BOWLES ATTENDS A FOOTBALL GAME
At a little before three that afternoon a carriage, drawn by a
weary-looking gray horse, turned into the campus from River Street and
finally stopped in front of School Hall. The single occupant alighted,
paid the driver and ascended the steps with a suggestion of dignified
haste. Some three minutes later, by which time the carriage which had
brought him from the Junction was out of sight around a corner, the
passenger reappeared and crossed the campus in the direction of a large
open plot of ground from which loud and at times quite appalling sounds
broke upon the afternoon air.
He was a neatly attired man of about thirty-five, clean-shaven, and
of a serious cast of countenance. He was quite evidently English, and
self-respecting to a degree. That was apparent in his carriage, his
expression, and his attire. He crossed the green, entered the gate
of Lothrop Field, and paused inquiringly in front of a youth with a
scarlet ribbon on his coat who guarded the entrance to the stands.
“Fifty cents, please,” said the youth.
The latecomer put a well-gloved hand in a pocket, drew forth a pigskin
purse and selected the required amount. Then he passed around a corner
of a grandstand and found himself confronted on one side by sloping
tiers of seats crowded with onlookers and on the other by an expanse of
yellowing turf over which a number of persons were hurrying about in an
apparently purposeless way. A second ribbon-badged youth arose from the
steps of the stand and said:
“You’ll find a seat further along, sir; about three sections down.”
“Thank you, sir, but I am looking for――for Mr. Ordway.”
“Ordway?” The youth shrugged. “I can’t tell you where he’s sitting. He
was to have played, but something happened. I’m afraid you can’t stand
here, sir. You’re obstructing the view of people in the lower seats.”
Already requests to “Move on, please!” were being made, and the man,
still searching the crowd as he went, proceeded in the direction
indicated. But finding anyone in that throng was like looking for a
needle in a haystack, and he began to realize the futility of his task.
Half-way along he stopped very suddenly and clutched at his very
respectable derby hat. Someone had almost knocked it from his head with
a waving flag, while a most barbaric and disconcerting shouting caused
him to gaze about, startled. He could, however, see nothing to account
for such an outburst, and, prompted by cries of “Down front!” and “Keep
moving, please!” he went on and was finally taken pity on by a third
ribbon-adorned usher and conducted up a number of steps and placed
precariously on the last eight inches of a narrow seat.
He looked about him carefully. There seemed to be hundreds of persons
there, old, middle-aged and young, and many were waving flags of vivid
scarlet bearing white G’s, and all, or so it seemed to him, were
shouting. Beside him was a boy of possibly sixteen years, a rather
nice-appearing youth, but one who continually jumped half out of his
seat or prodded the man’s ribs with a sharp elbow. The newcomer made a
careful and systematic survey of as much of the audience as was within
his range of vision, but without finding Mr. Ordway, after which he
philosophically settled down, if such a thing is possible when your
neighbors’ knees and elbows are continually being poked into you, and
did his best to understand what was going on.
Before him, on a white-barred field, two groups of young gentlemen
were facing each other. Those of one group were bright red as to
arms and legs and those of the other dark green. Besides the number
engaged in the contest――the man placed that number as between twenty
and thirty; possibly because several of them kept moving about all
the time――there were two older persons on hand, one of whom was an
extremely active gentleman, judging from the manner in which he ran
back and forth. While he looked someone blew a whistle and the two
groups of players suddenly became inextricably confused. Some ran one
way and some another and each seemed mainly bent on getting into the
next fellow’s way! And then, quite from nowhere, a green-stockinged
youth shot into prominence and ran very fast across the field in the
observer’s direction. He had a football in one arm and held the other
stiffly before him. The reason for this was presently made plain when
a scarlet-legged youth tried to interfere with him. That extended hand
came into contact with the scarlet-legged youth’s face and the latter
swerved quickly aside. But the lad with the green stockings didn’t get
much farther, for two other scarlet-legged players literally hurled
themselves on him and he was sent headlong across the white line and
into a windrow of hay. The man, rather startled by such violence,
understood at once that the hay had been placed there for humanitarian
purposes.
Everyone shouted things then, while, to the surprise of the man, the
assaulted youth arose nonchalantly, shook himself, and trotted further
into the field, where, presently, the whole performance was gone
through with again. The man was perplexed. Football he had heard of but
never witnessed, and it was very difficult to understand. On a board at
one end of the inclosure was the legend:
GRAFTON
VISITORS
That, of course, meant that neither side had as yet succeeded in
making a tally. The man wondered what they did to make a tally, and
while he was still wondering a gentleman wearing a white sweater ran
frantically onto the field and tooted an automobile horn. Whereupon,
with one accord, the players of both sides drew apart and then trotted
diagonally down the field and disappeared from sight.
