BACK IN HARNESS
Jimmy was at the store in the morning and Russell went over the stock
with him, explaining cost marks and various other matters that should
form part of a clerk’s knowledge. Jimmy was, for once, not in the least
flippant, and Stick, when he finally appeared to release Russell for
a recitation, appeared to view the new employee more leniently than
Russell had dared hope he might. Jimmy’s duties were not to begin until
the morrow, and presently he and Russell hurried back to the Academy
together.
“Your friend Stick seems rather a Gloomy Gus,” observed Jimmy on the
way, “but perhaps by kindness and forbearance we may cheer him up. Is
he taking the afternoon watch to-day, Rus?”
“Yes, I’m going back after this class, and he’s going to stay from
three to five-thirty. Stick’s not a bad sort, but he doesn’t put his
best foot forward very often.”
“I didn’t think to notice his feet,” replied Jimmy thoughtfully.
“Well, here’s where we part. Oh, by the way, what about my attire? Do
you think I ought to--well, dress for the part to-morrow? Something,
say, a trifle modish, eh? Gray trousers and frock-coat, maybe, with a
lavender tie and a single black pearl in it. Or do you think the usual
more negligent dress would answer?”
“I’d go in for simplicity,” answered Russell, grinning. “What you have
on looks all right. Besides, customers might think you bought those
knickers in the store, and that would be quite an advertisement, eh?”
“Right-o! Well, see you this afternoon, doubtless. So long, Mister
Employer!”
There was nothing very dramatic about Russell’s return to the football
fold. A hurried and curt-spoken Gaston welcomed him with a sudden
smile and a brief congratulatory nod. “Fine, Emerson!” he called as he
passed. “B Squad for you.”
Followed half an hour’s work that proved to Russell very conclusively
that he was in no good shape for the task ahead of him. He had
lost a fortnight’s training and the fact was evident. Long before
signal drill was done he was aching in most of his muscles and
puffing like a grampus. He was glad indeed of a short respite on the
bench before the squad walked across to the first team gridiron,
where, although the time for scrimmage had arrived, a squad under
leadership of Ned Richards was still hustling down the field, Ned’s
voice, sharply imperative, rising above the tones of Coach Cade and
Captain Proctor, trailing behind and rapping out criticism. That
bunch, reflected Russell as he paused with his companions to form a
sweatered and blanketed group along the edge of the field, was the
first team’s A Squad, although there were two players on it whose
presence surprised him. These were Crocker, at left end in place of
Lake, and Greenwood, at full-back. Joe Greenwood was Sid’s brother,
a heavy, dark-complexioned youth who had played with Russell on last
year’s second. Russell hadn’t thought him varsity material, but he
was displacing the veteran Browne. Possibly, though, Browne was on
the hospital list or in trouble at the Office: Russell hadn’t been
following football very closely.
The rest of the squad were first-string men: Butler, playing at
left tackle for Captain Mart Proctor, Rowlandson, Nichols, Stimson,
Putney, McLeod, Richards, Harmon, Moncks. Across the sunlit field,
the substitutes’ bench showed far fewer huddled forms than had sat
there last week, indicating that the first cut had taken effect. In
the stands a score or so of onlookers were scattered, their hands more
often than not thrust deeply in their pockets, for the afternoon was
chill in spite of the flood of late sunlight. Captain Proctor detached
himself from the followers behind the squad as it trotted past down the
center of the gridiron and cupped his hands.
“Ready for you in five minutes, Gaston!” he called. “Help yourself to
the field, will you?”
Steve Gaston nodded and tossed a ball to the turf. “Pass it around,” he
ordered crisply, “and keep moving.”
So the second team players strung out along the edge of the gridiron
in two roughly formed ranks and, walking briskly, shot the ball from
one to another, frequently tripping over a trailing blanket when the
pigskin eluded them and bobbed across the turf. Finally there was the
hoarse squawking of a horn and Manager Johnson was signaling them. Two
sweatered substitutes were unsnarling the chain. From the stand came a
rat-a-tat of chilling feet against the boards.
“Second team’s ball,” announced Coach Cade through his small megaphone.
“We’ll take this goal!”
“Yah,” derided the scrub’s captain sotto-voce as he pranced about,
limbering his legs, “why don’t you let us toss for it, Tightwad?”
Russell grinned as his glance met Falls’. “They haven’t kicked off to
us for a week,” the captain added ruefully, yet smiling. “Come on,
fellows! Let’s take it away from them!”
“You take right end, Emerson,” ordered Coach Gaston. “Look out for
Harmon on forward passes, boy. All right, Second! Go to it! You fellows
who aren’t playing, keep your blankets on. You’ll be wanted before
this ruckus is through.”
