THE “HOUSEWARMING”
Tom was almost irritable when Clif confessed that he had asked Parks to
the party, and Clif’s description of the chap didn’t seem to reassure
him. “Sort of a queer specimen,” detailed Clif as he hurriedly prepared
for supper. “About two sizes larger than ‘Big Bill’ Fargo was last
year. Has a lot of hair that stands up on top and makes him look
taller. Slow moving, like an elephant, and just about as――as ponderous.
Not bad looking. Broad across the forehead, an indication of brains
unfortunately lacking with you, Tommy. What sort of got me, though, was
his――well, kind of helplessness. He’s a bit uncouth――no, that isn’t
just it, either. He reminds you of a piece of homemade furniture;
strong and dependable, you know, and not bad to look at, but lacking
finish. Rough around the corners. And the grain showing――”
“Oh, shut up,” said Tom. “Who cares? What I want to know is――”
“Nice eyes and a big mouth that――”
“――is why we have to be saddled with him? He doesn’t know any of the
others, does he?”
“Don’t believe so,” answered Clif cheerfully. “Don’t believe he’s――what
were his words now?――‘horned in’ yet. That’s one reason I asked him.
He’s going to be quite a hit when he gets known, and you and I, old
son, will get the credit for introducing him to society.”
“You’re plumb crazy,” said Tom in plaintive disgust. “Oh, all right,
only don’t expect me to hold his little hand. He’s your guest,
remember.”
“Fair enough! You’ll like him, though, when you get to know him. All
set? Let’s go, then.”
Clif didn’t have to return to Number 17 that evening to extend an
invitation to Walter Treat, for, as luck had it, Walter was in the
corridor when Clif and Tom came out from supper and joined them.
“Hello, Tom,” he greeted. “How are you?”
“First rate, thanks,” replied Tom, shaking hands and viewing the other
appraisingly. “How’s yourself?”
“Fine, I think. Fact is, I’ve been on the go so much since I got
back that I haven’t had time to consider that important question. My
roommate said you called, Clif, and left word you wanted to see me. Saw
you coming out and thought I’d wait.”
“Why, yes.” Walt’s manner was so cordial that Clif felt vastly relieved
and even grateful, and the fact induced an enthusiasm that may have
surprised the other. “Tom and I are having a kind of blow-out Friday
night in our room, Walt, and we want you to be sure and come. Just a
sort of housewarming, as Tom calls it, with six or seven fellows and
some eats. How about it?”
“Glad to,” answered Walt. “By the way, what’s the number?”
“Forty. On the corner, just around from where Tom was last year. About
nine o’clock. And, by the way, I asked Parks to come.”
Walt smiled. “Did he accept?”
“Well, sort of. Conditionally, as you might say. If you came, he seemed
to think he would.”
“Really? Well, that’s odd. You must have charmed him, Clif. He’s the
shyest chap for his size and age I ever ran onto. I’ve tried to pull
him about, but he won’t stir for me. Did he happen to tell you his
name?”
“Yes, Parks.”
“I mean his first name. It’s Lemueljohn.”
“It’s _what_?” demanded Clif.
“Lemueljohn,” chuckled Walt. “At least that’s the way it sounds. Of
course, it’s really two words.”
“Sounds like a breakfast food,” commented Tom boredly.
“He explained that he’s named after his father and that in order to
differentiate, so to speak, he has always been called Lemuel John. But
as he says it, you’d swear it was all one name! Well, I’ll bring him
along if he will come, fellows. Thanks. See you again.”
“Lemuel John,” muttered Tom, as Walt went on toward the recreation
room. “He must be a prize!”
Football grew strenuous by Thursday of that second week of school.
The Highland game was due on Saturday, and in Highland would be found
an opponent vastly different from the local high school. Coach Otis
more than half expected a defeat, although he didn’t say so, unless to
Captain Ogden or Quarter Back Houston. But he didn’t intend to accept
defeat without struggling against it, and so on Thursday a hastily
organized scrub team made its bow and offered some fair opposition. The
scrub was coached by Mr. Babcock, the Physical Director, familiarly
known as “Cocky.” So far, however, “Cocky” hadn’t had time to impart
much wisdom to his charges, and if the first team hadn’t been as
ragged as it was the scrub wouldn’t have provided very good practice.
As it happened, though, Mr. Babcock’s aggregation did very well for
themselves, especially on Friday when, during a single fifteen-minute
scrimmage, Mr. Otis loaned the enemy a center and a left tackle in the
persons of Pat Tyson and “Wink” Coles. Clif played opposite “Wink” that
afternoon and, although they were extremely good friends, was used
quite brutally. Afterwards “Wink” seated himself by Clif in the locker
room and imparted advice.
