THE BOY WITH THE FUNNY CHIN
On Wednesday Lemuel John turned up for the chess game in spite of
certain infirmities consequent on two days of unfamiliar and rather
strenuous exercise. And once more he won from Loring with comparative
ease. He seemed more at ease on this occasion and didn’t sit as
though he was expecting an alarm of fire and might have to rush for
the nearest exit at an instant’s notice. And he was decidedly amusing
when, subsequent to the chess encounter, he confided the tale of his
experiences on the football field. He was so big and capable looking
that, when he told in a plaintive drawl of the indignities put on
him by the remorseless “Cocky,” Tom doubled up and fairly gurgled.
On the whole, Lemuel John was a distinct hit that evening, and when
he departed he left the Triumvirate sensible of several excellent
qualities, not the least of which was his unfailing good humor. Tom
came out flat-footed for Lemuel John.
“He’s a fine old coot,” declared Tom, “and I’ll bet you anything you
like that next year he will be a pretty warm baby on the football team.
I haven’t seen him in action, and from what he says he must be fairly
awful, but he’s got something that’s going to get him where he wants
to go, no matter where that is. If he says to himself ‘I want to
play good football,’ he’s going to play good football. On the whole,
fellows, I’m glad I thought of persuading him to go out for the Scrub.”
“You’re glad _you_ thought of it!” exclaimed Clif. “Well, of all the
colossal nerve!”
“That’s it,” Tom complained. “Refuse me credit for everything!
Perhaps I didn’t actually make the first suggestion, but if I
hadn’t――er――nurtured the plan it would have fallen flat. I suppose next
thing you’ll deny I didn’t think of that slog――I mean battle cry!”
“No, we give you credit for ‘No Defeats,’” laughed Loring. “And, by the
way, those buttons ought to be along to-morrow, Clif, oughtn’t they?”
They came Friday. Tom voiced disappointment because they were only the
size of a nickel, but Clif and Loring pointed out to him that fellows
would wear a small button where they would disdain a larger one. “You
know, Tom,” Clif reminded him sweetly, “this isn’t a banquet of the
Kiwanis Club.” The buttons were of white, with a narrow rim of blue and
the words “No Defeats” in the same color. The blue was not exactly the
correct Wyndham blue, for the latter was decidedly dark; but that was a
detail.
Distribution was effected with little effort. Each of the sponsors in
the campaign filled a pocket with them and then pinned one to a lapel.
After that all that was necessary was to keep dipping a hand into the
pocket until the supply was exhausted and then drop around to Loring’s
room for more. By bedtime that night every student wore a button.
The idea of holding a meeting to aid in putting the thing over had
already been abandoned. The deed was already accomplished. Wyndham
was “sold” on the idea solidly. “No Defeats” took its place in the
language of the school, stared down from the walls of dormitory rooms,
challenged the visiting opponent from the front of the grand stand and,
when the next number of _The Lantern_ appeared the following Tuesday,
headed the editorial page in bold face type. What pleased Loring
especially was that the school adopted the motto seriously. It might
have made a joke of it or taken it up as an amusing diversion, in which
case it would have lasted a week, perhaps, and then been forgotten.
But Wyndham was really in earnest about an unbeaten team, and, while
the expression “No Defeats” was used frequently in a laughing way, it
found no vogue as flippant slang. The idea had captured the imagination
of the school and the school earnestly meant to see that the defiant
prediction came true.
As a result of the enthusiasm almost three-fourths of the fellows
accompanied the team on Saturday when it went down state to play
Cupples Institute. That was something that had possibly never happened
in the history of the school save when the opponent had been Wolcott.
Wyndham went with banners and arm bands and little white-and-blue
buttons and much vocal demonstration, and it would have been a
most ungrateful football eleven that would not have won with such
encouragement. Cupples was never a very formidable enemy, although it
is true of football that the best team doesn’t always win. Last year,
at Freeburg, Wyndham had won by 20 to 0, and there was no expectation
of a very different result to-day. The Dark Blue had developed
considerably during the past week, and the attack, more or less latent
hitherto, was at last visible. Coach Otis started off with first-string
players in all positions save left guard and full back. Smythe had
been acting rather temperamental since the Jordan game, and Breeze was
at guard on the left side. Captain Ogden had hurt an ankle two days
before in practice, and, while the injury was slight, Dan Farrell, the
trainer, thought it best to keep him quiet for a few days longer. That
put “Swede” Hanbury at full back.
