ON THE SECOND
At the end of a fortnight Clint had, so to speak, become a regular
student of Brimfield Academy in good standing. That is, he had learned
the manners and customs and the language, for Brimfield, like every
similar institution, had its own ways and its own speech. Clint no
longer said "Hello!" or "How do you do?" on meeting an acquaintance. He
said "Hi!" and threw his head back with a little jerk. He bought a
diminutive grey cap with a small visor and wore it so far on the back of
his head that it was not discernible from the front. (If you belonged on
one of the teams you wore your insignia in maroon above the visor, or,
if you had won two "B's," you wore a maroon cap instead and the insignia
was in grey. But Clint hadn't come to that yet.) He offhandedly referred
to the Principal as "Josh," to the instructors as "Horace" or "Uncle
Sim" or "Jordy," as the case might be. He knew that a Hall Master was an
"H.M."; that he and one hundred and seventy-one other youths were, in
common parlance, "Brims"; that a "Silk Sock" was a student of Claflin
School, Brimfield's athletic rival; that Wendell Hall was "Wen";
Torrence, "T"; Hensey, "Hen" or "The Coop," and Billings, "Bill." Also
that an easy course, such as Bible History, was a "doze"; that to study
was to "stuff"--one who made a specialty of it being, consequently, a
"stuffer"; that a boy who prided himself on athletic prowess was a
"Greek"; that a recitation was a "recit"; that the recitation rooms were
"cells," and many other important things.
He subscribed to the school monthly, the _Review_,--or, rather, he
chipped in with Amy, which produced the same result at half the
cost,--contributed to the Torrence Hall football fund, became a member,
though not yet a very active one, of the debating club and paid in his
dues, and spent all his October and November allowance in advance,
together with most of the money he had in hand, in the purchase of a
suit of grey flannel at the local tailoring establishment. When
completed--of course it couldn't be paid for at once--it was at least
two sizes too large for him, such being the accepted fashion at
Brimfield just then; had the pockets set at rakish angles, exhibited a
two-and-a-half-inch cuff at the bottom of the trousers and contained a
cunning receptacle for a fountain pen and pencil in the waistcoat,
(Clint called it a vest, but the tailor set him right.) Amy viewed that
suit with frank envy, for the coat was fully two inches wider across the
shoulders than his and the trouser cuffs were deeper. He tried it on
before the glass and promptly offered to buy it of Clint at an advance
of two dollars, which offer was as promptly declined.
"The trouble with my coat," said Amy mournfully when all blandishments
had failed and he was regretfully removing the garment, "is that it
pretty near fits me. I told the man he was making it too snug!"
By this time Canterbury High School had been met and defeated, by the
score of 15 to 6, and the football team had entered on its third week.
Clint still hung on, sometimes much discouraged, and took his share of
hard knocks and gruelling labour. Tyler having returned to his position
on the second, Clint told himself that his last chance to make that team
had vanished. But, just when he had about given up hope of advancement,
a fortuitous combination of briskness on the part of the weather and
"ginger" on the part of Clint produced unexpected results.
The 'varsity team was composed largely of substitutes when scrimmage
with the second began that afternoon, for the Canterbury game three days
before had left a number of the regulars rather played out. Lacking a
left tackle for Saunders' place, Coach Robey took Cupples from the
second, and Captain Turner, of the latter team, filled the vacancy with
Bobbins, who, like Clint, was a new candidate. Clint viewed the
proceeding gloomily. It seemed to him that he was more justly entitled
to a place on the second's list of substitutes than Bobbins. His
judgment was speedily vindicated, for Bobbins put up such a weak
exhibition at left tackle that Turner impatiently sent him off, and the
scrimmage stopped while he looked doubtfully toward the bench.
"I want a tackle," he announced. "Who's there, Danny?"
Danny Moore, the trainer, ran a sharp eye along the blanketed line.
"Tackle!" he cried. "Who's playing tackle?"
