THE FIRST GAME
“I’m sorry,” said Clif, “that I missed seeing your folks, Loring.”
“I know. I tried to get them to stay up for supper, but dad’s got some
sort of a meeting on for this evening, and so they beat it right back.
They’re coming up again in a couple of weeks or so.”
“That shover will have to do some driving to get back to New York in
time for a meeting to-night,” observed Tom.
“Oh, it’s only about a hundred miles. Of course, Edouard will have to
take it slow through some of the towns, but he will make it by eight.
There are plenty of stretches where he can do forty-five.”
“_Mon cher Edouard_,” murmured Tom. “Say, your father doesn’t drive the
car himself, does he?”
“No, he says it makes him nervous, but the real reason is that he can’t
smoke comfortably.”
“I wish mine didn’t,” said Clif. “He’s a perfectly awful driver,
but he doesn’t know it. He thinks he’s a regular wonder at it, but
he’s forever getting into jams and busting something. I don’t mind a
crumpled fender now and then, but I’m always afraid he’ll get hurt.”
“I don’t see anything wrong with his driving,” Tom objected. “I felt
a heap safer last year when he had the wheel than when you had it, old
timer.”
“Oh, he isn’t so bad when he has some one with him,” replied Clif, “but
let him get in the car alone and all rules are off. He drives like the
wind, takes blind corners at thirty and on the left of the road and
thinks side streets aren’t used. Once I asked him why he didn’t sound
the horn and he had to look all around for it! If he has a puncture
he just sits in the car and waits for some one to come along and take
a message to a garage. He hasn’t the slightest idea what’s under the
hood of the car or why the thing goes when he puts his foot down on
the starter.” Clif shook his head gloomily. “We had a chauffeur one
year for a couple of months. Then dad fired him because he wouldn’t go
down Waterman Street, in Providence, fast enough to suit him. Dad was
late for the office and the chauffeur shifted to second and there were
words!”
“I’ve reached the conclusion,” observed Tom, “that the French are the
only folks who really know how to drive a car. Look at those chaps in
Paris. Why, heck, it’s an art the way they fly around and don’t get
killed!”
“I believe you’re right,” said Loring. “A Frenchman seems to have a
genius for driving automobiles. They’re born artists at it. To watch
Edouard take the car down Fifth Avenue is a liberal education. I’ve
never seen him flustered in my life. How about it, Wattles? Have you
ever known Edouard to get rattled?”
Wattles straightened and looked thoughtfully at a handful of Loring’s
cravats. “Well, sir, there was one occasion. I fancy it was about
a year ago. You were not present at the time.” Wattles coughed
delicately. “In fact, Mr. Loring, it happened to be my afternoon off
and Edouard gave me a lift. We were proceeding downtown on Park Avenue,
sir, at rather a lively gait when a taxicab drew away from the curb in
front of us without warning. Oh, quite unexpectedly! There wasn’t room
to swing past it on the left, and as the street was treacherous, sir,
from a recent shower, it would have been impossible to apply the brakes
with the desired result.”
“Great stuff, Wattles!” Tom applauded. “Wonderful suspense! But what
_did_ he do? Don’t tell me you woke up just then!”
“No, sir.” Wattles smiled reminiscently. “The fact is, Mister Tom, I
was most fearfully alarmed. I was sitting beside Edouard, sir, and――”
“Wattles, for the love of Mike, get on!” exhorted Loring.
“Yes, sir. I was about to do so. Edouard turned the wheel very suddenly
and we shot up on the pavement――that is, the sidewalk――and went around
the taxi, sir. Fortunately, the sidewalk was empty.”
“I’ll say so!” exclaimed Tom. “How fast were you going, do you suppose,
Wattles?”
“About twenty-five, sir, I fancy. Possibly a bit more. I considered at
the time that it was very skillful driving, Mr. Loring, for he had to
pass between a hydrant and a light post on one side and a building on
the other. Doubtless it required rather delicate calculation also, sir,
to attain the correct angle between wheels and curb in order that the
car should surmount the――ah――obstacle.”
