that the something happens which changes the complexion of the whole
situation and brings Mr. Tincup's objection to football to a boil's
head.
"Butter Fingers" and me are coming back from the athletic field after
an extra hard workout. I have a football and we're tossing it back and
forth as we're trotting down the sidewalk, me about fifty feet ahead of
"Butter Fingers" so we can have plenty of distance to pass. As we cut
across the corner toward Tincup's house I spot him out in the yard,
washing his front porch off with the stream from the garden hose.
"Hello!" says I to myself, "Mr. Tincup's getting industrious in his old
age!"
Just then "Butter Fingers" lets loose an extra long throw. I can see
at a glance that the ball's going to be over my head unless I can take
it on the jump. Nope! I miss it by three feet, banging up against Mr.
Tincup's front fence trying to pull it down.
"Look out!" I yells when I see what's going to happen.
If "Butter Fingers" had took aim he couldn't have made a squarer hit.
The pigskin spirals over the fence and plunks Mr. Maxwell Tincup smack
on the side of the head. The blow's so unexpected it knocks the nozzle
of the hose out of his hands and before anybody can say "Ask me
another!" the hose squirms around like a snake and soaks him from head
to foot. Mr. Tincup begins yelling like he's in the middle of the
ocean, going down for the last time. It takes him a couple of seconds
to get on to what's hit him, but the minute he sees the football lying
on the lawn he lets out a bellow of rage and turns to us, shaking his
fist.
"All right, young gentlemen!" he snorts. "That's the end of your ball
... and it's the end of _you_, for that matter!"
It may be the end of us but it's not the end of our ball so far as
"Butter Fingers" is concerned. He's over the fence in a jiffy and
streaking for the pigskin as though he's on a football field. Mr.
Tincup doesn't suspect any opposition on picking up what "Butter
Fingers" regards as a free ball. He's too dripping wet and ripping mad
to suspect anything. As he stoops down to pick up the ball which is
also wet, it slips out of his fingers. To make matters worse he kicks
it accidently with his foot and it rolls along in front of him. It's
right then that "Butter Fingers" arrives. He takes a running dive
across the wet lawn, skids right under Mr. Tincup's nose, curls himself
around the pigskin, bounces up on his feet and keeps on going till he
comes to the fence which he hurdles.
Mr. Tincup stares at the human cyclone, his mouth so wide open that you
can see all the gold in his teeth.
"Come here!" he shouts, waving his arms.
"I'm sorry!" calls "Butter Fingers," "We didn't mean to do what we did
but this is our ball and we got a right to it!"
"You've got no right to be playing football!" raves Mr. Tincup,
beginning to shiver now as the air's kind of cold. "And I'm going to
see that you don't play football hereafter!"
"Gee!" I says to "Butter Fingers," when we've beat it. "I don't know
as that was such a bright stunt--your rescuing that pigskin. We might
better have let old Tincup have it. Now he's going to raise a rumpus
for sure! He'll probably go to the board."
"Butter Fingers" gives me the laugh.
"Make your pulse behave!" he says. "Everybody knows Mr. Tincup's a
great guy to holler. He won't get any further than his echo. Say--I
don't hear you mentioning anything about that pickup I made. Speak up,
brother! Can't you recognize a masterpiece?"
"Your masterpiece," I answers, "Wasn't the pickup. It was hitting Mr.
Tincup on the bean!"
"Just the same," argues "Butter Fingers," "if the old boy'd only had
some football experience I'd never have gotten away with the ball.
That only goes to show the value of...!"
"Oh, dry up!" I orders. "You're getting unbalanced on that subject...!"
It isn't until the next morning that we get the glad tidings of bad
news. Ain't it the truth that everyone's glad to be the first to tell
you something sad? And what do you suppose has happened?
That peeved Mr. Tincup has stirred up a special called meeting of the
school board and has gone and gotten us suspended from the team! He's
raised a terrific rumpus about football in general and has tried to get
the big game of the year with Edgewood canceled but he can't get away
with that. He's influential enough to put a crimp in the team, though,
and to put a crimp in us in particular, by getting the board to have us
kicked off the eleven just when we're needed most. I hope you won't
think I'm handing myself bouquets on purpose but I'm the best backfield
man the team's got and I've already told you how hot "Butter Fingers"
is as an end. Are we sore? Are we sick? So is most everyone else but
what good does that do 'em? The students get out a petition asking for
the school board to meet again and reconsider the matter but the school
board pays about as much attention as a deaf ear.
