THE FIGHTING SCRUB
Tuesday found the Fighting Scrub putting up a better defense, even
though McMurtry, in Ames’s place, proved a weak point in the line.
Later Joe Craigie, a substitute guard, ousted McMurtry and the left
side of the Scrub line got back to normal. In the first period of the
practice game “Big Bill” banged through for a touchdown and Stoddard
kicked the goal, while the best the Scrub could do was repeatedly kick
out of danger. In the second go, however, with Fargo out of it and
“Swede” Hanbury in his position, the Scrub not only held the enemy
scoreless but earned two points when Houston, at quarter, touched the
ball down for a safety rather than have a touchdown scored. The Scrub
put up a hard fight toward the end and Captain Tom had the ball on the
adversary’s twelve yards when the whistle blew.
On Wednesday it became known that Quinlan, of the First, was in trouble
at the Office and might not get reinstated in time to do much more
playing. Quinlan was only a second-string guard, but he was a good man
and his loss was no light matter. “G. G.” reached out and grabbed Clem
Henning away from the Scrub, and the wails of that aggregation were
loud and heart-rending. As Tom pointed out, and as most of the others
acknowledged, it was luck for Clem, and for his sake they were glad
enough, but his loss left a gaping hole in the Scrub line that Joe
Craigie couldn’t wholly fill. After two days of experimenting, Coach
Babcock put Joe back at left tackle and gave the right guard position
to Howlett. Howlett was light, but he had plenty of fight, and in time
he learned his duties very well. But during the rest of that week the
disrupted Scrub took some fine wallopings from the First and got but
one score. That single bit of glory belonged about evenly to Clif
and Johnny Thayer. It was Clif who pulled down Jackson’s long heave
across the left of the line and ran it through a thickly populated
alien territory to the four yards where he was tackled from behind by
Duval. If Clif was still weak at making tackles he was certainly strong
at avoiding them, for no fewer than four of the First at one time or
another laid hands on him. Clif had a way of spinning out of delaying
clutches that was very pretty indeed! From the four yards, Johnny
Thayer, at fullback, took the ball across in one straight plunge on
Cotter. Sim Jackson fumbled the pass and there was no goal.
Clif and Johnny were metaphorically presented with the Key of the
City by their grateful team mates on Friday night. That score had
been sorely needed to prop up the Scrub’s declining self-respect, and
so those who had provided it were momentary heroes. Tom didn’t stop
lavishing praise on Clif all the evening, and he was ably abetted by
Loring. Tom was inclined to lose track of the fact that the First Team
was in all ways a superior organization and to lay every detail to the
Scrub’s shortcomings rather than to the adversary’s fuller knowledge
and better playing. It was hard to make him see why the Scrub didn’t
have an even chance at every game. Tom was making a very good captain,
although, as frequently happens, being captain had slowed up his
progress as a player. Not that Tom wasn’t still holding down the left
halfback position in good shape, for he was. He was a more certain
gainer through the line than Lou Stiles, was a better punter than any
one on the First except “Big Bill” Fargo and could get a forward-pass
off in fine style. It was just that his anxiety to have the Scrub a
great team caused him to give more thought to its development than
to the individual duties of Tom Kemble, with the result that Tom’s
progress was not quite keeping up with that of the others. Tom was far
from realizing this, although Mr. Babcock, who played no favorites, was
after Tom a good deal during practice. Doubtless if Tom hadn’t had so
many things on his mind it would have dawned on him that his playing
wasn’t meeting with “Cocky’s” entire approval.
Clif encountered Wattles in the corridor on his way back from supper
that Wednesday evening. Wattles was carrying Loring’s tray to the
dining room. Clif said, “Hello, Wattles,” and would have passed, but
Wattles would have speech with him. “Mister Bingham,” said Wattles
earnestly, “may I take the liberty of complimenting you, sir, on that
remarkable run you made this afternoon? Really, sir, it was a most
stirring performance!”
“Think so, Wattles?” laughed Clif. “Well, you’re likely to see much
better stuff than that if you stick around.”
