BEHIND THE BOATHOUSE
On Thursday Coach Bonner did what the members of the first squad had
been expecting him to do for nearly a week. That is, he had what Nick
called “his annual mid-season spasm.” Declaring that the fellows had
apparently forgotten the very rudiments of football, he announced
no scrimmage and prescribed an afternoon of “kindergarten stuff.”
The words are again Nick’s. The tackling dummy, of late more or less
neglected, spent the most strenuous afternoon of its fall career. It
was banged and thumped and ground in the loam until had it possessed
a head, which it didn’t, its countenance must have proclaimed tragic
distress. Not satisfied with a full three-quarters of an hour of
tackling, Mr. Bonner put his charges at other degrading labors;
passing, starting, crawling, pushing the “tumbrel.” The “tumbrel” was
a wooden platform with what looked like a section of fence erected
along one side. The top rail of the “fence” was padded and covered with
canvas. The whole contrivance was some ten feet in length and under
it were two wooden rollers. The linesmen, five at a time, alternately
stood on the platform to weight the “tumbrel” down and pushed against
the padded rail. The affair was officially known as the charging
machine, but its operators, perhaps with the carts which bore victims
to the guillotine during the French Revolution in mind, called it the
“tumbrel.” Possibly it is unnecessary to add that it was just about as
popular with them as the other vehicle was with its occupants.
Mr. Bonner gave an excellent imitation of a slave driver that Thursday
afternoon, even looking the rôle as well as acting it. Simon Legree,
cracking his whip in a performance of “Uncle Tom’s Cabin,” was a
genial, mild-mannered gentleman by comparison. After the others were
dismissed he exhibited an absolutely medieval cruelty by keeping the
punters and drop-kickers at work until it was too dark to tell a ball
from a head-guard.
The second team, with no scrimmage to take part in, was dismissed a
half hour earlier than usual. Most of the members hurried from the
scene, but a few heartless ones stood about and gloated over the
sufferings of their antagonists. One of these was Brewster Longley,
and he and Ned Musgrave, center on the first, and a natural rival,
almost came to blows on one occasion when Ned took exception to one of
Longley’s humorous gibes. Davy thereupon “shooed” the idlers away from
the side-lines in a fine flow of English strongly tinctured with Welsh
brogue.
Perhaps Longley resented having his pleasure cut short and perhaps his
resentment was accountable for what happened when he met Hugh and Peet
in front of the field house. Peet, although engaged in remorseless
rivalry with Hugh for a half-back position on the second, had taken
rather a violent liking to him and was becoming somewhat of a nuisance,
although Hugh didn’t let Peet suspect it. Peet was an upper middle
fellow, a few months younger than Hugh and extremely uninteresting.
He seldom ventured an original remark on any subject, confining his
conversational contributions to frequent giggles which Hugh was
beginning to find irritatingly monotonous. Today Hugh had lingered
long over his shower and dressing in the hope that Peet would take his
departure. But no such luck, for there was the other boy awaiting him
when he was ready to go, and they passed out of the building together
and almost into the arms of Longley and Bowen, the latter right guard
on the second and rather a crony of Longley’s.
Hugh murmured an apology for his share in the narrowly averted
collision and Peet laughed his inane giggle. Bowen nodded and pushed
past, but Brewster Longley seized Hugh’s arm and swung him round. “Hey
there, my cockney friend!” he exclaimed. “Want the whole place to
yourself?”
Hugh had a peculiar aversion to being “pawed,” as he termed it. Even if
Bert, of whom he was really fond, laid a hand on his shoulder, Hugh was
uncomfortable until it was removed. Longley’s unexpected and unwelcome
familiarity exasperated him instantly, and it was that grasp of his arm
and not the words accompanying it which sent the blood to his cheeks
and made him wrench himself indignantly away.
“Hands off, please,” he said. Tone and manner were distinctly haughty,
and Longley flared up at once.
“Oh, mama! Don’t touch me, I’m ticklish! Why, you blooming British ass,
don’t you try any of your high-and-mighty airs on me or I’ll slap you
on the wrist and break your watch!”
Peet giggled, and then, possibly realizing that appreciation of
Longley’s joke savored of treachery to Hugh, passed into a fit of
coughing. That giggle was the last straw to Hugh’s exasperation.
“I’ve had more than enough of your sort of humor, Longley,” he said
hotly, “and I don’t propose to stick it any longer. You steer clear of
me after this or――――”
“Or what?” demanded the other, thrusting his face close to Hugh’s.
“What will you do, kid? Go on, tell me! What’ll you do? Prick me with a
hatpin?”
“Oh, let him alone, Brew,” interposed Bowen, who had so far observed
proceedings with amusement. “We don’t want any international
complications.” He winked at Hugh. “Don’t want the British navy over
here blowing us up!”
“The British navy couldn’t blow a bubble up,” jeered Longley.
“Britishers are all bluff. Get that, Ordway? Just bluff and――and swank!
You wouldn’t hurt a――――”
“Take your face away from me,” interrupted Hugh. “I don’t like it. It’s
beastly unattractive.”
