MR. BINGHAM PAYS A VISIT
That first feeling of exaltation didn’t last long, but it had served
its purpose. The Wyndham Scrub members had shared it together and,
since the experience of a common emotion creates a bond, had become
imbued with a solidarity that was to prove the foundation of greater
unity and cohesion. Which was all that Mr. Babcock had expected.
On Tuesday the Scrub had its first line-up and ran through a few
formations. Adams was at left end, Ames at left tackle, Greene at
left guard, Ridgway at center, Henning at right guard, Coles at right
tackle, Bingham at right end, Jackson at quarter, Kemble at left
half, Stiles at right half and Thayer at fullback. But as “Cocky”
explicitly stated that no one could be sure of his position until he
had definitely earned it, and as none save Henning and “Wink” Coles
kept his place throughout the whole half-hour, neither Clif nor Tom
indulged in self-congratulation. Clif had Patch and Gosman to fight for
the right end position, and Tom was always aware that Gillespie and
Heard were following close behind, awaiting their turns. Mr. Babcock
made them work hard, but they had plenty of enthusiasm and liked
working. Now and then a word, or perhaps a brief halt while the coach
stared silently toward the First Team players, kept the incentive in
mind. They were there to mold themselves into a first-class fighting
unit so that they might meet the friendly enemy on fairly even terms,
and so serve as the whetstone against which the latter was to be shaped
and edged into a conquering weapon. But――and they dwelt relishingly on
this――if the whetstone sometimes proved too hard for the steel, why,
so much the better for every one! In other words, duty demanded that
they prove themselves a worthy foe, and inclination kept a full jump
ahead of duty! There were no personal grudges being nursed: no player
on the Scrub had a bone to pick with any member of the other team; but
there was, nevertheless, the conviction, shared by all, that the wisdom
of the Head Coach’s selections had yet to be proved, and it was up
to them to show that proof didn’t exist! In such a spirit, then, the
Wyndham Scrub Team――or “Mr. Babcock’s Team,” as the _Lantern_ called
it――started forth.
The first meeting of the Scrub and the First took place in a drizzle
of rain and, partly for that reason, but more especially because Mr.
Otis’s charges had a game the next day, the encounter was slow and
tame. There were two scrimmages of some ten minutes each, the first
with the first-string line-up, and the second with the substitutes.
Play was continually stopped by the Head Coach for criticism and
instruction, the ball was brought back half a dozen times because
something had not gone just right, and, finally, when the pigskin
had been slapped down on the soggy ground close to the Scrub’s
fifteen-yard line by Captain Lothrop after a savage romp through the
enemy’s left wing, “G.G.” ordered a dropkick, and Houston, playing
quarter, mishandled the wet ball so that it banged into the crowd,
and was chased to the side-line and downed by Clif. It was only in
the second period, however, when faced by the First Team substitutes
that the Scrub could show any offense. Then, with fewer interruptions,
the Second’s backs got to working and made the most of the opponents’
right side, slamming through a dozen times before they were finally
stopped. But the First Team’s twelve yards was the nearest the Scrubs
could approach to the goal, and from there, when two tries had been
smeared, Sim Jackson booted for a miss. A few minutes later a First
Team substitute, and a third-string man at that, scooped up a trickling
ball and galloped for some forty yards to the Scrub’s goal-line, making
the only score of the day, and registering the Scrub’s first defeat. On
the whole, Mr. Babcock’s warriors didn’t cover themselves with glory
during their première. The coach, patiently and cheerfully explaining
their shortcomings afterwards, was, it seemed, far less depressed than
the players.
“What was wrong to-day can be corrected to-morrow,” he ended. “I’m not
expecting you fellows to play perfect football yet. I’m satisfied if
you realize your mistakes when you make them, and I think you do. You
won’t make me mad until you make the same mistakes the second time――or
the third. When a player knows he’s wrong there’s hope for him: when
he can’t see it, he’s useless. Some of you fellows showed real stuff
to-day. You, Jackson, for one. You mixed only one signal, and you kept
your team on the jump. And Ridgway held the center nicely. And two or
three others of you deserve a good word; Bingham, for instance. There
was no one within two yards of him when he got that ball after the
blocked kick. Remember, fellows, that every loose ball has ‘Touchdown’
written on it in big red letters! Patch, you’d better let Farrell see
that hand. Looks rather like a dislocation from the swelling. We’ll
try to get started at two to-morrow, fellows, so that we can see some
of the game. I want every one of you to watch the First Team players
carefully every chance you get. Keep your eye on the men you’ll play
against and see where they’re weak. And try to guess the plays before
they start. Watch the backs and see what you can learn from the way
they stand. Some players will give away the play time and again if you
know the language of signs!”
