M’NATT TRIES PHOTOGRAPHY
Mr. Kincaid was a dapper, well-groomed little gentleman of middle
age who wore a sandy mustache and squinted engagingly through a pair
of gold-rimmed glasses because he was unusually near-sighted. On one
occasion, when the instructor had removed his glasses to polish them
and had subsequently mislaid them between the pages of a book for
something like two minutes, things happened in Room G seldom witnessed!
Being extremely fastidious, the instructor was a good customer of The
Parisian Tailors, who occupied a small building on West Street. On the
preceding Saturday, the day of the New Falmouth game, the instructor
repaired himself to the tailoring shop shortly after dinner with a pair
of trousers draped gracefully over one arm. He wanted those trousers
nicely pressed for the next day’s wearing, and he must have them no
later than this evening. Having enjoined Mr. Jacob Schacht to that
effect, he remained a moment and watched that gentleman, who, by the
way, looked most un-Parisian in feature, proceed to the long-delayed
cleaning of a gray suit. It was a peculiar looking suit, Mr. Kincaid
decided, viewing it through his strong lenses, and he made mention of
his decision to Mr. Schacht. “An odd mixture,” he remarked agreeably.
“I don’t think I ever saw one just like it, Mr. Schacht.”
“Them spots ain’t in the goods,” chuckled Mr. Schacht in an un-Parisian
voice. “They’re paint, Mr. Kincaid. One of the young gentlemen at the
school brought this here suit to me the first of the week just like
you see it. All over the front is them spots, Mr. Kincaid, and I says
‘A fine job you bring me,’ I says, ‘because,’ I says, ‘paint that’s
already got hard like this,’ I says, ‘you can’t do much with it, Mr.
Grainger.’ So much I don’t like it, I keep putting it off, sir, and
here now it’s already Saturday, and nothing ain’t done to it yet,
Mr. Kincaid. If there was two of me I’d still be working till it was
midnight just like now, Mr. Kincaid.”
His interest in the suit having vanished on learning that the peculiar
appearance was due to specks of paint, Mr. Kincaid sympathized with Mr.
Schacht in a few well-chosen words and withdrew. The incident did not
again occur to him until Tuesday forenoon when his eyes again fell on
the gray suit, now quite commonplace in appearance, adorning the form
of Calvin Grainger. Just why at that moment Mr. Kincaid’s thoughts
should have reverted to the last faculty meeting it is hard to say,
but they did, and he recalled the case of a student, whose name he had
now forgotten, which had been before the meeting for consideration.
That student had used black paint to adorn the brick wall surrounding
the residence of the Principal of Hillsport School, to the straining
of the entente cordial existing between that school and Alton Academy.
Mr. Kincaid removed his gold-rimmed glasses, closed his eyes, leaned
back, and, while Rowlandson proceeded to prove how little attention he
had given to today’s lesson, added two and two, with the result that
later on that day Calvin Grainger called at the office on request and
spent some twenty minutes with Doctor McPherson. When he left he looked
chastened to a degree; chastened and very disgusted; possibly more
disgusted than chastened. For, as he asked later of a very troubled
roommate, what was a fellow going to do when he was asked point-blank
like that?
“Of course,” he explained moodily, “I didn’t welch on you or Mart, but
he’ll get you, Bob, because he will be pretty sure we were together.
After that he’ll get Mart.”
“He’ll get me,” agreed Bob, with a sigh, “but I don’t see how he can
connect Mart with the business.”
“You don’t? Well, it’s funny to me he hasn’t done it already. He knows
that Brand and Mart room together, for one thing. Fellows who room
together are generally in on things like that.”
“Sure, if they happen around school, but I guess it didn’t occur to him
that Mart would be with Brand over at Hillsport. Maybe he won’t think
of me, either.” But there was very little conviction in his tone.
