THE
FIGHTING SCRUB
By RALPH HENRY BARBOUR
_Yardley Hall Series_
FOURTH DOWN
FORWARD PASS
DOUBLE PLAY
WINNING HIS Y
GUARDING THE GOAL
FOR YARDLEY
AROUND THE END
CHANGE SIGNALS
_Purple Pennant Series_
THE LUCKY SEVENTH
THE SECRET PLAY
THE PURPLE PENNANT
_Hilton Series_
THE HALF-BACK
FOR THE HONOR OF THE SCHOOL
CAPTAIN OF THE CREW
_Erskine Series_
BEHIND THE LINE
WEATHERBY’S INNING
ON YOUR MARK
_The “Big Four” Series_
FOUR IN CAMP
FOUR AFOOT
FOUR AFLOAT
_The Grafton Series_
RIVALS FOR THE TEAM
HITTING THE LINE
WINNING HIS GAME
_North Bank Series_
THREE BASE BENSON
KICK FORMATION
COXSWAIN OF THE EIGHT
_Books Not In Series_
THE LOST DIRIGIBLE
FOR THE FREEDOM OF THE SEAS
KEEPING HIS COURSE
THE BROTHER OF A HERO
FINKLER’S FIELD
DANFORTH PLAYS THE GAME
THE ARRIVAL OF JIMPSON
UNDER THE YANKEE ENSIGN
BENTON’S VENTURE
THE JUNIOR TROPHY
THE NEW BOY AT HILLTOP
THE SPIRIT OF THE SCHOOL
THE PLAY THAT WON
OVER TWO SEAS (With H. P. HOLT)
FOR THE GOOD OF THE TEAM
INFIELD RIVALS
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, Publishers, New York
[Illustration: THE BALL SAILED UP AND AWAY]
THE
FIGHTING SCRUB
BY
RALPH HENRY BARBOUR
AUTHOR OF “INFIELD RIVALS,” “KICK FORMATION,” ETC.
[Illustration]
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
NEW YORK :: 1924 :: LONDON
COPYRIGHT, 1924, BY
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. THE ROTTER 1
II. GETTING ACQUAINTED 12
III. “LOVEY” MCKNIGHT 22
IV. A BOY IN A WHEEL CHAIR 35
V. OUT FOR THE TEAM 48
VI. WATTLES 60
VII. MR. BABCOCK TAKES HOLD 73
VIII. MR. BINGHAM PAYS A VISIT 86
IX. AN “UNEXPECTED” HONOR 100
X. CLIF GOES FOR A PAPER 114
XI. TOM IS BORED 129
XII. DEFEAT 139
XIII. THE CONSULTING COACH 150
XIV. THE FIGHTING SCRUB 160
XV. TOM’S LUCK TURNS 170
XVI. LORING TAKES COMMAND 183
XVII. WATTLES USES COERCION 193
XVIII. A NEW PLAY IS TRIED OUT 205
XIX. BAD NEWS 215
XX. “COCKY” MAKES A CALL 225
XXI. SCRUB VS. SCRUB 234
XXII. THE SCRUB DISBANDS 243
XXIII. WYNDHAM PLAYS WOLCOTT 254
XXIV. WATTLES AGREES 266
THE
FIGHTING SCRUB
CHAPTER I
THE ROTTER
“Well, son, I guess I’d better be getting along,” said Mr. Bingham.
He glanced frowningly at his watch and then across the driveway at
the dusty car awaiting him. He carefully avoided looking at the boy
beside him, and for that the boy was very grateful. Now that the moment
for saying good-by had come Clif’s spirits, which had been getting
lower and lower during the past hour, had reached bottom, and he knew
that his face revealed the fact. He was glad when his father went on,
speaking with exaggerated cheerfulness which fooled neither of them,
for there was a lump in Clif’s throat and he was horribly afraid that
it would make his voice sound queer. Being only sixteen years of age,
he was far more fearful of displaying emotion than he would have been
of facing a firing squad, and not for anything in the world would he
have had his father suspect the presence of that lump!
