulting green painted symbols of
disgrace combined to form a mad desire for revenge this fall in
the heart of every Alton fellow. There were some whose outraged
sensibilities even induced the opinion that a victory over Hillsport
was more to be desired than a triumph over that arch-enemy, Kenly Hall.
This, however, was an extreme view held by only a few, although among
the few were several representative minds: as, for instance, Mr. Robert
Wallace Newhall and Mr. Calvin Grainger. Mr. Newhall stated distinctly
and with much feeling, in the presence of Mr. Grainger, Mr. Myers, Mr.
Proctor and Mr. Harmon, that if “we don’t lick the tar out of those
fresh mutts tomorrow I won’t come back here!” Mr. Grainger, who had
earnestly striven the preceding spring to wreak revenge on Hillsport
on the baseball diamond, and had failed, applauded the sentiment, but
others, frivolous-minded persons like Martin Proctor and Joe Myers,
expressed only derision.
“What would you do, Bob?” asked Martin. “Stay over in Hillsport and
blow up the school buildings?”
“He knows blamed well,” laughed Joe, “that he’s safe. With old Felix
McNutt tearing holes in the line, Hillsport’s got about the same chance
to escape a walloping as Bob has to get to heaven!”
“I hope you’re right,” said Cal Grainger. “I’d feel disgraced if those
fresh guys licked us again.”
“They won’t,” Joe assured him. “Not this year. Boy, we’ve got a _team_
now! With McNutt in there, that’s a mighty pretty backfield, and
Kenly’s going to know it three weeks from tomorrow!”
“Three weeks!” exclaimed Willard. “Not really?”
“Why not?”
“But--but that’s so soon! Gee, I thought the Kenly game was lots
further off!”
“It isn’t, though,” answered Joe, shaking his head. “And those three
weeks will be gone before you know it, too. It’s funny about that. One
day you’re in the middle of the season, and then, seems like it was the
next day, you wake up and the Big Game’s right on top of you! It--it
sort of scares you, too!”
“Say, Joe, what’s the real dope on Kenly this year, anyway?” asked Bob
thoughtfully.
Joe shrugged. “You know as much as I do. She’s had about an average
season, I guess. She’s played five games, one more than we have, and
has lost two, won two and tied the other. You can’t tell much about
Kenly until along toward the end of the season, any more than you can
about us. Last year she didn’t look very good until the Lorimer game.
Then she walked all over Lorimer to the tune of twenty-something to
nothing. That was the week before we played her, you know, and it made
us sit up and take notice. But taking notice didn’t do us much good,
for she walloped us when our turn came.”
“The papers speak pretty well of her backs,” observed Cal. “She has one
fellow, I forget his name--”
“Puckhaber?” asked Joe.
“That’s it, Puckhaber! Some name, I’ll say! He’s good, isn’t he?”
“He’s all right, but he wasn’t anything remarkable last fall. We
stopped him as well as we stopped any of her backs. She’s got a good
man in Timmons, though, her left end. He’ll bear watching, fellows.
Well, it’s nine-thirty, Bob. Time to turn in. This may be your last
night in the old school, son: better make the most of it!”