MR. BABCOCK TAKES HOLD
Saturday noon Clif stood on the steps of West Hall and filled his
lungs with air. Room G, in Middle, had been more than usually stuffy,
and a stiff session with “The Turk” had left the boy feeling rather
limp. Generally algebra went fairly smoothly for Clif, but to-day he
had floundered badly. It had seemed that Mr. Way, possessed of uncanny
power, had surmised Clif’s condition and had malignantly, relentlessly
exposed it. Yet, although there had been some bad moments, and “The
Turk” had displayed his ability for sarcasm, Clif had got through not
too disastrously. Retiring from the blackboard, dusting chalk from his
fingers, perspiring gently, he had found the boy in the wheel chair
regarding him sympathetically from across the room. There had been,
too, a twinkle in the chap’s eyes that had seemed to say, “Good work!
He didn’t floor you, anyhow!”
Easing the two books he carried to his other arm, Clif gave a
final look at the sunlit lawn that stretched away to the distant
tree-bordered street, took a last breath of the warm, fresh air, and
turned to reënter the building. But at that moment a big, shining car,
standing further along the drive, beyond East Hall entrance, came to
life and rolled noiselessly forward, and came to a stop at the steps.
At about the same instant a group of four persons emerged from the
further entrance: a slim, beautifully dressed woman, a black-clothed
man in a square-crowned derby hat carrying without evident exertion the
boy who, but a few minutes before, had flashed congratulations to Clif
across the recitation room, and, lastly, a small Junior School youth.
The woman――even at the distance Clif could see that she was remarkably
pretty――entered the car, the man in black deposited his burden beside
her, the small Junior ensconced himself rather diffidently in the
corner, and the derby hat placed itself beside the plum-colored cap of
the chauffeur. Then the car moved forward again, gathered speed, and
purred softly past West and down the shaded driveway, the poised figure
above the radiator glinting in the sunlight. As the car passed the
single occupant of the West Hall steps, Loring Deane leaned across the
younger boy beside him and waved. Clif waved back, but too late to be
seen.
He watched the car out of sight, approving the speckless luster of
its long, sleek body, its smooth, almost soundless progress. Even the
blue and white number plate at the rear shone immaculately, seeming to
proclaim not only that the owner was a resident of New York, but that
he was the possessor of great wealth, since, or so Clif had long since
concluded, only those of great wealth were able to drive about in cars
as immaculate as this one! The lady was, he supposed, Deane’s mother.
Since Saturday was a half-holiday she was probably taking him home for
a visit. He found himself envying the small Junior who, tucked into the
corner, hadn’t looked as though he was half appreciating his luck.
But Clif’s guess proved wrong later. When the game with Freeburg High
School began at three o’clock the big dark blue car was standing at
the farther side of the gridiron, beyond the running track. The Junior
was no longer in it. Mrs. Deane and Loring were the sole occupants,
Loring’s attendant and the chauffeur being seated together on the
grass a short distance away. Clif drew Tom’s attention to the car and
Tom said: “Gosh! It’s one of those English whatyoucallems, isn’t it?
Say, that’s some cart, if you want to know! You say that’s Mrs. Deane?
What’s she like?”
“Awfully pretty,” said Clif emphatically. “I wasn’t very close to them,
but she looked corking.”
“Yes, but if you have plenty of money you can look like――like Venus
herself, I guess,” answered Tom pessimistically. “Maybe close to she
wouldn’t look so wonderful.”
“Yes, she would,” said Clif stoutly. “I’ll bet you anything――”
But as Freeburg kicked off just then the conversation ended abruptly.
Clif and Tom watched the game from the ground beside the track. There
was no room for them on the benches, nor for a dozen more equally
unimportant members of the squad, and so they spread their blue
blankets on the grass and sat cross-legged while the battle raged.
As a football contest that first game of the Wyndham schedule didn’t
amount to very much, but since it gave the School its first opportunity
to see their heroes in action, it secured a full attendance. Freeburg
presented a light team which tried to make speed atone for weight, and
didn’t quite succeed, as the final score attested. Both coaches used
the occasion to try out a long list of substitutes and the game was
considerably slowed up because of the constant changes. Wyndham’s line
contained four veterans, and her backfield two when the game began.
