[Illustration: Victory]
<b>Left Tackle Thayer</b>
BY
RALPH HENRY BARBOUR
AUTHOR OF
LEFT-END EDWARDS,
LEFT GUARD GILBERT, ETC.
ILLUSTRATED BY
CHARLES M. RELYEA
1915
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I A NEW BOY AND AN OLD ONE . . 3
II CAPTAIN INNES RECEIVES . . . 18
III AMY AIRS HIS VIEWS . . . 31
IV CLINT CUTS PRACTICE . . . 42
V ON THE SECOND . . . . 53
VI THE RUNAWAY WHEEL . . . . 65
VII LOST! . . . . . . 77
VIII THE MYSTERIOUS AUTO . . . 89
IX UNDER SUSPICION . . . . 104
X BURIED TREASURE . . . . 118
XI BRIMFIELD MEETS DEFEAT . . . 129
XII PENNY LOSES HIS TEMPER . . . 148
XIII AMY WINS A CUP . . . . 163
XIV THE TEAM TAKES REVENGE . . . 180
XV A BROKEN FIDDLE . . . . 196
XVI AMY TAKES A HAND . . . . 210
XVII A STRANGER INTERRUPTS . . . 223
XVIII A RAID ON THE SECOND . . . 233
XIX MR. DETWEILER INSTRUCTS. . . 244
XX 'VARSITY vs. SECOND TEAM . . 259
XXI THE LETTER THAT WASN'T WRITTEN . 270
XXII DREER LOOKS ON . . . . 288
XXIII CLINT HAS STAGE-FRIGHT . . . 297
XXIV IN THE ENEMY'S COUNTRY . . . 313
XXV VICTORY! . . . . . 327
ILLUSTRATIONS
VICTORY . . . . . _Frontispiece_
NOW AND THEN THEY SPOKE, BUT SO SOFTLY
THAT THE BOYS COULD NOT HEAR WHAT
WAS SAID . . . . . . . 90
"FUNNY YOU DIDN'T MAKE A SUCCESS OF
IT!" CHUCKLED CLINT . . . . . 170
"NO, HE WON'T!" EXCLAIMED CLINT, JUMPING
TO HIS FEET . . . . . . 292
LEFT TACKLE THAYER
CHAPTER I
A NEW BOY AND AN OLD ONE
A boy in a blue serge suit sat on the second tier of seats of an
otherwise empty grand-stand and, with his straw hat pulled well over his
eyes, watched the progress of a horse-drawn mower about a field. The
horse was a big, well-fed chestnut, and as he walked slowly along he
bobbed his head rhythmically. In the seat of the mower perched a thin
little man in a pair of blue overalls and a shirt which had also been
blue at one time, but which was now faded almost white. A broad-brimmed
straw hat of the sort affected by farmers, protected his head from the
noonday sun. Between the overalls and the rusty brogans on his feet
several inches of bare ankle intervened, and, as he paraded slowly
around the field, almost the only sign of life he showed was when he
occasionally stooped to brush a mosquito from these exposed portions of
his anatomy. The horse, too, wore brogans, big round leather shoes which
strapped over his hoofs and protected the turf, and, having never before
seen a horse in leather boots, the boy on the grand-stand had been for
a while mildly interested. But the novelty had palled some time ago, and
now, leaning forward with his sun-browned hands clasped loosely between
his knees, he continued to watch the mower merely because it was the
only object in sight that was not motionless, if one excepts the white
clouds moving slowly across a blue September sky.
Now and then the clouds seemed to shadow the good-looking, tanned face
of the youth, producing a troubled, sombre expression. The truth is that
Master Clinton Boyd Thayer was lonesome and, although he would have
denied it vigorously, a little bit homesick. (At sixteen one may be
homesick even though one scoffs at the notion.) Clinton had left his
home at Cedar Run, Virginia, the evening before, had changed into a
sleeper at Washington just before midnight, and reached New York very
early this morning. From there, although he had until five in the
afternoon to reach Brimfield Academy, he had departed after a breakfast
eaten in the Terminal and had arrived at Brimfield at a little before
nine. An hour had sufficed him to register and unpack his bag and trunk
in the room assigned to him in Torrence Hall. Since that time--and it
was now almost twelve o'clock--he had wandered about the school. He had
peeped into the other dormitories and the recitation building, had
explored the gymnasium from basement to trophy room and, finally, had
loitered across the athletic field to the grand-stand, where, for the
better part of an hour, he had been sitting in the sun, getting lonelier
every minute.