“He will, though,” answered Cal gloomily. “You’ll be on the carpet in
the morning. It’s a shame, too. It doesn’t matter much in my case, for
I’m not on the football team, and I’ll be off probation long before
spring baseball practice starts, but you--” He shook his head dismally.
“Oh, well!” Bob shrugged. “What has to be, has to be. Might as well
face it.” He walked to the window and looked down on the darkening
Green. Cal groaned.
“It’s my fault,” he muttered. “You fellows wouldn’t have thought of it
if I hadn’t suggested it.”
“It isn’t your fault that we went into it,” answered Bob, without
turning. “Don’t talk like a fish.”
At noon the next day it was known pretty well all over school that Bob
Newhall, Calvin Grainger and Willard Harmon were on probation as a
result of the black paint episode over at Hillsport. Bob’s fate brought
consternation to the team and one of the worst quarter-hours Bob had
ever put in occurred when Joe Myers sought him out and said what was on
his mind. Joe took it badly.
Martin was all for hurrying to the office and acknowledging his
complicity, but the others persuaded him not to. As Bob said, the
team had suffered enough, and it was Martin’s duty to stick as long
as faculty would let him. “Not that it’ll be long, though,” added Bob
pessimistically. “They’ll get you, too, in a day or so.”
Bob was mistaken, however, for they didn’t “get him” until Friday. Even
then they had no proof against Martin, but, knowing that he and Bob and
Cal were much together, they shot at a venture and, questioned, Martin
could do no less than confess. He acknowledged to Willard that it was a
relief to have it over with. “I’ve been feeling like a thief ever since
they got you, Brand,” he said, “and I’d have gone to Mac long ago if
you fellows hadn’t kicked up such a row about it.”
The next day Alton journeyed to Hubbardston and met Oak Grove. With
Rowlandson in Bob’s position and Putney playing left tackle in place
of Martin, it wasn’t the same team that had rolled up those 34 points
against New Falmouth. The Gray-and-Gold, thanks to the spirit displayed
by every fellow on the team and to some wonderful work by McNatt,
managed to score a touchdown in the third period, but against that Oak
Grove made two, and the score at the end of the game was 14 to 6 in Oak
Grove’s favor.
The school felt very sore after that game and Bob and Martin and
Willard were far from popular. There was a distinct atmosphere
of discouragement over the Academy on Sunday, and it didn’t lift
perceptibly until Monday evening, when, at the third of the football
mass meetings, Coach Cade made an earnest appeal for support that
brought the audience to their feet, cheering madly.
“We’ve been hit hard,” he said. “There wouldn’t be any sense in my
denying that. But this is a fight that we’re in, and one blow isn’t
going to beat us. It’s just going to get our blood up, fellows, and
we’re going to fight harder than we ever thought of fighting. We’re
going into the Kenly game, maybe, beaten on paper, but we’re coming out
of it victorious. It won’t be the first time that a supposedly weaker
team has won. It’s spirit that counts, the spirit to fight and conquer,
no matter the odds. And that’s the spirit Alton is going to have next
Saturday. There isn’t a man on the team, from Captain Myers down to the
greenest substitute, that thinks we are going to be beaten; there isn’t
one of them that doesn’t know that we can win and will win! And I know
it. And I want everyone of you fellows to know it, too, and to let the
team know that you know it! We’ll do our part, but you’ve got to do
yours. Will you?”
The answer was convincing.
The four on probation didn’t attend that meeting, nor were they able to
see the efforts that Coach Cade put forth to repair the team in the few
days remaining, but they heard of each, and each was affected in his
own fashion. Martin stormed at his fate and got red in the face, Bob
was very silent and pathetic and Willard smiled to hide a sore heart.
Cal was frankly miserable, blaming himself for the mischief and taking
the misfortune to the others perhaps a little harder than they did.
Willard dropped in on Felix McNatt Tuesday afternoon before supper and
got much inside news of the football situation.
