PENNY LOSES HIS TEMPER
What annoyed Brimfield Academy most about that beating was the fact that
Morgan's School was a stranger. Being defeated in early season was
nothing to be sore about; it happened every year, sometimes several
times; and the score of 6 to 3 was far from humiliating; but to be
defeated by a team that no one had ever heard about was horribly
annoying. Of course Tracey Black insisted to all who would listen that
Morgan's, instead of being unknown to fame, was in reality a strong team
with a fine record behind it and an enviable reputation in its own part
of the world. But Tracey didn't convince anyone, I think, and the school
continued to be disgruntled for the better part of a week, or possibly
until the Varsity went away the following Saturday and won a clean-cut
victory from Benton Military Academy. Last year the two schools had
played a no-score tie game and consequently the Maroon-and-Grey's
victory this year was more appreciated.
Meanwhile Marvin had settled his wager at the village soda fountain and
had listened with commendable patience to Tracey's "I-told-you-so"
remarks. All that Marvin said was, when Tracey had rubbed it in
sufficiently: "There's just one thing you want to do, Tracey, and that
is get a date with those guys for next year. I won't be here, but it'll
do me a whole lot of good to hear that we have rammed that old touchdown
down their throats with one or two more for good measure."
"Say, you're not sore or anything, are you?" laughed Tracey.
"Never you mind. I can take a licking as well as the next chap, but when
a team works a sleight-of-hand gag on you, that's something
different yet!"
"I'll bet anything!" said Steve Edwards, "that they had two balls that
day! If they didn't, I'm blessed if I can see how they got that one
across the field there."
"Maybe that chap who made the touchdown had a string tied to it,"
suggested Still. "That wouldn't be a bad scheme, eh?"
"I don't know how they did it," said Marvin soberly, setting down his
empty glass with a last fond look, "but if you take my advice, Tracey,
you'll have it understood next year that there's to be no miracles!"
Clint regretted that defeat, but it didn't affect his spirits any. As a
matter of fact, Clint had reached a state of second team patriotism that
precluded his being heart-broken about anything save a humiliating
beating of the second. And most of the other members of Mr. Boutelle's
constituency felt the same way. It was regrettable to have the school
team worsted, but the main thing in life was the glory of the second. If
Coach Robey had suggested that Clint should throw in his lot with the
'varsity just then Clint might have felt flattered but he would probably
have gently and firmly declined the promotion. "Boots," in short, had in
a bare fortnight endowed his charges with an enthusiasm and _esprit de
corps_ that was truly remarkable. "Anyone would think," said Amy one day
when Clint had been singing the praises of the second team, "that you
dubs were the only football players in school. Ever hear of the 'varsity
team, Clint? Of course I may be mistaken, but I've been given to
understand that they have one or two fairly good men on the 'varsity."
Clint grinned. "That's what _they_ tell you, Amy!"
"Well, of all the swank!" exclaimed the other incredulously.
"What's that?"
"Side, swell-headedness, dog, intolerable conceit--er--"
"That'll do. You talk like a dictionary of synonyms."
"You talk like a blooming idiot! Why, don't you know that the second
team is nothing on earth but the 'goat' for the 'varsity?"
"Yes, and the 'goat' butts pretty hard sometimes," chuckled Clint.
Amy threw up his hands in despair. "You fellows are so stuck on
yourselves," he said finally, "that I suppose you'll be expecting Robey
to discharge the 'varsity and let you play against Claflin!"
"He might do worse, I dare say," returned Clint carelessly.
"Might do--Here, I can't stand this! I'm going out! Where's my cap?" And
Amy fled.
Clint didn't see a great deal of Amy those days except during study
hour, for Amy was busy with the Fall Tennis Tournament. Besides playing
in it he was managing it, and managing it entailed much visiting in the
evenings, for the tournament insisted on getting horribly mixed up every
afternoon owing to the failure of fellows to play when they were
supposed to, and it was one of Amy's duties to hunt up the offenders and
threaten them with all sorts of awful fates if they didn't arise at some
unseemly hour the next morning and play off the postponed match before
Chapel. Clint went over to the courts one afternoon before practice in
the hope of seeing his room-mate perform. But Amy was dashing around
with a score-sheet in hand and the matches in progress were
not exciting.
"Who's going to win?" asked Clint when Amy had subsided long enough to
be spoken to. "Or, rather, who's going to get second place?"
"Second place? Why second place?" asked Amy suspiciously.
"Just wondered. Of course, as you're running the thing you'll naturally
get first place, Amy. I was curious to know who you'd decided on for
second man."
Amy laughed. "Well, it will probably be Holt, if he can spare enough
time from football practice to play. He's had a match with Lewis on for
two days now. They've each won a set and Holt can't play in the
afternoon and Lewis refuses to get up early enough in the morning. And
there you are!"
