TOM IS BORED
Clif didn’t include his part in the action when telling Tom of the
automobile accident. He had merely encountered Loring Deane in the
village and returned to the school with him. Tom was inclined to be
hurt because Clif hadn’t asked him to go to the village, too. “Best
accident of the season, and I miss it,” he mourned, returning from
church. “Just my luck!” After dinner he suggested a walk, but when Clif
explained that he had borrowed Deane’s paper, and must return it to
him soon, he consented to sit on the steps in the sunshine, and peruse
the comic section while Clif dug into the football news. It was after
half-past three when the latter had exhausted the paper and, folding it
neatly, declared his intention of restoring it to its owner. But when
he bade Tom go with him, Tom refused.
“I’ll wait here,” said Tom. “I’m not feeling up to meeting your swell
friends just now.”
“But I can’t just shove the paper at him and run,” protested Clif.
“I’ll have to stay a few minutes, anyway.”
“Why?” demanded Tom.
Clif couldn’t explain satisfactorily without revealing the details of
the morning’s incident, and so he just said: “Gee, a fellow’s got to
be polite, Tom! I borrowed his paper, didn’t I? Oh, come on with me,
won’t you?”
Tom shook his head stubbornly. “Nothing doing. Stay as long as you
like. I’ll take a little walk. See you later, maybe.”
“I’d do as much for you.”
“You won’t have to. I’m not trying to break into the millionaire class.”
“Oh, thunder! You make me tired! Where’ll I find you in half an hour?”
“I’ll be around,” answered Tom vaguely. “Maybe in the village. Or over
at the golf course.”
“Or up in the attic or down cellar,” added Clif sarcastically. “All
right. See you at supper, anyway.”
He knew very well that Tom was slightly jealous, but it couldn’t be
helped, and he went across to East with the paper. Glancing back as he
went up the steps, he saw Tom meandering carelessly down the driveway,
hands in pockets, and head high. Clif grinned as he went on along the
corridor. “Silly old ass,” he murmured affectionately.
Save that the ceiling was considerably higher than in the upstairs
rooms, Loring Deane’s quarters were not different from Clif’s at first
glance. There were two beds, two chiffoniers, and the usual number and
variety of chairs. What was missing, however, were the window-seats,
for here the two big windows went almost to the floor. Then, too, there
was a wash stand, a feature lacking in the regular bedrooms. Loring
was seated in an armchair close to one of the windows, and for once
the almost inevitable rug was missing. Clif’s gaze fell instantly from
the boy’s face to his legs. They looked like any other fellow’s, he
thought in some surprise; and then he noticed that there was something
just a little awkward in the way the feet were placed. Most fellows
cross their legs when at ease, but Loring’s were not crossed, and the
well-polished brown shoes rested flat on the rug rather as though they
were somehow independent of the relaxed form in the chair. Loring
saw Clif’s downward glance and rightly interpreted the expression of
interest on the visitor’s countenance, but he only said: “Take the easy
chair, Bingham. Wattles, shove it over here, will you? You needn’t have
bothered about the paper. Are you quite through with it?”
“Yes, thanks.” Clif was resolutely keeping his eyes away from his host.
“You look pretty comfortable here, Deane.”
“Yes, the room is really very nice. We could do with a little more
space, but we’re not suffering. Help yourself to the paper, Wattles.
Wattles, you see, Bingham, is always restless until he gets the paper
and learns the football scores.”
“Really?” Clif looked across at the man with some surprise. “So you’re
a football bug――er――Wattles.”
“Oh, it isn’t our game he’s interested in,” Loring laughed. “What he
wants to read is that the Stoke Pogis Hotspurs won from the Lancashire
Argonauts or the Welsh Terriers beat the Bermin’am Brindles.”
“Oh, I see,” said Clif. “Over in England, eh?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Wattles gravely. “It’s the game I know best, Mr.
Bingham.”
“Don’t you like our game?”
“Oh, yes, sir, it’s most interesting, but I don’t understand it so very
well yet. It seems just a bit confusing to the――the layman, sir.”
Loring chuckled, and Clif, smiling, said: “Oh, but you’ll soon get the
hang of it, Wattles, and be cheering your head off for us.”
“Very likely, sir, and I’m sure I hope you will be successful, Mr.