“Rowlandson will probably do very well,” reported McNatt, “but Putney
isn’t the right sort for tackle, and I wish Mr. Cade would see it. He
hasn’t the proper temperament, Harmon.”
“How about the backfield?” asked Willard. “How--how’s Mawson getting
on?”
“Mawson is a hard worker, but he’s lighter than he should be and he’s
not so clever at finding the holes as you were, Harmon,” answered
McNatt judicially. “Cochran is remarkably good when at his best, but
he--ah--fluctuates.”
“It doesn’t sound hopeful,” murmured Willard.
“Oh, I’ve no doubt that we will win from Kenly,” answered McNatt.
“You see, since we lost Proctor and Newhall we’ve come together a lot
better, and the morale of the team is much finer. Kenly, as I figure
it, will enter the game fairly sure of winning. We’ll go in realizing
that, while we may win it, we’ve got to play powerful football to do
it. When you just have to do a thing, you do it,” concluded McNatt
convincedly.
Willard considered that conclusion a moment in silence, a silence
broken at length by his host. “I presume,” he said, “that there’s no
hope of Newhall and Proctor--and you--getting back on before Saturday.”
“Hardly,” answered Willard, smiling wryly. “We’re on pro for the rest
of the term.”
“I didn’t know,” murmured McNatt sympathetically. “Just--ah--just what
was it that happened, Harmon? I don’t think I ever heard the rights of
it.”
So Willard told him, giving a very complete and detailed account of the
affair, and McNatt listened and nodded and blinked occasionally until
he had finished. Then, after a moment’s consideration, he said: “It
seems, then, that you fellows made your mistake in painting the score
on the Principal’s wall. I mean, you did no worse than Hillsport did
otherwise.”
“We didn’t do as much as she did,” answered Willard resentfully. “Those
fellows painted the score all over the town here; more than a dozen
times, I guess; we only painted it twice.”
“Yes, I recall seeing the signs,” McNatt reflected. “Has it occurred to
you as possible that a proper presentation of your case has not been
made to the Hillsport Principal?”
“I don’t know. Anyway, what he thinks doesn’t worry us. It’s what
faculty here thinks. And they think we ought to be punished. And we
are.”
“I see. I only thought that possibly--” McNatt’s voice trailed into
silence, and he remained silent so long that Willard finally got up and
took his departure. McNatt pulled the cord that operated the door bolt
in a most absent-minded manner and aroused himself from his abstraction
only long enough to murmur “Good afternoon.” Outside, Willard smiled to
himself and shook his head.
“McNutt!” he muttered.
Usually the last hard practice preceding the big game was held on
Wednesday, but this year the team was kept at it on Thursday as well.
On Wednesday the second team, fight as it might, was snowed under,
three touchdowns and a field-goal to nothing, and on Thursday, although
Coach Cade gave the ball to the second time and again inside the
first’s thirty-yard line, the latter’s goal was not crossed. On the
other hand, McNatt twice broke away for long runs that led to as many
scores. The mass meeting on Thursday evening was more enthusiastic than
any that had gone before, and the cheers had a grimly determined sound
usually lacking.
It was on Thursday that Martin returned to Number 16 Haylow just
before dinner time from a hurried trip to West Street and, tossing
his purchase on his bed and warming numbed fingers over the radiator,
announced with a chuckle: “McNutt’s got a new line, Brand.”
“What sort of a line?” asked Willard, pushing his book away and tilting
perilously back in his chair. “What do you mean, line?”
“Photography,” replied Martin. “I met him over in Bagdad a few minutes
ago taking pictures of the stores. It’s colder than the dickens, but
all he had on was a muffler around his neck.”
“_What!_”
“Don’t play the goat. You know what I mean. He looked awfully funny,
standing there winding up his little camera in the middle of the
street, with the wind blowing a gale!”
“What’s he photographing the stores for?” asked Willard, puzzled.
“Search me! Some new science, I guess. He’s a queer one. Coming to
dinner?”