Wattles shook his head, apparently incredulous. “It doesn’t seem
possible, sir. The way you evaded those young gentlemen of the opposing
side was wonderful. What I call a most clever performance, sir, a
really bang-up bit of playing, sir!”
“Why, thanks, Wattles, that’s very nice of you. Getting to like our
style of football better, eh?”
“I’m beginning to understand it, Mr. Bingham, and I don’t hesitate to
say that, barring what looks to me like too heavy a stress on what I
may call the slugging features, it is a more exciting game than we
play, sir.”
“But look here, Wattles, we don’t slug!”
“No, sir? Oh, very possibly, very possibly. What I alluded to is the
part where you face each other, Mr. Bingham, and then――er――mix it up!
But perhaps Mister Loring has misled me. I understood from him that
using the fists was permissible, quite the usual thing. I have the
wrong――er――dope, sir?”
“You certainly have, Wattles!” Clif laughed. “Loring’s been ‘having’
you, as you’d say!”
“Very likely, sir,” sighed Wattles. “Thank you.”
Cupples Institute, Wyndham’s opponent the next afternoon, had been
defeated by Wolcott a fortnight before, 19 to 7. To those who delighted
in comparative scores to-day’s contest was of much interest. The Dark
Blue was expected to win, but by a close score, and whether that score
would better 19 to 7 was problematical. However, Cupples didn’t show
as strong as expected. Wyndham outpunted her all through the game and
outrushed her during two periods. Fargo went over for Wyndham’s first
score four minutes after the kick-off and Stoddard kicked goal. Again,
in the second, Fargo added another touchdown, and again Stoddard did
his part. The half ended: Wyndham 14, Cupples 0.
With Ogden replacing Jensen and two second-string men relieving Fargo
by turns in the fourth period, the Dark Blue was less assertive.
There were two long runs and some decent gains through the Cupples
line around midfield, but the best Wyndham could do in either of the
remaining quarters was to add two field-goals to her score.
Wyndham was highly pleased with the result of that afternoon’s
performance since, any way you looked at it, 20 to 0 was eight points
better than Wolcott’s score of 19 to 7. There was also a pleasant
conviction that, had she wanted to, Wyndham could have done even
better. The only fly in the ointment came to light the next day when
a perusal of the morning papers revealed the fact that Wolcott had
defeated Toll’s Academy 26 to 9.
Toll’s was Wyndham’s next opponent, and had been counted on to give
the Dark Blue a lot of trouble. The New York team had gone through five
contests without having her goal-line crossed and it had been expected
that she would hold Wolcott to a very meager score. Indeed, there were
plenty at Wyndham who had, no later than yesterday, predicted for
Wolcott nothing better than a tie game. Tom refused to believe his
own paper and was only convinced of the correctness of the score when
Clif’s journal told the same story. In the light of that result it was
necessary to either revise their former opinion of Toll’s or to credit
Wolcott with being about fifty per cent better than they had considered
her. Tom’s well-known capacity for pessimism helped him make out a very
good case in favor of the latter alternative.
“If Wolcott can make four touchdowns on Toll’s she can trim us, Clif,”
he declared gloomily.
“But she didn’t. She made three touchdowns and a field-goal. Can’t you
read?”
“Well, three, then. It makes no difference. Say, I’ll bet Toll’s will
hand us an awful wallop next Saturday!”
“How do you get that way?” asked Clif indignantly. “If we aren’t as
good as Wolcott this minute I’ll――I’ll treat! Look at yesterday’s game.”
“Sure, but we’re playing Toll’s on her own field, and you know that
makes a big difference. Wolcott played her at home, with all the
cheering her own way. Say, it doesn’t say a word about that boy wonder
of theirs, Goshawk, or whatever his name is. According to this, he
didn’t score a point. He was in the line-up, though; played right end.”
“Probably Wolcott didn’t pull many forward-passes,” said Clif. “Guess
she didn’t have to. Maybe she thought we’d have some scouts there. Say,
I wonder why ‘G. G.’ didn’t go over, or send some one.”
“Next week,” answered Tom. “He’d rather get his dope fresh. That’s what
I heard, anyway.”