"We're sunk all right," I says to "Butter Fingers" in the middle of the
week. "Leave it to Tincup to see that we don't play Saturday! He's
got it in for us for fair! And we're going to be treated to the
_exquisite pleasure_ of sitting on the sidelines and seeing our team
take a nice trimming from Edgewood!"
"Edgewood's going to be plenty tough!" admits "Butter Fingers,"
soberly. "We wouldn't have been any too strong with our best line-up
against 'em. Wouldn't this give you a pain? Especially after all the
extra work we've put in so's we'd be in tip top shape for that game!"
"Don't cry on _my_ shoulder," I replies, "I got tears enough of my own!"
Saturday comes. It's the one day in the fall that the almanac gets
absolutely right. There's a precipitous rain falling. The weather
sort of reflects our gloom.
"It's just the kind of a day I've been dreaming about," moans "Butter
Fingers," "There's bound to be plenty of fumbles. I ought to be in
there to get 'em!"
"Tell that to Tincup!" I answers.
By noon a wind springs up and the clouds lift a little. The downpour
begins to let up. But the football field is already a young lake and
water is backed up in the streets. It's going to be a grand afternoon
for ducks and a splashing time for a gridiron battle.
At one o'clock, an hour before game time, "Butter Fingers" says to me,
"Mark, there's one thing old Tincup can't keep us from doing. He can't
prohibit our going to the locker room and hanging around with the
fellows till they're due on the field. Maybe we can cheer the gang up
a bit!"
"Not much chance of that," I replies. "But, I'm with you,
nevertheless...!"
So we sets out. And of course our direction takes us right past the
house that's owned by the object of our affections! I suggests to
"Butter Fingers" that we make a detour but he growls that he'll be
darned if the high and mighty Mr. Maxwell Tincup is going to make him
take so much as an extra step.
The rain has entirely stopped now and by the breeze that's blowing it
looks like the sky is through for the day. As we get near the picket
fence we discover something unusual. Mr. Tincup's three-year-old kid
is out by the curb trying to sail a toy boat in the water. And
standing on the front porch, staring at us with a satisfied grin on his
face, is the anti-football member of the school board himself! Mr.
Tincup looks at us as much as to say, "Well, how do you young rascals
feel now?"
There's nothing we can do but swallow our medicine and parade past with
eyes front as though we haven't even seen him. This we start to do
when--all of a sudden--a strong gust of wind comes along and takes the
kid's hat off, rolling it into the street. "Butter Fingers" sees this,
and grins.
"Dadda, look!" says the kid, pointing a finger at his hat which is
lying in a puddle of water in the middle of the street. We watch the
kid, laughing inside to think of anything happening which might affect
old Tincup's dignity. The kid runs along the curb, finds a place where
he can step over the stream of water and starts out on the street after
the hat.
"Junior, come here!" yells Mr. Tincup, hurrying down off the porch.
"Papa'll get it for you!"
But Papa doesn't have a chance. Things commence to take place after
that so fast that it leaves me dizzy.
Just as the kid starts off the curb a big, heavy duty truck comes
thundering down the side street and turns sharp around the corner. The
driver catches sight of the kid, lets loose the klaxon and reaches for
the brakes. Seeing the danger, the kid tries to beat it back, slips on
the wet pavement and falls! I stop dead, looking on, petrified. I'm
so frozen that I don't even see "Butter Fingers" leave my side. My
eyes are glued on the kid and the truck, with the brakes set, skidding
right down on him! I hear Mr. Tincup scream. Then there's a swishing
sound and a body goes sliding along the pavement. It strikes the kid,
arms reach out, fingers grab a hold, the body does a roll ... and then
you can't tell which is which. Honest, I don't dare look for a second,
it's so close! But when I opens my eyes again I see the truck driver
crawling down off his seat, wiping perspiration from his forehead.
Over on the opposite curb there's a long, lean, lanky bird getting to
his feet and helping up a badly scared youngster that's all wet and
dirty.
"Who says football doesn't fit you for something useful?" I hear
"Butter Fingers" mumble to himself. Then he stoops down. "How are
you, kid, all right? We took a nice, wet roll, didn't we?"