Wyndham started off with a rush after receiving the kick-off and pushed
Tom Kemble over for the first score six minutes later. Sproule missed
the try-for-point. The dark blue scored again before the quarter
was over when a long forward pass from Hanbury to Drayton covered
thirty-four yards, with Drayton’s run, and left the pigskin on Cupples’
seventeen. There the home team stiffened and when Wyndham had gained
but four yards on three attempts, “Swede” retired to the twenty and
lifted the ball over from a drop.
Cupples had a brief moment of supremacy toward the last of the second
period. Houston and Tom between them managed to mess a pass and the
fumbled ball was recovered by Cupples on Wyndham’s thirty-seven. From
there a short heave over the left of the line took it to the thirty-one
and the attack gained first down on three tries at Breeze, in the last
of which he was considerably messed up. Howlett took his place, and on
the next slam Cupples shot a back past Howlett to the nineteen yards,
at least three of the visitors missing their tackles. With two yards to
go, Cupples tried a fake forward pass, the ball going to right half for
a wide run. Couch nailed the runner for a four-yard loss and Cupples
shot the pigskin overhead on the next try. Tom spoiled the pass and the
ball grounded. Cupples’ placement kick from the thirty-one went short
of the goal.
Clif started the third period at left tackle and won momentary fame
on the third play after Wyndham had possession of the ball. The shift
took Drayton to the other end of the line, leaving Clif eligible to
take a pass, and Clif took it very nicely, well off to the left of the
scrimmage, and sped it down the field for twelve yards and a total
of twenty-six. A penalty set the Dark Blue back, however, and in the
end Clif’s feat went for naught. It wasn’t until the last quarter had
started that another score was made, and then it was Cupples who made
it. Cupples got a back away on a nice around-the-end run, outside
Williams, substituting Couch, and the fleet-footed youth reeled off
fifty-three yards before he was pulled down from behind. Unable to
advance from Wyndham’s twelve by attacks at the enemy line, Cupples
again tried a placement kick and this time succeeded, leaving the score
9 to 3.
A little later a Cupples punt was short and Jackson, at quarter, made a
fair catch on Cupples’ forty-seven yards. McMurtry and Whitemill made
good gains off tackle and advanced the pigskin to the thirty-six. Then
“G. G.” mended his line with three first-string players who had retired
late in the first half and Wyndham went steadily forward to her third
score. Just at the last the going grew heavy and the gains short, but
Stiles, who had taken Sproule’s place at right half, solved the final
problem by slipping around the Cupples left end behind a well-built
wall of interference and carrying the ball over the remaining eight
yards for a touchdown. This time Sim Jackson officiated at the
try-for-point and had no difficulty in securing the last score of the
contest.
Wyndham went home with a 16-to-3 game dangling at her belt, more than
ever convinced that “No Defeats” meant just what it said!
There were, however, some who reflected that 16 to 3 didn’t sound
quite so pretty as 20 to 0, and who remembered that Wolcott had
defeated Cupples two weeks ago by 18 to 0. And when Monday came there
were evidences of dissatisfaction on the part of Coach Otis. He tried
Craigie at left guard that afternoon and Jeff Adams at left end, and
he made brief experiments at other places on the team. And he was
decidedly brusque all during practice. In short, the signs indicated
that any fellow who cared much for his job had best settle his nose
closer to the grindstone and keep his eyes ahead! Those who had played
a full two periods on Saturday were exempted from the scrimmage to-day,
and the second rode rough shod over the second- and third-string subs,
a fact which pleased “G. G.” not at all and which led to expressions
of opinion not at all flattering to the subs. Tom and Clif, pausing
on their way to the showers to hearken, grinned sympathetically and
exchanged meaning glances as they went on again.
Loring attended football practice very regularly. Rain was about
the only thing that kept him away. And, of course, Wattles went,
too, wheeling Loring’s chair from East Hall across the field to a
corner of the bench and then occupying a few inches of space at the
extreme end of the seat. The boy in the wheel chair and the eminently
dignified attendant were so much a part of the scene that their
infrequent absences were invariably noted and commented on. Wyndham
School was proud of Loring Deane, proud for various reasons. In the
first place, it was something of a feather in the Wyndham cap to have
for a student the son of a man internationally famous as a financier
and immensely wealthy. There were, to be sure, a few who tried to
dislike Loring because of Sanford Deane’s wealth, but they were few.