After church Clif’s father appeared in the blue car and there was
another gorgeous feed at the Inn. This time Tom was the only guest,
for Walter was taking dinner with friends in the village. The weather
was not at all kind, and the ride in the afternoon was short, and Mr.
Bingham’s brief visit came to an end well before darkness had set in.
When he said good-by and was speeding off down the drive, the red
tail-light gleaming between the trees, Clif had a momentary qualm of
something very like homesickness. But it didn’t survive the journey
up to Number 34, where Tom and Billy Desmond, the latter stretched
luxuriously between the protuberances of his beloved couch, were
wrangling joyously over the relative merits of the Princeton and Yale
teams. Besides, Clif recalled, his father had promised faithfully to
come up for the Wolcott game, and that was but three weeks away. He
was to make an early start from Providence on Saturday morning, get
to Freeburg by noon and then take Clif and Tom and probably a couple
of other fellows over to Cotterville in time for the big event. Clif
got over his brief depression as he reached Number 34, and, throwing
himself on Tom’s bed, remarked maliciously that, as for Yale or
Princeton, there was only one real football team doing business that
fall. “Listen, you two. Cornell could lick either of them without
getting really warmed up well!”
Forgetting their previous differences, Tom and Billy united in a
common cause and spent the succeeding ten minutes telling Clif what an
ignoramus he was.
On Monday, facing a patched-up First Team, the Fighting Scrub dug its
claws deep and gouged and tore its way to a one-score victory. There
was no luck about it, either. It was no fluke win. Scrub just took
the ball away from a somewhat dreamy First near midfield and hammered
and thrust its way to the six yards. Johnny Thayer sustained facial
abrasions that made him look like an utter stranger to his companions,
Lou Stiles delayed proceedings while they pumped air back into him, and
Tom walked with a pronounced limp for the rest of the day, but between
them they landed the ball on the six yards. Coach Otis, pursuing his
charges with stinging comments and much excellent advice, wore a
somewhat dazed expression by then. Sportingly, however, he refrained
from strengthening his team with even one of the eager aspirants who
dragged their blankets along the side-line.
“Watch the ball, First!” he snapped. “Hold them now! Higgs, get down,
man! Close up there, Smythe, and stop this play! Throw them back,
First!”
“Let’s have it!” shouted Sim hoarsely. “Smear ’em, Scrub! Let’s have
this score!”
“Get into it, Scrub! Fight!” panted Tom. “Smash ’em up! You can do it!
Show ’em who you are! Come on, you Fighting Scrub!”
“Third down,” called Manager Macon, refereeing, “and about four to go!”
Then he blew his whistle.
The lines swayed, First thrust forward desperately, Sim, doubled over
the ball, turned his back to the mêlée as Tom plunged past. Then Johnny
Thayer reached for the pigskin, wrapped his long arms about it and
crashed into the faltering Tom. Confusion, grunts, smothered words,
the grinding and rasping of canvas against canvas, and then a sudden
forward movement of the right of the line that as suddenly stopped and
the shrill blast of the whistle. Macon dived into the pile and the
confusion became order.
“Not over! About a foot to go, Scrub! Fourth down!”
The Scrub yelled its triumph, the First snarled back, the coaches
hurled commands and Sim gave his signals again. What had yielded eleven
feet was surely good for one, and Johnny, leading the tandem, the ball
tightly hugged, dashed again at the same point and, as he struck the
line, thrust the trampled turf away from him and went up and forward
over the shoulders of the enemy and, ere the tide set backward, held
the ball for an instant well past the last white streak!
First trotted, walked or limped back to the gymnasium a few minutes
later with, for the time, nothing further to ask of life. Tom, smiting
Johnny between his broad shoulders, asked solicitously yet joyously:
“How’re you feeling, old son?” And Johnny, grinning painfully with
swollen lips, croaked: “Like a two-year-old, Tom! Say, didn’t we give
’em fits?”
“Fits? We trampled on ’em, Johnny, we trampled on ’em! The Fighting
Scrub, that’s us, boy!”