The next instant an insane man races across the street and grabs the
kid in his arms and sits down on the damp curb and breaks into sobs.
"Boy," said the truck driver, extending his hand to "Butter Fingers,"
"that was the nerviest stunt I ever seen! Look how far that old wagon
skidded past where you were!"
"Butter Fingers" looks.
"Been a bad place for a fumble, wouldn't it?" he says, then glances
quick at me. "Say, Mark--we'll have to be legging it or we'll miss out
seeing the team!"
"Just a minute!" says a choky voice from the curb. "Where you boys
going?"
"To see the game!" I answers, rather short.
"No, you're not!" raves Mr. Tincup, jumping to his feet. "You're going
to _play_!"
He fumbles in his pocket, pulls out a calling card and scribbles on the
back.
"Give that to Coach Spilman," he says, handing it to "Butter Fingers."
"I'll have to get in touch with the other members of the board before I
can get your suspension lifted but I'll do it, boys, if it's humanly
possible! Meanwhile, you get to the locker room and get all dressed
ready to go in at a minute's notice!"
We're not reinstated till the beginning of the last quarter but it's
time enough for "Butter Fingers," with the score 13 to 7 against us, to
scoop up an Edgewood fumble on our seventeen yard line and run
practically the length of the field for a touchdown! Then I kicks the
extra point to make the score 14 to 13 which is the way it stands when
the game ends.
As we're going off the field an overjoyed member of the school board
comes pushing through the crowd and compliments "Butter Fingers" for
his star performance, ending up with, "And young man, I can't ever tell
you how grateful I am for that other wonderful thing you...!"
"Don't mention it!" says "Butter Fingers," breaking in modestly. "The
thanks are on _my_ side. I didn't have much practice this week and
picking up the kid just put me back in trim!"
FOR THE GLORY OF THE COACH
"There's no use talking, Mooney. You've broken training rules and
you're through. That's final."
For a pulsating moment Elliott University's star fullback stood facing
the great John Brown, acknowledged dean of all football
coaches,--facing him as though he had not heard aright. There was
stunned surprise evident in the attitudes of his team-mates, too. No
one had imagined that John Brown would have the nerve to cross Mooney
beyond the giving of a reprimand. Not and hold the reputation which he
had slaved so hard to preserve in turning out a winning eleven for
decadent Elliott his first year there. The great John Brown might
better have remained in permanent retirement, resting on his richly
deserved laurels, than risk his halo of "wizard" and "miracle man of
the gridiron" by failure to restore Elliott's former football
supremacy. The press had been free to predict, when Coach Brown had
finally consented to do what he could for Elliott, that this task would
prove his Waterloo. "Coach Severely Handicapped by Material and
Facilities," one headline read, while another had it, "Sun Now Hardly
Destined to Set on Triumph for John Brown," the articles going on to
decry the lamentable conditions surrounding Elliott's effort to attain
a higher athletic grade. The task was regarded as beyond that of even
a miracle man and John Brown was credited with having accepted the
crudest of tests.
And now, after Elliott had risen toward glory by defeating Hale, first
of the Big Three, thus repudiating in part the commonly accepted
opinion that the University could not hope to win any of her big
contests that year--now, when all eyes were upon John Brown as never
before; when it seemed as though this wily old fox, in some uncanny
manner, had juggled another victorious eleven out of athletic
chaos,--the coach was cutting off his nose to spite his face by
dismissing Tim Mooney from the team!
Why it had been Mooney who, almost single-handed, had accounted for
Hate's defeat. The backfield had been built around him; his experience
had been relied upon as a stabilizer for the entire eleven which was
comprised mostly of green, untried material. Removing Mooney from the
team was like jerking the center pole out from under a tent and
expecting the tent to remain standing upright. At least that is the
way members of the eleven felt about it.
And the reason Coach Brown was kicking Mooney off the team was because
he had stayed out past midnight on several occasions with his co-ed
sweetheart, Ruth Chesterton. One of John Brown's rules was that every
football man must be in bed by ten and those acquainted with his
usually strict disciplinary measures had become accustomed to obeying.
But Mooney's case had somehow been regarded as different. Folks had
come to consider him, because of his outstanding athletic prowess, a
law unto himself. In fact, Tim had become obsessed with the same
impression.
"You--you're not joking?" he asked, still unable to believe John
Brown's stern edict.