Friday was still cold and windy, with leaden skies, and after the team
had run through signals for a quarter of an hour and the backs had
punted and caught a few times, the players were hustled back to the
gymnasium and straw was spread over the gridiron in case of a freeze.
The excitement and suspense that held the whole school that day
affected Willard so that studying was an impossibility. About five,
as Martin had gone over to Lykes to get Eustace Ross to help him with
his algebra, Willard gave up the attempt to study and, pulling on a
sweater, wandered across to Upton. Number 49 held only young Fuller,
however. “Felix went out early,” he said in reply to Willard’s inquiry.
“About two o’clock I think it was. I guess he’s photographing.” The boy
scowled. “That’s his latest. He develops the pictures himself, too.”
He nodded at several trays and bottles that claimed a corner of the
table. “This is a rotten hole to live in when he gets to messing with
chemicals. Some day I’ll be blown through the roof, I dare say.”
“I don’t think photographing chemicals are explosive,” responded
Willard soothingly.
“Well, they’re mighty nasty,” grumbled the other. “He stretched a
string across the room yesterday and hung his films on it and they
dripped all over my books!”
Willard retraced his steps to Haylow, very much at a loose end, and
gloomed in the darkness until Martin returned and switched the light
on. After supper that evening Bob and Calvin came up and the four
listened to the singing and cheering that floated faintly across from
Memorial Hall where the final football mass meeting was being held, and
talked desultorily about the game and Alton’s prospects of victory.
“They say,” remarked Cal, “that faculty’s holding a special meeting
this evening and that Rowlandson may not play tomorrow.”
“What’s the matter with Rowly?” asked Martin.
“Back in his studies, they say.”
“I guess it’s just a scare,” said Martin. “Who said that faculty was
meeting?”
“Harry Johnson told me. I think it’s so, too, for I saw the windows of
Mac’s room all lighted up.”
“What of it? That doesn’t necessarily mean that they’re after
Rowlandson,” said Bob. “That would be about the last straw!”
“You hear a lot of silly yarns like that just before the game,” said
Martin. “Fellows get so excited they’ll tell you anything.”
“I wish I were excited,” muttered Bob. “Gee, it’s funny to think of the
game being played tomorrow and not getting into it!”
“Not even seeing!” added Cal.
“That’s worse still,” said Martin. “I don’t see why faculty needs to be
so blamed mean. It wouldn’t hurt them any to let us look at the old
game!”
“Think they would if we all went and asked?” inquired Willard. “Doctor
McPherson isn’t a bad sort.”
“He’s all right,” answered Cal grudgingly, “but some of the others are
pills. I’d say--”
“We might try it,” interrupted Bob eagerly. “I’ll go if the rest of you
will!”
“I’ll go,” said Martin promptly. “He can’t any more than turn us down.
Gee, listen to that cheer! They’re certainly humping themselves over
there tonight!”
“We’ll all go,” said Bob. “I suppose it’s too late tonight. Let’s do it
right after breakfast. I don’t see why he shouldn’t, fellows.”
“Nor I,” growled Cal, “but he won’t!”
Long after midnight had rung out Willard called cautiously across the
darkness: “Mart, you awake?”
“Yes, I can’t seem to get to sleep.”
“Same here,” sighed Willard. He thumped his pillow and dug his head
into it again. “Gee, you’d think I was going to play tomorrow from the
way I don’t get sleepy!”
“Last year,” said Mart, making the bed squeak as he tossed himself into
a new position, “I was asleep before eleven. Let’s light up and read
awhile, Brand.”
“Let’s try it again for awhile first,” was the answer. “Maybe if we
stop thinking about the game we’ll make it.”
“Yes, but how are you going to stop thinking of it?” sighed Martin.
“Well--”
Silence fell. The half-hour struck. Presently a gentle snore came from
the left-hand bed, joined a few minutes later by a second.