TOM’S LUCK TURNS
The discouraging thing about beating the First was that the First
wouldn’t stay beaten. If you scored on it one day it came back the
following day and tried to see just how overbearing it could be. Or if
you beat it on Monday, say, it spent the rest of the week rubbing your
face in the dirt, until you almost wished you hadn’t been so rash. So
the Scrub’s hour of triumph was brief. On Tuesday the enemy, with all
its best talent present, took a long, craving look at the Scrub and
proceeded to devour it. Three scores, two touchdowns and a field-goal
resulted from the first period, by the end of which the Scrub was
somewhat demoralized although still fighting. During the five minutes
of intermission Mr. Babcock managed to restore his charges to a fair
condition of usefulness. What no one could understand was why, when the
Scrub had the ball, the First got the jump every time and upset every
play before it reached the line. This had happened with such monotony
that the most reasonable explanation seemed to be that the First had
somehow since yesterday become endowed with clairvoyant powers that
enabled it to know beforehand what the opponent meant to do. That the
First had learned the Scrub signals had occurred to the latter, only
to be promptly rejected. Neither Coach Otis nor Captain Lothrop would
profit by such an advantage. Yet, merely to make a certainty more sure,
or, perhaps, because no other remedy suggested itself, the signals,
already changed when Clem Henning had joined the enemy forces, had been
switched again since play had started. So that couldn’t be it.
Yet something was wrong. The Scrub wasn’t playing any slower than
usual; in fact, both line and backfield were almost beating the ball;
and yet to-day the only safe play for the Scrub was a punt, and even
one of those had been nearly blocked! “Cocky” puzzled and wracked his
brain without finding the solution, and the Scrub went back to the
massacre still perplexed and irritated. Yet the second scrimmage period
wasn’t so bad, for there was only one more score by the First, and the
Scrub made four first downs and got within twenty yards of the enemy’s
goal. Nevertheless it was a chastened and somewhat dazed squad which
made its weary way back to the gymnasium in the early dusk. Perhaps
the defeated army after Waterloo felt about the way the Scrub did.
Yesterday they had been, to-day they were not. And no one was able to
say why!
No one in the Scrub, that is. Almost any member of the First Team
could have explained the mystery very promptly had he chose. But he
didn’t choose. The First merely looked superior and a little bit
contemptuous; and it took two Firsts and three Scrubs to separate
Al Greene and “Swede” Hanbury in the shower room after “Swede” had
made what sounded like a perfectly innocent observation regarding the
afternoon’s proceedings. Even so the peacemakers didn’t intervene in
time to prevent bloodshed, for Al was sniffing through an ensanguined
nose as he was led protestingly away and “Swede” was working his jaws
experimentally and prodding the left side of his chin with an inquiring
finger.
Beside the First Team members, however, the secret of the Scrub’s
overthrow was known to one other at least. Loring, seated in his chair
beyond the third turn of the running track, attended by the faithful
Wattles, had used his eyes and his book-learned knowledge of football
to advantage, and so, after supper, when Tom did not appear promptly at
the room on the first floor of East, Wattles was sent in search of him.
As Tom was in Mr. Babcock’s study just then, Wattles failed to find
him. Clif, encountered by Wattles in a corridor, was of no assistance,
for Clif had been searching for Tom himself. But Clif agreed to deliver
the message when the missing one was found, and Wattles returned
to report failure. Clif didn’t find an opportunity to deliver that
message, however, until he ran into Tom on the way to assembly hall,
and so it wasn’t until after study hour that the two reached Loring’s
room. Tom had done very little studying, for the fact that Loring had
sent for him had plunged him into a sea of conjecture. It might just be
that Loring could throw light on the engrossing mystery. The chap was
certainly sharp! Already he had offered two or three suggestions that,
passed on to Coach Babcock, had been adopted to the betterment of the
Scrub. Tom had acknowledged to Clif no later than Saturday that Loring
was really being of use!
“Say,” demanded Tom anxiously when Clif had closed the door behind
them, “what’s on your mind, Loring?”
“What’s on yours?” asked Loring smilingly.
Tom groaned. “Not a thing in the world, old son! Nothing but the
trifling recollection of having been licked 23 to 0 this afternoon.