What accounted for most of the school’s pride, however, was Loring’s
patience and pluck and cheerfulness in misfortune. There were some
who observed cynically that they’d be willing to have their walking
done for them if they could be Sanford Deane’s sons. But they were
either thoughtless or untruthful, for no amount of wealth can make
up for physical disability. Loring not only smiled in the face of
adversity, but laughed at it! If he couldn’t use his feet, at least
he had an otherwise sound body and he made the most of it. All that
he could do he did well. He was a brilliant student, and last winter
he had won the Seymour Scholarship, the principal prize open to third
class fellows. The fact that he had declined the money accompanying
the honor didn’t lessen his popularity any. Popularity, though, isn’t
quite the word to use concerning Loring, for popularity suggests a
sort of easy familiarity lacking in his relations with the school
_in toto_. Loring’s close friends were few, his acquaintances many.
Back of his apparent approachability was a reserve born, doubtless,
of his misfortune and compounded largely of shyness. It was necessary
to negotiate that inner defense before one could win to the citadel
of Loring’s friendship, and not very many succeeded. Yet those who
remained without were almost invariably as loyal as those who entered,
and Tom once said that Loring had more bosom friends who didn’t even
know him than any fellow he had ever met!
During practice Loring was seldom dependent on Wattles for conversation,
for some one was usually visiting with him down there at the end of the
bench: one of the players, or one of the managers, or not infrequently
Dan Farrell, the trainer. One of Dan’s favorite remarks was that just as
soon as Loring got to using crutches he was going to train him for the
track. “And, by gorry,” Dan would add, “you’ll be winning races, too,
Mr. Deane, for it’s you has the pluck that can’t be beat!” Last year the
trainer’s optimism had been reprimanded smilingly by Loring. “I guess
I’ll never get to crutches,” he had said. But this fall he didn’t
challenge the hopeful statement. The possibility was not quite as remote
as it had been.
Now and then Mr. Otis paused for a word, but the coach was usually
too busy to do more than exchange greetings. On Tuesday afternoon,
though, Loring’s chair was wheeled into place a few minutes earlier
than customary, and by chance Mr. Otis came directly from the inn to
the gridiron without stopping at the gymnasium. Only a small handful of
players were about and the stand was practically deserted. Loring sat
fairly imbedded in a raccoon coat, for the day was cloudy and cold, and
even Wattles, whose soul abhorred the undignified drapery of such loose
apparel, wore a pepper-and-salt overcoat which, being of no more than
medium weight and stopping short slightly below his knees, looked far
from sufficient. However, Wattles had further fortified himself against
the weather by encasing his rather large feet in a pair of rubbers.
He called them galoshes, which was just another indication of how
difficult it was for Wattles to become wholly Americanized. As always,
he wore a bowler――that is, begging his pardon, a derby. It was a black
derby, irreproachably lustrous of nap, of a distinctly square tendency.
Wattles’ derby had become a Wyndham feature; like “Old Brad’s” one
cream-colored necktie or the battered football in the glass case in the
gymnasium, which bore the barely decipherable inscription: “Wyndham 28,
Wolcott 0.” In Wattles’ philosophy a man might conceivably murder his
grandmother under stress of strong emotion, or default with the funds
of widows and orphans, but a gentleman could not wear a soft hat. At
least, not without the permitting accompaniment of homespun. And he had
his doubts as to that!
Wattles arose with a murmur of respectful greeting and Mr. Otis said:
“No, no, Wattles, keep your seat. I’ll sit over here for a minute.
Well, Deane, I haven’t had a real word with you this fall. How are you?”
“Oh, fine, thanks, sir.”
“Well, you look it; what I can see of you! How are those legs coming
along, my boy? Any improvement?”
Loring shook his head, still smiling. “Not much, I’m afraid. Wattles
thinks he sees an improvement, or says he does; but he’s a confounded
optimist about other folks’ troubles!”
“Well, I hope he’s right. What do you say, Wattles?”
Wattles coughed delicately. “There is an improvement, sir. The doctor
admits it, too, sir. Mr. Loring is naturally not so capable of
appreciating it, Mr. Otis. It is――very gradual; oh, very, sir.”
“I’ll say it is,” laughed Loring. “If you’re thinking of holding the
quarter back job open for me next season, sir, you’d best not bother.”
“Hm. I’d like mighty well to see you in it, Deane.” Mr. Otis was
plainly sincere, and Loring’s cheeks flushed with pleasure behind the
barrier of the big fur collar. “What do you think of our outfit this
fall, by the way?”
