A BROKEN FIDDLE
Brimfield trooped back across the field to the Row noisily triumphant.
Two hours before had anyone suggested that it would be satisfied with
anything less than three scores it would have derided the notion. Now
however it was not only satisfied but elated. Those seven points looked
large and noble, and the home team's victory was viewed as a masterful
triumph. Chambers was credited with having put up a fine fight, with
having a more than ordinarily powerful team, and there were some who
even went so far as to declare that Claflin would show no better
football than today's visitors had shown. But that was doubtless an
exaggeration, and those who made it had probably forgotten those first
two periods in which both teams played very ordinary football indeed. A
fair analysis of the game would have shown that the two elevens, while
playing somewhat different styles of football, had been very evenly
matched in ability and condition, that both had been weak on defence and
that neither had proved itself the possessor of an attack which could
be depended on to gain consistently. What both teams had shown was a
do-or-die spirit which, while extremely commendable, would not have
availed against a well-rounded eleven evenly developed as to attack and
defence. In other words, both Brimfield and Chambers had shown fine
possibilities, but neither was yet by any means a remarkable team.
In some ways the visitors had outplayed Brimfield. Chambers' attack,
especially between the twenty-five-yard lines, had been far more varied
and effective. Her line, from tackle to tackle, had been stronger than
her opponent's. Brimfield had been especially weak at the left of
centre, and a résumé of the game showed that Chambers had made
two-thirds of her line gains through Blaisdell and Saunders. Churchill,
who had replaced Blaisdell in the second half, had shown up no better on
defence. At the ends Brimfield had held her own, while her backs had
shown up superior to Chambers'. Chambers had outpunted Brimfield an
average of five yards at a kick and had placed her punts to better
advantage. In generalship both teams had erred frequently and there was
little to choose between them.
But all this had no present effect on Brimfield's jubilation, and the
school acted as if a most notable victory had been won. When the
'varsity team came in to supper that night it received an ovation hardly
second in enthusiasm to that usually accorded it after a victory over
Claflin. And perhaps, after all, the team deserved it, for when all was
said and done the spirit which had been shown when they had held
Chambers scoreless on the four yards and again later when they had
themselves worn down the defence and gained their touchdown had been of
the right sort.
Clint filled four pages of his Sunday's letter the next afternoon with a
glowing and detailed account of that game, and it is to be hoped that
the folks at Cedar Run enjoyed the perusal of it half as much as he
enjoyed writing it. That evening he and Amy dropped in at Number 14
Hensey and found a roomful of fellows in excited discussion of the game.
There was a disposition on the part of some of the fellows to consider
the Claflin contest as good as won, but Jack Innes was more pessimistic.
"Look here," he interrupted finally, "you fellows talk like a lot of
sick ducks. I'm blessed if I see what you're so cocky about. We beat
Chambers, all right, but we didn't any more than beat them, and we had
to work like the very dickens to do it. And, what's more, we only kept
Chambers from scoring by the biggest piece of good luck."
"Oh, piffle, Jack!" exclaimed Still. "We had them fourth down and five
to go. They couldn't have made it to save their lives!"
"They only had four to go," replied Jack, "and if they'd tried anything
but a child's trick they'd likely have made it. The only way we got
across was by springing a delayed pass on them when they were looking
for a line-plunge."
"Bet you anything you like we could have gone straight through for that
touchdown." said Still. "We had the ball on their four yards and it was
only third down. Harris or Kendall could have torn that four yards
off easily."
"That's your opinion," replied Jack drily. "As I remember it, though,
you were not on at the time. We knew mighty well we _couldn't_ get that
four yards by playing the line. If you don't believe me, ask Robey. The
first thing he said afterwards was that he was afraid we were going to
send Harris at centre on that last play and that if we had we'd never
have got over."
"Oh, well, we got it, anyway," observed Tom Hall cheerfully.
"Yes, we got it," agreed Jack Innes, "but I'm telling you fellows that
we only just did get it, and that we've got mighty little to crow about.
Our forward line wasn't nearly as good as Chambers'. You all know that.
And you ought to know that if we went in against Claflin and played the
sort of football we played yesterday we'd be literally swamped!"
"But, look here, Jack," protested Tracey Black warmly, "it's only
mid-season, old man. You've got to acknowledge that we're in mighty good
shape for the time of year."