“Listen, Clif,” said “Wink,” chastely attired in a large but rather
soiled bath towel, “you’ve got to use your hands more, son. I got to
you lots of times to-day. You don’t want to let the other guy into
you on defense, see? Keep him off with your hands. Like this, see?
Shoulder――head――this way――swing him aside――pull him down!” “Wink”
illustrated with quick gestures. “You’ve got to be shifty, too. Don’t
let the other fellow find you flat-footed. Keep moving. Keep him
guessing. Another thing, too. On attack, now. Don’t charge the same way
twice running. You use your shoulder too much. Lots of times you can do
better by slipping around your man. If you can’t, give him a straight
arm for a change, or bust square into him and go on over. If a guy’s
looking for a shoulder and gets set for it he can’t stop a straight
charge so easy. See what I mean? Don’t get stuck on any one style, old
son. Variety, eh? Spice of life, Clif!”
“I’ve got a heap to learn about playing tackle,” answered Clif
ruefully. “Much obliged, ‘Wink.’”
“That’s all right. Glad you aren’t peeved at me trying to give you
tips. Tackle’s new to you, and there’s little things you don’t catch
onto right off, see? Thought I’d just mention it, you know.”
“Mighty decent of you,” answered Clif. “Especially as we’re both after
the same job!”
“Wink” shrugged. “I don’t expect to make it this year, Clif. You and
Weldon have both got the call on me. Still and all, I’ll give you a
dinged good run for your money!”
“Come a-bustin’, old chap! By the way, don’t forget the blow-out
to-night.”
“Not so’s you’d notice it! I’ll be on hand. As the fellow with the hare
lip said: ‘Iyawyawyawfluller!’”
“What’s it in English?” laughed Clif as the other hurried toward the
showers.
“‘I’m all of a flutter!’” translated “Wink.”
The “housewarming” went off very well that evening, although not much
in the way of entertainment was provided by the hosts aside from a
free and untrammeled opportunity for indulgence in conversation. Seven
guests attended, all that had been invited, filling Number 40 from
side to side and end to end. Football was well represented by Billy
Desmond, “Wink” Coles, “Swede” Hanbury, Jeff Adams and, of course, the
hosts. Literature attended in the person of Walter Treat, this year an
assistant editor of the school monthly, _The Lantern_. With Walt was
Lemuel John, looking a bit bigger than Clif remembered him. Lemuel John
had donned an intensely purple shirt for the occasion. Loring Deane
completed the list, his wheel chair backed up alongside Tom’s bed so
that, in case the party got a trifle rough, he would be out of danger.
Lemuel John was not the only sizable youth present, for both Desmond
and Hanbury approached six feet. Billy was in the first class this year
and was certain of the right guard position on the eleven. “Swede”
Hanbury――his real name was Joe――would have been the logical first
choice for full back if Captain Jeff Ogden hadn’t changed from half to
full last year. It’s a fairly difficult feat to beat the captain out,
and Joe was resigned to being a second-string player this season. But,
as large as Billy and Joe were, Lemuel John still had it over them
for size. He was possibly a half inch taller than Billy, a full inch
broader than “Swede” and many pounds heavier than either.
Jeff Adams was an end candidate and at the present time was giving
Drayton a hard fight for the left wing position. Jeff and “Wink” had
served with Clif and Tom last season on the second team, the “Fighting
Scrub,” as it had been called, and were consequently more than mere
friends. As Tom put it, the four had “fit, bled and died together!”
Jeff’s appearance was misleading. He looked stodgy and sleepy and moved
and talked as he looked――until the whistle blew. Then Jeff was quite
another person. “Wink” was a snapping-eyed youth with red cheeks and a
general air of “go-get-it.”
Conversation didn’t really flow well until the “eats” had been set out,
and, since they had but an hour and twenty-odd minutes at the most
for the party, Clif and Tom didn’t keep their guests waiting long. Of
course the original menu had been painfully cut down. There were no hot
dogs, no bananas, no “zippy” cheese. As valuable an article of diet as
cheese may be, it doesn’t sit on the stomach very quietly when partaken
of at around ten o’clock at night. The same may be said of bananas,
while as for “wiennies”――well, a certain amount of physical exercise is
necessary to subdue those delectable viands. However, if such things
were taboo, football training, so far as the diet was concerned, was
fairly lenient, and sandwiches of chicken and of minced ham, plenty of
ice cream, vanilla wafers and unlimited ginger ale answered very well
indeed. The hosts made up in quantity what was lacking in variety, and
the guests did full justice to the repast.
It was during a comparative lull in the conversation that Billy
Desmond, who had been regarding Lemuel John furtively for some time,
inquired: “I haven’t seen you out on the field, have I, Parks?”
“I’ve been there three, four times,” answered Lemuel John.