“You’re blamed right it did,” agreed Tom. “I’ll vociferate that, at
twenty-five an hour, that was some stunt!”
“And you say that Edouard was a trifle flustered on that occasion?”
asked Loring with a chuckle.
“Well, sir, perhaps I shouldn’t go that far,” replied Wattles
cautiously. “He didn’t conduct himself in a manner suggesting it, but I
did hear him say ‘_Sacre bleu!_’ as he went up on the pave――sidewalk!”
“Imagine a New York taxi driver confining himself to ‘_Sacre bleu_’ in
Edouard’s place,” laughed Clif. “Evidently he’s a man of few words and
considerable self-restraint.”
“Funny,” remarked Loring, with a wink at Clif, “that I never heard of
that piquant adventure, Wattles.”
Again Wattles coughed delicately. “I believe, sir,” he replied without
turning from his task of arranging the cravats in a drawer, “that the
incident was not mentioned.”
“Well, all this is mighty interesting,” observed Tom, “but something
tells me――” and he laid a hand on his belt buckle――“that the supper
hour approacheth. What about a game of chess this evening, Loring? I
haven’t seen a chessboard since last spring.”
“All right, Tom,” Loring replied. “I’ll be ready for you.”
Clif groaned. “I was hoping you chaps had forgotten that beastly game,”
he said. “Got any new books? I’ll have to read, because I always fall
asleep when I watch you play. I don’t know anything more――what’s the
word?――sedative than waiting for Tom to move!”
“Yes, I’ve got several new ones, Clif,” answered Loring. “One of them’s
on football, too.”
“That reading’s forbidden us,” said Clif virtuously. “Who wrote it?”
“Come on,” commanded Tom. “I’m starving. Let’s make the most of our
opportunities, Clif, before training table starts. See you after
supper, Loring. ‘All for one and one for all!’”
“‘All for one and one for all!’” echoed Loring.
Fortunately for all concerned in the development of the football
team, the hot weather disappeared by Thursday. After two sessions of
extremely languid practice Mr. Otis hailed the chance to get some real
work done, and on that afternoon the dummy was hitched into place and
a pleasant half hour was spent in tackling and blocking. Pleasant,
that is, from the point of view of the coach. And possibly the stuffed
effigy enjoyed it. Those who launched themselves across the freshly
spaded pit and clasped the swaying canvas legs soon tired of the
entertainment. The weather was seasonable, but it still required but
little exertion to bring a copious perspiration, and the soil in the
pit tasted no whit better than it had a year ago!
New candidates were unusually scarce this fall, and the summons posted
on the bulletin boards in the gymnasium and halls had failed to produce
an outpouring of eager and ambitious recruits. Guy Owens said it was
the weather, but events proved him wrong, for the crop of neophytes
that season never did approach the usual number. However, there was
a bright side to that, for with fewer beginners to handle more time
was left for the instruction of the old hands. Still, Mr. Otis wasn’t
pleased, and during the first week of school the dormitories were
carefully combed in the search for material. A coach has next year to
think of as well as the present season, and a lack of beginners this
fall indicates a want of veterans later. A handful of none too willing
youths were added to the squad by twos and threes over a space of
several days and then the supply ran out. However, the squad totaled
more than fifty by that time, and while that was a smaller number than
usual, it was still many more than would survive the final weeding.
Mr. Hilliard, who taught modern languages to the upper classes and
junior English to the lower school, and who was known as “Pinky,” was
assistant coach. “Pinky,” however, wasn’t always available in early
season, and the task of teaching kindergarten football was taken over
by Captain Ogden and Joe Weldon during the first few days of practice.
Jeff Ogden played full back, while Joe was a tackle, and both were
beginning their third year of football at Wyndham.