Captain Lothrop, playing his third season at Wyndham, was at left
guard, Archer at left end, Higgs at center, Stoddard at quarter, Jensen
at right half and Fargo at full back. These men constituted the nucleus
on which the coaches hoped to build a winning team, and there appeared
to be no reason why they shouldn’t succeed. Beside the real veterans
there were at least another half-dozen candidates who had served last
year either as First Team substitutes or Second Team players. And there
were, of course, a considerable number of less experienced youths
from the class teams, or, like Clif and Tom, from outside. Coach Otis
did not appear to lack material, even though the first grand total of
something over sixty had now been reduced to about fifty. Before the
Freeburg game was at an end――ten-minute periods were played――“G.G.” had
watched no fewer than thirty-one candidates perform. Sad to relate,
however, neither Clif nor Tom were among the number. They were allowed
to sit undisturbed throughout the contest.
The playing was fairly ragged on both sides, and the game lacked
interest. The day was much too warm for football, and the home team and
the visitors alike suffered. The Dark Blue held to a tackle-to-tackle
offense, and only twice offered anything in the way of aerial attack.
Then two short passes over the end of the line were tried with negative
results. Most of Wyndham’s gains were made between the opposing guards
and tackles. Once or twice the Freeburg center was battered down,
but the youth who occupied the pivotal position for the visitors was
extremely capable and turned back most of the plays directed against
him. The Dark Blue put over one touchdown in the first period, and hung
up seven points. In the next quarter a second touchdown was added, but
Stoddard missed the try-at-goal. Freeburg forced the fighting after
half-time, and produced the only thrilling incident of the performance
when her quarter got loose with the ball near his own forty-yard line,
and ran to Wyndham’s seven. There he was pulled down by Ogden, playing
right half for Jensen, and the exultant shouts of the Freeburg rooters
were cut short. But they broke forth again some two minutes later when,
following two unsuccessful tries at the Dark Blue line, a fleet-footed
substitute was shot into the visitor’s line-up, and took the pigskin
on a wide run around his left end, placing it a scant twelve inches
from the goal line. With one down remaining, Freeburg concentrated
on Quinlan, at left guard, and smashed through for a score. A minute
afterwards she turned the 6 into a 7. Just before that third period
ended the Dark Blue hammered her way across the enemy goal-line for a
third touchdown from which, again, no goal resulted. The final quarter
witnessed the introduction of practically two fresh teams but produced
no scoring. Wyndham chalked up a 19 to 7 victory to start the season’s
schedule.
Talking the game over that evening, Clif and Tom arrived almost
simultaneously at the same conclusion, which, as Tom put it, was this:
“You and I, old son, have about as much chance to make the team this
year as I have to win the Condon Prize for English! Why, heck, no one
knows we’re on the squad! That coach doesn’t even see us.”
“You’re right, I guess,” Clif agreed sadly. “That bunch is too big and
too heavy for us to associate with. What we’d better do is quit and put
in our time beefing up.”
“It isn’t only that, because some of the fellows who played to-day――or
tried to――weren’t so blamed big, but that Otis dumb-bell can’t see
any fellow outside the little bunch he’s nursed from last year. The
trouble with us is we’re outsiders, Clif. What we need is advertising,
I guess. Say, that’s an idea! Let’s put an ad in next week’s _Lantern_.
Something like this: ‘Mr. Clifton Bingham and Mr. Thomas Kemble present
their compliments to the Football Committee, and Coaches, and solicit
their patronage.’ Hold on, though. This is better: ‘Experienced
end and clever half-back want positions on Football Team. Interview
arranged. Address “Neglected,” care _Lantern_.’ How’s that?”
“I don’t believe the Committee ever reads the _Lantern_,” said Clif.
“They ought to, for it’s a very truthful publication. Like last week
when it said that sixty-something candidates were ‘frying for the
Team.’ Maybe it meant to say ‘trying,’ but, considering the weather,
it was dead right. Well, the best we can expect, Clif, is to make the
Second; and we may get left there!”