"I'm not knocking, Tracey. I'm giving all the fellows credit for what
they did yesterday, but I don't want them to get the idea in their heads
that all we've got to do is mark time from now until the big game. We've
got to be at least twice as good then as we were yesterday. Besides, I
don't call it the middle of the season when we've got only three games
to play before Claflin. The Benton game was the mid-season game. We're
on the last lap now. And," he added grimly, "we've got some work
ahead of us!"
"For my part," observed Amy, who had been rather bored by the
discussion, "I think the whole bunch of you played pretty rottenly."
"You do, eh?" demanded Edwards. "Suppose you tell us all about it, Amy.
Give us of your wisdom, O enlightened one."
"There you go," groaned Tom Hall, "talking the way he does!"
"Oh, I don't know that I care to specify which of you was the worst,"
replied Amy carelessly. "Possibly it was you, Steve. You had a dandy
chance once to upset the referee and you deliberately side-stepped him.
If you're going to play the game, boy, _play_ it! Don't dodge any of
your duties or responsibilities."
"Oh, you be blowed," laughed Edwards. "It's the sorrow of my life, Amy,
that you didn't keep on with football."
"I dare say if I had I'd have shown you fellows a few things about it,"
replied Amy modestly. "Theoretically, I'm something of an authority on
football. When you come right down to brass tacks, it's the fellow on
the side line who sees most of the game. I'm considering coaching when I
leave school. Take my young friend Clint here. Clint owes a whole lot to
my advice and guidance. He wouldn't be where he is today if it hadn't
been for me, would you, Clint?"
"I'm on the bench just now," retorted Clint drily.
"That's where you'll stay if you listen to his ravings," said Steve
Edwards, amidst general laughter.
"By the way, how is that ankle of yours, Thayer?" inquired Innes.
"Pretty nearly all right, thanks. It's my knee, though."
"Oh, is it? Say, Churchill got a peach of a black eye yesterday. Seen
it!"
"Rather!" replied Freer. "He looked positively disreputable, poor chap."
"The fun of it is," chuckled Hall, "that he had to address the Christian
Association this afternoon. Were you there, Jack?"
"Yes. It wasn't so bad. He had a patch over it. Still, it was sort of
funny to hear him talking about clean playing!"
Clint was given a clear bill of health the next day and went back to
practice with a silk bandage around his knee. He was given light work
and sat on the bench again while the second played two twelve-minute
periods against the 'varsity substitutes. It seemed to him that Robbins
fairly outplayed himself that afternoon, but he failed to take into
consideration that his rival was pitted against substitutes or that his
own state of mind was rather pessimistic. Practice ended early and after
a shower and a rub Clint ambled across to Torrence feeling rather
dispirited. The dormitory seemed pretty empty and lonesome as he entered
the corridor. Even Penny Durkin's violin was silent, which was a most
unusual condition of affairs for that hour of the afternoon. Clint
slammed his door behind him, tossed his cap in the general direction of
the window-seat and flopped morosely into a chair at the table. He had
plenty of work to do, but after pulling a book toward him and finding
his place he slammed it shut again and pushed it distastefully away. He
wished Amy would come back, and looked at his watch. It was only a
little after half-past four, though, and Amy, who was probably playing
tennis, would scarcely stop as long as he was able to distinguish the
balls. Perhaps it was the absence of the customary wailing of the next
door violin that put Penny Durkin in mind. Clint had never been in
Penny's room, nor ever said more than two dozen words to him except on
the occasion of Penny's encounter with Harmon Dreer, but just now Clint
wanted mightily to talk to someone and so he decided to see if Penny was
in. At first his knock on the door of Number 13 elicited no answer, and
he was turning away when a doubtful "Come in" reached him from beyond
the closed portal. When he entered Penny was seated on the window-seat
at the far end of the room doing something to his violin.
"Hello," he said not very graciously. Then, giving the newcomer a second
glance, he added: "Oh, that you, Thayer? I thought it was Mullins.
Come on in."
"Thought maybe you were dead," said Clint flippantly, "and dropped in to
see."
"Dead!" questioned Penny vaguely.
"Yes, I didn't hear the violin, you know."
"Oh, I see." There was a moment's silence. Then Penny said very soberly:
"It isn't me that's dead; it's the violin."
"Something gone wrong?" asked Clint, joining the other at the window and
viewing the instrument solicitously. Penny nodded.
"I guess it's a goner," he muttered. "Look here." He held the violin out
for Clint's inspection and the latter stared at it without seeing
anything wrong until Penny sadly indicated a crack which ran the full
length of the brown surface.
"Oh, I see," said Clint. "Too bad. Will it hurt it much?"