By Friday Clif was working with the tackles and making rather heavy
going. Perhaps, oddly, he had never really considered a tackle’s duties
before, and now he made the illuminating discovery that a tackle was,
to fall back on metaphor, “soldier and sailor, too!” That is, while he
was at times essentially a linesman, at other times he held the roving
commission of an end. Fully as much speed was required of Clif as last
year, and, or so he began to think, his duties in the new position were
more numerous. He became discouraged with himself frequently during the
first fortnight of the season and wouldn’t have been surprised at any
moment if Coach Otis had relegated him to his former job. But “G. G.”
appeared to have faith and Clif toiled on.
The first game, that with the local high school team, was no more than
a brisk practice, since high school had been at work only a day longer
than Wyndham. Mr. Otis used nearly three elevens in the course of
forty minutes of actual playing and some weird performances were seen.
Possibly Clif’s performance during the fifteen minutes or so that he
occupied the position of left tackle was as weird as any. His efforts
to reach the rear of the opponent’s line and pick off interference on
defense were not exactly crowned with success. Of course, he had his
lucky moments, but, on the whole, an intelligent observer wouldn’t have
picked him as an ideal tackle. Wyndham appeared, during the last two
periods, to be doing all in her power to present the adversary with
the game, and would probably have succeeded but for two things. One
was that she had accumulated twenty-three points to a mere six for the
opponent, and the other was that you can’t give a thing away unless
some one is willing to accept it, and Freeburg High resisted nobly!
As a football contest, even as a first one of a season, that game was
a good deal of a joke, and the audience knew it. However, it was
interesting if only for its humor.
In the first period, and well into the second, with what might have
been called her regular line-up on duty, Wyndham played fair football.
All positions save two were looked after by veterans of last year’s
team who, either as first- or second-string players, had won their
W’s. Drayton at left end was an experienced hand, Weldon and Cotter
at tackle, Desmond at right guard, Carlson at center, Houston at
quarter, Kemble and Sproule at half and Ogden at full had all played
against Wolcott for longer or shorter periods. There was plenty of
ragged work, to be sure, but the power was there and even if it was
frequently wrongly applied it bored the high school line and whittled
off the high school ends for two touchdowns and a field goal. The real
comedy of errors began when Coach Otis started to use his substitutes.
The second period was half gone then. Pat Tyson, relieving Carlson at
center, signalized his appearance by passing the ball at least four
feet over the head of “Swede” Hanbury, who had taken Jeff Ogden’s job
at full back. Followed a frenzied race for the runaway oval in which
some twenty-two youths participated. That was greatly appreciated by
the audience, which howled and applauded gleefully as, time and again,
the ball eluded the pursuers. By the time Jeff Adams, Wyndham end, had
at last captured the pigskin it was a good twenty-eight yards nearer
the dark blue’s goal than when it had begun its adventures. There was
no more scoring in the half, for by the time Hanbury had booted the
ball away from such dangerous proximity to the Wyndham goal line there
was only time for high school to run off a few plays before the horn
sounded.
High school made her lone score a few minutes after the third period
had begun. An intercepted forward pass gave her a good start, and when,
a minute or two later, Couch was neatly boxed, a fleet-footed half
skirted Wyndham’s right end and went over for a touchdown at the corner
of the field. But high school’s try-for-point was spoiled by Greene,
the blue-stockinged right guard. Just how Greene got through high
school’s line as speedily as he did was a mystery, but there he was,
looming large and forbidding, fairly on the heels of the ball, and the
high school kicker hadn’t a chance to even swing his leg!