Clif wasn’t nearly as excited over his father’s visit on the morrow as
he had expected to be. Of course he was awfully glad he was coming, and
he wanted to see him a whole lot and there were loads of things he had
saved up to tell him, but he went to sleep that Friday night as soon
as his head touched the pillow and awoke the next morning to only the
mildest thrill. Mr. Bingham rolled up the drive in the blue car about
one o’clock, and Clif, who had hurried through his dinner, was awaiting
him at the steps. Mr. Bingham said “Hello, son,” very casually, and
Clif grinned, and said “Hello, dad” in much the same tone. But they
shook hands very hard and, after the car had been parked at the end
of the drive, they made their way to Number 17 with the older man’s
arm about the boy’s shoulder. Clif was a little bit conscious of that
arm as they passed the recreation room and Office, but he carried
off the situation gracefully. If any of the fellows they met felt
any inclination toward ridicule Clif’s sharp eyes failed to detect
the fact. Generally what he read on their passing countenances was
admiration for that well-built, handsome, smiling father of his, and
Clif forgot his momentary embarrassment and was proud and pleased.
Oddly enough――or so it seemed to Clif――his father and Walter Treat took
to each other instantly, and Clif was a trifle annoyed to discover
that Walter’s acceptance of his father seemed more important to him
than his father’s approval of Walter! Just as though, he reflected
later as he hurried away to the field, it mattered a bit what Walter
thought! But he was glad that his roommate had offered to look after
the visitor during practice. They didn’t meet again until the Scrub
Team, released after an hour’s strenuous work, invaded the grand stand
to witness the last half of the contest with Highland School. Walter
had somehow managed to occupy the better part of two seats and Clif
squeezed himself down beside his father. The Dark Blue had scored
a field-goal in the second period, but had not been able to cross
the enemy’s goal-line. Highland, playing a far better defensive than
offensive game, had failed to score. In the third quarter Fargo and
Jenkins between them took the ball to the enemy’s eleven yards from
where a forward-pass grounded, and from where, on fourth down, Fargo’s
end run was stopped on the eight yards. It was not until late in the
last period that Wyndham got her second score. Then, after a long run
by Whitemill had brought the battle to Highland’s thirty-yard line,
Fargo dashed past tackle for eight, threw across center to Archer for
nine more, and then took the ball on the thirteen yards and, with the
other backs faking a tandem on the right of center, tore through on the
left, shook off three tackles and crossed the goal-line standing up!
Stoddard was hurried in the try-for-point, but the ball shot off to the
right, and Wyndham had to be satisfied with nine points as her share of
the afternoon’s diversion. Highland had nothing left to offer in the
way of attack, and the rest of the final period passed with the ball
see-sawing back and forth about the center of the field, Coach Otis
sending in substitutes lavishly, and the stand gradually emptying.
There was just time to ride into the village with dad and see him
safely settled at the Inn before six o’clock. Then Clif hurried back to
supper, secured permission to spend the evening outside, and, feeling
a wee bit important, strode down the drive at seven, dressed in his
best. Mr. Bingham had discovered a billiard table at the Inn, and was
knocking the balls around when Clif found him. “Get your cue, son,” he
said. “You’ll find one there with a tip if you look hard. I haven’t
whaled you for a long time!”
Clif, who didn’t care much for billiards, consented to humor the
other, but he had no idea of spending the evening in such unexciting
fashion, and when eight o’clock arrived he hauled an unenthusiastic
parent across the street to Freeburg’s one palace of amusement, the
Coliseum. The Coliseum was about the size of the library back home
in Providence, but it was clean and it offered good, if not recent,
pictures. Mr. Bingham professed to be greatly awed by the red, white
and blue splendor of the exterior and embarrassed Clif somewhat by
insisting on viewing the gaudy and startling pictures in the small
lobby painstakingly before purchasing tickets from the interested young
lady who chewed her gum so rhythmically inside the glass cage. Aware
of the curious stares of theater-going Freeburg, Clif tugged at his
father’s arm.
“Oh, come on, dad!” he begged.
But Mr. Bingham was not to be hurried. “I want to be sure,” he declared
sedately, “that everything is quite proper, Clif. You know there’s a
good deal being said these days about the influence of moving pictures
on the young, and I’d very much dislike to have you tell me in later
years that you traced your downfall to the night I took you to see――now
what the dickens――ah, here it is――to see ‘Outlawed by Honor’! To me,
Clif, this man, Johnny Rick, looks rather a desperate character. Isn’t
he killing the gentleman with the drooping, black mustache in that
picture?”