Penny viewed him in surprise. "Hurt it! Why, it spoils it! It'll never
have the same tone, Thayer. It--it's just worthless now! I was
pretty"--there was a catch in Penny's voice--fond of this old feller."
"That is a shame," said Clint sympathetically. "How'd you do it?"
Penny laid the violin down beside him on the window-seat and gazed at it
sorrowfully a moment. Finally, "I didn't do it," he answered. "I found
it like that an hour ago."
"Then--how did it happen? I suppose they're fairly easy to bust, aren't
they?"
"No, they're not. Whoever cracked that had to give it a pretty good
blow. You can see where it was hit."
"But who--Was it Emery, do you think?" Emery was Penny's room-mate, a
quiet fifth form fellow who lived to stuff and who spent most of his
waking hours in recitation room or school library. "He might have
knocked it off, I dare say."
Penny shook his head. "It wasn't Gus and it wasn't the chambermaid. I
asked them both. Besides, the violin was in its case leaning in the
corner. No, somebody took it out and either struck it with something or
hit it over the corner of the table. I think probably they hit it on
the table."
Clint stared. "You mean that--that someone did it deliberately?" he
gasped incredulously. "But, Durkin, no one would do a thing like that!"
"Of course, I've got another one," said Penny, "but it isn't like this.
This is a Moretti and cost sixty dollars twelve years ago. You can't buy
them any more. Moretti's dead, and he only made about three a year, and
there aren't many anyhow."
"But, Durkin, who could have done it?"
Penny didn't answer; only picked up the violin tenderly and once more
traced the almost imperceptible crack along the face of the
mellowed wood.
"You don't mean"--Clint's voice dropped--don't mean Dreer?"
"I can't prove it on him," answered Penny quietly.
"But--but, oh, hang it, Durkin, even Dreer wouldn't do as mean a thing
as that!" But even as he said it Clint somehow knew that Penny's
suspicions were correct, and, at variance with his assertion, added
wrathfully: "By Jove, he ought to be thrashed!"
"He said he'd get even," observed Penny thoughtfully.
Clint sat down on the end of the window-seat and looked frowningly at
Penny. "What are you going to do?" he asked finally.
"Don't see that I can do anything except grin," was the reply. "If I
charge him with it he'll deny it. No one saw him do it, I guess. He
probably came in here early this afternoon. I have French at two, you
know, and he probably counted on that. Gus never is in, anyhow. After he
did it he put it back in the case, but I knew as soon as I'd opened it
that somebody had been at it because my handkerchief was underneath, and
I always spread it on top. If I beat him up he'll go to Josh and Josh
will say it was an unwarrantable attack, or something, and I'll get the
dickens. I can't afford that, because I'm trying hard for a Draper
Scholarship and can't take chances. I guess he's evened things up all
right, Thayer."
"It's perfectly rotten!" said Clint explosively. "If it was me I'd
thrash him, scholarship or no scholarship! The mean pup!"
"You wouldn't if it might mean losing your chance of coming back after
Christmas. I need that scholarship the worst way and I have a hunch that
I'll get it if I don't get into trouble. I had it last year, you know. I
haven't done very well with business this Fall; fellows haven't seemed
to want things much. No, if Dreer figured out that I wouldn't go after
him on account of the scholarship, he guessed about right. I'd like
to"--Penny's voice trembled--"to half kill him, but--I won't!"
"Then tell faculty, Durkin. Have him fired out of school. Do--do
something!"
"No use telling faculty; I can't prove it on him. Besides, I don't like
the idea of playing baby. And, anyway, nothing I could do to Dreer would
give me my violin back the way it was. It--it had a grand tone, Thayer!
You've heard it!"
"Yes." Clint had to suppress a smile. "Yes, I've heard it often, Durkin.
It did have a good tone; nice and--and clear."
"There isn't a better instrument made than a Moretti," said Penny sadly.
"I can have it fixed so it won't show, but it won't ever be the same."
He laid the violin back in the case very tenderly and spread the white
silk handkerchief across the strings. "If you don't mind, Thayer, I'd
just as leave you didn't say much about this."
"All right," agreed Clint gruffly. "Mind if I tell Amy, though?"
"Oh, no, only I--I'd rather it didn't get around. Some of the fellows
don't like my playing, anyhow, you see, and they'd do a lot
of talking."
Clint took his departure a minute later, after renewed regrets, and went
back to his room. Amy was still absent and it was not until after supper
that they met.