WATTLES ON THE TRAIL
On Wednesday Loring didn’t attend practice. This was not because of
inclement weather, but because a certain very distinguished physician
motored up from New York in an impressive car of foreign make, driven
by a liveried chauffeur, and spent some thirty minutes with the boy in
his professional capacity and something over an hour in unprofessional
conversation. When he took his departure at last Wattles accompanied
him to the automobile and the two conferred for several minutes more.
Perhaps the eminent doctor was kind enough to compliment Wattles on his
care of the patient, for Wattles’ eyes were shining when he went back
up the steps of East Hall. All this is just to explain why it was that
when Clif and Tom came into Loring’s room after supper that evening
Loring was quite unprepared for Clif’s appearance.
“Why, what――what――” stammered Loring in evident concern.
There was a distinct but apparently reconsidered snigger from Tom that
ended in a fit of choking. Clif turned and gazed at him reproachfully.
Then the reproach turned to amusement and Clif chuckled, too. “Lemuel
John,” said Clif, sinking into a chair, with a sigh.
“Lemuel John?” echoed Loring. “What about him?”
Clif pointed to a left eye which had the ensanguined appearance of a
piece of raw beef. “This,” he replied briefly.
“You mean you had a scrap?” exclaimed Loring.
Tom broke in with a chuckle. “I’ll say they did,” he answered for his
chum. “‘Cocky’ put Lemuel John in at right guard on the second when we
started scrimmage. Lemuel John used up Smythe and Weldon in about seven
and one-eleventh minutes. Then ‘G. G.’ called on his reserves. Breeze
and Bingham, you know. Great pair, Breeze and Bingham. Lemuel John
looked them over and said ‘Howdy’ and then proceeded to smear ’em.”
“Not really!” ejaculated Loring almost joyfully. Clif once more
registered reproach. Tom nodded and waved a hand toward Clif.
“See for yourself. Exhibit one. The other exhibit doesn’t show his
wounds on the surface so much but, believe me, he’s got hurt feelings!”
“But――but Lemuel John didn’t――didn’t _hit_ you, Clif!”
“Not with malice aforethought,” Clif acknowledged; “but my eye doesn’t
know that. Oh, it was in a sort of a ruckus we had. It wasn’t his
fault. Second worked down to our fifteen, about. Ogden gave her all the
decisions, hang him! ‘G. G.’ threatened us with boiling oil if we let
her cross the line, and ‘Cocky’ as good as told his team that he’d
have them shot at sunrise if they didn’t score. Resultantly there was a
sort of a Donnybrook Fair staged on that fifteen-yard line and the fur
flewed――flew, I mean. They tried to push that Converse guy, their full
back, you know, through Breeze, and I happened to be passing by and saw
what was going on――”
“Passing by!” jeered Tom. “You were just aching for trouble, and you
sure got it!”
“I think it was Lemuel John’s knee that hit me,” said Clif. “I remember
that he towered above me some nineteen or twenty feet for a moment, and
I’m sure it couldn’t have been his elbow.”
“You mean that you were down?” asked Loring interestedly.
“Down? By no means. I was standing on my feet. Anyway, some one’s feet.
Then the cyclone passed.”
“Did you hold them?” Loring’s voice was eager.
“Hold who?” inquired Clif.
“Why, the second!”
“Oh! Yes, we held the second. Most of them, that is. The one we didn’t
hold was Lemuel John. Fact is, we didn’t hold Converse, either; but
that wasn’t our fault. We might have stopped him only he got right
behind Lemuel John and no one could see him, of course. Not until he
was on top of the goal line, anyway. You know there ought to be a rule
against a player hiding himself like that. It isn’t sporting.”
Loring was laughing enjoyably by now, and Clif grinned, too, sending
exploring fingers to his left cheek bone. Tom said: “Loring, when you
wished that wild hyena on the Scrub you sure played a dirty trick on
your friends.”
“Good, was he?” asked Loring eagerly.
“Good? No, as a player he was rotten. He broke all the commandments. He
got out of position, he charged standing up, he――he――”
“But he got through,” chuckled Loring.
“Oh, yes, he got through. He’s a rotten football player, but he’s a
whale of a battering-ram. Boy, let me tell you something. When Lemuel
John learns what a football is for and what the white lines that they
paint on the grass mean and a few little things like that, and when he
remembers to play low and start with the ball, he’s going to be some
warm baby! I had a hunch right along that he had the stuff in him. You
fellows wouldn’t believe me, but――”
A howl went up from the others. “Yes, you did!” scoffed Clif. “You were
the one who couldn’t see him with a spyglass!”
“What do you mean, spyglass?” asked Tom, grinning. “No one offered me
any spyglass. I just had a feeling――”
“Is Lemuel John really as bad as Tom says, Clif?” Loring interrupted.
“Oh, pretty nearly. Why not? He hasn’t been with the Scrub more than a
week, has he? He’s sort of roughhewn just now, but I know ‘Cocky’ well
enough to feel pretty certain that Lemuel John will have the corners
all chipped off neatly before the season’s over.”