“I don’t see how. They’ve got to have somebody for it, and if Mr. Otis
makes another cut Monday, as they say he’s going to, there won’t be
many left.”
“Huh! Maybe we’ll be among the――the cutees! Oh, well, never say die.
Let’s go down and see what they’re getting on the radio.”
There was a brand-new notice on the board outside the locker room
door on Monday when Clif reached the gymnasium, and his heart missed
a beat as he stopped to read it. He was alone, since Tom had a late
recitation, and he was glad of it just then. “Attention Football
Candidates,” he read. “The following players will report to Coach
Babcock on Second Team field at 3:30 Monday: Adams, Ames, Bingham――”
Clif drew a long breath. His feelings oddly combined disappointment
and relief. For the first moment disappointment was uppermost, but
then the realization that he had long since discounted being dropped
from the First Team, and that as lately as Saturday evening he had
been doubtful of making the Second, produced a reaction. He guessed
he was pretty lucky, after all. There were only some twenty names on
this list, which meant that fully a dozen fellows had been dropped
completely. Then his eyes hurried down the first column and across to
the second. “Howlett, Jackson, Kemble――”
Good! Tom had made it, too! Then, as he went on into the locker room,
it occurred to him that perhaps Tom wouldn’t be as gratified as he
was. Perhaps Tom, in spite of his pessimistic utterances, had secretly
expected to be retained on the First! But later in the afternoon Tom
scouted the idea with convincing sincerity.
“I hadn’t the ghost of a chance, Clif, and I knew it the second day
of practice. I can play football pretty well, but I haven’t had the
experience fellows like Dave Lothrop and Billy Desmond and Pete Jensen
and a lot more have had. And, of course, I’m light. No, sir, I’m
satisfied to be here, old son. Besides, I’m going to get a lot of fun
out of showing some of those First Team swelled-heads that they don’t
know all the football there is, as good as they may be! Heck, I’m not
kicking!”
And neither was Clif. In fact, after listening to Mr. Babcock’s talk to
them on the old wooden baseball grand stand that had been moved aside
to make room for the gridiron, he had begun to wonder whether being a
member of so glorious a company as the Scrub wasn’t a far better thing
than belonging to the First Team! Of course common sense told him
later that it wasn’t, but Mr. Babcock had almost made it seem so for
the moment!
“Cocky” seemed to have left behind him in the gymnasium some of the
brusqueness that awed his classes. To-day he acted and looked and
spoke like a “regular fellow.” He had on a pair of old canvas football
pants, a faded red sweater and two of the most disreputable gray
woolen stockings ever seen out of a rag bag. Those stockings had been
frequently and variously darned until there remained but very little
of the original material; and despite all the mending they still cried
out for help. “Cocky’s” sturdy calves were visible in wide areas in
more places than one! “Cocky” wasn’t a handsome man, for his face
was too square, his nose too blunt and his eyebrows too heavy. To be
frank, Mr. Henry Babcock, B.A., looked rather like a retired gentleman
pugilist; or, perhaps, like one’s idea of such a person. He was about
thirty years old, affected very loose tweed suits and, between the
hours of five and six, behind the closed door of Number 19 East Hall,
played weird melodies on an English horn. Any one who has ever heard an
English horn engaged in rendering a solo will understand why the door
was closed!
“I’ve got a little speech to make, fellows,” said “Cocky,” spreading a
pair of muscular arms along the edge of the seat behind him, “so you’d
better sit down, and make yourselves comfortable for a few minutes.
Now, then, you know what a Scrub Team is for, but perhaps you don’t
realize just how important it is. This School sets out every year at
about this time to beat Wolcott. That’s what we all want to do; you and
I, and Doctor Wyndham and Coach Otis and every fellow, big or little,
who owes allegiance to Wyndham. To beat Wolcott we must have a whopping
good team, a better team this year than last, maybe. We have a pretty
stiff schedule arranged; eight games; three of them away from home;
planned to bring us along slowly and surely to the final contest. When
that comes along our team must be in top form, trained to the minute.
That may sound easy, but it’s really pretty hard. It means lots of
work, work that gets a little harder day by day; it means attention to
diet, strict watch on the physical condition of every man, for it’s
quite as easy to overtrain as to train too little; and it means putting
into practice every day what you have learned the day before. That’s
where we come in, fellows.