"Why don't you award the match to yourself by default?" inquired Clint
innocently.
"To myself? How the dickens--Oh, get out of here!"
Clint got out and as he made his way across to the second team gridiron
he heard Amy's impassioned voice behind him.
"Say, Grindell, where under the Stars and Stripes have you been? Lee has
been waiting here for you ever since two o'clock! You fellows certainly
give me a pain! Now, look here--"
Clint chuckled. "Funny," he reflected, "to get so excited about a tennis
tournament. Now, if it was football--"
Clint shook his head over the vagaries of his friend and very soon
forgot them in the task of trying to keep the troublesome Robbins where
he belonged, which, in Clint's judgment, was among the second team
substitutes. That was a glorious afternoon for the second team, for they
held the 'varsity scoreless in the first period and allowed them only
the scant consolation of a field-goal in the second. "Boutelle's
Babies," as some waggish first team man had labelled them, went off in
high feather and fancied themselves more than ever.
Clint smiled at himself all the way to his room afterwards. He had
played good football and had thrice won praise from "Boots" that
afternoon. Even Jack Innes had gone out of his way to say a good word.
He had clearly outplayed Saunders, the 'varsity left tackle, on attack
and had held his own against the opposing end on defence. More than
that, he had once nailed the redoubtable Kendall well behind the line,
receiving an extremely hard look from the half-back, and had on two
occasions got down the field under the punt in time to tackle the
catcher. Yes, Clint was very well satisfied with himself today, so well
pleased that the fact that he had bruised his left knee so that he had
to limp a little as he went upstairs didn't trouble him a mite. He hoped
Amy would be back from that silly tennis tournament so that he might
tell him all about it. But Amy wasn't back, as he discovered presently.
What met his eyes as he opened the door from the staircase well,
however, put Amy quite out of his mind for awhile.
The door of his own room was closed, but the doors of 13 and 15 were
open, and midway between them a rather startling drama was being
enacted. The participants were Penny Durkin, Harmon Dreer and a smaller
boy whose name afterwards transpired to be Melville. Melville was no
longer an active participant, though, when Clint appeared unnoted on the
scene and paused across the corridor in surprise. It was Penny and
Harmon Dreer who held the centre of the stage.
"What are you butting in for?" demanded Dreer angrily. "I'll cuff the
kid if I want to. You get out of here, Penny."
"You weren't cuffing him," replied Penny hotly. "You were twisting his
arm and making him cry. Now you let the kid alone, Dreer. If you want to
try that sort of thing you try it on me."
"All right!" Dreer stepped forward and shot his closed fist into Penny's
face. The blow missed its full force, since Penny, seeing it coming,
dodged so that it caught him on the side of the chin. But it was enough
to send him staggering to the wall.
"You keep out of it, you skinny monkey!" shouted Dreer. "All you're good
for is to make rotten noises on that beastly fiddle of yours! Want
more, do you?"
Penny evidently did, for he came back with a funny sidelong shuffle,
arms extended, and Dreer, perhaps surprised at the other's pluck, moved
cautiously away.
"You've had what was coming to you, Durkin," he growled. "Now you keep
away from me or you'll get worse. Keep away, I tell you!"
But Penny Durkin suddenly jumped and landed, beating down the other's
guard. Dreer staggered back, ducking his head, and Penny shot a long arm
around in a swinging blow that caught the other under his ear and
Dreer's knees doubled up under him and he sprawled on the threshold
of his room.
"Durkin!" cried Clint. "Stop it!"
Penny turned and observed Clint quite calmly, although Clint could see
that he was trembling in every nerve and muscle.
"I'm not going to touch him again," replied Penny.
"I should think not!" Clint leaned over the motionless Dreer anxiously.
"Here, take hold of him and get him inside. You help, too, kid, whatever
your name is. Get him on the bed and shut the door. That was an awful
punch you gave him, Durkin."
"Yes, he can't fight," replied Penny unemotionally, as he helped carry
the burden to the bed. "He'll be all right in a minute. I jabbed him
under the ear. It doesn't hurt you much; just gives you a sort of a
headache. Wet a towel and dab it on his face."
"What the dickens was it all about, anyway?" asked Clint as he followed
instructions.
"Well, he was twisting young Melville's arm and the kid was yelling
and--"
"You'd have yelled yourself," muttered the boy, with a sniffle.
"I came out and told him to stop it and he didn't. So I pulled the kid
away from him and he got mad and punched me in the cheek. So I went for
him. He's a mean pup, anyway, Dreer is."
The subject of the compliment stirred and opened his eyes with a groan.
Then he looked blankly at Clint. "Hello," he muttered. "What's the--" At
that moment his gaze travelled on to Penny and he scowled.