Following that incident, Wyndham, greatly assisted by penalties,
went down the gridiron to the enemy’s thirty-two and there heaved a
surprisingly finished forward pass, Hanbury to Whitemill, that was
caught on the eight yards and carried over. Wyndham added another point
by kicking goal. That ended all scoring for the day. Subsequently,
with the home team composed almost exclusively of second and third
substitutes and the visiting eleven freshened――and apparently
weakened――by new men, the game became farce pure and simple. High
school, unable to puncture the line, essayed the end with scarcely
better luck and then resorted to desperate passing. The pigskin shot
hither and thither and frantic defenders rushed wildly about in pursuit
of it. Once or twice high school completed a pass, but almost always it
either dropped harmlessly to earth, well out of range of friend and
foe alike, or went to Wyndham. It didn’t go to Wyndham often, though,
for Wyndham had a bad attack of butter fingers. High school worked as
far as the home team’s twenty-two yard line on one occasion, only to
lose yardage on a penalty first and then possession of the ball on a
fumble. McMurtry, playing his first game at full back in the final
quarter, stood on his nineteen yards and attempted to punt. High school
broke through and McMurtry thought better of punting and ran. He ran
straight across the gridiron and might not have stopped his crablike
progress then if he hadn’t tripped on the edge of the cinder track and
allowed an opponent to grab him. A facetious youth in the stand offered
the explanation that McMurtry had thought he heard the horn and was
taking the ball back to the gymnasium.
The task of punting was next assigned to Treader, and Treader made
a somewhat better job of it. At least he got the ball away, even if
it didn’t go more than twenty yards! High school tried a fair catch,
missed it and chased the ball to the side line. Then, or soon after, it
occurred to some one to stop the game.
Not a very satisfactory start for a successful season you’d have
thought, but “G. G.” didn’t seem at all perturbed. Indeed, he even
found a word or two of commendation for several of the players who had
taken part in the comedy which had ended the entertainment. Clif was
one of the commended. Just for a dreadful instant he suspected “G. G.”
of sarcasm, but apparently the coach spoke in good faith. What he said
was: “Not bad, Bingham. When you learn to use your hands more you’ll
be useful.” Perhaps that doesn’t sound like praise, but for “G. G.” it
was almost fulsome!
By the first of the following week Number 40 West Hall was more to
Tom’s liking. The north window seat was almost hidden by four fat,
frilled pillows purchased in the local stores. One was covered with
brown leather on which was painted a blue canoe floating on yellow
water. A lady of surpassing beauty reposed in the bow, one hand
trailing in the vivid stream. A handsome youth occupied the stern, a
paddle across his knees and a large W on his white sweater. At one side
was a very green tree and above was a purple moon. At least Tom said it
was a moon while Clif held out for having it a toy balloon. Then there
were two red pillows, one undeniably crimson, the other verging on the
magenta. The magenta one was adorned with an Old English W. The fourth
and last artistic effort was Tom’s special joy. It was formed, as to
one side, of cigar ribbons of various hues of yellow and red. The other
side was less beautiful, being merely a square of pink sateen. Tom had
obtained that pillow at a real bargain in the village stationery store
conducted by an American citizen named Poppidalopous. “Poppy” as, for
evident reasons, he was known, informed Tom that the elegant article
had been made by Mrs. Poppidalopous’ own fair hands and that the task
had required several months. Tom, who was aware that “Poppy” was the
proud father of some six round-faced Greek-American children, could
easily believe that “Mrs. Poppy” would find it difficult to attain
such a noble result in less than several months without boarding the
children out! He paid the modest sum of two dollars and eighty cents
for the prize, inducing “Poppy” to knock off twenty cents because he
had failed to receive two Sunday papers last term.
Tom got a great deal of pleasure reading the inscriptions on the cigar
ribbons in moments of relaxation. At such times, luxuriously imposed
on the crimson and magenta cushions――one didn’t lean against the
leather pillow on account of the painting――he placed the Poppidalopous
masterpiece against his knees and perused it, turning it around as
he proceeded. Since he generally read aloud, this was a form of
entertainment enjoyed more by Tom than by Clif. Clif declared that
he could stand it better if it wasn’t for the constant recurrence of
the word “Aurelia.” He didn’t like “Aurelia” in the first place, he
said, and it didn’t improve, in his judgment, for being reiterated. He
suspected that “Aurelia” was a cheap cigar, possibly a five center, and
that Mrs. Poppidalopous had cheated in putting so many “Aurelias” into
the pillow cover. They had long and heated arguments on the subject.