“It’s seventeen after two,” Mr. Bingham was continuing, “and I won’t
be able to make as good time as we did coming up, I guess. Won’t make
Providence much before six, probably. Got to get gas somewhere, too.
Well, I’d say you were pretty nicely fixed here, son: nice room, fine
buildings, lots of――of grounds, eh? And the Doctor struck me as a
particularly fine sort. Not at all the type of man you――er――picture as
a school principal. Got a good business head, I’d say. Well――”
Mr. Bingham looked approvingly over the scene, nodded commendingly and
drew on his left-hand glove. Clif, realizing that speech was at last
imperative, swallowed hard. “Don’t forget to have some air put in that
left rear tire, dad,” he managed. “I think there’s a valve leak. It was
all right when we left home.”
His voice sounded sort of squeaky at first, he thought, but he had it
under excellent control toward the last. He hoped his father hadn’t
noticed anything wrong with it.
“That’s so,” agreed Mr. Bingham heartily. “Mustn’t forget that. Don’t
want to have to make a change on the road.” He turned down his glove
at the wrist――he always wore just one when he drove the car, and never
buttoned it――gave a final tug to his tweed cap and began the descent
of the six stone steps. Clif followed, his brown hands thrust deep
into the pockets of his knickers, his well-set shoulders swinging
carelessly. Few fellows had arrived yet, but the car stood in plain
view of many windows and it was up to him to affect a nonchalance he
was far from feeling. Mr. Bingham climbed into the seat, glanced again
at his watch and turned the switch. Clif slammed the door shut with a
bang. Mr. Bingham pressed down on the starter and a low, steady hum
came from under the long blue hood. “Well,” he said, “let’s hear from
you often, Clifton.”
“Yes, sir.” Clif’s cheerful grin tightened up harder than ever. He
wondered if he would ever be able to get the idiotic expression off
his face! His father’s use of his full name had almost done for him.
Years ago, when he was just a little kid, his father used to kiss him
when they parted; even after his mother’s death, when there seemed no
excuse at all for it; but nowadays Mr. Bingham said “Clifton” instead,
and they both understood. And now he had gone and done it again, and
Clif’s throat felt worse than ever and his eyes felt smarty and――gosh,
he wished dad would hurry up and go!
Perhaps dad suspected further delay might prove dangerous, for he
suddenly reached his ungloved hand over the top of the door and said
very gruffly, “So long, son! Be a good chap!” And Clif returned the
tight grasp and nodded silently, and the big touring car purred more
loudly for an instant and swept off down the blue gravel driveway and
in a twinkling became just a moving shadow between the trunks of the
trees where the drive curved to the gate. Clifton Cobb Bingham watched
it disappear, waved a gayly negligent hand――although the lone occupant
of the car never once looked around――and then, that frozen grin still
on his face, lounged back across the gravel to the entrance of West
Hall. Probably, he was reflecting, not a soul had watched that parting,
but it wouldn’t do to take chances, and so he played the rôle of stoic
to the end, or, rather, as far as the second step.
He was there when an object disconcertingly obtruded itself on his
vision. It was a brown, rubber-soled shoe dangling from the end of
an amazingly colorful golf hose. Clif’s gaze darted higher and his
own fixed grin was instantly reflected. Only, whereas Clif’s facial
contortion was designed to express ease and gayety, the countenance
of the boy seated on the top step unquestionably indicated derision.
The fellow hadn’t been there when Clif had followed his father to the
car, but he must have appeared soon after, for his countenance said as
plainly as words could have said it: “You didn’t fool me! Almost cried,
didn’t you? Couldn’t even say good-by to him! Gee, what a baby! Huh!”
Clif’s grin vanished. With one foot on the next step above, he stood
stock still and glared back at the boy. He felt outraged, degraded and
very, very angry. The other stared steadily, maliciously back at him.
Clif’s hands closed and tightened. Then:
“Go on,” he demanded, his voice low and tight. “Go on and say it!”
The other only chuckled mirthlessly, still staring.
“You――you confounded spy!” said Clif. “You might find something
better to do than sneak around, sticking your nose into other folks’
business, I should think!”
