THE SCRUB DISBANDS
Neither Clif nor Tom had more than a glimpse of Loring until late
Sunday afternoon. Then Wattles found them both in Tom’s room and
announced that Loring would like to see them in front of East Hall.
“Have his folks gone, Wattles?” asked Tom.
“No, sir, not yet. I think Mister Loring wishes you to meet them, sir.”
Tom exchanged glances with Clif and then grabbed his brushes and
smoothed his hair into place. “We’ll be right down, Wattles,” he said.
Wattles departed and Clif seized the brushes that Tom had abandoned in
favor of a whisk. Finally, a trifle awed, they set forth. But neither
Mr. Deane nor Mrs. Deane proved formidable. Loring’s father was a tall,
rather thin gentleman with a closely cropped gray mustache and pink
cheeks, who looked more like an army man than the popular conception
of a multimillionaire. He had a way of half closing his eyes when he
smiled that was most engaging. Loring looked more like his mother, who,
as Tom enthusiastically confided to Clif later, was “a pippin.” They
were still in the handsome big car that had aroused Clif’s admiration
several weeks before, and Loring sat between them. They had been to
the shore for luncheon, Loring explained, and――
“Lobster,” said Mr. Deane, squinting his eyes in his funny way and
sighing. “They were good, weren’t they, Lory? Um-m!”
“My dear,” chided Mrs. Deane, “do you think it’s kind to gloat over
lobster before Clif and Tom? You don’t mind if I call you Clif, do
you?” She smiled apologetically on Tom. “Loring speaks so often of you,
you know.”
“No, ma’am,” stammered Tom.
“Perhaps Clif does, though,” laughed Loring. “You’ve got them mixed,
mother.”
“Have I? Well, that’s your fault, Loring. Your introduction was so
sketchy! Which of you is it who plays football so nicely?”
“Both of us, Mrs. Deane,” replied Clif daringly. “But I’m the one you
had in mind.”
“Huh-huh,” chuckled Mr. Deane appreciatively. Mrs. Deane dimpled and
then sighed.
“I’m afraid you’re making fun of me. Anyway, you’re both gorgeous
looking boys, and I like you both for being so nice to my boy. And I’m
coming up next Saturday――it is Saturday, isn’t it?――to see you play.”
“I hope you will,” said Tom intensely. “We won’t be playing, but it’s
going to be a corking game, Mrs. Deane.”
“But I want to see _you_ play,” she demurred. “And you.” She included
Clif in her glance. “Perhaps, just as a favor to me, you will, won’t
you?”
Tom’s mouth opened, but he didn’t seem to be able to find anything to
say. Then his eyes, wandering from Mrs. Deane, encountered Loring’s
grin and he got very red and made a choking sound. Clif came to his
rescue. “We’ll do our best,” he laughed. “You see, we’re only on the
Scrub Team, Mrs. Deane, and it’s the First Team that plays Wolcott. I
hope you will come, too, sir.”
“Eh?” said Loring’s father. “Well, now, I don’t know.”
“I wish you would, dad,” begged Loring.
“Well, I’ll see, Lory. It seems to me, though, I’ve got something on
Saturday.”
“Not a thing but a game of golf,” said Mrs. Deane, “and if Loring wants
you to come――”
“Yes, yes, my dear! Of course!” He winked slyly at Clif. “I dare say it
will rain Saturday, anyway.”
“It wouldn’t be the first time you’d golfed in the rain,” responded his
wife severely. “But next Saturday, rain or shine, you are coming up
here with me.”
“Yes, my dear,” he chuckled, “I’m sure I am. Boys, take the advice of a
wise old man and don’t marry a tyrannical wife!”
“No, sir,” answered Tom promptly and earnestly. Whereat every one
laughed and Wattles lifted Loring out and the big car rolled away.
Eager to hear what Loring had learned at Cotterville the day before,
Clif and Tom hurried over to his room after supper. But only Wattles
was there. Mister Loring, he explained, was visiting Mr. Babcock.
Wattles’s tone was rather impressive. Since that visit to Wolcott
yesterday he had carried himself with added dignity, for was not
he, too, concerned in matters of deep moment? Had he not taken a
part, though a humble one, in diplomatic affairs? Always a model of
discretion, to-night Wattles was discreeter than ever, and when Tom
asked: “Did he find out anything, Wattles?” he glanced toward windows
and doors before, lowering his voice to a confidential murmur, he
answered: “Yes, sir. Something extremely important, Mister Kemble, but
I am not at liberty to mention it, sir.”
“Oh, roll your hoop,” grumbled Tom. “I guess he will tell us, all
right.”
“Oh, yes, sir,” agreed Wattles. “Quite so, sir.”
