WATTLES IS WELL
It wasn’t quite so hot as it had been earlier in the day, and there
was a perceptible movement of air across the field as Clif and Tom
turned the corner of East Hall and made toward the running track and
the gridiron enclosed by it. To their right the little pond was very
blue, its surface ruffled only slightly by an occasional catspaw. In
winter that same surface was scored by the steel runners of speeding
skaters, brushed by whizzing pucks, and Clif recalled the fact somewhat
incredulously as he fixed longing eyes on the shade of the sloping
concrete grand stand ahead.
There was a far-stretching rank of tall, straight poplars marking
the eastern limits of the field and the school property and turning
westward to continue as far as the garden, the old red barn and the
newer buildings that housed the automobiles. The playing field was
large, affording space for three gridirons and two diamonds and a round
dozen of tennis courts, these latter well behind the buildings. The
quarter-mile track of hard-rolled cinders glared heatedly at them as
they crossed it, and the enclosure of still vividly green turf, not
yet marked off with the white lines, was a vast relief to their eyes.
In front of the stand some score of fellows had already assembled
when they reached its welcome shade, and several minutes were spent
in greetings, in handclasps, in asking questions and answering them.
Captain Ogden was there, and Guy Owens, this year’s manager, and
Billy Desmond, Tom’s former roommate, and Joe Hanbury, better known
as “Swede,” and numerous others. A few were strangers to Clif and Tom
save, possibly, by sight. Mr. Otis presently arrived, with half a
dozen more players and Dan Farrell, the trainer. A handful of early
arrivals sweltered in the stand, braving discomfort to see others more
uncomfortable. At least, that is the way Tom put it to Clif as he waved
a hand to an acquaintance there.
Presently Mr. Otis called the candidates together and they gathered
about the bench and listened, while in the stand behind comparative
quiet reigned and the few spectators tried to hear what was being said
down there.
“Well,” began Mr. Otis conversationally, “here we are again, fellows,
at the start of the race. In about five minutes the gun will go off and
we’ll be on our way. It’s a long race, fellows, and a hard one, and
some of you are going to get mighty tired of it, I suspect, before you
reach the last lap. Some of you, for that matter, probably won’t stay
in that long. If you don’t it’ll be your fault, not mine. I’ll set the
pace, and I’ll make it as easy a one as I can for you, but you’ve got
to keep on running and follow me all the way!
“Well, dropping metaphor, what I especially want to say to you is this:
This year’s team is going to be a hard working team. It’s got to be if
it’s going to win from Wolcott. I know what I’m talking about. I know
what we’ve got in sight here in the way of material, and I know what
they’ve got, and I tell you frankly that they’re better off than we
are. Another thing. Wolcott’s been practicing more than a week already.
A week isn’t a long time, maybe, but it’s a seventh of the whole
season, and a team that’s able to add an extra week of practice is in
luck. Now I――”
“I thought Wolcott wasn’t allowed to do that, sir!” protested Johnny
Thayer indignantly. “Any more than we are!”
“She isn’t,” said the coach dryly. “Officially she hasn’t. What she’s
done is get about fifteen of her last season’s men together over at
Stillwater Lake for a ‘camping party.’ The party began a week ago
yesterday, as near as I can learn, and there’s been a lot more going on
than just fishing and swimming!”
“Gosh!” growled the big full back. “I don’t think――”
“Shut up, Johnny,” said some one. “You’re out of order!”
“But never mind what Wolcott’s been doing,” resumed the coach. “We’ll
attend to our own affairs. As I said, this team is going to be a hard
working team, and any of you who don’t like the sound of that are
invited right now to step to the rear and fall out. I’ll put up with
stupidity, but I won’t stand shirking. Most of you know that, and I’m
stating it now for the benefit of the few who don’t. I’ll be easy with
you to-day, and to-morrow, too, if the weather stays like this, but
after that, fellows, every nose goes down hard against the grindstone,
and I don’t want to hear any squeals if I turn it fast!”
There were chuckles of amusement from the old hands, but some of the
new candidates looked a bit uneasy and exchanged doubtful glances.
“By to-morrow I want every one of you to own a copy of the football
rules. Manager Owens will supply you, or you can get it in the village.
I want you all to read the rules, right through, from beginning to
end, and study them until you know thoroughly what they mean. What I
don’t want you to do is read books on how to play your positions. I
don’t care who the writer is. The stuff is all right, and I don’t care
how much you read of it out of season, but in season you’ll get your
instruction from me and those who assist in the coaching.