Both Clint and another boy jumped forward, and as it happened Danny's
sharp green eye fell first on Clint. "Get in there, then, on the
second, me boy!"
Morton, the assistant manager, who was keeping the record, called as
Clint trotted past him, "Hi! What's the name?"
"Thayer," answered Clint.
"Left tackle," instructed Captain Turner. "Know the signals?"
"Yes," Clint replied, jumping into place. Kingston, a heavily-built,
shock-headed youth whom Clint knew well enough to nod to, played left
guard. "Hi!" he said as Clint poised himself in the line. "Use your arms
and turn him in, boy!"
"Help your guard," instructed Turner, at left end, "and watch for an
inside run."
It was the 'varsity's ball near the second's twenty-five-yard line, and
Carmine, who had taken Marvin's place at quarter, sent Still plunging at
the left of the second's line on the first play. Roberts, who played
opposite Clint, was a big, heavy chap, and when he threw himself forward
Clint, who had been playing too high, was hurled aside like a chip and
Still went through for three yards before the secondary defence brought
him down. Turner thumped Clint on the back.
"Watch for that, left tackle! Play lower! Get the jump!"
The next play struck the centre and piled through Peters for the
distance. An end run, with Carmine carrying the ball, was spoiled by
Turner. Then came another attack on the left. Clint, playing a half-yard
outside the opposing end, watched the ball snapped and sensed the play.
"Left!" he shouted. "Left!" He heard Kingston grunt as he plunged into
his opponent. Then he was holding Roberts off as best he could, neck and
hip, and Kendall, the 'varsity right half, was cutting in. With a lunge,
Clint pivoted around Roberts and tackled hard and firm as the half-back
came through. He was dragged a foot or two before his secondary defence
hurled itself against the runner, but the gain was less than a yard and
Turner thumped him ecstatically as he pulled himself out of the pile.
"That's the ticket, feller! Run him out and get him! Third down, second!
Stop 'em now!"
The second didn't stop them, but it made them resort to a fake-kick to
get their distance on fourth down. From the fifteen yards Kendall tried
a field-goal and missed narrowly and the second put the ball in play on
the twenty yards.
The first play went through for two yards on the other side of the line.
Then came a criss-cross, with the runner plunging at right guard. Clint
started with the ball and had his man out instantly. The play followed
through for three yards. Again the quarter chose that point and again
the second's left side made the opening. But, with three to go on fourth
down, a punt was imperative and Martin, the full-back, was called on. As
Martin was a right-foot punter Clint had little to do save get through
and down the field, and the instant the ball was snapped he dashed into
his opponent, beating him by a fraction of a second and upsetting his
balance beautifully. When the sound of boot and leather came Clint was
past the 'varsity's backfield and, with Turner but a yard or two in
advance, was sprinting fast. Carmine was playing back in centre, with
Kendall across the field, and it was into Carmine's territory that the
ball was going. Suddenly Clint saw Carmine start quickly up the field
toward them and guessed that the kick was short. Kendall was heading
across to interfere for the catcher.
"Get the interference," cried Turner.
But it wasn't to happen that way, for Edwards had circled around and,
even as Turner issued his command, Edwards and Kendall went over
together in a heap and the ball settled into Carmine's arms. Turner
leaped toward him, Carmine swayed aside and Turner went past. It was
Clint who hurled himself at the quarter, wrapped eager arms about his
knees and toppled him to earth so savagely that the pigskin bounded out
of his clutch. There was a scramble for the ball, but Tyler, the
second's right tackle, got it and reached the twenty-yard line before he
was pulled down from behind.
"That's the way to tackle, Thayer!" Clint, trotting down the field to
the new line-up, turned to find Coach Robey beside him. "That was good
work," commended the coach. "Keep it up."
The 'varsity made some changes then. Kendall went out and was replaced
by Freer, Still gave way to St. Clair, and Gafferty went in for Hall at
right guard. The fresh players saved the day for the 'varsity, for,
although the second finally reached the twelve yards, it could go no
further, and Captain Turner's try at a place-kick went a yard under the
cross-bar. And that ended the practice for the day.