“Unattractive!” sputtered Longley. “Unat――why, you poor cockney
huckster, I’ve a good mind to punch your silly nose!”
“Try it!” said Hugh quietly.
Longley accepted the invitation, but Bowen jumped in and seized the
back-drawn arm. “Cut it out, Brew! You can’t fight here! Come on along!”
“Can’t I?” demanded Longley, struggling to get his arm away. “I’ll show
you whether I can or not! He can’t call me names and get away with it!
I’ll――I’ll――――”
“I’m ready to fight you wherever you say,” declared Hugh eagerly. “And
if you aren’t a coward you’ll fight, too.”
“Better not, Ordway,” cautioned Peet nervously, for once forgetting to
giggle. “He――he can lick you, I guess.”
“Oh, I’ll fight you, all right,” Longley was saying. “And I’ll make you
wish you’d stuck at home with the other English dubs. Come on down to
the boathouse if you want to get what’s coming to you!”
“Right-o,” responded Hugh calmly. “I say, Peet, nip it, like a good
chap, will you?”
“Nip what?” gasped Peet.
“Toddle, run along,” elaborated Hugh impatiently.
“N-no, sir, I’m going with you, Ordway, but you’re a fool to fight
Longley. Listen, won’t you? He can lick you easily. Why, he’s bigger
than you and older and――and he knows how to fight, too! Let’s――let’s
beat it!”
But Hugh was already stalking along behind Longley and Bowen, and
Peet’s remonstrances fell on deaf ears. Bowen appeared to be rather
half-heartedly trying to persuade Longley to turn back, but wasn’t
meeting with success. Longley’s big shoulders shrugged impatiently
and Hugh heard him say: “Didn’t he call my face unattractive? Well,
then!” And Bowen’s reply: “So it is, you silly chump, and what’s the
good of scrapping about it?” Peet pegged along at Hugh’s elbow, at once
excited and alarmed, hazarding an occasional remonstrance and giggling
nervously between. Hugh wished him at the bottom of the river!
The quartette passed the end of the gridiron, on which the unfortunate
first team members were still toiling monotonously, crossed the
practice field and finally reached the boathouse. Fortunately for their
undertaking, there was no one inside nor about the landing, and Bowen
led the way around the corner of the old building to where a piece of
fairly level sward sloped to the river almost in the shadow of the
bridge.
“Now go to it, you idiots,” he said indifferently, “if you have to.
But if I sing out, beat it! For I don’t intend to get yanked up before
Charlie, even if you do.”
Longley tossed his cap to the ground and impatiently tore off coat and
waistcoat, and Hugh, a bit more calmly, similarly divested himself.
Then his opponent, scowling ferociously, advanced across the turf, and
Hugh squared to meet him.
“Shake hands, gentlemen,” said Bowen facetiously, and Peet giggled.
“Oh, cut out the comedy stuff,” growled Longley. “Now then, you Little
Lord Fauntleroy, where’ll you have it?”
* * * * *
Some twenty minutes later, Bert, laboriously trying to get out of his
coat-sweater without hurting the damaged rib, heard the study door open
and close quietly.
“That you, Hugh?” he asked.
“Yes,” was the quiet reply. But Hugh didn’t appear at the doorway.
Instead he crossed to his own bedroom and Bert heard him pouring water
into the bowl.
“What are you so select for?” Bert sang out. “Aren’t you speaking to
your friends today?”
There was no audible reply from 29a, and having got rid of the sweater
at the cost of a few twinges, Bert sauntered across the study to Hugh’s
doorway. Then:
“_For――the――love――of――Mike!_” whispered Bert awedly. “Where’d you get
it?”
Hugh, looking up from his task of applying a wet sponge to a disfigured
countenance, smiled painfully.
“Longley,” he answered.
“Longley! Do you mean that Brew Longley battered you up like that?
What was the row? Great Scott, Hugh, you’re an awful mess! What did you
do to him?”
“Not much, I’m afraid,” replied Hugh dejectedly. “I got in a few, but
he was too clever for me.” He turned to the mirror over the dresser and
viewed his reflection judicially, the wet sponge trickling water on the
rug. “He’s a ripping good fighter, Bert,” he added with what sounded
like unwilling admiration.
Bert, hands in pockets, gazed fascinatedly at his room-mate’s
countenance. He whistled tunelessly and under his breath. Hugh went
back to the basin.
“I fancy I flattened his nose for him, anyway,” he said more cheerfully.
“Well,” said Bert, emerging from his trance, “I hope to thunder you did
something to him! For he’s certainly just about ruined you! Here, turn
around and let’s see the damage.”
Obediently, Hugh stopped laving his face and Bert took stock of the
contusions and lacerations. “Your eye will be a wonder tomorrow,” he
murmured admiringly. “And you won’t be able to talk very well for a day
or two with that lip. Was he wearing brass-knuckles, for the love of
Mike? That cut on your cheek isn’t much――when it stops bleeding. Wait
till I get some peroxide. Keyes has a bottle. Keep on sponging. I’ll
be right back.”
When he returned Hugh, in spite of directions, had ceased using the
sponge and was thoughtfully studying two pairs of bruised and swollen
knuckles, wiggling his left thumb experimentally the while.