Bingham. I have been giving a great deal of attention and study to the
game, but――” and here Wattles smiled reproachfully――“Mister Loring
isn’t much help, sir.”
Clif looked inquiringly at Loring. Loring was instantly indignant.
“Why, how you talk, Wattles! I’ve explained and explained to you, you
thankless beggar!”
Wattles’s discreet smile appeared again. “Yes, Mister Loring, you have,
but recently when I asked you why one of the young gentlemen stayed so
far away from the scrum――”
“Scrimmage, Wattles.”
“Yes, sir, scrimmage. Well, sir, you said he was an extra man and
wasn’t allowed to take part until one of the others was injured, but I
observed that very shortly afterwards he tackled the young gentleman
who was running with the ball, and I knew you were just having your
joke, sir.”
Clif had to laugh when Loring did, although he tried not to for fear of
wounding Wattles’s feelings. “Oh, well,” said Loring, “I was kidding
you that time, Wattles, but usually you may rely implicitly on what I
tell you.”
“Yes, sir,” replied Wattles, dryly but respectfully, “but I can’t
always say when you’re spoofin’――I should say kidding, sir!”
The two boys exchanged amused glances as Wattles retired to the other
side of the room with the paper. There was a low table near Loring’s
chair, and on it, amongst other things, was a folding chess-board and
an oblong box. Clif nodded toward it. “That’s a chess-board, isn’t it?
You ought to get Tom Kemble to give you a game. He’s rather a shark at
chess.”
* * * * *
“Then you’re not? Kemble’s the fellow I see you with so often, isn’t
he?”
“Yes. Tom says I haven’t enough brains for chess. Maybe that’s it.
Anyhow, I’m absolutely punk.”
“I’d like to play with you some time,” said Loring. “Wattles is getting
so he can beat me now, and I don’t care about being licked every time.
It’s too monotonous. How are you at checkers?”
“Oh, I play a little, but I’m not much better than at chess. I can’t
get interested enough, I guess.”
“Football’s your one and only love, then,” smiled Loring.
“Well, I do like football, but I play baseball, too. You’re something
of a football fan yourself, I guess. I see you around most every
afternoon.”
“Yes, I am. I like to watch. And”――Loring smiled faint apology――“I like
to imagine myself playing, Bingham. I like to make believe that if I
had a good pair of legs I’d be a wonderful football player. It’s rather
fun sometimes, pretending.”
Clif refrained from looking at the other’s legs with difficulty and
stammered: “Yes, it is. And――and I dare say you’d be pretty good, too,
if you――if you could.”
“Thanks,” laughed Loring. “You’re a gentleman, Bingham! I’ve said the
same thing to Wattles a dozen times and the best I’ve ever got from him
was, ‘Oh, very likely, sir.’” There was a protesting sniff from across
the room. “Anyway, Bingham, I know football, even if I can’t play it.
I’ve got about every book that’s ever been written on it.” He nodded
toward a bookcase behind Clif and the latter turned and looked. Loring
had not exaggerated. There was nearly a shelf of them.
“Gee!” muttered Clif. “I didn’t know there were half that many in the
world. I’ve never read one of them!”
“You don’t need to. You get your knowledge first-hand.”
“Are they――interesting?” asked Clif.
“They are to me. I dare say it sounds conceited, but it’s really a fact
that I know more football than most of those fellows on the First
Team. I see that by watching them. More than half the time they do
things without knowing why. One of those chaps there”――Loring nodded
again toward the bookcase――“says that he doesn’t want the men he is
coaching to know too much football; that he’d rather teach each one
only what he can use in playing his position. He may be right, but I
don’t think so. I don’t believe a thorough knowledge of the game is
going to hurt any player. Of course the best way to get that knowledge
is by experience, by starting as a little chap and learning as you go
along; but lots of fellows never learn more than enough to hold down
their positions by the skin of their teeth. If I was a coach I’d make
my men read and study one of those books until they really knew what it
was all about!”
“Gee, that’s an idea,” said Clif.