But they didn’t learn very much from Loring, after all, for “Cocky” had
advised against it. He did tell them about the journey to Cotterville,
in the same antiquated but efficient vehicle that had brought Tom back
from Danbury, and how Wattles, learning something of the mission, had
advised stopping en route and securing disguises, Wattles favoring for
himself a voluminous beard. But as to what he had actually observed at
the Wolcott game Loring was vague and reticent. Tom got a trifle huffy
and said he guessed Loring hadn’t found out anything much, anyway, if
you asked _him_!
Monday morning Mr. Wyatt detained Tom after class and said: “At my
suggestion, Kemble, the Faculty has released you from restrictions.” If
he had expected Tom to exhibit delight he was disappointed. Tom said
“Thank you, sir,” in a listless voice and looked a trifle bored.
“I hope,” said the instructor, “the news hasn’t displeased you?”
“Sir?” Tom viewed him questioningly. “Oh, no, sir.” Then, recollecting
that the removal of restrictions would enable him to see the Wolcott
game, he added with a touch of animation: “It’s great, Mr. Wyatt. I
thought, maybe, I wouldn’t get to Cotterville Saturday.”
“I see. And, of course, you can play football again, Kemble.”
“Not much use, sir. The team gets through Wednesday.”
“Gets through? To be sure. So it does. Hm. I’d forgotten that.” Mr.
Wyatt looked so puzzled that Tom wondered. Tom didn’t know, of course,
that Mr. Babcock had dropped in on “Alick” last evening and that
his, Tom’s, affairs had come up for discussion; nor that Mr. Wyatt’s
puzzlement had to do with “Cocky’s” efforts to secure the removal of
restrictions from a boy whose football usefulness was practically at an
end! “Well,” continued the instructor, “I trust that hereafter――er――we
shall not have to――” His thoughts returned to Mr. Babcock―― “Hm, that
will be all, Kemble.”
“Yes, sir,” said Tom, glad of release.
Coincidences do sometimes happen outside of fiction. Less than thirty
seconds later, having reached the foot of the stairway, Tom almost
collided with a hurrying figure.
“Hello!” said Mr. Babcock. “Almost had――is that Kemble?” He stopped
abruptly in his long stride. “Look here, are you square with the
Office?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good! Report to me this afternoon then.”
“You mean――” Tom swallowed. “Yes, sir!”
“Come ready to play, Kemble.” “Cocky’s” voice came back from well down
the corridor. “May be able to use you, young fellow!”
Well, things were happening strangely these days, thought Tom!
They went on happening that way at intervals, too. Tom joined the
First Team squad on Monday. On Tuesday he played left half against his
former companions of the Scrub, putting in almost as much time at that
job as did Whitemill and getting off the one long forward-pass that
secured any ground for the First. What it all meant Tom could guess as
little as any one, with the probable exceptions of “Cocky” and Captain
Dave. But the cat was out of the bag on Wednesday, and the heavens
fell. I realize that the metaphors don’t belong together, but each is
satisfyingly apt.
On Wednesday the truth about “Big Bill” Fargo became known. He had been
sent home Saturday on the advice of the school physician and now he was
stretched out flat in some hospital with one knee entirely surrounded
by plaster of Paris! Oh, he would be back in a week or two, but there
wouldn’t be any more football or basketball or hockey for “Big Bill”
this winter. The fact that he would be back in a fortnight or less
interested the School not a particle just then. Later it would consider
that fact with gratification, but just now all that occupied its mind
was that the Team had lost its best fullback in years, the one player
who never got hurt, the man around whom the Team’s attack had been
carefully constructed! So when I say that the heavens fell I’m choosing
my metaphor very carefully.
Until then Wyndham had still hoped to defeat her rival. The loss
of Coach Otis had been a severe blow, but victory had remained a
possibility in the judgment of most. But now――why, it wasn’t worth
talking about! That game was as good as played! Might just as well
cheer Wolcott to-day and have it over with!
There were some who advocated forfeiting the game while there was still
time, but this idea didn’t meet with general approval, not even while
the stunning effect of the blow was yet at its height. No, they’d play
Wolcott and do the best they could. That was only sportsmanly. And
maybe the poor, decrepit old Team would crawl out of the contest still
recognizable to its closest friends! In any case, defeat was honorable
if not desirable!
There was a good deal of talk during Wednesday and Thursday about Honor
in Defeat, and the Last Ditch, and Going Through With It. Wednesday
night’s mass meeting was truly pathetic. “Shadowed Walls” sounded
like a dirge when it was sung, and “Win! Win! Wyndham,” for all of
its volume, was less a cheer than an intoned elegy. It suggested
renunciation but not defiance. Mr. Babcock’s gravely cheerful remarks
were applauded politely. The School appreciated his efforts but was not
to be deluded. There were other speakers, too, and they wasted a lot
of words, in the judgment of their hearers. What was the good of being
hopeful when there wasn’t any hope left?