“Aw, dad!” whispered Clif.
“All right, but I’ll ask for seats well away from the stage, son.
Pistol shooting always makes me jump.”
In spite of the fun Mr. Bingham poked at the entertainment provided
by the Coliseum that evening, it would have been apparent to any one
that he got more pleasure from it than the more blasé Clif. He became
visibly excited when, in the fourth reel, the redoubtable hero, the
aforementioned Mr. Rick, dashed into the deserted cabin, seized the
heroine in his elastic-banded arms, with not even a glance at the
sizzling fuse that led to the enormous can of dynamite, dashed out
again and spurred his faithful horse to safety. Of course Clif knew
perfectly well that the cabin wouldn’t blow up until the hero was well
out of the way, but apparently the idea hadn’t occurred to his father,
for the latter relapsed, exhausted by emotion, against Clif’s shoulder.
Fathers are sometimes very trying.
On Sunday there was a banquet for four at the Inn. Clif had all along
intended to invite Tom to dinner on this occasion, but the inclusion of
Walter in the party had been Mr. Bingham’s idea. Not that Clif really
minded. It merely hadn’t and wouldn’t have occurred to him. Walter
was rather an addition, as it turned out, for “the beggar could talk
about anything,” as Tom put it, and Tom didn’t care a great deal who
talked so long as he was able to devote himself undisturbedly to the
chief matter in hand, which on this occasion was putting away a very
considerable amount of broiled chicken and appropriate trimmings.
Walter and Mr. Bingham became involved in an earnest, though friendly,
argument over the coffee, as to the relative values of classical and
practical educations, a discussion that rather bored the others. After
the question had been settled to the satisfaction of both contenders,
following the yielding of much ground by each, the car was brought
forth from a nearby garage, and, with Clif at the wheel and Tom beside
him, they set forth to see as much of the world as was practicable in
the two hours left at Mr. Bingham’s disposal.
They got back to West Hall at a quarter past four and Mr. Bingham said
good-by and swung the car toward Providence. Saying good-by this time
hadn’t been hard at all, Clif thought as he followed Walter and Tom
into the Hall. He felt a little guilty about it.
On Monday the Scrub had an easy session when it went over to the
enemy’s lair, for many of the latter, all those who had taken any
considerable part in the Highland game, had been excused. The Scrub
showed up better, under these circumstances, and scored twice to the
First Team’s once. Although the honor of making the first score of
the season fell to Sim Jackson when he booted an easy field-goal, to
Thomas Ackerman Kemble was credited the first crossing of the enemy’s
goal-line. That historic event occurred in the last period when, held
for three downs by a horde of substitutes writhing under “G.G.’s”
caustic comments, Sim slipped the pigskin to Tom on a delayed pass, and
Tom flashed around the right and wormed through in some remarkable way,
reaching the goal-line without much opposition until a frantic back
tackled and accompanied him across the last two yards. Being unable to
shake off the enemy, Tom just took him along.
Although the Scrub’s victory had been secured from a much weakened
First, it held some glory, and the Scrub made the most of it. It gave
them confidence, and the next afternoon, when the first-string men were
back on the job, Mr. Babcock’s disciples showed quite a nice brand of
football. Of course the First had its way in the end, but it had to
fight for it, and fight hard. Ike Patch started at left end for the
Scrub, but Clif displaced him after five minutes, and was allowed to
play through. Ever since Clif had chased down that loose ball on Friday
“Cocky” had seemed to hold him in deep respect, and Tom, not at all
certain of his own position, declared that Clif had “vamped” the coach,
and was settled for the season. Clif began to believe it himself by
Wednesday.
On that afternoon the audience, looking on from a windswept stand
and shivering under sweaters, saw a very pretty practice game. The
Scrubs romped in from the suburbs armed with three brand-new plays
meticulously designed by Mr. Babcock to take advantage of the enemy’s
weaknesses. The principal weakness just then was the lack of a good
defense against forward-passes, and although the Scrub had yet to show
any startling proficiency in passing, “Cocky” had provided two plays
that might benefit his team. These plays, together with a third that
didn’t rely on tossing the ball into the teeth of an October gale for
success, had been hastily and not too thoroughly taught that afternoon,
and Sim Jackson’s brain was still roiled by his attempt to add this
fresh matter to all the other stored there. The Scrub Team to-day was
on its toes from the start. Somehow it had become inbued with the
notion that it was _good_! And when a team gets that idea in its head,
and is willing to work like the dickens to prove that it is correct,
why, that team is hard to stop.