The other boy’s grin faded perceptibly, but his look, if it held less
of amusement, was still dark with malice. “Oh, shut up!” he answered
listlessly. “Go on in and have a good cry. You’ll feel better.”
“You get up from there and I’ll teach you a lesson in manners,” cried
Clif. He plunged up the intervening steps and stood threateningly above
his enemy. The latter looked up almost eagerly.
“Mean it?” he asked.
“Get up!” thundered Clif.
But the momentary gleam of animation faded in the face below and the
boy shook his head. “Can’t be done,” he said regretfully. “I’ve got a
date with one of the instructors at two-thirty, and it’s twenty-eight
after. How about to-morrow?”
“To-morrow!” jeered Clif. “You’re scared!”
“You bet I am, but not of you,” answered the other dispiritedly. “I’m
scared of Mr. Wyatt. Met him yet?”
Clif shook his head, suspiciously. “No, but what’s he got to do
with――with you getting your nose punched?”
“Plenty,” was the gloomy reply. “He’s the English shark here, and he’s
going to give me the third degree and tell me whether I stick around or
beat it home again. I’m a total loss at English. This Wyatt guy’s the
old man’s nephew or something and he’s a tartar, they say. Well, figure
it out for yourself. I’m going to be up against it, anyway, but if I
bust in on him all smeared up with your gore it’s going to make it a
heap worse, isn’t it?”
Clif scowled in puzzlement. His wrath was melting fast, and the fact
made him feel rather ridiculous. He unclenched his hands, thrust them
into his pockets and summoned a note of contempt. “I hope he kicks
you out,” he declared. But the words lacked conviction. The fact was
that the strange chap, in spite of his behavior and in spite of the
detestation in which Clif held him, sort of worked on your sympathies!
Now he nodded agreement.
“Yes, I guess maybe that would be best,” he said. He arose slowly, with
a deep sigh, and stared morosely over the wide stretch of lawn that,
beyond a single formal bed of scarlet geraniums and coleuses, led from
the school building to the village road. Clif watched him frowningly. A
straight bodied, finely built chap, and, to an unprejudiced observer,
extremely good-looking, with hair that held a glint of bronze where the
sun reached it, deeply tanned skin, dark gray eyes, a short nose and
a rather assertive chin. If, thought Clif, the fellow wasn’t such a
rotter――
Then the rotter turned and looked moodily at him. “You might wish me
luck, you know.”
Clif laughed ironically.
“Because,” the other went on as he moved toward the wide doorway, “if
he turns me down I’ll be out of this dump in an hour. If he doesn’t
I’ll see you in the morning. By the way, where do I find you?”
“I’m in 17 West Hall, and my name’s Bingham.”
“My name’s Kemble. Glad to know you. Well, see you again.”
He straightened his shoulders in the manner of a condemned man
starting for the gallows and disappeared indoors. Clif looked after
him, frowning in puzzlement for an instant, and then followed. Beyond
the reception room a wide flight of slate stairs curved to the second
floor, and up it Clif made his way, his footsteps arousing tiny echoes
in the silent building. In the second floor corridor one or two doors
stood open, but so far he had the Hall almost to himself. His door
was the fourth on the right. On the oaken panel was an oval disk of
white enamel bearing the number 17. Beneath it were two small brass
slots, in one of which a somewhat yellowed visiting card indicated that
Mr. Walter Harrison Treat dwelt within. Mr. Treat was not within at
present, however, for when Clif swung the door shut behind him he was
the sole occupant of the room.
His father had thought well of the apartment, but Clif was not so
pleased with it. It was large enough and nicely furnished, but,
although it contained two windows, it was on the inner side of the
building, close to the angle formed by the junction of West and
Middle Halls, and the view was confined to the courtyard. At Wyndham
everything save the gymnasium was under one roof, an advantage
emphasized by the school advertisements. The original structure, now
known as Middle Hall, formed the nucleus of the present plant. Within
a year or two of each other, East Hall and West Hall had been erected
to connect with either end of the old building. The three halls formed
as many sides of a quadrangle, with the opening toward the front and
the space between affording a seldom used approach to Middle Hall
flanked by turf and shrubbery. This space was Clif’s outlook from
Number 17. The grass was smooth and well kept, the shrubs neatly
trimmed, the blue gravel newly raked, but Clif wondered if one wouldn’t
get a bit tired of that restricted view after a while. Of course, it
was possible to look up and see blue sky above the slate roof of the
opposite Hall; and three pigeons, sunning themselves and conversing
throatily across the way, offered momentary interest; but Clif would
have preferred a wider outlook. Besides, since the windows faced the
east, the room promised to be rather dark after midday. In fact, away
from the windows it was already shadowed.