"Joking!" blazed the coach, "What would I be joking about? I warned
you what would happen ... and the same thing's going to happen to
anyone else who wilfully violates rules. You're through, Mooney, and
you're through for good. Turn in your togs at the clubhouse!"
A hurt expression crept into the eyes of Elliott's star fullback. He
took a step forward, intreatingly.
"Aw, say, Coach ... honest, I'm sorry. I didn't think you'd ... that
is, I ... I ... it won't happen again, sir."
"No, you can bet it won't," said John Brown in a voice of quiet
coldness. Then, deliberately turning his back, "All right--first and
seconds out for fifteen minutes' scrimmage!"
At Naylor College where Coach Brown had Inaugurated and made famous his
football system, he had been loved and respected by players as well as
student body. Resigning his seat of honor at Naylor had been one of
the hardest things John Brown had ever done. But, even though the
announcement of his resignation had been met at once by staggering
offers from big schools East and West, the noted coach had refused them
all. He had retired to gain what he felt to be a much needed rest from
years of strenuous yet highly enjoyed activity. And newspapers
throughout the land, devoting columns to his eulogy, extolled the
unbroken string of victories which his teams at Naylor had scored over
the most powerful elevens in the country. Quitting the game at the
zenith of his career, it was a widely known fact that Coach Brown could
have fixed his own price for services with at least six of the biggest
institutions of learning in America. Here was a man who had coached
football for the sheer love of it, immune to the earning possibilities
of his tutoring.
But two years in retirement had done much to lessen Coach Brown's
resolve. It had remained for a small group of loyal Elliott alumni to
approach the coach on a new tack. These men believed that John Brown
might be landed if the proper appeal were made. They had studied out
that the other schools had failed in striving to outbid one another, a
point which seemed to prove that money to John Brown was no object.
All right then--the way to reach him must be through sentiment--if he
could be reached at all.
For years Elliott had been embarrassed through its position as a
leading university and its inability to put winning athletic teams on
the field. This condition was particularly true of the football
elevens. The touch of a master hand was needed; the application of
such a system as John Brown had put into effect at Naylor; the guidance
of a coach who could command not only the respect of his players but
the enthusiastic support of the student body.
Carefully planning their verbal assault, the committee of Elliott
alumni swooped upon Brown. They found the great coach apparently as
determined as ever not to re-enter the football limelight, but they
presented him with a picture, so graphically and despairingly setting
forth the sorrowful condition of athletics at Elliott, and so feelingly
playing upon his love for the game that John Brown, wavering, finally
consented to take charge of Elliott for _one year_!
Immediately the press, so glowing in its accounts before, had leaped to
the conviction that John Brown, despite all he had said to the
contrary, had actually been a hold-out until some college had reached
the figure he demanded. This conviction had been given wings with the
rumor that Elliott University was to pay him the unheard of amount of
$50,000 for a yearns services although, it was grudgingly admitted, if
John Brown could bring Elliott out of the slough of athletic
degeneracy, he would probably be worth every cent of that sum.
Thoroughly appreciating the huge job cut out for him, John Brown, in
taking over the reins of football government at Elliott, had signed up
Red Murdock, one of the stars he had developed in other years at
Naylor, to act as assistant coach. And one of his first official acts
had been to put into force a rigid rule of discipline. He knew that he
must demand the utmost in every way from whatever or whoever there was
at hand in order to even approach what he hoped to accomplish. But the
mere fact that Brown had come to the head of things at Elliott was
cause for the schools on Elliott's schedule to regard their
proverbially weak opponent with new respect and wonderment.
The game with Hale had been a genuine eye-opener. Elliott's 20 to 6
victory had hardly been looked for and neither had the startling
performance of one Tim Mooney whose open field running had made two
touchdowns possible and whose talented toe had kicked two field goals.
A new star had arisen to add to Coach Brown's constellation of
developed gridiron heroes.
On the strength of Mooneyes work alone, football authorities were now
willing to concede Elliott a chance against Larwood, second of the Big
Three, which was to be met the following Saturday. But Delmar, last
and bitterest enemy of Elliott--a college noted for the consistent
power of its football elevens and this season rated as possessing the
greatest team in the country--was considered a good thirty to forty
points better than Coach Brown's aggregation at its strongest.
"What! Mooney banned off the team!"
