LEMUEL JOHN
It was curious how many fellows were to be found that evening who
had expected all along that Wyndham would capture the game. Indeed,
it was difficult to discover any one who, no matter what he had
predicted, had not secretly known that Jordan couldn’t win. A Junior
named Seton――prophetic cognomen if you pronounced it with the short
E!――was seriously man-handled by exasperated classmates because, having
yesterday stoutly maintained that Wyndham would score, he now went
about reminding the world of the fact. The monitor to whom the victim
made appeal dismissed the case curtly. “Justifiable assault,” he called
it!
The day’s happening worked almost magically in favor of the “No
Defeats” campaign. A pendulum, having reached the limit of its swing
to the right, promptly starts the other way. Wyndham, having indulged
enthusiastically in pessimism, now whole-souledly went in for optimism.
It even credited those blue-letter placards with having worked a spell,
and the possession of one of the talismans became the object of most
of the younger fellows. By Sunday morning the posters had disappeared
from buildings and trees to adorn the walls of many rooms. Then, on
Monday morning, a notice appeared on the boards in East and West Halls
announcing that the next day “No Defeats” slogans could be obtained
at Room B, East, printed on heavy cardboard, for the sum of ten cents
each. Loring or Wattles passed out eight dollars and forty cents’ worth
before the demand ceased, which receipts not only paid the printer, but
left a balance on hand of five dollars and four cents. At a meeting of
the original sponsors of the campaign and five other conspirators it
was decided to devote the surplus to paying for the buttons which were
being made in Providence. They were, however, never able to dispose of
the balance in that manner since Clif’s father at first “pooh-poohed”
the idea of reimbursement, then unwillingly consented to accept the
money as soon as he got the bill from the manufacturer and subsequently
invariably forgot to bring the bill or send it. He also displayed a
lamentable memory for a man who had secured financial success by never
being able to recall the amount of that bill. However, the surplus from
the sale of placards was eventually disbursed in the interests of the
campaign.
But I am far ahead of the story. Sunday turned out to be a somewhat
disagreeable day, with intermittent showers and a chill easterly
wind, and, reduced to indoor occupations, Wyndham in general spent
the leisure hours talking over yesterday’s game, reading the papers
and hazarding guesses as to the identity of the unknown youths who
were fostering the “No Defeats” idea. Clif, Tom and Walter Treat dined
splendidly at the inn with Mr. Bingham and remained there until the
host left for home at about four o’clock. The ride which usually
followed such banquets was canceled to-day. Speeding over country roads
in an open car in a rain is not the most gorgeous way in which to spend
a Sunday afternoon. Of course Tom came in for not a little joshing
because of his lost wager, but he didn’t mind. With a good dinner in
prospect, under way or consumed, Tom was amiability itself!
Chance mention of Lemuel John Parks reminded Tom of his promise, and
that evening after supper was over he routed Lemuel John out of Number
17 and conducted him down to Loring’s room, where Clif and Sam Erlingby
were already on hand. Sam was a first class fellow who pitched on the
nine and was a general favorite throughout the school. After a few
minutes Tom set the small table in front of Loring’s chair, placed the
chessboard and chessmen on it and ceremoniously escorted a grinning
but slightly embarrassed Lemuel John to a seat opposite. Then he said
earnestly: “Parks, this fellow beats me at this game too often. I want
r-r-revenge, and it’s up to you, my friend, to produce it. Something
tells me that you can lick the hide off him. Go to it and win the
gratitude of――of――”
“Oh, I don’t play much of a game,” demurred Lemuel John modestly,
setting his men. “I guess Deane can beat me, all right.”
“That’s the wrong thought,” Tom protested. “Confidence, Parks,
confidence! Summon the will to win, my lad! Remember, my happiness
depends on you!”
“Oh, let him alone,” said Clif. “How do you expect him to play while
you’re hanging over him and talking guff? Go sit down, you poor nut.”