It appeared that others had been curious on the subject, for there
was almost a complete cessation of voices in the room as Lemuel John
answered. The answer was followed by an exchange of inquiring looks.
Then Billy said, puzzled: “Three or four times? Why don’t you come out
every day? What are you trying for?”
It was Walt who explained. “He thought you were asking if he watched
practice, Billy. He doesn’t play.”
“He doesn’t!” Billy stared at Lemuel John in unconcealed amazement. “He
looks like he ought to. Haven’t you ever played, Parks?”
“No, I never saw much of football until this fall. I saw a game at
Cheyenne once, but I didn’t understand it very well. It’s sort of
interesting, ain’t it? I guess I saw you playing it one day, didn’t I?”
“You might have,” replied Billy soberly. “Wink,” however, chuckled
audibly, and Lemuel John, whose shyness had somewhat diminished with
the arrival of food, looked embarrassed and twisted one foot around the
leg of his chair until the wood creaked alarmingly. Tom went to his
rescue. “Mean to say, Parks, that they haven’t been after you?”
“Who’s that?” asked the other.
“Well, Guy Owens or some of the football fellows.”
“Oh, asking me to learn the game? Yes, a fellow named――named New, I
guess, was around bedeviling me the other day. He said he was the
manager. He said he’d like for me to play――”
“He’s assistant manager,” corrected Walt rather unnecessarily.
“Still, he might have called himself manager, at that,” laughed Clif.
“Steve’s feeling his oats a bit this year.”
“What did you tell him?” demanded Tom.
“Oh, I said I didn’t know anything about the game. He said it wouldn’t
take me long to learn. Said the coach could teach me quick enough.
But, shucks, I knew better. I don’t learn that easy. Why, I was all one
winter learning how to play chess!”
“Keno!” exclaimed Loring. “You’re mine, Parks!”
“Huh?” Lemuel John faced this new distraction with a blank expression
on his big countenance. “What did you say, stranger?”
“I said you were mine,” laughed Loring. “If you play chess you’re the
man I’m looking for. You see, Parks, most of these dubs don’t know
the game. All they can master is football or baseball or one of those
low-brow sports. I suppose they lack the mentality for chess.”
Lemuel John’s gaze passed leisurely over Loring and came to rest on the
rug that covered him from the waist down. “You a crip?” he asked rather
gently.
There was the sound of a gasp from some one, and an uncomfortable
silence endured for a brief instant. Then Loring answered, smiling:
“Yes, something of the sort. I can’t use my legs. That’s why chess is
the most strenuous sport I go in for.”
Lemuel John nodded. “Yeah, I see. Well, I’ll be glad to play with you
any time. I ain’t much good at it yet, but I’m learning. I guess it’s
pretty tough not to be able to walk around.” He continued to gaze at
Loring, his rather light blue eyes puckered in thought. Then: “You
don’t look very heavy,” he added. “Guess I could tote you easy if there
was some place you wanted to go any time.”
“Thanks,” answered Loring gratefully. “I’ll remember that.”
“Yeah, I’d be glad to,” said Lemuel John.
“Big boob!” murmured Walt in Clif’s ear. Clif looked over at Tom,
expecting to find that youth signaling “What did I tell you about
asking that guy up here?” Instead, though, Tom was regarding Lemuel
John rather kindly, and “I’ll fetch him over some evening, Loring,” he
announced. “And I sure hope he licks the stuffing out of you!”
Jeff Adams swung the conversation to football the next moment. “Who’s
taking the trip to-morrow, Billy?” he asked lazily.
“To Highland? I haven’t heard, Jeff. Guy said there’d be about
twenty-five of us, though. That lets us all in, I suppose.”
“Well, it lets you in,” said “Wink,” “but it’s a dollar to a bean that
I don’t get there.”
“Sure you will,” said Tom. “Who’s going to keep the water bucket
filled?”
“Sit on a tack,” responded “Wink” graciously. “And toss me a couple of
cookies, while you’re up.”
“I’m not up,” said Tom; “but when hospitality calls I respond with
alacrity. Clif, attend to the gentleman’s wants.”
Clif passed a box of cookies and then busied himself with ginger ale.
“Mighty few of the fellows going along, I guess,” said “Swede,” who,
stretched at full length of Clif’s bed, accepted a new bottle and
tilted it over his mouth. “Too far, probably.”
“Too expensive,” said Walt. “It’s all right for you fellows, making the
trip in nice, comfortable automobiles, but the rest of us――”
“Say, we’ve got the new buses, haven’t we?” exclaimed “Wink.” “Gee, I
hope I get to go!”
“You wouldn’t go to a game if it was in the next village, Walt,” said
Clif. “You’ve no more patriotism than a worm.”
“Patriotism,” began Walt indignantly.