“It looks mighty good to me, Mr. Otis. I guess we’ve been sort of slow
in getting started, but it looks now as if we were headed about right.
Don’t you think so, sir?”
“Oh, we’re better than we were. If we had a few more pounds in the line
we’d pass for a fair team.”
“Especially on the left side, I guess,” said Loring.
The coach looked at him quickly and then nodded. “You’ve got good
eyes,” he commented dryly. “Yes, we need something better there, but
we haven’t got it. Well, I never saw a team yet that had an evenly
balanced line.”
“I’ve got a fellow coming along,” said Loring carelessly, “who may be
useful on that side later, Mr. Otis.”
“You’ve――what?” asked the coach, puzzled.
“I said I had a fellow coming along who might work in there, sir.
He’s just started on the second, but he’s promising and I wouldn’t be
surprised to see him make pretty good. He’s built for a guard. Or he
might be used at tackle if he could be speeded up a little.”
“Who are you talking about?” asked “G. G.,” frowning.
“Fellow named Parks. I guess you haven’t noticed him. He’s still on
the bench over there.” Loring nodded toward the next gridiron. “He’s
absolutely green, but he’s learning fast, I understand.”
Mr. Otis laughed. “Deane, you’re a funny chap. You don’t expect a man
starting in now to play guard on the first team in a fortnight, do you?”
“Well, it is sort of improbable, isn’t it?” laughed Loring. “And
maybe I’m being a bit optimistic. Just the same I wouldn’t be awfully
surprised to see Parks get into the Wolcott game. You see, Mr. Otis,
he’s got just about everything but the know-how, and I’m looking to Mr.
Babcock to supply that deficiency.”
“Well, I’ll give him a welcome when he arrives,” said the coach, with
a chuckle. “And I’ve known Babcock to knock the corners off in mighty
short time, Deane. But I guess I’d better not count too strongly on
this prodigy of yours, eh?”
“No, sir, don’t do that,” replied Loring. “Better wait another week or
so before you begin to build any plays around him. I’ll report on him
later, sir.”
“Just how does he happen to be your discovery?” asked “G. G.”
“Oh, he isn’t that, exactly. Owens went after him long ago and didn’t
have any luck. I happened to meet him one night and liked his looks. So
we――that is, Tom Kemble and Clif Bingham and I――”
“The Triumvirate?” smiled Mr. Otis.
“Gee, have you heard about that?” Loring asked laughingly. “Well, we
got hold of him and persuaded him to join Mr. Babcock’s outfit. He
didn’t want to at first. At least, he did want to, I guess, but he
didn’t have the nerve. Some one had told him he couldn’t learn the
game, you see. However, he forgot it and went out, and I hear that he’s
made a hit with the second team fellows.”
“If he turns out to be any good,” said Mr. Otis quietly, “I’ll have
something to say to Owens for missing him!” After a moment of silence
he said: “Deane, didn’t I hear that you were going to manage the
baseball team next spring?”
“Yes, sir, I’m supposed to, but I’m awfully doubtful about being able
to――to make good, and if I don’t I’ll――I’ll jump out a window, I guess,
because Mr. Clendennin and some of the others simply boosted me into
it, right over the heads of some fellows who deserved it more. Gee, if
I turned out to be a blah I’d feel pretty sick.”
“Well, I don’t think you need worry. I believe you’ll be a long way
from a ‘blah,’ as you call it. Fact is, I was just thinking that it
would be rather fortunate for me――and the team――if you were football
manager!”
“Gosh, Mr. Otis!”
“I mean it.” Mr. Otis cast a side glance at Wattles, seemed reassured
by that gentleman’s apparent concentration on an arching ball, and
added with a trace of asperity: “You see, Deane, the difference between
you and the average chap who acts as football manager here is that you
have everything except the ability to walk and the others have the
ability to walk and not much else! Well, I must start things up.”
“Mr. Otis, what do you think our chance is of getting through without a
licking, sir?” asked Loring quickly.
“What? Oh, that business. Well, frankly, Deane, I think our chance is
about one in three.”
“Gee,” murmured Loring dejectedly. “But we’ve got through half the
schedule, sir.”
“Yes, and I’ll change that. I’ll say one in two. You see, Deane, it’s
a safe bet that either Horner or Wolcott will get us, if not both of
them. This is just between us, old chap, and not for publication.”
“You don’t really mean that you think Wolcott’s going to win this year,
sir!”