“Funny Mr. Babcock let him play so soon,” mused Loring.
“Not so very funny,” answered Tom. “Their regular right guard had a cut
to-day and the next best bet got a bum knee yesterday. It was Lemuel
John or a third sub, I guess, and ‘Cocky’ chose Lemuel.”
Loring smiled in a thoroughly pleased fashion. “Only yesterday,” he
said, “I told Mr. Otis about him. Of course I was kind of joshing, but
I said I had a guard coming along who might fit in nicely before the
season was over.”
“_You_ had! Where do you get that ‘you’ stuff?” Tom demanded. “Who was
it thought of Lemuel John as a football player in the first place?”
“Well, it wasn’t you,” laughed Loring. “However, I don’t claim all the
credit. I didn’t yesterday. I told ‘G. G.’ that we’d all been working
on Lemuel John. Gosh, but wouldn’t it be corking if he really did make
the team?”
“The first, you mean?” Clif asked. “Not likely, I guess. Just the same,
I wish he would, and I wish ‘G. G.’ would play him at left guard. I’d
sure like to rub elbows with Lemuel John!”
“I should think you’d done enough of it,” chuckled Tom.
“I told you it wasn’t his elbow,” replied Clif with dignity. “It was
his knee. Or maybe he just kicked me. Anyway, he was terribly concerned
afterwards and said, ‘I guess I’ll have to be careful and not play so
rough, Bingham!’ I said, ‘You play as rough as you like. It won’t be
anything in my life, Parks, because the next time I see you making up
your mind to come my way I’m not going to be there!’”
Wyndham had no difficulty with Minster High School on the following
Saturday, meeting the opponent on Wyndham Field and administering a
neat drubbing. The final score of 24 to 3 practically duplicated last
year’s victory. The home team did not, perhaps, deserve all the glory
the figures indicated, for Minster was not a strong team. Still, the
Dark Blue showed an improvement over last Saturday and put up a firm
defense against any attack the visitors showed; and they tried about
every ruse known to the game. Wyndham played through without the
services of “Punk” Drayton, left end, and Captain Ogden, full back.
Drayton had developed a mild case of tonsilitis and Jeff’s ankle was
still weak. However, Adams, who took “Punk’s” place, and “Swede”
Hanbury, who substituted for Ogden, were well able to look after their
jobs. On the whole, Wyndham was fairly well satisfied with herself that
Saturday evening and those who, while flaunting “No Defeats!” buttons,
had secretly doubted the ability of the team to come through with a
whole skin, now took heart. What Coach Otis thought about the game or
the prospects of the team was not known. The coach didn’t confide his
opinions very often.
November came in the day of the Minster contest. November in the
vicinity of Freeburg may be anything so far as weather is concerned.
Tradition tells of one Wolcott game fought on an afternoon in late
November so warm that the spectators gasped and perspired and the
players almost collapsed before the final whistle. Indian summer is a
season not to be depended on, however. Sometimes it comes early and
sometimes late, and sometimes it doesn’t come at all. This year it
hadn’t shown itself yet; or, if it had, no one had recognized it. The
Sunday after the Minster game was cloudy and cold, with a whistling
breeze blowing down from the higher hills to the north. Steam pipes
rattled and radiators whistled that morning, and the slogan of the
day was “Shut that door!” Sunday papers were read very thoroughly,
for no one was appreciably drawn toward the great open spaces. There
was much football talk and discussion, and much to discuss if one was
in the mood. For instance, there was the Yale-Army game which had
resulted in another tie, contrary to the expectations, warranted or
not, of many Wyndham followers of the game. And there was, too, the
Princeton-Swarthmore contest, and the Harvard-Boston University fracas
and the Dartmouth-Brown affair, all of momentous interest to youths who
in anticipation were students of one or another of those institutions
of learning and who surreptitiously scribbled “Smith, Princeton ’29,”
or some similar inscription, on the backs of their blue books and
hastily erased the words the next moment. Then, too, there was the
Wolcott-Hoskins encounter to mull over. As usual, the game had been
bitterly contested and the final score close. But this time Wolcott had
come off victor, one touchdown and a field goal to two field goals.
There was much comparing of scores, much argument seeking to prove, on
the one hand, that Wolcott was a “lucky stiff” to win, on the other
hand that only the breaks of the game had given Hoskins those field
goals. It all depended on the end sought. Comparative scores and the
story of the game could be made to favor either team. However, when
all was said, it was still necessary to acknowledge that Wolcott’s team
this year had the appearance of something that got what it went for.
If Wyndham held up a clean slate, so too did Wolcott. And Wolcott’s
victories had been, on the whole, rather more impressive.
Two afternoons later Loring once more drew Wattles’ attention to the
youth with the funny chin. “There’s the Camel again,” he said. “I
do wish you’d go up there in the stand and ask him what he’s doing.
He’s got conspirator written all over that trick countenance of his,
Wattles.”
Wattles looked. “Yes, sir,” he answered, “but I hardly think, if you’ll
pardon me, Mr. Loring, that I would be――er――justified in asking the
young man such a question.”
