CLIF GOES FOR A PAPER
The First Team played its game away from home on Saturday, meeting
Minster High School at Minster, and so, at three o’clock, the Scrub
lined up against Freeburg High School on the First Team gridiron. A
goodly portion of the student body had followed the school eleven, but
enough fellows had remained at home to form, with a large delegation of
high school boys and girls, a very respectable audience. Doctor Wyndham
attended and remained until the third period was well along, and the
issue had been definitely settled. Others of the faculty graced the
occasion, too, and Mr. McKnight and Mr. Connover joined “Cocky” on the
bench. The cold spell had passed, and the weather, clear and moderately
warm, with almost no breeze, was ideal for football.
The First Team had beaten the local high school by the score of 19 to
7, and “Cocky’s” charges were certain of their ability to triumph,
although none predicted better than a close victory. Mr. Babcock
started Adams, Ames, Howlett, Ridgway, Henning, Coles and Bingham in
the line, and Jackson, Kemble, Gillespie and Thayer in the backfield.
It was evident almost from the first that the Scrub was by far the
better team, with a sturdier defense, and a harder and more varied
attack. Thayer went over for the first touchdown less than six minutes
after play had begun, subsequent to a straight march down the field
in which the Scrub opened wide gaps in the High School line, ran the
ends for good gains and pulled off one forward-pass, Kemble to Bingham.
Later, the Scrub started a second advance, after an exchange of punts
had gained a few yards for the home team, and had reached High School’s
twenty-five-yard line when the whistle blew. Scrub lost the ball on
the seventeen, when play had been resumed, by Thayer’s failure to find
an opening. Two inches more would have won a first down. High School
rushed once and then punted to Jackson in midfield and Sim scampered
back sixteen yards before he was stopped. Scrub took up its journey
again and pushed the ball across near the corner of the field, Kemble
carrying it. Sim had missed the first try-for-point, but he succeeded
this time and the Scrub had the game 13 to 0.
The half ended with no more scoring and with High School still on the
defensive.
Gosman went in for Adams when the third period began, and Ike Patch
took Clif’s place at the other end. Later, other changes were made
until “Cocky’s” complete roster had seen service. Duval, who played
quarter in the last period, handled the team so well that Sim Jackson
looked distinctly anxious! High School threatened once in the third
quarter, getting the ball to Scrub’s twenty-one, but the home team
stiffened and High School’s attempt at a field-goal was knocked down
by “Babe” and captured on the thirty-four yards by McMurtry. Scrub
worked back to the enemy’s thirty-three with two good forward-passes, a
long run by Stiles, back at right half, and some good line plunging by
Hoppin and Kemble. But on the thirty-three Stiles fumbled and, although
he recovered the ball, Scrub was set back twelve yards. Three tries,
one of them a forward-pass that grounded, gained but six yards and Tom
punted over the line.
High School kept the ball from the twenty-yard line to midfield where a
long forward-pass was intercepted by “Wink” Coles, and carried to the
enemy’s thirty-eight. “Wink” got knocked breathless in the proceeding,
and time was called. Heard took his place. The quarter ended after the
next play. In the last period Scrub again nearly secured a touchdown,
but down on High School’s twelve yards some one mixed the signals and a
four-yard loss resulted. On the subsequent play Scrub was off-side and
the pigskin again went back. Finally, with five yards to go on third
down, Tom tried a forward heave to Stiles that grounded behind the
line. That was the final threat by either side and some fifteen minutes
later the last whistle sounded, the score still 13 to 0.
Over at Minster the First had won a somewhat hollow victory to the tune
of 26 to 6, and so Wyndham could crow that Saturday evening. The First
Team, arriving in the dining hall practically in a body some fifteen
minutes after supper had begun, received a salvo of hand-clapping as
it made its way to the two training tables at the end of the room. The
Scrub, distributed here and there about the hall, received no applause,
but every member of it knew where glory really belonged! Hadn’t
they completely shut out a team that had scored on the First, but a
fortnight ago? They had! Well, then!
Besides, if Charlie Duval hadn’t called for a pass over the line that
time, if he had let Kemble shoot the ball over the end, why, it was
dollars to doughnuts they’d have had another score. Or if Stiles hadn’t
fumbled on High School’s thirty-three before that―― Why, any one could
see that Scrub’s total ought really to have been 19, at least; maybe
20; and 19 was all that the First had been able to make against High
School! Then just because the First ran up a 26 to 6 score against a
weak team over at Minster every one had to go crazy about it! Huh!