“Well, perhaps I don’t quite think it, but――oh, hang it, Deane, look
at the left side of that line! You know what any fairly strong offense
will do to it, and if your line won’t hold together what good’s the
best attack in the world? As for Horner――well, I dare say we may
weather that game if Horner’s no better than she looks now. But I
wouldn’t wager a peanut shell that we’ll win both those games!”
“Gee,” Loring muttered. “‘No Defeats!’”
“Well, it’s a noble ambition, anyway,” replied “G. G.,” smiling down
reassuredly, “and it’s no disgrace to strive for perfection, Deane.”
“No, sir,” agreed Loring mournfully, “not even if you stub your toe
going after it.”
Mr. Otis chuckled, nodded and hurried off. Loring looked after him a
moment and then said, half to himself, half to Wattles: “Just the same,
he may not be right. I still believe we’ve got a show.”
“Oh, absolutely, sir,” said Wattles gravely!
A little later Loring said: “Wattles, there’s the fellow with the funny
chin again. Halfway up the stand, alongside the post.”
Wattles looked and assented. “Quite so, Mr. Loring,” he answered. “I
don’t think he’s one of our crowd, sir.”
“I’m plumb sure he isn’t,” returned Loring, “and I can’t make myself
believe that he’s one of the town fellows, either. This is about the
fourth or fifth time I’ve seen him, and he looks just as much like
something the tide washed in as ever.”
Wattles again turned his head and appraised the subject of Loring’s
disparagement. “Well, sir, he’s not such an unpresentable
young――er――person,” he protested fairly.
“Oh, I’m not talking about his clothes or his manners,” said Loring.
“But study that face, Wattles. Don’t you see that his eyes are too
blamed close together and that that funny chin makes him look like a――a
camel or something?”
Wattles allowed himself a smile. “I do see the resemblance, Mr. Loring,
and that’s a fact. A camel, yes, sir. Oh, undoubtedly.”
“Yes, and――well, I suppose it’s a perfectly asinine idea, Wattles, but
the silly coot acts to me as if he were up to something and was afraid
some one would get onto him. I tried to catch his eyes the other day
and he wouldn’t look at me for a half second. If I was a bit better at
climbing steps I’d go up there and ask him what he’s up to.”
“I’d say, sir, that he’s just looking on a bit, like the rest of us.”
“Hm, yes,” said Loring dubiously, “but he watches mighty closely. I’ve
seen him staring so hard you’d think he’d have strabismus. Do I mean
strabismus, Wattles?”
“Quite possibly, Mr. Loring. I――er――the word is not――”
“It means cross-eyed or something, and I dare say it doesn’t occur in
Blackstone.”
“No, sir, I don’t think it does.”
“Of course the silly ass may be trying to learn how to play,” went on
Loring. “Although if I were he I’d keep out of football. I’d be awfully
afraid some chap would land on that chin. I know a chin like that, a
chin that wiggles like a rabbit’s nose, would be a great temptation to
me if I was opposite it!”
Wattles chuckled politely. “It would be a temptation, sir, and no
mistake,” he agreed.
“In fact, Wattles, it not only would be, it is! Gee, it must be
wonderful to be able to walk up to a guy and punch his face! I sure
envy you that, Wattles!”
Wattles coughed deprecatingly, “I’m not sure, Mr. Loring, I hope that
if――when you are better you will not attempt anything of that sort,” he
said earnestly.
“Won’t I! Well, no, I won’t, Wattles, for the simple and sufficient
reason that I’ll never get the chance. But if I could――why, listen,
old chap. If I could do it I’d walk up there right now and say to that
fellow with the trick chin: ‘I don’t know who you are or what you’re up
to, but I don’t like your looks and so you’d better beat it.’ And then,
if he didn’t beat it, and mighty quick, too, I’d――” Loring smiled down
pleasurably at a capable brown fist―― “I’d let him have it, Wattles.”
Wattles shook his head disapprovingly, but at the same time he turned
it toward the stand as though contemplating in fancy a pleasant
proceeding. Then he coughed again, rather severely this time, and
said: “The young man is scarcely the sort, sir, that one would wish
to――er――engage in a bout with, begging your pardon, Mr. Loring.”
“Oh, I say, Wattles,” laughed the other, “a fellow can’t stop to
exchange cards, you know, in such an event!”
“N-no, sir, but――er――one wouldn’t, I fancy, engage in a difference of
opinion with a person one wouldn’t have to dinner!”
“Wattles,” chuckled Loring affectionately, “you’re a delight!”
“Thank you, sir,” replied Wattles.