ON THE GRIDIRON
Sam started back, almost as though he expected Tom to strike him, but
our hero did not raise his hand. There came a grim tightening of his
lips, and into his eyes that had been dazed by the fall there was a
look of anger, but that was all.
"By Jove! Fairfield!" exclaimed Sam. "I--I didn't know it was you. I
wouldn't for the world have------"
"I suppose if it had been someone else you'd have ridden right over
him," said Tom quietly.
"No, indeed. But--er--I guess I was going a bit too fast. I didn't
see you--or--rather, I thought you'd step over a bit more."
"Step over more!" exclaimed Bruce. "What do you want; the whole road?
We were on the proper side for you to pass. What's the matter with
you, Heller?"
"Oh, I didn't mean to do it I tell you. My car is a new one, and the
steering gear is a bit stiff. I wouldn't have done it intentionally
for the world."
"That's right!" exclaimed Frank Nelson, a Sophomore who had been riding
on the front seat with Sam. "I thought Tom would get out of the way."
"Thanks," responded Tom briefly. "I would have, if I'd known what was
going to happen."
"Are you--are you hurt--much?" faltered Sam.
"No, it was only a glancing blow," and Tom began to brush the dust from
his clothes, assisted by Bruce and some of those with Sam.
"I--I'm sorry," faltered the owner of the car. "I wouldn't have done
that for anything, and------"
"Especially after the 'trick' you played on my friends this summer,"
cut in Tom.
"Oh, I say now," began Sam. "Look here, Fairfield, I'm as sorry as can
be over this. Will you--will you shake hands?" and he advanced with
outstretched palm.
"I will--not!" said Tom sharply, turning aside.
There was a moment of tense silence, and then Sam went on:
"Well, if you won't--you won't--that's all. I've done my share."
"That's right," chimed in some of his cronies, including Nick Johnson.
"It was an accident, anyhow," the latter added.
"An _avoidable_ accident," put in Bruce quietly. "You are lucky it was
no worse, Heller. Tom might have been seriously injured."
"A miss is as good as a mile," quoted someone. "Better give him a lift
back, Sam. I'll walk."
"Will you ride in the car?" asked Sam, half eagerly, for he realized
how popular Tom was, and he knew how thin was the ice on which he was
skating. "Come on, there's lots of room."
"No--thank you," said Tom between his teeth, and it was an effort to
add the last two words. "I can walk."
There was a little pause--an embarrassed silence, and then Nick said:
"Well, we might as well go on, Sam."
"Yes, I guess so. We can't do any good here. Come on, fellows."
They piled back into the car. There were some good-nights in which Sam
and his crony did not join, and then the auto rolled off in the
moonlight.
"Can you walk, Tom?" asked Bruce, with his arm around his friend's
shoulders.
"Oh, yes. I'm a bit stiff, that's all."
"Too bad. This is my fault. You may be lame for football practice
now."
"No, I guess not. I'll use some liniment when I get back. It wasn't
your fault at all. It was that Heller's confounded meanness, and I've
a good notion to------"
"You're not going to make a row over it; are you!" asked Bruce quickly.
"You won't go back on what you said?"
"No, but I'll watch my chance for getting back at him. I almost
believe he did it deliberately."
"I hardly think so, though it was mighty careless of him. But we might
as well be getting on. It isn't far to the Hall now."
Tom found himself a trifle stiff and lame but he could walk all right,
though with a slight limp. Bruce bade him good-night and passed on to
his own dormitory, while Tom silently made his way to the room he had
picked out for himself and his chums. There was a light burning in it,
though it was after hours.
"Guess all rules are suspended for a while yet," mused our hero as he
entered. "Well, we'll pass the wig joke for a while. I forgot to get
one anyhow."
"Hello, what's up?" demanded Bert, who was getting ready for bed.
"Steam roller hit you?" inquired Jack. "Why, your head is cut, Tom!"
"Yes, I had a little go with Sam Heller's auto, and I got the worst of
it," and our hero told his story of the evening.
"The cad!" cried Jack. "We'll fix him for this. I almost wish you
hadn't given Bruce that promise, Tom."
"Oh, that's all right. There are more ways of getting back at Sam than
making a class matter of it. Let's forget all about it. Whew! but I'm
stiff. Any of you fellows got any liniment?"
"I have," declared Bert, producing a bottle of highly-flavored
compound. "It's home-made but it goes to the spot," and Tom was soon
bathing his injured hip, and telling the story of Bruce's "experiment."
Much against their desires his chums promised with Tom not to proceed
against Sam and Nick.
Elmwood Hall began to buzz and hum with activities, not alone of
lessons and lectures, but of sports and the rumors of sports. There
were also whispers of hazings to come, and the luckless Freshmen
cowered in their rooms, and trembled at the sound of a knock on their
portals.
"Did you see the notice?" exclaimed Jack one afternoon as he rushed
into the room he shared with Tom and Bert.
"What notice?" asked Bert. "Has that sneak Heller left? If he has it
will save trouble later."
"No such luck," was the answer. "But football practice starts
to-morrow on the gridiron. Hurray! Let's get out our suits, and see
how many holes there are in 'em."
Books were tossed aside, and from the trunks were pulled the jackets
and trousers that had seen yeoman service.
"Mine are all right," announced Tom.
"Whew! There's an all-fired big rip here," declared Jack, as he viewed
his trousers. "Anyone got a needle and thread with 'em?"
"Use some wire," suggested Bert. "That's what I do. Thread won't
hold."
And then began a busy session for the chums.
It was the day of the first football practice. Out on the field
assembled half a hundred lads from whom the leading school team would
be picked. There were at least a dozen lads for every position, and
only a few positions to fill, for many of the former players had come
back.
"What are you going to try for, Tom?" asked Bert, as he delivered a
beautiful drop kick down the field.
"One of the backs--left half for choice."
"Here comes Morse," remarked Jack, as the captain came into sight,
surrounded by a score of lads seeking to curry favor.
"And there's Jackson, the coach," added Tom. "He's got a suit on.
Guess he'll go in for practice."
The field soon became a scene of activity. From one side two lads
strolled from under the grandstand where some of the dressing rooms
were, and advanced toward the coach and captain.
"There are Heller and Johnson," said Bert in a low voice. "They're
going to have a try, too."
"Did you hear where Sam wants to play?" asked Tom.
"No," answered his chums.
"Come on now, boys, line up!" called the captain. "We'll play a scrub
game. Hecker, Miller, Jones, Reilley, you'll be on the scrub for a
while," and Morse called on other names to make an eleven.
"Regular team over here!" went on the young captain--"that is what's
left of 'em. Tom Fairfield, you'll be left half, I guess. Bert, get
in at guard, though I may change you later. Jack, you'll do at tackle,
I think."
"Where am I to play?" asked Sam Heller as though it was all
settled--that is all but naming his position. "I'd like to go in at
quarterback."
Morse looked at him. So did the coach, and the latter nodded at the
captain.
"Very well, Heller. Try it at quarter," assented Morse, "though I
can't promise to always play you there in matches. Now then line up.
Tom will take the ball for a try through the scrub. Be careful in
passing it, Heller."
There was rather a gasp of astonishment from the other players and some
of the spectators as the two enemies were thus brought into the
limelight. As for Tom, he felt a sinking at his heart, for he realized
that Sam had it in his power to make or mar his play by the manner in
which he passed the ball.
"But they shan't say it was my fault!" said Tom grimly to himself.
"I'll play a straight game, and if Heller wants to do any crooked
work--well, let him, that's all!"