Clint--everyone had always called him Clint and we might as well fall in
line--had never been farther north than Baltimore; and today he felt
himself not only a long way from home but in a country somehow strangely
and uncomfortably alien. The few persons he had encountered had been
quite civil to him, to be sure; and the sunlight was the same sunlight
that shone down on Cedar Run, but for all of that it seemed as if no one
much cared where he was or what happened to him, and the air felt
differently and the country looked different, and--and, well, he rather
wished himself back in Virginia!
He had never been enthusiastic about going North to school. It had been
his mother's idea. Mr. Thayer was willing that Clint should prepare for
college in his native state, but Clint's mother had other ideas. Mr.
Thayer had graduated from Princeton and it had long been settled that
Clint was to be educated there too; and Clint's mother insisted that
since he was to attend a Northern college it would be better for him to
go to a Northern preparatory school. Clint himself had not felt strongly
enough about it to object. Several of his chums had gone or were going
to Virginia Military College; and Clint would have liked to go there
too, although the military feature didn't especially appeal to him.
Brimfield Academy, at Brimfield, New York, had finally been selected,
principally because a cousin of Clint's on his father's side had once
attended the school. The fact that the cousin in question had never
amounted to much and was now clerking in a shoe store in Norfolk was not
held against the school.
So far the boy had liked what he had seen of Brimfield well enough. The
thirty-mile journey from New York on the train had been through an
attractive country, with now and then a fleeting glimpse of water to add
variety to the landscape; and the woods and fields around the Academy
were pretty. From where he sat at the east end of the athletic field he
could look along the backs of the buildings, which ran in a row straight
along the edge of a plateau. Nearest at hand was the gymnasium. Then
came Wendell and Torrence, the latter having the honour of being
Clint's abode for the ensuing nine months. Next was Main Hall,
containing recitation rooms, the assembly room, the library and the
office; an older building and built all of brick whereas the other
structures were uniformly of stone as to first story and brick above.
Beyond Main Hall were Hensey and Billings, both dormitories, and, at the
western end of the row and slightly out of line, The Cottage, where
dwelt the Principal, Mr. Fernald, of whom Clint knew little and, it must
be confessed, cared, at the present moment, still less. In front of the
buildings the ground fell away to the country road over which Clint had
that morning travelled behind a somnolent grey horse and a voluble
driver, to the last of which combination he owed most of his information
regarding the Academy.
Behind the buildings--in school parlance, the Row--lay the athletic
field, almost twelve acres in extent, bordered on the further side by a
rising slope of forest. Here there were football grid-irons--three of
them, as the six goals indicated--quarter-mile running-track, a baseball
diamond and a dozen tennis courts. The diamond was most in evidence, for
the grand-stand stood behind the plate and the base paths, bare of turf,
formed a square in front of it. Even the foul lines had not been
utterly obliterated by sun and rain, but were dimly discernible, where
the mower had passed, as yellower streaks against the vivid green. It
was a splendid field; Clint had to acknowledge that; and for a time the
thought of playing football on it had almost dispersed his gloom. But
the after-reflection that for all he knew his services might not be
required on the Eleven, that very possibly his brand of football was not
good enough for Brimfield, had caused a relapse into depression. Thrice
he had told himself that as soon as the plodding horse reached the
further turn he would get up and go back to his room, and thrice he had
failed to keep his promise. He wondered who his room-mate was to be and
whether that youth had yet arrived, but his curiosity was not strong
enough to get him up. Now, however, the mower was again traversing the
opposite end of the field, and again approaching the further corner, and
once more he made the agreement with himself, really meaning to live up
to it. But, as events proved, he was not destined to keep faith.