At Wyndham you made an arrangement with a citizen of Greek birth
named――well, no one could pronounce his name in its entirety, but you
called him “Poppy,” which was about a quarter of the whole――for your
Sunday paper. “Poppy” delivered it, along with some forty others, at
the entrance. After breakfast――before if you had time――you went and got
it. “Poppy,” however, didn’t attempt to mark each subscriber’s name on
his paper. He merely delivered the required assortment, and let you do
your own selecting. Nine times out of ten you got a paper. Sometimes
it wasn’t the one you had ordered, but it was better than none, and
after you had read it you exchanged with some one else for the one you
preferred. But on the Sunday morning following the Scrub’s glorious
victory over Freeburg High School, a victory he had talked over the
evening before until his throat had become dry, Clif found only two
papers left, one a Boston publication, and the other, boasting not even
a colored supplement, a stingy thing from the state capital.
“I might have known I’d get left if I came down this late,” mourned
Clif. He had tarried upstairs to collect his laundry, and make out
the list, a duty generally put off until later in the morning. He
picked up the Boston paper tentatively, shook his head, and laid it
down again just as its rightful owner appeared, viewing Clif with deep
suspicion. There was plenty of time to go to the village if he could
get permission, and he ascended the stairs again and sought Number 19.
There Mr. McKnight, after politely offering Clif the use of his own New
York _Times_, signed his name to a gray slip of paper and Clif started
for the village.
It was quite warm this morning, much warmer than yesterday, and the sun
turned the yellowing maples and birches to pure gold. The elms along
the drive were already littering the gravel with their rusty brown
leaves. It was a lazy sort of a day, and Clif’s steps, once he was in
the fuller sunlight of Oak Street, grew slower and slower, until he was
fairly dawdling along. He was still dawdling when he crossed Hubbard
Street and passed the Inn, before which several visiting automobiles
were parked. His thoughts went back to a week ago, and his father’s
visit, and the drive to Cotterville, and he was almost to State Street,
beyond which, on the other side of Oak, “Poppy’s” combined fruit,
candy, and news emporium stood, when something claimed his interest,
and brought his thoughts back to the present.
The something was a wheel chair which was being slowly propelled
along the sidewalk by its occupant. At the distance of half a block
Loring Deane was easily recognizable and Clif wondered at finding
the boy alone so far from the school. Evidently he, too, had been to
“Poppy’s” for the sunlight shone garishly on the colored outer section
of the paper in his lap. Approaching, although on the opposite side
of Oak Street, Clif considered offering his assistance again. It was
a long way back to school, and he didn’t see how Deane could manage
the curbings. But he did see a moment later, for the wheel chair came
to a place where the sidewalk sloped to meet the street level at the
entrance of a narrow alley, and the occupant turned his vehicle to the
right, eased it down the short descent, and headed obliquely toward the
State Street intersection and Clif.
“I guess I’ll offer to push him back,” thought Clif. “He won’t mind
waiting while I get my paper.” He had already started to put the
thought to action when an automobile came charging eastward through
State Street. Involuntarily Clif drew back from the curbing. Then a
motion of the arms grasping the wheel of the car sent Clif’s heart into
his throat. The driver was going to swing south, had already slowed
slightly and was turning the steering wheel hard to the right. Squarely
in the middle of the street was the wheel chair. Its occupant, unaware
of the danger an instant before, now heard, and saw the car lurching
around the corner scarcely forty feet away. For a moment irresolution
stayed the hands on the wheels. Then, bending forward, Loring strove
desperately to roll the chair to safety.
All this Clif saw ere he dashed forward. As he raced toward the boy in
the chair, he was aware of the throbbing of the big automobile almost
beside him, heard a spasmodic blast from the horn, and the screeching
of hastily applied brakes. Then he had reached the chair and seized
one arm of it, dragging it frantically toward the sidewalk. Almost
simultaneously something huge and black rushed past, the wheel chair
was almost wrenched from his grasp, there was a sharp report, and the
metallic sound of crashing glass and silence!
Coming swiftly, the car had been unable to make the turn abruptly, and
had swung well toward the left side of Oak Street. The building on the
corner had obscured the driver’s view of what lay ahead until he had
started to turn. Then he had desperately avoided the wheel chair by
swerving hard to the right, grazing the object in passing and, in spite
of brakes, had swung onto the sidewalk, demolishing an iron hitching
post――perhaps Freeburg’s last reminder of the Horse Age――and plunged
obliquely into the front of “Poppy’s” emporium! When, dazedly, Clif
looked, the farther sidewalk was strewed with papers and oranges and
shattered glass, and splintered boxes and “Poppy” himself, white-faced
but voluble, was shaking a huge fist in the face of the scared driver.
Two minutes before it would have been difficult to count a dozen
persons on the whole length of Oak Street. Now thrice that many were
gathered about the scene of the accident and every instant saw the
number increase. Clif’s gaze dropped to Loring Deane. The latter was
looking up at him questioningly. His face was pale, but he was smiling
bravely enough.