To-day was no sort of day to slow up play for instruction, and so Mr.
Otis swallowed many remarks that almost choked him and let the battle
surge. And it surely surged. The very appearance of the Scrub players
had been an affront, with their cocksure swaggering as they took the
field, and now, with the war on, their behavior was preposterously
insulting. The poor weaklings, culls from the First Team orchard, so
to speak, acted as if they thought themselves real timber! It was
well-nigh sickening to First Team sensibilities, and so the First Team
set itself to inflict disciplinary punishment. For a while it seemed
that the Scrub was due to emerge from the engagement with a chastened
spirit, but that was only for a while, and a brief while at that.
Having allowed the First to reach the fourteen yards, though far from
willingly, the Scrub dug its cleats, and gave an excellent imitation
of a stone wall. Against that wall Quarterback Stoddard dashed Fargo
and Jensen and Fargo again, and when the three attempts had been made
the wall was scarcely dented. The First was plainly puzzled; puzzled
and angry too. But that any Scrub――at least any Scrub so recently
born――could actually hold the first for four downs was unthinkable, and
so, scorning to be satisfied with the three points a field-goal would
have given, Stoddard unwisely pulled Captain Lothrop out of the line
and instructed him, by means of signals, to bust through and put the
ball down not short of the four yards. Unfortunately, Stoddard lost
track of the fact that Dave’s place at left guard was being handed
over to Sproule, playing half instead of Whitemill. When the ball was
snapped, Clem Henning drew Sproule forward on his nose, strode over him
and stopped Captain Dave neatly and expeditiously for a gain of some
eighteen inches. Dazed, First yielded the pigskin.
Any one knows that the only thing to do when the ball comes into your
possession close to your goal is to punt it away from there. So Sim
did something else! He called “Kemble back!” the ball was shot to
Tom from center, and Tom took three steps back and to his left, and
swept the pigskin down the field with an overhand spiral throw. Clif
had let the opposing end by outside, evaded a back and was clear. Not
far behind him ran Sim. Toward them both came the ball. Sim turned,
looked and panted: “Take it!” Clif whirled, stood and held his hands
out. Never before in a contest had he ever attempted a long catch of
a forward-pass, and he wished devoutly that the ball had gone to Sim.
Without seeing he knew that the whole field of players was converging
on him. Then the ball struck his hands, and by some miracle, as it
seemed to him, stuck! Turning quickly, he had a blurred vision of Sim
crashing into an opponent. The background of the brief picture was a
confusion of moving bodies, looming larger with each instant.
Then he dug out, the ball tucked firmly between arm and body, his right
hand outstretched for action. He could run, could Clif, and he ran
now, but there was the First Team quarter bearing diagonally across to
intercept him, and the fleet Jensen was close behind. It seemed to Clif
that he had taken but a dozen strides when Jensen shot for him, and,
despite his plunge to the right, caught him, and brought him crashing
down, and yet when he was pulled, breathless, to his feet a moment
later, there was the fifty-yard line behind the ball! Somehow he had
successfully caught a thirty-yard pass, and carried it seventeen yards
further! The Scrub assailed him as one man, and did him painful honor!
The First was disgruntled, and Mr. Otis’s disgusted observations did
little to soothe it. Tom, smiting Clif mightily between his shoulders
and depriving him momentarily of what little breath he had left after
being thumped to earth by Stoddard, and sat on by Jensen, grinned
expansively and shouted “Good stuff, old son! That’s the way to treat
’em!”
Sim called on Thayer for a fullback buck and Johnny was piled up with
a sickening thud. The First was through with nonsense! Stiles tried to
slip off tackle, and was thrown for a loss, but a too-eager First Team
end had been off-side and the ball went to the forty-four, and it was
still second down. Stiles tried the same play again and got a yard.
Kemble went back and Sim cut through for three. Kemble punted to the
five-yard line, and Jensen ran the ball back to the seventeen.
Fargo made two and then four through Greene. Sproule, on an end run,
added two more and Fargo punted short to the Scrub’s forty-six, where
the ball went out. Adams lost three yards on an end-round play. Kemble
went back to punting position, and, with a widespread formation, hurled
to the left for twelve yards, where Stiles pulled it down, only to lose
it. Thayer took Kemble’s place up-field, but the ball went to Kemble
instead, and he raced back behind Thayer and again threw forward,
this time far down the field. The throw was hurried, for the First
piled through desperately, and were all around Tom when the ball got
away. Thayer, however, did good work as defense, and the pass reached
its destination. The destination was Jeff Adams, right end. Jeff had
crossed behind the enemy, and was uncovered. The rest is history.