From around the corner of the stand furthest from the Row appeared a boy
in a suit of light grey flannels. The coat, hanging open, displayed a
soft shirt of no uncertain shade of heliotrope. A bow-tie of
lemon-yellow with purple dots nestled under his chin and between the
cuffs of his trousers and the rubber-soled tan shoes a four-inch expanse
of heliotrope silk stockings showed. A straw hat with a particularly
narrow brim was adorned with a ribbon of alternating bars of maroon and
grey. He was indeed a cheerful and colourful youth, his cheerfulness
being further evidenced by the jaunty swinging of a stick which he had
apparently cut from a willow and by the gay whistling of a tune. On
sight of Clint, however, the stick stopped swinging and the whistling
came to an end in the middle of a note.
"Hi!" said the youth in surprised tones.
"Hello," answered Clint politely.
The newcomer paused and viewed the boy on the stand with frank
curiosity. Then his gaze wandered across to the mower, which was at the
instant making the turn at the further corner, over by the tennis
courts. Finally,
"Bossing the job?" he asked, nodding toward the mower.
Clint smiled and shook his head. "No, just--just loafing."
"Hot, isn't it?" The other pushed the gaily-ribboned hat to the back of
his head and drew a pale lavender handkerchief across his forehead.
"Been moseying around over there in the woods," he continued when Clint
had murmured agreement. "Studying Nature in her manifold moods. Nature
is some warm today. There's a sort of a breeze here, though,
isn't there?"
Clint agreed again, more doubtfully, and the boy who had been studying
Nature seated himself sidewise on a seat below, drawing his feet up and
clasping his hands about his knees. He was a good-looking, merry-faced
chap of seventeen, with dark-brown eyes, a short nose liberally freckled
under the tan and a rather prominent chin with a deep dimple in it. His
position revealed a full ten inches of the startling hose; and, since
they were almost under his nose, Clint gazed at them fascinatedly.
"Some socks, are they not?" inquired the youth.
Clint, already a little embarrassed by the other's friendliness, removed
his gaze hurriedly.
"They're very--nice," he murmured.
The other elevated one ankle and viewed it approvingly. "Saw them in a
window in New York yesterday and fell for them at once. I've got another
pair that are sort of pinky-grey, ashes of roses, I guess. Watch for
them. They'll gladden your heart. You're new, aren't you?"
"Yes, I got here this morning," replied Clint. "I suppose you're--you're
not."
"No, this is my third year. I'm in the Fifth Form. What's yours?"
"I don't know yet. I reckon they'll put me in the Fourth."
"I see. How's everything below the Line?"
"Below the line?" repeated Clint.
"Yes, Mason and Dixon's. You're from the South, aren't you?"
"Oh! Yes, I come from Virginia; Cedar Run."
The other chuckled. "What state did you say?" he asked.
"Virginia," responded Clint innocently. "Great! 'Vay-gin-ya.'" He shook
his head. "No, I can't get it."
It dawned on Clint that the other was trying to mimic his pronunciation
of the word, and he felt resentful until a look at the boy's face showed
that he intended no impertinence.
"I love to hear a Southerner talk," he went on. "There was a chap here
named Broland year before last; came from Alabama, I think. He was fine!
Red-hot he was, too. You could always get a fall out of Bud Broland by
mentioning Grant or Sherman. He used to fly right off the handle and
wave the Stars-and-Bars fit to kill! We used to tell him that the war
was over, but he wouldn't believe it."
Clint smiled doubtfully. "Is he here now?" he asked.
"Broland? No, he only stayed a little while. Couldn't get used to our
ways. Found school life too--too confining. He used to take trips, and
Faculty didn't approve."
"Trips?" asked Clint.
The other nodded. "Yes, he used to put a clean collar in his pocket and
run down to New York for week-ends. Faculty was sort of narrow-minded
and regretfully packed him off home to Alabam'. Bud was a good sort,
but--well, he needed a larger scope for his talents than school
afforded. I guess the right place for Bud would have been a good big
ranch out West somewhere. He needed lots of room!"
Clint smiled. "What time do we eat?" he asked presently, when they had
silently watched the passage of the mower. The other boy tugged at a fob
which dangled at his belt and produced a silver watch.
"Let's see." He frowned intently a moment. "I was twelve minutes fast
yesterday afternoon. That would make me about twenty minutes ahead now.
I'd say the absolutely correct time was somewhere between
eleven-fifty-eight and twelve-six. And dinner's at half-past."
"Thank you," laughed Clint. He pulled forth his own watch and looked at
it. "I make it two minutes after," he said, "and I was right this
morning by the clock in the station in New York."