“What happened?” he asked.
“Plenty,” answered Clif grimly. He swung the chair around so that its
occupant could see for himself. The driver of the badly damaged car
had alighted, but in the rear seat two frightened women were staring
strainedly about them. The town constable, stiffly attired for church,
had arrived, and his thin, indignantly high-pitched voice was to be
heard above the excited chatter of the throng. “You was goin’ too fast!
I seen you! You was goin’ too fast!”
“I’m very sorry,” said Loring. “It was my fault.”
“No, it wasn’t,” Clif protested. “That man came around the corner at
twenty miles an hour, easy. He was hitting thirty until he started to
turn! It’s a wonder he didn’t get you, Deane. He’s smashed the handles
clean off.” Clif retrieved the broken part from the asphalt. It didn’t
look to be of any further use, however, and he tossed it into the
gutter.
“He was driving too fast,” Loring was saying, “but I shouldn’t have
gone into the street alone. I told Wattles I’d stay there until he got
back.”
“Wattles? Is that the man who pushes you around? Well, what’s become of
him?”
“I don’t know.” Loring shook his head perplexedly. It wasn’t like the
faithful Wattles to remain away at such a time. “He went across to the
drug store. Perhaps he’s over there.” Loring nodded across the street.
“I’ll see if I can find him.” Clif wasn’t averse to seeing how the car
had fared, and how badly “Poppy’s” store had suffered. “I’ll pull you
up on the sidewalk first, though.” He did so, not without difficulty,
and started away. “I’ll be back in a second,” he called. “If I can’t
find him I’ll push you home.”
“Thanks, but he’s sure to be here soon,” answered Loring.
Clif had to push hard to get within viewing distance of the car since
by now all Freeburg――at least, all of male Freeburg――had reached
the scene. The car’s driver and the constable and “Poppy” were in
consultation. “Poppy” was calmer, but there was that in his handsome,
brigandish countenance which told Clif that he would suffer no
financial loss by reason of the accident. Underfoot Sunday papers
ruffled, and golden oranges and glistening apples were being salvaged
by willing hands. “Poppy’s” front and side windows were ruins, for
the heavy car had struck fairly at the angle of sidewalk and entrance.
The car itself was sadly damaged, although on close inspection Clif
decided that it had got off pretty well. Collision with the iron post
had simultaneously demolished post, and car bumper, and the subsequent
impact had crumpled in the radiator, and torn away one mudguard. Also
one wheel was broken. The constable began to look for witnesses and
Clif edged swiftly toward the outer rim of the throng. The missing
Wattles was not to be seen. He hurried back across the street, now
fairly choked by automobiles, and saw a man in a black brilliantine
coat conversing with Loring Deane.
“I wonder if you’d mind pushing me back to the drugstore,” said Loring
as Clif joined him. “Poor old Wattles has fainted, he says.”
The drug clerk assented, his gaze darting curiously across the street.
“Yeah, he was just going out when the smash came, and he dropped in a
heap. We got him ’round all right in a jiffy, but he’s still sort of
wobbly. I’ll run across and see what’s happened.”
Wattles was a woebegone looking object when they reached the drug
store. Seated decorously erect in a chair, his derby clasped fixedly
on his knees, he was the color of yellow parchment and his long face
was the unhappiest thing Clif had ever seen. Even when the wheel chair
rolled toward him Wattles’s gloom failed to lighten. He moistened his
lips with an effort and:
“You oughtn’t to have done it, Mister Loring,” he croaked. “You ought
never to have done it. What would I have said to your father, sir,
if――if――”
“Quite right,” agreed Loring soothingly. “I shouldn’t have done it,
Wattles. How are you feeling now?”
“Better, sir, thanks. But, Mister Loring, when I looked up the street,
and saw that automobile right atop of you, like, I――I had a frightful
shock, sir! I really did! I just went right off!”
“Too bad, Wattles. I’m beastly sorry. Look here, you’d better not try
to walk back. Bingham here will look after me. I’ll see if we can’t get
a lift for you.”
But Wattles arose superbly, even majestically――if also somewhat
unsteadily――and placed his hat determinedly on his head. “Oh, no, sir,
I’m quite all right now! It was merely――merely momentary, sir. The air
will quite restore me, Mister Loring.”
Loring looked doubtful and turned to Clif for an opinion, but Clif
had been engaged in conversation by Mr. Burger, the proprietor, eager
to learn about the accident, and whether any one had been injured.