In the shrubbery along the farther side of the courtyard a gang
of noisy sparrows were chasing each other about, plump, truculent
roisterers who squabbled and fought for no apparent reason. Beyond
them the ivy along the lower wall of the three-story stone building
was still green and varnished looking. Some of the ambitious tendrils
were well above the second line of windows over there. Clif’s gaze
wandered toward the front of the building and was captured by a moving
flash of color at an open window. It was a bit of yellow silk curtain
that swayed beyond the frame in the stirring of a languid breeze. Clif
was viewing that window at an angle, but the room beyond was flooded
by sunlight and so much of it as was within his range of vision was
visible in detail. He could see the end of a couch tapestried in blue
and brown, the corner of a bookcase, a picture on a wall. But what
interested him far more was the object that occupied most of the
foreground.
That object was his late adversary, Kemble. Even across the width of
the courtyard Clif read in attitude and countenance dejection and
perplexity. It wasn’t difficult for the observer to complete the scene
from imagination. Kemble was seated at one side of a table. Across from
him, wearing, doubtless, a look of stern yet patient displeasure, sat
the Mr. Wyatt of whom he had so feelingly spoken. In short, Clif was
viewing his enemy in the throes of an inquiry into his knowledge of
English!
For the moment Clif’s emotion was one of unmixed delight. Retribution
had overtaken the hated foe! Then, however, his feeling of triumph
waned――gave way before a faint stirring of sympathy. Even if the
fellow was a blighter he deserved some pity under such conditions,
and, besides, simple _esprit de corps_ demanded that Clif should align
himself on the side of the oppressed fellow student rather than with
that enemy body the Faculty! For a minute longer he looked and then
turned away. To-morrow, he told himself, he would hold Kemble to strict
accountability, but meanwhile he was “rooting” hard for that suffering
youth and for the confusion of the tyrant.
Away from the window, he gave his attention to the room and its
possibilities. It was furnished with two metal beds, two fumed-oak
chiffoniers, four chairs, of which two were straight-backed and two of
the variety known as morris, and a good-sized study table. There was,
besides, a cushioned bench under each window. The prevailing color was
brown. The furniture was dark brown, the walls were light brown and a
heavy brown linoleum covered the floor. On the latter were spread three
medium brown rugs with dark blue borders. Only the ceiling of creamy
white and the bedspreads of a chalkier hue offered relief from the
general scheme. Even the side curtains at the windows and the corduroy
of the seat cushions were brown. On the whole, though, the room was
rather pleasing, save for the single exception of lack of light,
and, when Clif had switched the electricity on, even that failing
disappeared. The two closets, one at each side of the door, were of
generous size and held such conveniences as a shelf for shoes, a rod
for hangers and a trousers rack on the door. Oh, he guessed it wasn’t
so bad, after all!
And at the moment of reaching this conclusion there was a commotion
at the front of the building, telling him that the first wholesale
influx of students had begun. There was the sound of voices, the
_chug chugging_ of motors, the thud of bags. Then came the shuffle
of feet on the stone stairs, and laughter and whistling. Clif turned
off the illumination, wondering if Walter Harrison Treat had arrived
with the present contingent. Naturally, he felt some curiosity about
Mr. Treat. There were voices in the corridor now, and doors opened
and banged shut. Clif retreated to a window seat, took one foot in
his hands――noting approvingly that the brown leather shoe chimed in
harmoniously with the surroundings――and waited. Then the door of Number
17 opened, swinging inward leisurely and with a certain dignity, and
the end of an immaculate black suit case came into sight.