The second lined up across the field for the kick-off, a whistle
shrilled and big Jim Newton, center, lifted the ball well toward the
first team’s goal. Russell, following down under the kick, scanning
warily the hastily forming enemy interference, told himself that it was
good to feel the sod underfoot again, to hear the soft rasp of canvas
and creak of leather. Then he was swinging on a heel to dash across the
field toward where Moncks, the pigskin clutched tightly, was coming
along behind his interference. It was not Russell who stopped Moncks,
but Captain Falls. The best Russell could do was topple Richards, in
doing which he got a fine rap on the side of his head that, partly
broken by the edge of his helmet, was yet hard enough to make his
senses swim for a moment. When he got unsteadily to his feet again the
teams were lining up near the thirty-five-yard line. Behind each team
was its coach, and their voices were already to be heard. Russell,
skirting the first team line to his position, saw that Captain Proctor
was at his place again. Then Ned Richards yelped the signal, the lines
swayed, met, there were gasps and grunts, an angry, stifled exclamation
from Wells, the scrub’s right tackle, a hoarse bellow from Falls,
and Harmon was crashing out of the welter of brown canvas bodies.
Russell, playing out and back, sprang in, eluded the savage spring of
an interferer and got his man, aided by Reilly, a half. But Harmon was
hard to stop, and both tacklers gave ground for another yard ere the
runner was down. Russell, blocking with one knee Harmon’s attempt to
thrust the ball forward, muttered: “No, you don’t!” Then the whistle
piped just as reënforcements plunged down on the group. Harmon had made
four yards outside Wells, and Wells was mad. He muttered aloud as he
crouched with swaying arms at the end of the line, and Russell caught
his threatening, taunting words.
“Come on! Try that again, you big stiff! I’ll put that long nose of
yours on the blink for keeps! Send it this way, Ned! Come on, you
Sore-Heads! Oh, you would, eh?”
This latter remark was to Mart Proctor, who had feinted inside Wells
as the ball was snapped. There was an ecstatic moment for Wells, and
then Mart deposited him neatly against his guard and tore outside him.
Russell, already crossing behind the backs, left the invader to Reilly
and met the play which was coming through left tackle. It was Greenwood
this time, and the full-back added another three yards to the total. On
the next attempt there was a fumble by Moncks, recovered by Richards
for a yard loss. Then first team punted, Richards dropping the ball
in Goodwin’s arms on the scrub’s twenty-yard line and the left half
reeling off seven strides before he was downed by Crocker.
Carpenter, the scrub quarter, made two on a wide run and then Reilly,
red-headed and hard-fighting, squirmed through Rowlandson for three
more. But that ended the advance and Kendall punted well into enemy
territory. First gained three on a criss-cross, Harmon carrying, and
then Richards passed diagonally across the line to McLeod, and the
latter, catching the heave unchallenged, went half-way to second’s
goal before Carpenter stopped him. Play was held up while first team
and second team coaches criticized and instructed, and while Russell,
his last breath about gone, sat on the ground and longed for the horn
to sound the end of the period. Then he was up again, almost on his
fifteen-yard line, set for a forward pass that didn’t materialize.
Harmon carried past Wells once more and fought and squirmed to the
scrub’s twenty-one. Falls went down the crouching line and slapped
perspiring backs and implored his men to hold, and Gaston, deep-voiced,
shouted to Goodwin to close in and watch that guard! Then came the
play again, and, over the heads of his plunging team-mates, Russell
saw Richards, ball in hand, trotting back and back, saw Harmon
sneaking fast across the turf to the left, saw Squibbs dash headlong
at Richards, saw the latter side-step, calmly, smilingly, and saw the
right arm go back for the long throw. All about him were warning voices
as he forced his tired legs and tuckered lungs to new exertion.
“_Pass! Watch that man! Stop that throw!_”
Russell, running, glanced back. Overhead was the ball, a dozen yards
ahead was Harmon, walking sidewise, hands ready. Behind Russell
streamed the field, coming fast but too late to get into the play.
Carpenter was closing up the gap between his position and the side
line. Russell called on his flagging strength for one last supreme
effort. Harmon had stopped, was facing the descending ball, had raised
his arms. Russell was still a good six yards distant and he knew that
Harmon would be off before he could reach him. There was but one chance
and he took it. Throwing his arms high, he leaped into the air, hoping
against hope. But fortune was with him. The flying pigskin grazed his
left hand. The touch of it was so light that Russell scarcely felt it,
but it served to deflect the ball. Harmon swayed to the right, the
ball spurned his eager grasp and went trickling, bouncing across the
turf toward the side line. Russell paid no further attention to it. He
eased himself gently to the ground and turned onto his back. A minute
later Lawrence pulled him to his feet and put a strong arm under his
shoulders.