“Eh? Oh, I was only spoofing, old chap. Just the same――” But Loring
didn’t complete the remark. Instead he returned to his observation of
the scrimmage going on between the first and the scrub teams. Ever
since last Thursday Loring had eagerly waited to see Lemuel John
officiate as guard on the second once more. But his waiting had been
vain. Lemuel John, after that one notable and much discussed appearance
in the line-up, had remained on the bench. Loring made up his mind that
to-morrow he would go over to the other gridiron and watch Lemuel John
in practice there. Meanwhile, however, he felt a bit resentful toward
Mr. Babcock for not giving the big fellow an opportunity to repeat his
performance. This in spite of the fact that Clif’s face still showed
the marks of Lemuel John’s enthusiasm!
Clif was generally believed to have deposed Weldon at left tackle now.
At all events, he was being used much more than Weldon in that position
and was gradually shaping into a brilliant performer on offense. In
defense he was not quite so good, but neither Smythe nor Breeze,
alternate incumbents of the next position toward center, was showing up
well, and a weak guard may easily bring discredit on his tackle. Tom
was going finely of late. Indeed, with the exception of Captain Jeff
himself――and Jeff’s style was too different to invite comparison――Tom
was showing up as the cleverest back on the squad. He had developed
a speed in starting that he had lacked last season, a speed that was
adding a yard or more to every effort. And he was winning praise,
too, as a unit of the secondary defense, making his tackles hard and
seldom missing his man. Loring was glad that the other members of the
Triumvirate were doing so well. Next to playing himself, the thing that
gave him the most pleasure was witnessing the success of Clif and Tom.
A few minutes before the end of the scrimmage Loring turned to Wattles
and said: “I’d like to go over to the village and get a book at
Leeson’s, Wattles. There’s time enough, I guess.”
They were two blocks from school――Loring had requested Wattles to pause
so that he might inspect the contents of the window of the hardware
store――when the boy with the funny chin passed. Although Loring’s back
was turned he had no difficulty in seeing his approach, for the street
was excellently mirrored in the window pane. When the boy had gone by
Loring said: “All right, Wattles. Let’s go on down the street.”
“Leeson’s is just across, sir,” said Wattles.
“I know, but I feel like taking some exercise.” That was, of course,
Loring’s joke, since the exercise fell to Wattles. “Isn’t that the
Camel ahead there, Wattles?”
“Yes, sir, he just passed.”
“You might sort of keep him in sight then. I’m rather curious to know
where he’s going.”
Wattles had a soul for intrigue and adventure, although the fact would
not have been suspected, and he perked up at once. “Very good, Mr.
Loring,” he replied with relish. “He seems to be in a bit of a hurry.”
“Yes, doesn’t he? Well, carry on.”
So Wattles carried on for two blocks further. Then the boy with the
funny chin turned abruptly to the left down a side street that, as
Loring knew, was lamentably ill-paved. “Leave me here, Wattles,” he
said, “and beat it! See where he goes to. Don’t lose him, Old Sleuth!”
Wattles abandoned the wheel chair beside a hitching post and used his
long legs to advantage. In a moment he, too, had disappeared, and
Loring set himself to wait. He knew Wattles well enough to be sure that
if the quarry resided within a reasonable distance――say anything under
two miles――Wattles would see the project through. But his waiting was
over in less than five minutes. Wattles returned looking triumphant in
a repressed fashion. “He went off in a car, sir,” reported the amateur
detective. “A small car. In fact, sir, a flivver.”
“A car, eh? Which way did he go? Was he alone?”
“Alone, sir, yes. He went east.” Wattles waved a hand.
“East? Where was the car?”
“About halfway along the block, in front of a sort of shed, Mr. Loring.
A stable, perhaps. There’s a carpenter’s sign on it. He got in and went
right on down Pierson Street.”
“But Pierson Street doesn’t lead anywhere,” Loring protested. “We were
on the other end of it last spring.”
“It goes as far as the road where the stone machine is, sir.”
“Stone machine? What―― Oh, the rock crusher! Of course! And that leads
over that way to Stoddard――no, Elm Street.”
“To Stoddard, too, sir. I believe it crosses Elm.”
“And Stoddard Street goes over to the old turnpike!”
“Yes, sir.”
“And the old turnpike―― Gee, I wish I had a map!”
“They have them at Leeson’s, Mr. Loring.”
“Right you are, Wattles! On to Leeson’s.”
A few minutes later, a road map spread across his knees, Loring
exclaimed in triumph. “Just as I thought, Wattles! That road hits the
state road about four miles north of town!”
“Indeed, sir?” Wattles commented.
“Yes! And don’t you see what that means?”
Wattles’ cough was deprecatory. “I’m afraid I don’t, sir.”
“Why, think, man! Where does the state road go from here?”
“I believe it goes to Canaan, sir, and then――”
“Canaan, my eye! Before Canaan, I mean?”
“Before Canaan? Why, to be sure, sir! Cotterville!”
“Cotterville, Wattles! And I’ll bet you that chap is on his way back to
Wolcott right this minute!”