CLINT CUTS PRACTICE
Brimfield played the first game on her schedule a few days later,
winning without difficulty from Miter Hill School in ten-minute periods
by a score of 17 to 0. There was much ragged football on each side; but
Brimfield showed herself far more advanced than her opponent and had,
besides, the advantage of a heavier team. Clint looked on from the
bench, with some forty others, and grew more hopeless than ever of
making good this year. His present status was that of substitute tackle
on the third squad, and it didn't look as though he'd get beyond that
point. If he had expected his introduction to Jack Innes to help his
advancement he must have been disappointed, for the Captain, while he
invariably spoke when he saw him, and once inquired in the locker-room
how Clint was getting along, paid little attention to him. So far as
Clint could see, nobody cared whether he reported for practice or not.
Toward the end of an afternoon, when the third was fortunate enough to
get into a few minutes of scrimmage with the second, Clint usually
finished up at right or left tackle. But he couldn't help thinking that
were he not there his absence would go unremarked. Even on the to him
memorable occasion when he broke through the second's line on a fumble
and, seizing the ball, romped almost unchallenged over the last four
white lines for a touchdown the incident went apparently unnoticed. One
or two of his team-mates patted him approvingly on the back, but that
was all. Clint was beginning to have moments of discouragement.
But two days after the Miter Hill game an incident occurred which proved
him wrong in thinking that no one knew or cared whether he reported for
practice. That morning's Greek had gone unusually badly for Clint and
Mr. Simkins had kept him after class and talked some plain talk to him.
When Clint's final recitation of the day was over at three he was
out-of-sorts and depressed. He felt very little like playing football
and still less like studying, but Mr. Simkins had as much as told him
that unless a decided improvement was at once apparent some direful fate
would be his, and the instructor had a convincing way of talking and
Clint quite believed him. Consequently, of two evils Clint chose the
more necessary and dedicated that afternoon to the Iliad. The dormitory
was very quiet, for it was a fine, mild day and most of the fellows were
out-of-doors, and concentration should have been easy. But it wasn't.
Clint couldn't keep his mind on his book, try as he might. Through the
open window came sounds from the grid-irons and ball-field; shouts, the
honking of Manager Black's horn, the cries of the coaches and players,
the crack of bat and ball where the Nine was holding Fall practice;
even, now and then, the voices of the tennis players far down the field.
He tried closing the window, but that made the room hot and stuffy, and
he opened it again. Four o'clock sounded and he was still dawdling. Then
footsteps sounded on the stairs, the door of Number 13 opened and shut,
and a minute or two later the wailing of Penny Durkin's violin broke
onto the silence of the deserted dormitory. That ought to have ended
Clint's chances of study, it seemed, but, oddly enough, after he had
listened for five minutes or so, his eyes sought the page in front of
him and then--well, then it was more than an hour later, the violin was
silent and someone was knocking on his door!
Clint gazed with surprise on the pencilled notes adorning the margins of
the pages, from them to the open lexicon, from that to the pencil in
his hand. He had absolutely done five pages! And then the knock at the
door was repeated and Clint stammered "Come in!" and Tracey
Black entered.
The football manager was a slimly-built, nervous-mannered chap of
eighteen and wore glasses through which he now regarded Clint
accusingly.
"What's wrong with you, Thayer?" he demanded bruskly. "Sick?"
"Sick" repeated Clint vaguely. "No, thanks, I'm all right."
"Then why do you cut practice?" asked Black severely. "Don't you know--"
It was then that Black recalled Clint's face and remembered having met
him in Innes's room a week before. "Hello," he said in a milder tone. "I
didn't recognise you. Er--you see, Thayer, when you fellows don't show
up I have to find out what the reason is. Maybe you didn't know it, but
it's the customary thing to get permission to cut practice."
"Oh! No, I didn't know it, Black," replied Clint. "I'm sorry. I got in a
mess with my Greek and thought I'd better stay away and take a fall out
of it. Besides, I didn't think anyone would care if I didn't report."
"Didn't think anyone would care!" exclaimed Black, seating himself on an
arm of the Morris chair and viewing Clint with astonishment. "How the
dickens do you suppose we can turn out a team if we don't care whether
fellows report or not? Suppose the others thought that, Thayer, and
stayed away!"
"I meant that--that I'm not much use out there and it didn't seem to me
that it mattered very much if I stayed away once. I'm sorry, though, if
I've done wrong."
"Well, that's all right," returned Black, mollified. "If you didn't
know, that's different. Only another time you'd better see Mr. Robey and
get permission to cut. You see, Thayer, at this time of year we need all
the fellows we can get. Maybe you think you're not very important out
there, but that isn't the way of it at all. Everyone counts. You are
all--ah--you are all parts of the--ah--machine, if you see my drift,
Thayer, and if one part is missing, why--ah--Well, you see what I mean?"
"Yes, of course. I'll remember the next time."
"Well, I wouldn't let there be any next time if I were you. To be frank,
Thayer, Robey doesn't like fellows to cut. If you do it much he's
awfully likely to tell you to--ah--stay away altogether!"
"Well, in my case--" began Clint, with a smile.