So Tom sat down, affecting nerve-wracked suspense, and watched. Sam,
who didn’t understand the game, was politely silent. Clif pulled a book
from a shelf and read. But he didn’t read long, for very soon there was
a triumphant yelp from Tom and that youth was shaking Lemuel John’s
hand and offering him half his kingdom. And Loring was shaking his head
and staring, smiling ruefully, at the board.
“I guess he didn’t try very hard,” said Lemuel John. “He――”
“Try?” exclaimed Tom. “Try! Man, the perspiration was standing out in
drops on his marble dome! Look at that countenance! Does it show utter
exhaustion or doesn’t it? Thank you, it does!”
“I think you’re too good for me, Parks,” laughed Loring; “but I’d like
to try you again some time. It’s mighty interesting, playing with some
one whose stuff is new to you. Now Tom, or Wattles, either――”
“Prepare for insults!” hissed Tom dramatically.
“No, I was only going to say that I can generally tell beforehand what
your move will be. Parks makes me guess.”
“I’ll say he does!” Tom showed a disposition to start the hand shaking
all over again. “And he makes you guess wrong, too, young Mr. Lasker!
Ah, revenge is sweet, _mon cher_ Alphonse!”
But Clif fought him off, refusing to be embraced.
After a while Sam Erlingby took himself off, first conducting a
whispered conference with Clif outside the door, and a few minutes
later Lemuel John, too, disappeared. He had declined a second game on
the score that he had studying to do, but had promised to give Loring
his revenge soon. When he had gone Loring said: “That chap can play
chess, Tom.”
“I had a hunch he could,” replied Tom. “I sort of like the big queer.”
“Yes,” agreed Loring thoughtfully. “I wonder if he’s a sample of the
sort they raise where he comes from. Wisconsin, isn’t it?”
“Some place up there,” answered Tom vaguely.
“Wyoming,” said Clif. “He seems a mighty decent fellow, I say. Too bad
he doesn’t play football, eh? Look at the shoulders on him!”
“I was wondering about that,” said Loring. “Why shouldn’t he play,
Clif?”
“He should, I suppose. Thing is, he never has, doesn’t know how and
doesn’t want to learn. And, of course, he isn’t the sort of fellow
they’d be likely to draft. I mean by that he isn’t exactly promising.
Of course he’s built for it, you might say, but he’s frightfully
awkward and kind of slow. I dare say Steve New was frightfully relieved
when Lemuel John refused to have anything to do with his old game.”
“He isn’t any more awkward than lots of fellows I’ve seen trying for
the team,” said Tom. “He really ought to go out, fellows, because
they’ll be needing some one like him next year. What class is he?
Second, eh?”
Clif nodded. “Walt says he’s only seventeen, but he looks older,
doesn’t he? You’re right about next year, Tom; for there’ll be a lot
of losses in June; Billy Desmond, Smythe, Breeze, Weldon; a bunch of
guards and tackles; and I don’t see many new fellows that look awfully
promising.”
“Parks ought to be playing with the Scrub right now,” said Tom
decidedly. “Wonder ‘Cocky’ doesn’t grab him. Bet you he would if he
thought of it.”
“You know,” observed Loring, “I have a sort of theory that the ideal
football player, lineman especially, is a lot like Parks in the
beginning. I’d like to take him myself and see what I could do with
him. I mean, that is, if I were――well, able to get about.”
“I’m not sure you couldn’t make a player of him as it is, Loring,” said
Clif. “Of course, he’d have to be willing.”
“No, I couldn’t do it as things are,” answered Loring. “If I were you,
Clif, or Tom, I’d like to try it. You see, Parks has a lot to start
with; size and weight and strength and the sort of temperament that
makes steady players. And he doesn’t look as if he ever had an ache or
a pain. He’s rather awkward and he’s easily embarrassed――”
“It’s a crowd that makes him that way,” interpolated Clif. “There
wasn’t any embarrassment about him the day I ran in on him in his room.”