“Well,” exclaimed Bert, “you must have got in a few on him from the
looks of those! Thumb hurt?”
“Not much, I fancy. I was afraid maybe it was sprained. I say, Bert, I
can’t go to supper, eh?”
Bert, sousing peroxide on a corner of a towel and dabbing his friend’s
face, considered a moment. “Well,” he said finally, “you _could_, but I
wouldn’t advise it, Duke. Some of the faculty are horribly suspicious.”
“That’s what I thought.” Hugh sighed. “Well, I’m not awfully hungry.”
“I’ll fetch you something from downstairs,” said Bert cheerfully.
“And I’d better get word to Crowley, I guess. I’ll say you’ve got a
headache. That isn’t very far wrong, is it?”
Hugh smiled until it hurt his swollen lip. “It’s right as rain,” he
mumbled. “You don’t need to bring me any chow, though. It hurts to move
my mouth.”
“I’m not going to bring you chow, as you call it,” replied the other,
stepping back to view the result of his administrations. “I’ll fetch
you up a cup of cocoa and some toast. You can get that down. There now!
Got any plaster?”
“Yes, in the top drawer there. I’ll get it.”
“Hello, what have you done with your silver brushes? And where the
dickens did you get those awful things?”
“Put them away a week ago. Here it is. Use the flesh-colored. It won’t
show so much. I say, what about classes tomorrow?”
Bert shrugged. “You ought to have thought of that,” he answered
severely, “before you went and did such a fool trick. Look here, what
was it all about, anyway? Didn’t you know that Longley could beat you
to a pulp? What did I tell you the other day? Didn’t I say――――”
“I dare say you did, old dear,” agreed Hugh patiently. “But――_ouch_!”
“Well, hold still then. How do you suppose I can――――”
“He started on me again after practice and got nasty and I was beastly
tired of it. So――so we went down to the boathouse.”
“Just you and he?”
“No, there was Bowen; chap who plays right guard for us――――”
“I know him.”
“And young Peet. He’s a silly little ass. I tried to get rid of him,
but he would come. He――he giggles.”
“Lie down on the bed and rest your face. Did you fight rounds?”
“Oh, no, we just dug in and kept it up until Peet――er――buttered in.”
“_Butted_ in, Duke; not buttered. What was Peet’s trouble?”
“Well, you see, I was getting rather the worst of it; sort of groggy,
I fancy; my eye was bad and I dare say I wasn’t putting up much of a
fight by that time. So Peet, the silly duffer, thought we ought to stop
and he jumped in and Longley hit him by mistake and Peet hung on to
Longley and Bowen dragged me back and――well, that sort of stopped the
scrap, if you know what I mean.”
“I think you ought to be grateful to Peet,” said Bert drily. “It was
evidently time someone interfered! I hope you managed to smash Longley
some, Duke. He had no business picking a row with you, a fellow two
years younger and half a head smaller, and I mean to tell him so the
first time I see him.”
“Oh, dear,” sighed Hugh, “don’t you go and get your face all beaten up,
too! One of us must keep looking decent, Bert.” He chuckled. “Rather
a joke on me, by the way. I told Longley I didn’t like his face,
you know; said it was unattractive; I fancy that was what got under
his skin; but he certainly got even, eh? You couldn’t call my face
attractive, could you, old chap?”
“Not without smiling,” said Bert. “Well, I must beat it to supper. You
take a nap if you can. When I come back I’ll get some witch-hazel and
wrap up your hands. They’ll be as stiff as pokers if I don’t. How do
you feel?”
“Perfectly rotten, thanks,” replied Hugh cheerfully. “Nip along. But,
I say, I wish you’d sort of keep quiet about it, eh? And don’t say
anything to Longley, like a good chap. I’m satisfied and I fancy he is.”
“I’m not,” said Bert grimly. “Go to sleep, you dunder-headed
Englishman, and see if you can keep out of trouble until I get back!”
Somewhat less than an hour later Hugh awoke from a nap and found Bert
lighting up. “Come on out here,” called the latter. “I’ve brought you
some cocoa, and some dipped toast and a beautiful hunk of chocolate
cake. Hungry?”
“Rather!” mumbled Hugh, getting stiffly off his bed and blinking his
way to the study. “I say, that looks awfully jolly. Thanks, old chap.”
“Well, eat it, while I go and dig up some witch-hazel. Got some old
handkerchiefs I can use?”
“I’ve got some new ones that are good enough. But don’t bother. I’ll be
all right. Feeling quite cocky already.”
“Well, you don’t look it!” laughed Bert. “And, say, I got a glimpse
of your friend Longley, Hugh, and if it’s any comfort to you, he’s a
sight!”
“Word of honor?” asked Hugh eagerly. “What――what’s he like?”
“Well, he isn’t disfigured for life, as you are, of course, but he’s
got a swollen nose that makes him look horribly silly and he’s got the
skin off his cheek-bone. He’s no prize beauty, any way you look at him!”
“But, I say, you didn’t――didn’t have any words with him, eh?”
“Oh, we passed the time of day,” replied Bert carelessly. “I’ll get
that witch-hazel.”