"Now today," went on Black, "Robey wanted you for the second when Tyler
got hurt and you weren't there and we had to play a second squad
half-back at tackle. Robey didn't like it and jumped on me about it. And
of course I had to tell him that I hadn't given any cuts. I'm not
supposed to, anyway, but he seemed to think that maybe I had. If you
don't mind, Thayer, it wouldn't be a bad idea to tell him if he asks you
that you were--ah--sick, you know."
"Do you mean," asked Clint incredulously, "that he wanted me to play on
the second this afternoon?"
"Yes, you see Tyler got an awful bat on the head and he's out of the
game for several days, I guess. It's none of my business, in a way, of
course, but, if you don't mind me saying so, Thayer, it's a poor idea to
let chances get by. If you'd been there today you might have had a slice
of luck and found yourself on the second for keeps. A fellow's got to be
on the _qui vive_ all the time and not miss any chances, old chap."
"I reckon that's so," agreed Clint regretfully. "You don't think he
will want me for the second tomorrow, Black?"
"Oh, maybe. You be there, anyhow. And if he asks you you'd better fake
sickness, I think."
"I dare say he won't remember by tomorrow," said Clint. "But if he
does--"
"Don't bank on that," replied Black, shaking his head. "Robey has a
fierce memory. You'll find that out for yourself if you stay around
awhile longer."
"If I do," murmured Clint.
"Well, I think you will unless you get Robey down on you by too many
cuts."
"Really?" Clint asked eagerly.
"Sure. You see most fellows want to be backs or ends; about eight out of
ten want to be half-backs and the ninth wants to be either full-back or
end. The tenth fellow is willing to play in the line."
"Oh," said Clint. "And how about quarters?"
"You have to almost beg 'em to try for quarter-back. I don't know why,
but almost every fellow is leery of that position. Usually a coach makes
a quarter out of a fellow who thinks he's a born half or end. Well, I
must beat it. See you tomorrow, then?"
"Yes, indeed, I'll be there!" replied Clint earnestly. "Thanks for
coming around."
"Oh, that's all right. All in the way of duty, you know. So long!"
Clint thoughtfully placed a marker in his book and closed it.
"That's a good afternoon's work," he reflected, "but if it's lost me a
place on the second--" He shook his head ruefully. Then he smiled.
"Gee," he murmured, "I don't know whether I'm more scared of Mr. Simkins
or Mr. Robey!"
The next day he made such a satisfactory showing in Greek that Mr.
Simkins took him back into his good graces. "Ha, Thayer," he said, "you
lead me to suspect that you spent a little time on your lesson last
evening. I am not doing you an injustice, Thayer?"
"No, sir, I put in two hours on it."
"Marvellous! Is there any other member of the class who wasted
so much of his time in such manner? Raise your hands, please.
One--two--three--Burgess, you hesitate, do you not? Ah, I thought so!
You were merely going to scratch your head. Wise youth, Burgess. Scratch
hard. Set up a circulation if possible. Hm. That will do, Thayer.
Burgess, if it is not asking too much--"
Unfortunately--or perhaps fortunately--Clint's showing on this occasion
was accepted by Mr. Simkins as a standard to which future performances
were required to conform. "What has been done once may be done again,
Thayer," he would inform him. And Clint, not being able to deny the
logic of this statement, was forced to toil harder than ever. But there
came a time, though it was not yet, when he found that his difficulties
were lessening, that an hour accomplished what it had taken two to
accomplish before; and that, in short, Greek, while not a study to
enthuse over, had lost most of its terrors. But all that, as I say, came
later, and for many weeks yet "Uncle Sim" pursued Clint in his dreams
and the days when he had a Greek recitation were dreaded ones.
The afternoon following that on which he had absented himself from
practice saw Clint approaching the field at three-thirty with
misgivings. He feared that Coach Robey would remember his defection
against him and at the same time he knew that he would feel flattered if
the coach did! The question was soon settled, for Clint had no more than
reached the bench when Mr. Robey's eyes fell on him.
"Thayer!"
"Yes, sir!" Clint hurried toward him.
"Where were you yesterday?"
"In my room, sir. I had--"
"Sick?"
"No, sir, I wanted to--"
"Anyone tell you you might cut practice?"
"No, sir, I didn't know--"
"Never mind what you knew or didn't know. You know now that if you stay
away again without permission you'll get dropped. That's all."
Clint returned to the bench contentedly. After all he was, it seemed,
not such an unimportant unit as he had supposed! Later he discovered
that Tyler was not present and hoped so hard that he would fall heir to
that disabled player's position on the second squad that he fell under
the disfavour of the third squad quarter-back and was twice called down
for missing signals.
And then, when, finally, the first and second lined up for a
twenty-minute scrimmage, he saw the coveted place again filled by the
substitute half-back and found himself sitting, blanket-wrapped, on
the bench!
Tracey Black, catching his eye between periods, smiled sympathetically.
Tracey could have told him that Coach Robey was punishing him for
yesterday's misdemeanour, but he didn't, and the explanation didn't
occur to Clint. And the latter followed the rest back to the gymnasium
after practice was over, feeling very dejected, and was such poor
company all evening that Amy left him in disgust at nine and sought more
cheerful scenes.