So Loring consented to Wattles’ return afoot and, after thanking the
proprietor, the three departed. Wattles’ return to normal was instant
when he had reached the sidewalk, and may have been due to any one of
three things or a combination of all; the interesting spectacle across
the street, the revivifying influence of fresh air or the shocking
discovery that the handle-bar, by which he had so long manipulated the
chair, was totally missing. Personally I think it was the latter, for
Wattles seemed absolutely unable to reconcile himself to the loss of
the handle, and propelled the chair in such an erratic, zig-zag fashion
that Clif insisted on taking his place. Wattles, murmuring feeble,
embarrassed protests, gave way and Clif became the motive power.
Fortunately public interest was so entirely centered about the battered
car, and more battered store that no one paid heed to the disappearance
of two of the most important witnesses to the affair. For his part,
Clif had no desire to be called on to testify against the driver of
the car. The latter had undeniably been at fault, but Clif was pretty
certain that to-day’s lesson would cure him of taking blind corners at
high speed. After he had paid for “Poppy’s” store, and for reckless
driving, and for repairs to his car, he would be, Clif concluded, both
a poorer and a wiser man. Thought of “Poppy’s” emporium recalled to
mind the fact that he was returning to school minus the object of his
expedition, the Sunday paper, and when, just then, he discovered that
what he had sought lay spread across Loring Deane’s knees, on top of
the ever-present dark plaid robe, he chuckled.
“I guess you’ll have to lend me your paper, Deane, when you’re through
with it,” he said. “That’s what I went to the village for, but
‘Poppy’s’ stock was pretty well shop-worn by the time I got there!”
“I’d like you to read it first,” answered Loring. “In fact, I don’t
care if I don’t see it at all. I get it more for Wattles than myself.”
“Oh, no, thanks, but I would like to see it when you’ve finished. There
won’t be much chance for papers, anyway, before dinner, for it’s pretty
close to church time now.”
“Well, but I’d rather you took it first,” Loring insisted. “You
know――you know, Bingham, you saved my life, I guess.”
“Rot! You’d have made it all right even if I hadn’t butted in. Well――”
and this was to switch the conversation from so embarrassing a
subject――“I’ll take it first, if you’re sure you won’t mind. I’ll give
it back to you this afternoon. You’re in that room of Mr. Clendenin’s,
aren’t you, on the first corridor in East?”
“Yes, between his office and the game room. Doctor Wyndham let me have
it because it’s rather hard to get up and down the stairs so often. By
the way, Wattles, you’d better see about a new chair the first thing in
the morning.”
Wattles, walking slightly in the rear, had, it appeared, already given
thought to the subject. “I think, Mister Loring, we can rent a chair
temporarily while this is being repaired. I understand there’s a very
capable cabinet maker in the town, sir.”
“All right,” laughed Loring, “but seems to me what we need is a
carriage maker, Wattles. Anyhow, you see what you can do. We may have
to telegraph to New York, you know.”
Clif yielded the chair to Wattles at the West Hall entrance, and,
much to his confusion, since a half-dozen fellows were looking on
over the tops of their papers, Loring held his hand out. Clif took
it, uncomfortably aware of the curious stares of the audience, and
discovered that Loring Deane, whatever his physical disabilities might
be, had plenty of strength in his fingers. Loring smiled, but rather
gravely, and “Thanks, Bingham,” he said simply.
“Shucks, that’s all right,” said Clif hastily, and got his hand back
feeling rather as if it had been just drawn from a vise. “I don’t
believe I helped much. Well, see you later. I’ll bring this back by
three, sure.”
“Keep it as long as you want,” answered Loring. “Don’t return it at all
unless you want to, although I hope you will because I’d like to have a
visit from you.”
“Why, I――sure, I’ll be around.”
Wattles pushed the chair on toward East Hall, and Clif, swinging the
paper ostentatiously, picked his way up the steps, nodding here and
there, certain that as soon as he was beyond hearing the group would
join in an effort to find an explanation of that ceremonious hand
shake. Going to his room Clif wished impatiently that Deane hadn’t
staged that silly scene out there. There’d be all sorts of crazy
stories around the Hall as a result. School was a gossipy hole, anyway.
But by the time he had triumphantly tossed the paper into Walter’s lap
he had become more lenient. After all, he had helped Deane out of a
pretty awkward situation, even if he hadn’t actually saved the chap’s
life, as the silly ass insisted he had, and it was only natural that
Deane should have wanted to show some gratitude. And the beggar had
kept pretty steady, too, with that car bearing down on him like a――a
Jug――a Jug――
“Say, Walt, what’s that thing the Indian guys used to haul around so’s
folks could throw themselves under the wheels? You know; Jug o’ nuts,
or something.”
“Juggernaut? That what you mean?”
“Yes, Juggernaut. I couldn’t think of it. Throw me the football
section, will you?”