Loring laughed. “I can tell by the way you say that that you think I’m
a perfect nut, Bingham. It does sound cheeky for a chap who can’t take
a step without being held up to tell a real player――”
“I wasn’t thinking anything of the sort,” protested Clif warmly. “I
think it’s rather wonderful you’re so――so clever about it. I should
think not being able to play would sort of――sort of sour you on
football. I say, why don’t you coach one of the class teams? Couldn’t
you do it?”
“From a wheel chair? I’m afraid not. Anyhow, I dare say my knowledge
of football isn’t more than half practical. It’s just ‘book learning,’
Bingham. I get a good deal of fun out of it, though.” Loring chuckled.
“I’m an absolute nut about plays. Making them up, I mean. I’ve got――”
He broke off to address Wattles. “Get me that portfolio, will you,
Wattles? The one with the football diagrams in it. That’s it. Thanks.
Have a look, Bingham. There’s where a lot of my time has gone. If you
laugh I’ll throw the chessmen at you!”
The portfolio was slightly larger than the sheet after sheet of
letter-size bond paper inside and was closed with three knotted tapes.
Each sheet held a diagram, sometimes two, and accompanying text, and
Clif, turning over one after another, marveled at the neatness of the
penned figures and lines and letters. Loring had used two colors of
India ink in each case, showing the attacking team in black circles
and the defending side in red. Straight lines were straight and curved
lines were firm and graceful. The letters and figures were remarkable,
and for a moment Clif thought that Loring was hoaxing him, that he
was looking at printed diagrams. “Tandem Outside Guard,” he read.
“Forward-Pass from Reverse Play (8),” “Forward-Pass from End Run
Threat,” “Delayed Pass from Kick Formation.”
Clif looked across at Loring admiringly.
“Say, but these are corking! Do you think――I mean――”
“Will they go? Yes, I know they will. Of course a lot of them aren’t
new. I mean by that, Bingham, they were new to me when I doped them
out, but of course other fellows had thought of the same thing, or
something like it. You can’t invent a new football play very often; a
radically new one, I mean. The best you can do is work out some better
way of making an old one. Now and then, though, they change the rules
a bit and you get a new line of thought. This year the forward-pass
offers a chap the best chance for hitting on new stuff. There’s one
play there――just let me see it a minute, will you? Yes, here it is. I’d
like to see that tried some time. It’s a fake run around the short side
with the ball going from fullback to end, who has come around behind,
and then on a forward-pass over the long side to the other end. And
here’s another one that I really think could be worked nicely under the
proper conditions.”
Clif had pulled his chair beside Loring’s. His praise of the diagrams
had been genuine, but his admiration was rather for the skill shown
in their drawing than for their practical value, for the science of
football strategy had never engaged his interest. Loring turned the
sheets forward until he came to the one he sought. “Now, this, you
see, is a scoring play, pure and simple. It depends first of all on a
quarterback who can carry the ball and is fast.”
Clif nodded, leaning over to stare fascinatedly at the red and black
circles and squares, the straight lines and curved lines and dotted
lines, the letters and figures and arrow-heads. He was beginning at
last to translate the symbols into panting, crouching players and
follow in imagination the flight of the ball along its wavy path.
“It’s a quarterback run, isn’t it?” he asked eagerly.
“Yes,” said Loring. “But the ‘kick’ in this play, Bingham, depends on
keeping the ball hidden. Now, say we’re on the fifteen-yard line――”
In the village at that moment Tom emerged from Burger’s drug store
after his second glass of orange-squiz. He hadn’t particularly wanted
that second drink. He hadn’t, for that matter, particularly wanted
the first, but a fellow had to do something. He looked again along
the almost empty sidewalk in the direction of the school, but Clif
still failed to materialize. Tom scowled, dug his hands deeper into
the pockets of his trousers, rattled some loose silver and pennies and
turned for the fourth time to a bored survey of the left-hand window.
Six dozen wrapped bottles of “Buckingham’s Liquid Elixir, the Century’s
Greatest Scientific Discovery” made a pinkly geometrical display in the
background, while in the foreground numerous boxes, alternately covered
and uncovered, of “Tannebaum’s Oil of Amber Soap” added a harmonizing
tone of pale yellow. Tom scowled harder than ever and turned toward the
more varied offer of the second window. But even this soon palled on
fourth acquaintance, and finally he gave it up and set his steps toward
school, murmuring a dejected “Heck!” as he set forth.