“I said that Wolcott is better off than we are for material, and so she
is. But that doesn’t mean that we can’t lick the sawdust out of her in
November. It does mean, though, that we’ve got to work like thunder and
realize every minute what we’re working for. We’re not in bad shape for
the season, even if we might be in better. We’ve won before with less
to start on. You’ve got a corking fine captain to lead you, you’ve got
at least half a dozen veterans to rally to and you’ve got a coach who,
whatever may be said of him, knows a certain amount of football and can
get work out of you if any one can!”
Again there was a ripple of amused appreciation from his audience. Mr.
Otis’s grim mouth didn’t relax, however.
“Now, one thing more and I’m through. You’re going to work hard and
football is going to take up a whole lot of your time, but there’s
going to be plenty of time left for studies, and any fellow who wants
to stay on the squad will have to keep square with the office. I’ll be
generous with cuts so long as they’re necessary, but any one who can’t
play football and keep up with his studies at the same time will have
to quit football. That’s all. Let’s have some balls, Dan.”
Followed an hour of passing and receiving, a little punting and
catching and some practicing of starts. There were frequent rests, and
they were needed, for the material was soft and the later afternoon,
while a slight improvement on the noon hours, was still exhaustingly
hot and close. Afterwards, in the gymnasium, all candidates reported
to Manager Owens and all went on the scales, Harry New, Guy’s first
assistant, presiding at the ceremony. Showers felt extremely good
to-day, and for once the cold water wasn’t cold enough. It was well
after five when Clif and Tom went back to the dormitory, stopping,
however, on the way to discover that Loring Deane’s room in East Hall
was still untenanted.
“Bet you the old ‘Rolled Rice’ cast a shoe,” said Tom. “Or maybe it
just fell to pieces. That’s the trouble with those cheap cars; they’re
always shaking apart. We’ll get dressed and go down and watch for him.”
But getting dressed was a leisurely proceeding to-day, and by the
time they emerged again from the West Hall entrance and looked
speculatively down the driveway Loring Deane was already in possession
of his quarters. It was Lou Stiles who apprised them of that fact.
Lou, looking exhausted, was sprawled on the grass in the shade by the
doorway. “Hi, Clif,” he called. “If you’re looking for Deane, he’s
here. Came quarter of an hour ago, about. His folks have just gone off
again.”
So they walked across to East and along the first floor corridor, past
the parlor and the office of Mr. Clendennin, Junior School head, and
knocked imperatively at the first door beyond on that side. It was
Wattles who opened to them, Wattles looking very, very warm in full
attire of black serge. He could never be prevailed on to lay aside his
waistcoat, no matter how warm the day might be. Wattles looked askance
at negligée, recognized no compromise in the matter of a gentleman’s
attire.
“Hel-lo, Wattles, old skeezicks!” cried Tom, shaking the attendant’s
hand warmly and at the same time thumping him cordially on the back.
“How are you?”
“Quite well, sir, thanks.” Wattles’ long and bony countenance relaxed
in a restrained smile. “And you, Mr. Tom?”
“Never better, old boy! Hello, there, Loring! Glad to see you again,
sonny!”
Clif, too, exchanged handclasps with Wattles and followed Tom inside.
“Have a breakdown?” he asked as he greeted Loring.
“Breakdown? Oh, no, but it was so pesky warm that we stopped on the
way up at one of those wayside robbers’ dens and had cooling drinks
and rested off awhile. I think it was the Bluebird Tea Room, but it
may have been Ye Signe of Ye Olde Washe Tubbe. Well, how are you, you
chaps? Tom, you look fat!”
“Fat? Man alive, I feel as thin as an eel! We’ve just done an hour’s
practice on Ye Olde Footballe Fielde. Yes, and worse still, listened
to ‘G. G.’ speechify. Welcome back to the classic shades, Loring. The
Triumvirate is again assembled!”
“All for one and one for all!” proclaimed Loring.
“Sit down. Wattles, lift that truck off this chair like a good fellow.
That’s it. When did you come up, Clif?”
“Got in about ten-forty-five or something. I don’t know how you fellows
find this weather, but after nearly freezing to death in London for a
fortnight it seems like Africa to me!”
“Just comfortable,” murmured Tom. “I say, Wattles, don’t you find that
black clothes attract the flies?” he asked.
Wattles, busily unpacking a wardrobe trunk, looked around a trifle
blankly. “Flies, sir? I don’t think I ever noticed, Mr. Tom.”
“Fancy that!” said Tom. “Fancy not noticing! You see, Wattles, there’s
something about black dye that flies take to enormously. I’ll bet that
if you stepped around back and stood outside the kitchen door a few
minutes you’d be fairly covered with ’em.”