“Our business is to beat Wolcott, just as it is the First Team’s
business. We do it――if we succeed――by helping the First to learn how.
There’s glory in that, fellows, lots of glory. I want you to realize
it. I want you to start in with the conviction that you are doing your
share to secure a Wyndham victory over Wolcott. I want you to be just
as proud of being a Second Team player as you’d be of belonging to the
First. When the big day comes the cheers won’t be for you, maybe, but
you’ll know in your hearts that you deserve a share of them, and you’ll
be satisfied with what you’ve done, and proud of your team, the team
that showed the big team how to win!
“I’ve handled this team for four years, fellows, and I’ve always
enjoyed it, always taken pride in it, always felt a mighty lot of
satisfaction, when the season was done, over my part in the victory or
the defeat that came to us. Because you mustn’t think, any of you, that
there isn’t honor in defeat. The team that plays cleanly, gallantly,
fights its hardest when Luck turns its back, is downed and won’t stay
downed, wins honor indeed. Well, now, here we are. Twenty of us. ‘Mr.
Babcock’s Team,’ the ‘Second’ or the ‘Scrub.’ Call yourself what you
like. It doesn’t make much difference what we’re called or what we
call ourselves, so long as we do what’s expected of us with all our
might. So let’s get together, fellows, and show Wyndham the finest,
fightingest Second Team it has ever seen! Remember this, too. You’re
not only helping to win the Wolcott game this year, you’re training
yourself for next year. You Second Team fellows will be First Team
fellows next fall. Most of you, anyhow. It isn’t unlikely that one or
two of you will get to the big team this season. Just show Mr. Otis
that you’ve got something the First Team needs, and you won’t stay here
long!
“Just so that it won’t be all work and no play, I’ve arranged three
outside games for you. We’ll play Freeburg High School a week from
next Saturday, Minster High School on November third, and the Wolcott
Second Team on November tenth. We could have more games if we were
permitted to play away from home. But we aren’t, and I think three will
be enough, anyhow. So now you know what’s ahead of you, Scrub. A lot of
steady, grinding work, a little play, and virtue more or less its own
reward. Who’s for it?”
It was evident that all were. A shout went up from twenty throats that
carried as far as the diamond and aroused interest and conjecture
there. Having joined his voice with the others, Clif turned and looked
rather pityingly toward the First Team field. Those poor chaps over
there didn’t realize what they were missing! Mr. Babcock was speaking
again. He was on his feet now, and in response to the suggestion of his
movement the fellows were leaving the seats.
“We’ll have the first scrimmage with the other gang about Friday. That
gives us four days to get ready. I’d suggest that before the Freeburg
game you elect a captain. But don’t do it just yet. Wait until you’ve
played together awhile. Until you choose a leader for yourself you’ll
need some one in authority, though, and so I’ll appoint Henning
temporary captain.”
“Cheer for Captain Clem!” laughed some one.
Clement Henning grinned sheepishly. He was a big First Class fellow
who had played guard for two years on scrub teams. He was steady, hard
working, good-natured and slow. Last season, for a brief and glorious
fortnight, he had been transferred to the big team, but he couldn’t
hold down his job there, and had returned, untroubled, it appeared, to
the Scrub. Clem could play football to a certain point, but he never
could get beyond that point. It is probable that all the coaches in the
country, working together on him in relays, would have failed to make
Clem play any better than he had played last year or would play this.
But if he lacked football genius he was long on popularity. Every one
knew Clem Henning and every one liked him.
The cheer wasn’t given, but the selection met with sounds of approval
from all. “Cocky” went on, briskly now:
“We’re going to start right at the very bottom, fellows. No one who
can’t make a good tackle or handle the ball properly is good enough for
this outfit. We’ll have some passing now to warm up, and as soon as
the First is through with the dummy we’ll go down there, and eat some
dirt. We’ll divide the squad, Captain Henning, and you’ll take half and
I’ll take half. All right, let’s have those balls, Hoppin. Over here, a
bunch of you. Now then, Scrub, let’s get going!”