In the locker-room Turner sought Clint out and said several nice things
about his playing, ending with: "Guess we'll have to have you on the
second, Thayer. You report to me tomorrow."
That undoubtedly was the turning point in Clint's football career for
that year, for three days later the second cut came and the third squad
ceased to be. Some fifteen fellows retired to private life or to their
Hall teams and the rest were gathered into the second or went to the
'varsity to be tried out as substitutes. Clint was pretty certain that,
had it not been for that Tuesday performance, he would have been one of
the unfortunate fifteen.
Amy pretended to view Clint's advancement to the second team with alarm.
"First thing I know," he said gloomily, "I'll be rooming with a regular
Greek. You'll be having photographs taken to show your superb physical
development, I dare say, and writing letters to the _Bulletin_ signed
'Athlete.' As a matter of fact, Clint, I happened to see that
performance this afternoon and you didn't fool me a bit. You tackled
Carmine because he was in the way and you ran into him and put your arms
around him to keep from falling on your nose. It was no brilliancy of
yours that made the poor chap fumble the ball. You hit him like a load
of bricks! If I'd been Carmine I'd have up and biffed you one! You
were--were distinctly ungentlemanly, Clint. You should remember that
even in football there are limits. To deliberately try to kill an
opponent, as you did today, is not considered good form. Besides,
Carmine's a friend of mine. We come from the same metropolis. It would
be a very painful thing if I had to write home to his folks that he had
been killed on the field of battle by my room-mate. A most painful and
embarrassing duty for me, Clint."
"It's going to be my painful and embarrassing duty to stuff a towel in
your silly mouth in about two minutes," replied Clint. "How did you
happen to see practice? I thought you were going to play tennis
with Scannel."
"He didn't show up. I suppose his courage failed him at the last
moment."
"Yes, it must be trying to beat anyone the way he beats you. I don't
blame him for shirking it."
"When Bob Scannel beats me," replied Amy serenely, "you'll be playing
football on the Varsity, old top, and I'll be getting A's in math., a
far, far day!"
"I suppose I'll be going to training table before long," said Clint
reflectively.
Amy groaned. "There you go! That's the sort of stuff I'll have to listen
to from now on. I hope to goodness you choke on a prune! That's about
all you'll get there; prunes and boiled rice. I'm not sure about the
rice, either, at the second's table. I think the second simply has
prunes. Boiled prunes for breakfast, roast prunes for dinner and dried
prunes for supper. I--I shall expect to notice a wonderful imprunement
in you very soon, Clint."
"And that's the sort of stuff _I_ have to listen to!" exclaimed the
other. "Honest, Amy, you make the bummest jokes!"
"I think that was rather good, myself," said Amy cheerfully. "I believe
I'll send it to the _Bulletin_. I've observed of late that the
_Bulletin_ has lacked humour."
"Did it ever have any?" asked Clint, folding the letter he had been
struggling over.
"Unconsciously, yes. Last year someone contributed a sonnet called
'Truth.' No one could see much sense in it until some smart chap
discovered that the first letters of each line spelled 'The Bulletin is
Punk.' Now when you want anything printed in the _Bulletin_ you have to
send a sworn statement that there isn't an acrostic concealed in it. The
editors went gunning for the fellow who sent in the sonnet, but they
never found him."
Clint laughed. "They didn't try 14 Torrence, then, did they?" he
inquired. Amy smiled noncommittingly.
"Your insinuation pains me," he murmured.
"Why don't you deny it, then?"
"It is quite unnecessary. Anyone knowing my blameless career--"
"Have you saved a copy of it?"
"I believe there's one somewhere in my scrapbook," replied Amy
carelessly. "Some time, if you are good, I'll look it up. Meanwhile, if
you're through with your ridiculous chatter, we'll go to supper."