“I was going to say,” continued Loring, “that awkwardness and――and
shyness suggest a kind of stupidity in most fellows, but I don’t
believe Parks is stupid. No fellow who can see the right move in chess
as quickly as he can is stupid; not by a long sight!”
“All right,” said Tom. “Grant that he’s a wonder, Loring, and what
about it?”
“Then, if he is, he ought to be trying to learn to play football. We’re
out to have the team come through without a beating, and it seems to
me that we oughtn’t to miss a trick, Tom. If we see any way of making
success more certain we should take hold.”
“Meaning,” asked Tom dubiously, “that you think Parks’ playing on the
Scrub would hold the first team to a clean record?”
“Why not? If Parks turned out to be a good guard or tackle――”
“Too slow for tackle,” said Clif.
“I’m not so sure. You’d see a big difference in him after a week’s
practice. Anyhow, guard or tackle, if he proved good he’d strengthen
the second, and the stronger the second is the better the first will
be. Because, you know as well as I do, that it’s the opposition and
experience the big team gets from the Scrub that counts the most. It’s
the daily battles and not the Saturday scraps that teach the first team
fellows what to do and how to do it.”
“Think so?” asked Tom. “Well, perhaps you’re right. Just the same, I
can’t see Lemuel John Parks setting the world on fire as a football
artist! Why, heck, common sense will tell you that no fellow named
Lemuel John could ever win renown!”
“I’m not talking about his winning renown,” answered Loring seriously.
“When you come to that, how many fellows who play line positions ever
do win it? Perhaps one in ten ever sees his name in a paper outside a
line-up, Tom. It’s you backfield fellows who get the bouquets.”
“And us linemen who do the honest-to-gosh work,” said Clif.
“Huh! We spend most of our time helping you guys out,” replied Tom.
“If we weren’t right behind you on defense, old timer, you’d lose your
jobs. I don’t see that you need more than five men on a football team,
anyway; a center to put the ball in play and four backs to do the work.
The other six are just in the way!”
“In the other team’s way, you mean,” Clif laughed.
“I really think,” said Loring, not to be turned aside by levity, “that
it’s up to us to persuade Parks to have a go at it.”
“Oh, have a heart!” Tom protested. “Let some one else do it. Get Guy on
his trail.”
“All right, let Owens try him first. If Owens fails we’ll get after
him.”
“I don’t believe you’ll be able to interest Guy,” said Clif. “‘G. G.’
isn’t looking for any more candidates now, and Guy won’t bother to find
men for ‘Cocky’s’ team. Why not sick ‘Cocky’ on him?”
“That’s the stuff,” commended Tom. “Or――hold on; who’s captain of that
bunch?”
“Warner. Plays left guard,” said Clif.
“Hm, I wonder if he’d be keen for another guard!”
“He certainly would,” replied Clif stoutly. “I know George Warner. He’s
a fine, straight chap. I’m going to speak to him about Lemuel John the
first thing to-morrow. Only thing is, fellows, it’s sort of late in the
season to join up.”
“Oh, ‘Cocky’ will take fellows on any time if he likes their looks,”
Tom said, yawning. “But I’d certainly hate to be in Parks’ shoes.
‘Cocky’ will sure make him hustle!”
George Warner, captain of the second team, button-holed by Clif the
next morning in the corridor, was interested until Clif had divulged
the identity of the tentative candidate. Then Warner grinned. “Why,
Clif, I know that fellow. I mean I’ve seen him around. Couldn’t help
seeing him very well!”
“Well, what do you say? You really ought to have him, George. He’s got
the making of a nice player.”
“Who said so?” asked Warner incredulously.
“I’ve heard several fellows say so. Besides, you’ve only to look at
him!”