Come on! Spill it! I know you’ve got some sort of dope.”
“Well, I know one reason why you got beaten so badly, Tom.”
“What is it?”
“First jumped you every time.”
“O Sacred Ibis of the River Nile!” wailed Tom. “Is that the best you
can do? Listen, Loring. Strange as it may sound to you, quite a few of
us guessed that about five hours ago!”
“And did you also guess why?” asked Loring sweetly.
“We guessed, yes, but they were rotten guesses. Do _you_ know?”
“I think I do. The answer is ‘Jackson.’”
“Sim? How do you mean?” Tom sat up straight and opened his eyes widely.
“Didn’t you notice that after the first few minutes of the second
period you fellows began to make your plays go?”
“Yes, they certainly went better in the second show.”
“And after Duval went in at quarter for Jackson?”
“By Jove, that’s so! But what――how――”
“Tom, if the other fellow tells you a second beforehand when the ball’s
going into play isn’t that a bit of a help to you? Doesn’t it allow you
to beat the ball a bit?”
“You mean that Sim gave the play away? I mean――”
“Yes. Remember that First was penalized twice for off-side? Well, it
ought to have been penalized half a dozen more times. It would have
been if I’d been refereeing. Those fellows watched Jackson and started
before the ball every time you had it. By the time the runner got the
ball there was no chance for him. Two or three times――”
“But, great Scott, what did Jackson do? I didn’t see anything wrong,
Loring.”
“You were too close, Tom. I wish I had the use of my legs so I could
show you. Clif, you be Jackson for a minute, like a good chap. All
right. Give your signals――wait, you’re turning this way now, bending
down. That’s it. ‘Signals!’ Now then, you turn toward the center.
You’ve had your left hand, or your right, maybe, on the center’s back
while you’ve been giving the signal, but now you drop it and hold your
hands for the ball. Act it out that way, please.”
“I’ll try,” laughed Clif. “Signals! Twenty-three, forty-three,
seventeen! Twenty-three, forty-three――” He dropped his right hand from
an imaginary back and――
“See it?” exclaimed Loring.
Tom shook his head in puzzlement as Clif straightened up again. “Why,
his shoulder, man!” said Loring impatiently. “First it’s way up like
this where half the First Team’s linemen can see it. Then it disappears
and after you’ve counted two the ball is snapped. That’s as regular
as――as――why, it never fails! I timed it half a dozen times, Tom. Down
went Jackson’s shoulder and from three-quarters to a second afterwards
Ridgway snapped. Some one found that out and spread it. Now the First
Team forwards watch Jackson’s shoulder instead of the ball or the men
in front of them and when it ducks they charge. Sometimes they were
past the line before the ball was in Jackson’s hands. If there had been
a linesman he would have penalized First six or eight times; almost
every time you chaps had the ball in the first half; but a referee or
an umpire can’t see that sort of thing from where he stands. When Duval
went in you began to make your plays good because the First wasn’t
being tipped off when to start.”
“Heck!” murmured Tom. “So that was it! A simple little thing like that!
My sainted Aunt Jerusha! And no one saw it!”
“I don’t see what your blamed old aunt’s got to do with it,” objected
Clif disgustedly. “I’ve said all along, and so has Loring, that we
ought to cut out passing to the quarter except when――”
“What’s the difference?” demanded Tom. “Sim would do the same thing
if the pass was direct to the runner. He’s got to learn to keep his
shoulder out of sight. Either that or quit! Say, I’ve known backs who
gave the play away by shifting or moving their feet or something, but
this is the first time I ever heard of a quarter giving the other team
a starting signal! Heck, wouldn’t that jar you?”
“Well, I’m glad we know what’s wrong,” said Clif thankfully.
“To-morrow――”
“To-morrow! Say, I’ve got to see ‘Cocky’!” Tom jumped for the door.
“Loring, you win the spun glass crow-bar, old son! See you later!”
Then the door slammed.
Three minutes later Tom was enlightening a surprised, relieved and
somewhat chagrined “Cocky.” But after several minutes of explanations
and questions and comments the coach suddenly looked puzzled. “But look
here, Kemble. An hour ago you didn’t know any more than I did. How does
it happen you come along now and――”
“Loring Deane,” said Tom. “Let me tell you about him, sir.”