When the news of Coach Brown's drastic action flashed through the
Elliott student body it was greeted by a storm of indignant and growing
protest. A petition was immediately drawn up and sent the rounds
asking John Brown to reconsider his expelling of Mooney. The petition
was as nearly one hundred per cent as a petition could be. But the
petition failed to move the coach. Those who reflected on his past
history reported gloomily that once the coach took a stand on anything
he was like several rocks of Gibraltar.
Ruth Chesterton, the girl indirectly responsible for Tim Mooney's
dismissal, felt greatly upset over the whole affair. She had thought
Coach Brown's bed time regulation a silly old rule until it had
operated against her hero. Now she was one of the most rebellious in
her attitude toward the man whom many people referred to familiarly as
J. B. So, the petition had failed to do any good? Well, she knew what
she would do! She would go to him and tell him what she thought about
the matter and then what could he do but rescind his action?
But when the irate Miss Chesterton came into the presence of the great
John Brown she suddenly quailed. She couldn't tell exactly why she
quailed but she found it exceedingly difficult to look into the
crystal-pointed blue of J. B.'s eyes and say the things she was going
to say. Instead, she felt somehow like a foolish little girl who had
been used to having her own way at all costs and who had now met up
with a man who knew her better than her own father.
She was conscious almost at once of the smooth tufts of silvery hair
about this man's temples and the great furrowed line across his
forehead, the firmly set mouth, the broad shoulders--the trace of a
smile as he leaned toward her and said, in a kindly inquiring manner,
"Well?"
And that one word, peculiar as it may seem, had unnerved her or
disarmed her, she didn't know which. There crept over Ruth Chesterton
a sense of guilt. She found herself stammering and stumbling.
"Please, sir ... I'm the girl that Mr. Mooney went out with when he
broke the rules."
"Oh--you are?"
"Yes, sir."
An embarrassed pause.
"Well--what of it?"
"Why, I ... I thought perhaps you'd like to see me."
That wasn't the right thing to say. Ruth knew it the moment she had
uttered it but she had never felt more uncomfortable in her life.
"Me--like to see you? Why should you have thought that?" There was a
trace of ironic amusement in the coach's voice.
"Why--why because I was sort of responsible for Mr. Mooney's breaking
the rules."
"Did he send you here?"
This question did much to bring Ruth back en her feet.
"No, sir! I came of my own free will. He doesn't know anything about
it. He isn't that kind, Mr. Brown. He's taken all the blame--and it's
really more my fault than his--lots more. I--I encouraged him to--to
go out with me those nights ... I didn't think it would do any harm ...
and you'll have to admit yourself that ten o'clock is pretty early,"
Ruth added, as she gained courage.
"Sorry, young lady, but the question of time is not debatable. Mr.
Mooney broke the rules and that ends it..."
"But, Mr. Brown ... won't you ... I mean ... the team ... or rather,
the game with Larwood. Won't he be needed?"
The coach nodded, frankly.
"I shouldn't be surprised."
"Then perhaps--well, maybe if folks understood just how he came to
break the rules... I'd be glad to..."
John Brown raised his hand in a waving gesture.
"It's done now--and what's done cannot be helped. The time for you to
have thought of the consequences was before you tempted your friend to
ignore the restrictions."
Ruth, sensing that she was getting nowhere, decided to throw herself
entirely upon John Brown's sympathy.
"Mr. Brown ... if I tell you that I'm awfully, awfully sorry and that
I'll never, never interfere with anyone keeping rules again, would
you...?"
The coach shook his head, giving a sharp, deep-throated laugh. Then
the lines in his face hardened, the furrowed crease
stiffened--ridge-like--and he leaned forward compellingly.
"You are not sorry because Tim Mooney's loss to the team may mean the
loss of the game--or games. You are sorry only for Mr. Mooney and the
limelight his playing might reflect upon you. Pardon my frankness but
I know your type well. You are a disciple of this individual freedom
cult which has swept the world. You have regarded rules as being made
only for the thrill and pleasure of breaking. It has pleased your
vanity that Mr. Mooney should have chosen your company rather than the
observance of football regulations, A loyal Elliott girl, having a
friend on the team, would have insisted on keeping training rules with
him. But, not you! You've been a thoughtless traitor to your college.
And now perhaps your joy will be complete when I tell you that your act
may come close to costing me the ambition of my life. Good day!"