“I’ve looked at him and I don’t see it,” replied the captain, shaking
his head. “He’s big, all right, and he’s built pretty well, but so’s
an elephant, Clif. You couldn’t get that fellow to move out of a walk,
I’ll bet! Still, if you put it as a favor――”
“Favor be hanged! I’m trying to do you poor nuts a good turn. Parks
would make a corking guard, with a bit of training, and you sure need
one!”
Warner acknowledged the insult with a wider grin. “All right, old chap.
You tell your friend to show up this afternoon in togs and I’ll speak
to ‘Cocky’ about him. Maybe we can use him somewhere.”
“That’s not the idea,” replied Clif. “He isn’t going to come out just
for my telling him to. That’s the point. He doesn’t want to play――”
“Well for goodness’ sake!” ejaculated Warner. “What’s the idea, then?
If he doesn’t want to play, you can bet your life, Clif, I’m not going
to force him! I thought you were trying to tell me that he was looking
for a chance on――”
“Listen, George, and try to get this, will you?” said Clif patiently.
“Parks is good material but he doesn’t care a hang about playing on
your old outfit. But you need him. Yes, you do, too. A week or so from
now you’ll be wishing hard you had a couple more big linemen to take
the place of the killed and injured. What you’ve got to do is see him
and tell him he’s wanted and that it won’t do him a mite of good to
refuse. He will play if he thinks he has to. Understand now?”
“Sure, I understand,” jeered Warner; “but I’ve got plenty of troubles
without hunting them, Clif. _I_ don’t want the chap!”
“I tell you you do,” persisted Clif. “The Scrub needs him. Now don’t be
an ass, George. Go on and do like I tell you. He rooms with Walt Treat
in Number 17, West.”
“I know where he rooms,” muttered Warner. “He’s in my corridor. I ran
into him the other morning and nearly dislocated my neck! Oh, all
right; but, gosh ding it, Clif, there’s not a bit of sense in it. Mr.
Babcock will think I’m plumb crazy. And I’ll tell you this, too. I’ll
ask him to play, but I’m hanged if I’ll coax him!”
“I don’t want you to coax him,” replied Clif cheerfully. “Coaxing
probably wouldn’t fetch him. You’ve got to threaten him.”
“Sounds all right,” said Warner dubiously; “but he’s ten pounds heavier
than I am and I guess he’s got a better reach. Still, I can leave the
door open, and I’m plumb certain I can outrun him!”
“See him to-day, will you, George?” asked Clif.
“Yes, I’ll look him up this morning. He’s in my Latin class and I
guess I can get him there. Listen, Clif, don’t make any more weird
discoveries, eh? Or, if you do, take ’em on the first!”
Turning from Warner, Clif encountered Todd Darlington on his way to
the staircase, and to Clif’s surprise Todd stopped. “Say, Bingham,
you’re in with Deane on this ‘No Defeats’ thing, aren’t you? I think
he mentioned you the other day in connection with the scheme. Well,
you’ve certainly started it nicely. I was surprised, really, because
when Deane spoke of it to me I was afraid the fellows would shy away
from it. No reason why they should, of course, except that it’s just a
trifle sensational, if you see what I mean. Then, too, when the team
does get licked, and I guess even Deane doesn’t really expect it to win
every game, it’s going to make us all feel a bit foolish, isn’t it?”
“I don’t think so,” answered Clif. “There’s no reason why one should
feel foolish because one tries a thing and fails. That would keep a lot
of us from trying, Darlington.”
“Oh, no, not if the effort is――well, worth making, Bingham. That’s not
my idea at all. But this business seems to me just a trifle sophomoric.
Still, of course, there’s no real harm in it; and it’s a fine thing to
see the school get together on it as they have. I told Deane that I
wished him luck, but I really didn’t dream that he’d make a go of it.
I’m mighty glad, Bingham. Tell him that when you see him, will you?”
The first class president nodded, a trifle benignly, and went on up the
stairway, leaving Clif feeling as though he had been patted on the head.