So Tom told, ending with: “Two or three things I spoke to you about
weren’t my ideas at all. They were his. I wasn’t trying to swipe the
credit for them, Mr. Babcock, but I thought you’d think I was sort of
crazy if I told you about Loring. Heck, I only did it because the poor
guy wanted to get in on football. He’s a regular nut, sir. Then, blamed
if he didn’t come across with two or three good ideas, like the one
about playing Bingham close in on forward-passes to the right, and it
just seemed easier to let you think that they were brain-waves of my
own than explain.”
“I see. Well, it looks to me, Kemble, as though it would be a rather
brilliant idea to encourage Deane. Guess we’d better attach him to our
‘coaching staff,’” Mr. Babcock added laughingly.
“I wish he would let you see some of the plays he’s planned. Some of
them look pretty good to me, but I’m not much of a hand at diagrams.”
“I’d like to see them, of course,” replied Mr. Babcock, not very
enthusiastically. “Bring them along some evening.”
“I spoke about that, sir, but he didn’t seem keen for it. He’s got a
forward-pass play, with an end throwing, that looks sort of good, and I
was wondering if we couldn’t try it out, Mr. Babcock. There’s a lot of
us who would like mighty well to beat Minster High next Saturday. And
then, of course, we’ve _got_ to lick that Wolcott Scrub!”
“I’ll drop in on Deane to-morrow and get him to show me what he’s got.
I’d like to make his acquaintance, too. Oh, by the way, Kemble, there’s
something I meant to speak of when you were in here before. How are you
getting on in classes?”
“Me, sir? Well, I’m all right, I guess. Of course, I’m not what you
could call a shining example right now, Mr. Babcock, but as soon as
football’s over I’ll be sitting pretty.”
“Hm. Well, if I were you I’d find plenty of time for studying, my boy.
In fact, I’d make rather an effort just now, because it wouldn’t do to
have something come up and prevent you from playing. Think it over,
will you? A word to the wise, as they say. Good night.”
“Now,” reflected Tom, as he made his way back to East, “just what did
he mean by that? Some one’s been talking, and I’ll bet it’s that old
‘Alick.’ Maybe I’d better try to make a better showing with him. He’s
been looking sort of mean lately. Yes, sir, I’d just better get back on
‘Alick’s’ good side.”
Wednesday’s sensation was the showing of the Scrub against the First
in two periods of fifteen and ten minutes each. With Charlie Duval at
quarter most of the time, the Scrub held the enemy on the defense all
through the first period and, while it wasn’t able to get across the
goal-line, it made the adversary play harder for some minutes than it
had played all the fall. In the second period, with many substitutes
present on both teams, the First got the upper hand and managed to hold
it, finally working the ball close to the Scrub’s goal and losing it
when Ogden fumbled a pass from center. A few minutes later it tried a
desperate attempt at a goal from the thirty-six yards and missed it
narrowly. Following that, with less than three minutes left, Scrub
faked a punt and sent Tom galloping past left tackle to midfield.
Tom was having one of his good days, and now, aided and abetted by
Johnny Thayer, he secured two more first downs before First steadied
and stopped the onslaught. After Johnny had punted over the line the
whistle blew and ended the scoreless battle.
Loring had a tale to tell that evening. Mr. Babcock had been in to see
him just after dinner and they had had a wonderful talk about football
and the Scrub Team and those plays of his, for “Cocky” had made him
show them, saying that Tom had told about them. “And he went away with
four of them,” said Loring, trying to conceal his delight. “Said he
wanted to study them and that if they looked all right he’d have you
fellows try them out some day soon.”
“Did he take that forward-pass from end?” asked Tom.
“Yes, and he was looking at that a long time. Say, wouldn’t it be
corking if that worked all right?”
“Work? Of course it will work. It’ll go big. Mark my words, old son.”
“Well, I don’t know. Maybe there’s a weak spot somewhere. Mr. Babcock
says you can’t really tell a whole lot about plays until you’ve
actually tried them out against another team.”
“That one’s all right,” replied Tom confidently. “I’d like to use it
against Minster next Saturday and get it working nicely for the Wolcott
Scrub. I like that play. I’ll bet it turns out to be the cheese, old
son!”