“Really, sir? Most interesting.” But Wattles didn’t show any desire to
try the experiment. Instead, he went on extracting clothes and shoes
and ties and books and various other things from the trunk. Wattles
deserves a few lines to himself. He was rather tall and rather bony,
was Wattles, and eminently respectable. In age he was about thirty,
but he looked anything between that and forty. Although he had been in
the United States for some ten of the thirty years he still betrayed
his former nationality. I say former because Wattles was an American
citizen and was proud of the fact, and you could not pain him more
deeply than by mistaking him for an Englishman! Of course, he still
retained a huge admiration for the old country, still read with
unflagging interest the results of the English football games and races
and was convinced that in certain matters, especially those concerning
a gentleman’s dress and the deportment of a gentleman’s gentleman, the
land of his adoption was somewhat behind the country of his birth.
It was particularly Wattles’ speech that betrayed him, for, although
he interspersed his carefully correct English with American idioms
and even slang, and although he was an omnivorous reader of classic
literature, the British pronunciation and the British manner gave him
away.
Mr. Sanford Deane, Loring’s father, had once likened Wattles’
countenance to that of a faithful horse, and while the resemblance
was faint it was still there, even to a set of rather prominent and
particularly large teeth. Wattles’ eyes were of a kind of washed-out
brown, and the lashes were faded yellow; his nose was large and long;
his mouth was thin and straight and impressed one as being a misfit;
his chin――but the less said of Wattles’ chin the better. It retreated,
that chin, until you had to look a second or even a third time to see
where it had got to. In other words, everything about Wattles’ face
was prominent, or at least evident, from carefully brushed brown hair
to mouth. Below the mouth Wattles kind of faded away. But if Wattles
didn’t resemble a collar advertisement, he was there in so many other
ways that one forgot it.
Perhaps I have spent altogether too much time on Wattles, but then
he isn’t likely to get in the limelight very often, and so we won’t
begrudge him his moment. On the other hand, I’m not sure that Wattles
doesn’t deserve all this attention and more, for, even if he was only a
paid attendant, a combination of nurse, valet and companion, he was a
mighty good one. Had Loring’s father possessed many more millions than
he did――and he possessed a good many according to public report; too
many in the opinion of numerous less fortunate citizens――he could not
have secured a more faithful or devoted person than Wattles. Nor a more
capable one for the position. Combining the duties already enumerated,
even in the interests of so amenable a charge as Loring, was no slight
task, and while Wattles doubtless drew down a very generous stipend it
didn’t begin to pay for all that Wattles gave in return. You see, labor
and ability may be purchased, but love and devotion are things that
can’t be paid for. Not, at least, in any of the dollars that made up
Mr. Sanford Deane’s fortune.
The trouble with Loring――you’ve already guessed that a trouble
existed――was that his legs weren’t like yours or mine or Clif’s
or Tom’s. Nature had done excellently by him until she had got to
his lower extremities. (Loring called them his lower infirmities.)
Then she had perhaps gone to sleep on the job. He was remarkably
good-looking, with the sort of features one associates with Greek
heroes, finely chiseled, almost perfect. His dark hair was brushed
straightly back from a broad forehead, his eyes were almost black and
held a sparkle of high spirits, his nose was――but, pshaw, he would
utterly detest being catalogued like this! Briefly, then, he was a
very good-looking boy――handsome if you like――of seventeen years with a
clear skin and a general appearance of good health. Considering that he
spent his days in a wheel chair, that healthful appearance was rather
remarkable. The secret of it belonged to Wattles and the very eminent
doctor who was in charge of the boy.
That doctor, as well as many others who had preceded him at home and
abroad, could give you a nice long name for Loring’s affliction, but
in plain English the trouble was that the bones of his legs below the
knees had never hardened as bones should. They were chalky, and, being
chalky, weren’t to be depended on for the ordinary duties of legs.
Some day, said the eminent physician a bit vaguely, Loring would be
able to get about like other fellows, but just when that was to be or
whether it would involve the use of a pair of crutches, wasn’t clear.
Meanwhile, save that the wheel chair or Wattles’ arms served the
purpose of legs, he was a perfectly normal boy, a brilliant student and
quite as cheerful, quite as merry and high-spirited as either of the
other members of the Triumvirate.
Last winter in a frivolous moment some one――Tom, I fancy――commenting on
the unfailing regularity with which the three friends congregated each
evening after supper in Loring’s room, had suggested the formation of
a club. Proceeding with the jest, after several unsatisfactory names
had been suggested, Loring had hit on the Triumvirate. It would be,
Loring had explained, a “strictly fraternal, non-partisan, offensive
and defensive alliance! ‘One for all and all for one!’” After a week
or so they had begun to take it quite seriously, and as time wore on
the motto cribbed from Dumas’ masterpiece became a guiding rule. The
offensive and defensive alliance had borne results, in fact. When three
persons are animated by the same motive and set out to secure a common
result they are very likely to succeed, and so the Triumvirate had
discovered.