Tom was certain――or said he was――that the “Aurelia” cigar was a very
excellent and high priced article and that Mrs. Poppi――well, Clif knew
what he wanted to say!――had so generously included the ribbons solely
to enhance the value of the pillow and, as it were, lend it class
and distinction. Tom challenged Clif to produce any one who had ever
purchased a genuine “Aurelia” for less than thirty-five cents!
Photographs were also liberally displayed in Number 40, and a large
blue banner bearing the word “Wyndham” in white letters hung from
the molding along one wall. Three pictures adorned as many sides of
the room, a pair of snowshoes were crossed above Clif’s chiffonier
and a pair of almost unsullied boxing gloves dangled above Tom’s.
Incidentally, it may be confided that Tom could use the boxing gloves
quite as scientifically as Clif could manipulate the snowshoes, and as
Clif had almost suffocated in a snow bank last winter before assistance
had reached him and disentangled his shoes you may fairly assume that,
while Tom was always cheerfully willing to scrap, as a boxer he was no
great shakes. Tom was highly pleased with the appearance of the room
and gave it as his opinion that it was pure selfishness not to share
its attractions with others. It would, he suggested, be a charitable
act to hold a housewarming some evening and allow less fortunate
fellows to see what genuine luxury was. Clif agreed to the suggestion
and the following Friday evening was settled on for the event. They had
some difficulty in drawing up a list of guests because Tom objected on
general principles to Clif’s nominees and Clif objected to Tom’s. But
they finally agreed on eight fortunate fellows and then took up the
subject of refreshments. As Tom had spent nearly all his last allowance
money on pillows for the window seat, he was in favor of something
modest in the way of food.
“Crackers and some of that zippy cheese that Danforth carries ought to
do,” he said. “And, of course, some pop; ginger ale for choice; only it
costs more. You see, Clif, ostentation in the matter of refreshments
is vulgar. The best people are going in for simplicity, old timer. I
guess some of that sympathetic orange juice will be better than ginger
ale; Orange Slush, you know, or whatever they call it.”
“The last time I drank that stuff,” replied Clif distastefully, “I
nearly passed out. Only had three bottles of it, too. No, sir, no
synthetic fruit juice for this affair. We’ll have ginger ale, and the
best sort, too. And crackers and cheese may be the proper caper in New
Jersey, Tom, but where I come from a housewarming calls for real chow.”
“Well, what do you call real chow?” asked Tom anxiously.
“Hot dogs and rolls, olives, ginger cookies, bananas and ginger ale,”
replied Clif triumphantly.
“That what you get at parties in Providence?” inquired the other
incredulously. “Heck, that sounds like a village picnic! No――no
restraint! No taste! Why――”
“Taste? You’re crazy! That stuff’s full of taste! We’ll have plenty of
mustard for the hot dogs, and――or do you prefer sauerkraut?”
“Help!” yelped Tom. “Say, who’s going to pay for this banquet? I’m
mighty near broke.”
“Fifty-fifty,” answered Clif. “I’ll foot the bill and you come across
next pay day with your half. We might leave out the olives, I suppose,”
he added reflectively. “Lots of fellows don’t care to waste time on
them.”
“That’s right. Olives are scratched. And aren’t bananas a bit heavy
after hot dogs, Clif? I’ve got my digestion to think of, old timer. It
isn’t what――” Tom stopped abruptly and his jaw dropped. “Why, you crazy
loon,” he exclaimed, “we’ll be at training table by Friday and can’t
eat that mess!”
“Gosh, that’s so! Table starts Wednesday, doesn’t it? Bananas are
scratched, too, Tom!”