That settled, he and Loring arranged the chess-men and Clif settled
himself with a book. At five minutes to eight, the game being still
undecided, the board was set aside until after study hour and Tom
hurried up to Number 34 for his books. Billy Desmond met him at the
head of the stairs.
“‘Alick’s’ been looking for you, Tom,” announced Billy casually. “Wants
to converse with you in his study, young feller.”
“‘Alick’! Golly! Say, did he look――er――pleasant?”
“Extremely jovial, I thought.”
Tom groaned. “There’s breakers ahead then. He’s always sweet and
pleasant just before he bites! Well, he will have to wait until after
study. Heck, I wish I’d put in more time on my English this morning,
instead of wasting it on math!”
Clif pushed Loring’s chair along the corridor after study hour and
informed him that the chess game was going to be delayed. “Tom’s got to
see Mr. Wyatt, and he’s scared to death.” Clif chuckled. “Wyatt’s the
only person he ever was scared of, I guess!”
“I hope ‘Alick’ isn’t going to be nasty,” said Loring uneasily. “You
know, Clif, Tom’s an awful dumbbell about English. Yesterday I thought
‘Alick’ was going to have a conniption when Tom gave those perfectly
inane answers about ‘The Ancient Mariner.’”
“He was quaint,” laughed Clif. “But I guess ‘Alick’s’ just reading him
the riot-act. Hang it, you know, Tom _does_ try!”
“Y-yes, I know, but――” Loring shook his head. “Oh, well, he will pull
through. He’s an awfully lucky dub!”
Half an hour later, however, the lucky dub didn’t look the part as,
closing the door of Number 4 West behind him, he thrust his hands into
his pockets and stared dazedly down the short corridor. He stood there
a long minute before, with a shrug and a hardening of his features, he
made his way briskly around the corner and set out for East Hall. He
did a great deal of thinking on the way, but the more he thought the
less happy he became, and when he at last reached Loring’s room he had
to pause for an instant to wet his lips and work his face back into
shape. When he went in he was grinning, and, since Clif had grown to
know him fairly well by now, there was one occupant of the room not
deceived by that grin. Loring asked anxiously: “Was he bad, Tom?”
“Well, depends,” replied Tom, seating himself with unusual decorum.
“What would you call bad, old son?”
“Why――”
But Clif interrupted bruskly. “What’s he done, Tom? Don’t act the fool!
Let’s hear it.”
“All right! He’s handed me a dirty wallop, if you must know, the old
skunk! I’m on restriction.”
“Restriction!” exclaimed Loring. “Why, then――then you can’t――”
“So he very carefully reminded me,” said Tom bitterly. “Oh, he didn’t
forget anything! Said the Office had had my case under consideration
for some time and that only my standing in other studies had kept them
from giving me the ax before. Said maybe if my time wasn’t so taken up
with football I’d――” Tom stopped and shook his head. “Oh, he put the
harpoon into me good and hard, and turned it around a couple of times.
Well, I’m done for this season.”
“But, great Scott, isn’t he going to let you make up――or something?”
demanded Clif. “He can’t keep you from playing all the rest of the
season, can he? Why, there’s more than two weeks yet!”
“Oh, sure, I can make up,” laughed Tom grimly. “All I’ve got to do is
get eighty or better from now on, write a nice little theme of five
hundred words on Coleridge’s ‘Ancient Mariner’――five hundred, mind
you!――and make up some stuff in paragraph structure that I fell down on
Monday. Oh, sure, I can make up all right!”
“Well, but how long have you got to――to――”
“Friday afternoon for the theme. Heck, what’s the use of talking about
it? I couldn’t write a hundred words about that blamed old mariner, let
alone five hundred! And then getting eighty! Why, hang it, I’ve never
got better than sixty-five in English, and I never expect to! It’s
rotten stuff, and I hate it. Composition and rhetoric, and the whole
blamed business! No, sir, I’m plumb through!”
“How do you mean, through?” asked Clif sharply.
Tom’s gaze dropped to the floor, and for a moment he made no answer.
Then he shrugged his shoulders. “Well, what do you think?” he asked
bitterly. “Wouldn’t you call it through?” Then, after a pause. “I dare
say you fellows will make Johnny Thayer captain.”