"Two minutes past, eh?" The boy below set his timepiece and slipped it
back under his belt. "It must be great to have a watch like yours. I
used to have one but I left it at the rink last Winter and it fell into
the snow, I guess, and I never did find it. Then I bought me this. It's
guaranteed for a year."
"Why don't you take it back, then?"
"Oh, I've got sort of used to it now. After all, there's a certain
excitement about having a watch like this. You never know whether you're
going to be late or early. If I have to catch a train I always allow
thirty minutes leeway. It's twelve o'clock, all right. Solomon's quit."
He nodded toward where the man in the blue overalls was unhitching the
horse from the mower. "You can't fool Solomon on the dinner hour."
"Is that his name?" inquired Clint.
"I don't suppose so. That's what he's called, though. He never says
anything and so he seems to be all-fired wise. There's a lot in that, do
you know? Bet you if I didn't talk so much I'd get the reputation of
being real brainy. Guess I'll have to try it." He grinned broadly and
Clint smiled back in sympathy.
"Let's tell our names," said the other. "Mine's Byrd; first name, Amory;
nicknamed Amy. Pretty bad, but it might be worse."
"Mine's Clinton Thayer."
"Thayer? We've got some cousins of that name. They're Northerners,
though. Live in New Hampshire. No relation to you, I guess. I suppose
fellows call you Clint, don't they?"
"Yes."
"All right, Clint, let's mosey back and have some dinner. I had a
remarkably early repast this morning and feel as though I could trifle
with some real food."
"So do I," replied Clint as he climbed down. "I had my breakfast at
half-past six."
"Great Scott! What for?"
"The train got in at six and there was nothing else to do. I got here
before nine."
"You did? I thought I was one of the early Byrds--Joke! Get it?--but I
didn't sight the Dear Old School until after ten. Couldn't find any
fellows I knew and so went for a walk. Most of the fellows don't get
here until afternoon. By the way, who do you room with?"
"I don't know," replied Clint. "I didn't ask. They put me--"
"I don't know either," sighed Amy. "I found a lot of truck in my room,
but I haven't seen the owner yet. The fellow who was in with me last
year has left school. Gone to live in China. Wish I could! I suppose the
fellow I draw will be a regular mutt." They had reached the corner of
Wendell, and Amy paused. "The dining room's in here. If you don't mind
waiting until I run up and wash a bit we'll eat together."
"I'd like to," answered Clint, "but I reckon I'll wash too."
He moved along with the other toward the next dormitory.
"Aren't you in Wendell?" asked Amy.
"No, this next one. Torrey, isn't it?"
"Torrence." Amy stopped and viewed him With sudden interest. "Say, what
number?"
"Fourteen."
"_Well, what do you know about that_?"
"What?" Clint faltered.
"Why--why--" Amy seized his hand and shook it vigorously. "Clint, I
want to congratulate you! I do, indeed!"
Clint smiled. "Thanks, Byrd, but what about?"
"Byrd?" murmured the other disappointedly. "Is that the best you can do
after our long acquaintance? You--you grieve me!"
"Amory, then," laughed Clint.
"Call me Amy," begged the other. "You'll call me worse than that when
you've known me longer, but for now let it be Amy."
"All right. And now, please, what am I being congratulated for?"
Amy's face became suddenly earnest and sober, "Because, my young friend,
you are especially fortunate. A kindly Providence has placed you in the
care of one of the wisest, most respected, er--finest examples of young
manhood this institution affords. I certainly do congratulate you!"
Amy made another grab at Clint's hand, but the latter foiled him.
"You mean the fellow I'm going to room with?" he asked.
"Exactly! Faculty has indeed been good to you, Clint. You will take up
your abode with a youth in whom all the virtues and--and
excellencies--"
"Who is he?" demanded Clint suspiciously.
"His name"--Amy drew close and dropped his voice to an awed and
thrilling whisper--"his name is--Are you prepared?"
"Go on. Ill try to stand it."
"His name, then, is Amory Munson Byrd!"
"Amory Mun--"
"--son Byrd!"
"You mean--I'm in with you?"
"I mean just that, O fortunate youth! Forward, sir! Allow me to conduct
you to your apartment!" And, putting his arm through Clint's, he dragged
that astonished youth into dormitory.