“Good work, Emerson,” he panted. “Better step out. Gaston’s looking.
All right now?”
“Yes,” said Russell faintly. “I’m--fearfully--soft!”
[Illustration: “Yes,” said Russell faintly. “I’m--fearfully--soft!”]
They made their way back to the forming line-up, but Coach Gaston
intervened. “That’ll do, Emerson,” he called. Then, turning to the far
side of the field, “Tierney!” he bawled. “Tierney! Hurry up!”
Russell yielded his helmet and went off with drooping head. He was
heartily ashamed of himself. He had lasted some eight minutes only!
Of course the reason wasn’t far to seek: a fellow can’t play football
if he isn’t conditioned; and Russell realized that he was very far
from conditioned. A summer spent largely indoors hadn’t, he thought
ruefully, prepared him very well for what was before him. He sank down
in the line of waiting substitutes and wondered if he would ever get
his breath fully back again!
Of course first team went over. Having reached the twenty yard line,
it wasn’t to be held by anything the second had to offer in the way
of argument. Moncks got a good gain through center and Harmon made it
first down on the scrub’s sixteen. From there, using concealed plays,
the first wore down the defense until, on fourth down, with the ball
on the five yards, Richards faked a forward and passed to Moncks and
the latter raced around the second’s left for a touchdown. The period
ended soon after and the second team players joined the substitutes
and huddled into blankets and listened to a grave discourse on their
shortcomings and failures from the coach.
When the second period started Steve Gaston put on almost a new eleven.
Russell didn’t go in again, but sat on the turf, wrapped in a faded
gray blanket, and saw Tierney play right end. And Tierney did very
well, Russell thought, even if he did let Harmon get safely off with
another forward pass that paved the way for the first team’s second
score. For that matter, Russell had almost done the same thing himself.
He was still wondering why he had been caught flat-footed on that play!
Coach Cade likewise called on his second-string players for the last
period, and on his third-string as well. Russell saw with satisfaction
that when Jimmy Austen supplanted Mawson at left half--Harmon had not
started the last period--his punting, if not in the least phenomenal,
was very good. Russell got a case of mild heart-failure every time
the ball went to Jimmy for travel by the aerial route, for Jimmy was
deliberate to a fault. It looked as though he simply hated to part
from that ball until at least two of the enemy were almost upon him.
But he had Fortune with him to-day, and of his four punts not one was
blocked and each went its way as he fore-ordained it to; forty yards,
forty-five and, once, a magnificent fifty-odd. At carrying the ball,
though, Jimmy met with less success, and after each of his several
attempts Russell heard the incisive voice of the coach dealing out
rebuke.
Second didn’t score that afternoon, didn’t approach to scoring, indeed,
and, afterwards, Steve Gaston’s quiet thoughtfulness indicated that he
wasn’t any too well pleased. Steve had yanked Squibbs and Emerson back
to the fold and added two other unknown quantities in the persons of
a brace of sophomores who had messed about with last year’s freshman
team. So far, so good, but the second team was still far from the
hard-fighting, bull-dog aggregation that he was working for. He told
himself that the weight was there, and the aggressiveness, and the
knowledge sufficient for his ends, but that for some reason the fellows
weren’t using them. He wondered if there was some way in which to
make the team forget that they were doing battle with their fellows
and really fight! Of the crowd, Wells was the only one who exhibited
the proper spirit. When Wells went into action friendship ceased. Put
Wells in football togs and he would have fought to a finish with his
grandmother! Sometimes Steve had to call the tackle down for “slanging”
too much, but he always hated to do it. If he could only get the rest
of the team into the same frame of mind he would, he felt, have a real
eleven, an eleven that would make history.
On the way out of the gymnasium he caught sight of Russell and hailed
him. “I used you a bit hard this afternoon, Emerson,” he said, “but
I wanted to see how you showed up, and there isn’t much time for
coddling.”
“I’m afraid I showed up pretty poorly,” said Russell. “I had no idea a
fellow could go stale so soon, Gaston.”
“I know.” Gaston nodded. “You were all right, though. Get some one to
work out the kinks in your muscles to-night. A good hot bath will help,
if you get right into bed afterwards. I’ll let you off easy to-morrow.
How did the team strike you?”
Russell hesitated, for it hadn’t occurred to him before to consider
that subject. “Pretty fair,” he said at last. “It’s early yet.”
“It’s never early when it comes to getting a team in shape,” responded
the coach. “I’ve got the stuff there, Emerson, but I don’t get it out.
I will, though, by ginger! I’m going to make that bunch deliver the
goods. Well, good night. Take care of yourself.”