But on Thursday evening the meeting was different. Though defeat was
still accepted as inevitable, the notion of taking it lying down was
no longer popular. The sentiment to-night favored getting in just as
many good, hard licks as was possible before being counted out. There
was still a strong “We who are about to die salute you” savor to
proceedings, but the salutation was distinctly defiant. A courteous
letter from the Wolcott Academy Athletic Association deploring the
unfortunate loss to Wyndham of its Head Coach was read and almost moved
the hearers to tears. Somehow, there seemed something quite touching in
the idea of the lion sympathizing with its victim before devouring him!
Wyndham cheered that letter to the echo.
The Scrub did not disband on Wednesday, according to custom, although
Wednesday witnessed the final real game between it and First. At Mr.
Babcock’s direction the Scrub postponed dissolution for twenty-four
hours and on Thursday lined up opposite the big team for some twenty
minutes while the latter put the polishing touches on several plays,
among them Number 30. Tackling was prohibited, and the somewhat
ludicrous spectacle of Billy Desmond and Al Greene scowling darkly at
each other without once coming to grips was presented. The captaincy
of the Scrub had fallen to Johnny Thayer on Monday, and it was Johnny
who gathered the team about him in the early twilight that Thursday
afternoon and led the cheer.
“Win, win, Wyndham! Win, win, Wyndham! Win, win, Wyndham! Scrub!
_Scrub!_ SCRU-U-UB!”
The First cheered then, and after that the Scrub cheered the First, and
the audience cheered the Scrub and the Scrub cheered Mr. Connover, and
Mr. Connover cheered――no, that isn’t right! But there was a good deal
of cheering and noise; and a good deal of laughter as the Scrub formed
in line and, eighteen strong, marched off abreast behind a long strip
of white oilcloth bearing the inscription in large black letters: THE
FIGHTING SCRUB――The Team That Put the “Win” in Wyndham――Scrub 13; F.
H. S. 0――Scrub 26; T. A. 9――Scrub 13; W. 2nd 12――WE WERE GOOD AND WE
ACKNOWLEDGE IT!
Clif held his breath and turned the cold full on, shivered deliciously
as the icy water peppered his glowing body and broke into song:
“Whoop it up for Wyndham! Whoop it up loud!
Here we come on the run! Same old crowd!
What we did before, boys, we can do again!
W――Y――N――D――H――A――M!”
Then he turned the shower off, reached for his towel and dried himself,
avoiding the still trickling sprinkler above. Well, that was over! No
more football until next fall. It was a sort of relief, too. There had
been just about enough of it. Of course he would feel horribly lost for
a week or so, but there were compensations. For instance, eats! For six
weeks and more he hadn’t had a piece of pie, and the pie at Wyndham was
_good_! To-morrow he wouldn’t have to pass his piece across to Crosby.
No, sir. And he wouldn’t have to think whether he ought to eat this,
that and the other. No, sir, he’d just _eat_ it!
There wasn’t much drying necessary, and after a moment Clif wrapped the
damp towel about him and padded his way along the wet tile floor to
the locker-room. And there was Johnny Thayer, disgracefully unadorned,
striding toward him and grinning like a catfish, and holding him with
a glittering eye. Clif knew that something portentous was about to
happen. He had one of Tom’s “hunches.” Johnny stayed him with two hands
against his bare chest and spoke in hoarse elation.
“You and ‘Wink’ and I go to the First! What do you know?”
“Ice-cold water on the head is good,” replied Clif. But his levity was
strained, for he knew that Johnny was talking true talk.
“It’s gospel! ‘Cocky’ just told me. Ask ‘Wink.’ He’s over there.”
“Did he say me, too?” asked Clif, conscious of the fact that his heart
was thumping as if he had just completed an eighty-yard run. Johnny
nodded vigorously.
“The three of us, old ruffian! Ain’t it great? Gee, they have to come
to the Fighting Scrub when they want real talent!”
“But, I don’t see―― What’s the big idea? Where do I fit in? You and
‘Wink,’ sure, but me――”
“Oh, ‘Cocky’’ll find a use for you, Clif. Trust that old bird! Say, I’m
tickled to death! Gee, why, we’ll get our letters, anyway; all three of
us probably! What price me with a big blue W on my tummy?”
“Well, I don’t know, Johnny. We mightn’t. There’s a lot of fellows on
that First Team squad now. I don’t see what he’s going to do with us
all!”
“Feed us to Wolcott one at a time. Maybe ‘Cocky’s’ idea is to give
Wolcott indigestion, eh? Anyway, I should concern myself. All I want is
a chance at some of those big stiffs. That and my letter!”
Johnny strode gloriously on toward the showers and Clif mingled with
the crowd that filled the locker-room. Oddly, no one took any notice of
him; just as if he hadn’t been joined up with the First at all! But,
he consoled himself, they probably hadn’t heard yet. He sought out Tom
with his eyes and waved a brown stocking at him. Tom waved back, but
it was evident that he didn’t know. His wave had been too casual. Clif
chuckled and hurried his dressing. He would wait for Tom and tell him
the thrilling news on the way to Hall!