“He’s going to-morrow,” announced Lemuel John calmly. “I told him I’d
pay the fares if he would.”
There was a gleeful howl at that, through which Walt declared
defiantly: “Sure, why not? Think I’ve got enough coin to go traipsing
all over the country? Do you know how much it costs to get to Highland
and back?”
“You should worry,” chuckled “Swede.” “At that, I dare say you’ll turn
in the expense to _The Lantern_!”
“A fat chance!” said Walt. “Gosh, I even have to buy my own typewriter
ribbons!”
“Who’s going to win, Billy?” asked Loring.
“Wyndham,” replied the right guard.
“I’ll bet we don’t,” said “Wink.” “Highland’s laying for us this time,
Billy.”
“Let her lay,” retorted Billy untroubledly. “She’s beaten already. Know
why? Because she’s scared of us, ‘Wink.’ Got so she thinks she always
has to lose to us. Psychology, kid.”
“Psychology my eye!” said “Wink.” “What about last year?”
“We won. Nine to nothing, wasn’t it?”
“Sure, we won! I didn’t say we didn’t. But we had one gosh-awful time
doing it, didn’t we? Got a lucky field goal in the first half and then
couldn’t do a thing until the game was nearly over. If Highland had
had any sort of an offense――”
“If,” said Billy dryly. “She didn’t have. She won’t have to-morrow. Or,
if she does, then she’ll be weak on defense. We’ll win, kid. Something
like twenty to nothing. Well, allow Highland a field goal, if you like.”
“‘G. G.’” said Clif, “was pretty doubtful about to-morrow’s game a week
or so back.”
“He has a right to be,” declared “Wink.” “Billy can talk like that if
it gives him any pleasure, but I’m telling you we haven’t got the steam
to run up any twenty points against Highland. Our back field’s as slow
as cold molasses!”
“That’s right, blame it on the back field,” said Tom. “What about a
line that can’t open a hole for you to squeeze through because they’re
dead on their feet? That doesn’t make any difference, eh?”
“Oh, I’m not saying much for the line, either,” answered “Wink.”
“The truth is that the whole team is just about a week behind. And
Highland’s been practicing for nearly a month, I’ll bet. Maybe we’ll
beat ’em, but you guys won’t be on the long end of any twenty-nothing
score!”
“Just so we win,” said Clif. “That’s all I’m hoping. What I’d like
to see is the old team come through the season with a clean slate,
fellows.”
“Some one kill him while he’s happy,” suggested Tom. “We’ve got as much
chance of doing that as――as I have to get through left guard to-morrow!”
“You’ll get through left guard all right, Tom, if you don’t fall over
your feet,” said Billy comfortably. “But I can’t keep the hole open for
you more than five or six minutes.”
“I don’t see that it’s impossible,” said Clif earnestly. “Our
schedule’s no harder than usual and we’re well fixed for players this
year. I’ll bet that if we really set out to do it we could.”
“Maybe so, Clif,” said “Swede,” disposing of his empty bottle by
tucking it under the pillow. “Maybe so if Otis would let us. But he
won’t.”
“How do you mean? Why won’t he? I said the same thing to him and he
talked like he thought it would be fine!”
“Sure enough, but here’s the point, young feller, me lad. ‘G. G.’ won’t
point for any game but the last one. If we set out to win every contest
we might do it. I mean if ‘G. G.’ set out to do it. But he won’t. He
will use every game as a step toward Wolcott, not caring much whether
we win or lose as long as we’re a bit further along. See what I mean,
Clif? Take to-morrow’s game. If we were to get through the season
without a licking we’d have to take the Highland game, of course. That
would mean doing a bit of preparation. Learning what Highland has and
finding a way to stop it. Going up with a few ground-gaining plays
instead of the rag-tag of last year’s stuff that we have. Same way with
the Jordan game and the Cupples and all the rest of them right through
the fall. We’d have to point for each game as it came along and not use
it just as a practice stunt to put us in trim for Wolcott. Gosh, I’m
dry. Any more of that ginger pop?”
“Just the same,” began Clif as he arose to find another bottle.
“Wolcott’s our meat,” said Jeff. “I don’t care how often we get nipped
if we can just get our teeth in her when the time comes. What do you
say, Deane?”
“I think, as Clif does, that it would be a wonderful stunt to have an
undefeated team this year. Wouldn’t it look corking in the papers?
‘Wyndham School Completes Season Without Defeat!’”
“Yes, it would look mighty nice,” agreed Jeff. “But I’d hate to have
the team work so hard winning the first seven games that it would lose
the last one! I guess I’m with ‘G. G.’ Point for Wolcott is my motto.
Say, for the love of mud, what time is it?”
“Swede” glanced at his watch and rolled off the bed, and the stampede
began.