"All right, Durkin," he said softly. "I'll get even with you,
you--you--"
"Cut it out," advised Clint. "How do you feel?"
"All right. Tell him to get out of my room. And that kid, too."
Penny nodded and retired, herding Melville before him, followed by the
scowling regard of Dreer.
Clint tossed the towel aside. "I'll beat it, too, I guess," he said.
"You'll be all right if you lie still awhile. So long."
"Much obliged," muttered Dreer, not very graciously. "I'll get square
with that ugly pup, though, Thayer. You hear what I tell you!"
"Oh, call it off," replied Clint cheerfully. "You each had a whack. What
more do you want? So long, Dreer."
"Long," murmured the other, closing his eyes. "Tell him to--look
out--Thayer."
Clint's first impulse was to seek Penny, but before he reached the door
of Number 13 the strains of the fiddle began to be heard and Clint, with
a shrug and a smile, sought his own room.
He spread his books on the table, resolved to do a half-hour's stuffing
before supper. But his thoughts wandered far from lessons. The scrap in
the corridor, Penny's unexpected ferocity, the afternoon's practice, the
folks at home, all these subjects and many others engaged his mind.
Beyond the wall on one side Penny was scraping busily on his violin. In
the pauses between exercises Clint could hear Harmon Dreer moving about
behind the locked door that separated Numbers 14 and 15. Then the door
from the well swung open, footsteps crossed the hall and Amy appeared,
racket in hand. After that there was no more chance of study, for Clint
had to tell of the fracas between Penny and Dreer while Amy, stretched
in the Morris chair, listened interestedly. When Clint ended Amy
whistled softly and expressively.
"Think of old Penny Durkin scrapping like that!" he said. Then, with a
smile, he added regretfully: "Wish I'd seen it! Handed him a regular
knock-out, eh? What do you know about that? Guess I'll go in and shake
hands with him!"
"Dreer?" asked Clint innocently.
"Dreer! Yah! Penny. Someone ought to thank him on behalf of the school.
Who was the kid? Charlie Melville?"
"I didn't hear his first name," replied Clint, nodding.
"He's a young rotter. Dare say he deserved what Dreer was giving him,
although I don't believe in arm-twisting. Dreer ought to have
spanked him."
"Then you don't think Penny had any right to interfere?"
"Don't I? You bet I do! Anyone has a right to interfere with Harmon
Dreer. Anyone who hands him a jolt is a public benefactor."
"I fear you're a trifle biased," laughed Clint.
"Whatever that is, I am," responded Amy cheerfully. "What was Melville
doing to arouse the gentleman's wrath?"
"I didn't hear the details. Dreer assured me twice that he was going to
get even with Penny, though."
"Piffle! He hasn't enough grit! Penny should worry! Say, what are you
making faces about?"
"I--it's my knee. I got a whack on it and it sort of hurts when I bend
it."
"Why didn't you get it rubbed, you silly chump. Let's see it."
"Oh, it's nothing. It'll be all right tomorrow."
"Let--me--see--it!" commanded Amy sternly. "Well, I'd say you did whack
it! Stretch out there and I'll rub it. Oh, shut up! I've rubbed more
knees than--than a centipede ever saw! Besides, it won't do to have you
laid up, Clint, old scout. Think of what it would mean to the second
team--and the school--and the nation! I shudder to contemplate it. That
where it is? I thought so from your facial contortions. Lie still, can't
you? How do you suppose I can--rub if--you--twist like--that?"
"Don't be so--so plaguey enthusiastic!" gasped Clint.
"Nonsense! Grin and bear it. Think what it would mean if you were lost
to the team!"
"Oh, dry up," grumbled Clint. "How did you get on with your silly tennis
today?"
"All right. We'll finish up tomorrow, I guess. I play Kennard in the
morning. He's a snap."
"Why don't you pick out someone who can play? Don't win the tournament
too easily, Amy. They'll get onto you."
"That's so, but I can't afford to take any chances. There you are! Now
you're all right. Up, Guards, and at them!"
"I'm not a guard; I'm a tackle," corrected Clint as he experimentally
bent his knee up and down. "It does feel better, Amy. Thanks."
"Of course it does. I'm a fine little massewer. Let's go and eat."
But the next morning that knee was stiff and painful and although Amy
again administered to it, it was all Clint could do to hobble to Wendell
for breakfast. "Boots" sternly demanded an immediate examination and an
hour later Clint was bandaged about his knee like a mummy and told to
keep away from practice for several days and not to use his leg more
than he had to. He limped out of the Physical Director's room in the
gymnasium with the aid of a cane which Mr. Conklin had donated and with
a dark scowl on his face.
"Of all the mean luck!" he muttered disgustedly. "Just when I was going
well, too! Now, I suppose, Robbins will get my place, hang him! Bet you
this settles me for the rest of the season!"