The man started to get up, saw that only a very few were following his
example, hesitated, and resumed his seat.
“I beg pardon, sir,” he said to his neighbor, “is there more of it?”
“Oh, yes, that’s only the first half,” replied the boy, a note of
surprise in his voice. “You got here late, didn’t you?”
“Yes, sir. The train I reached Needham Junction on did not connect with
any train for this place and I was obliged to take a fly――er, carriage,
that is to say. It took some time.”
“I guess it did!” The boy observed his neighbor interestedly, a bit
puzzled. “Too bad to miss a whole quarter after coming so far, sir.”
“I beg pardon, but I’m not――that is, you――――” But he gave it up. He
wanted to tell the boy that he preferred not to be called “sir,” but he
couldn’t think of a way to do it.
“Come from New York?” the boy was asking, frankly curious.
“Yes, sir, but from Baltimore before that. I left there last night. I
came to see Mr. Ordway; Mr. Hugh Ordway. You might know him, sir?”
“Know Hobo! Well, I guess! Everyone knows Hobo Ordway!”
“No, sir, Hugh, if you please, sir.”
“I know; that’s him. The fellows call him Hobo on account of his
initials; H. O. B. O. don’t you see? Friend of yours, sir?”
“My master, sir.”
“Your――I didn’t get that!”
“I’m Master Hugh’s man, sir. We were a bit worried about him and my
lady sent me up to see if everything was all right.”
“Oh, then you’re the valet chap he brought along with him when he got
here?”
“Yes, sir; Bowles, sir.”
“Well, what do you know about that?”
“You mean, sir――――”
“Why, say, Mr. Bowles――or ought I to call you just Bowles?”
“Just Bowles, if you’ll be so kind, sir.”
“Well, then, Bowles, you don’t need to worry your bean about Hobo. He’s
as right as a trivet, or tight as a rivet or whatever you say. Only
thing that’s bothering him, I guess, is that his folks butted in at the
last moment and told him he couldn’t play. But I guess you know all
about that?”
“Oh, yes, sir. You see he telegraphed――――” Bowles stopped and coughed
discreetly. “That is to say, we telegraphed――――”
“Fine piece of business, I don’t think, Bowles! What’s the big idea?
Think he’d get killed?”
“Can’t say, sir. It was her Ladyship’s idea. It’s an extremely rough
game, this football.”
“Rough! Sure, it’s rough, but――who’s her ladyship?”
Bowles again coughed behind his hand. “Mrs. Ordway, sir, Master Hugh’s
mother. We――we always call her that. It’s a habit, sir.”
“Well, say, if you want to find Hobo you’d better beat it right now.
He’s on this side somewhere, I suppose. Say, Jennings, seen Hobo Ordway
lately?”
“Sure! He was on the bench with the subs during the first half,”
responded the next boy.
“Then you go down there where you see those benches and he will be back
again pretty soon.”
“Thank you, sir, but possibly I’d better wait now until the football is
over. That is to say, if you’re quite certain he is all right.”
“Was this morning, anyway. I talked to him coming out of dining hall.
There they come! _Grafton! Grafton!_”
There had been a good deal of singing and cheering during the absence
of the teams, but now the uproar became positively deafening. Everyone
stood up and shouted long and loudly and, if they had pennants, waved
them. Bowles stood up too, but he didn’t shout, although he almost
wanted to! Then a quick, sharp cheer broke forth from one side of the
field, and a long, growly cheer floated back from the other, and the
players came into sight again around the corner and went to their
benches. And Bowles, watching eagerly, saw Master Hugh! But what a
disreputable looking Master Hugh! Bowles almost dropped in his tracks!
No wonder, indeed, that they called him “Hobo”! A pair of old gray
summer trousers, a faded blue sweater, a diminutive cloth cap on the
back of his head, and a pair of kicked-out tan shoes on his feet!
Bowles groaned and was, oh, so thankful that her Ladyship was not there
to witness the disturbing sight! And then others cut off his view and
somewhere a whistle blew and the cheering began again and――
“Come on, Grafton! Let’s score now!” yelled a voice in Bowles’ ear,
and an elbow dug sharply into his side and someone behind him sent
his respectable derby over onto the bridge of his respectable nose.
Bowles rescued his hat and gave his attention to the field. The ball
was floating lazily aloft in the sunlight and under it the players were
running together. Then it came down, a boy got under it and clasped it
to his stomach, dodged this way, feinted that, was caught, escaped, ran
a few yards and was pulled down. Bowles thought he could almost hear
the thud of that body!
“Extremely rough,” he murmured, “oh, very.”
But after that he gazed, at first interested and then fascinated, and
soon forgot whether football was rough or otherwise! His neighbor,
supplying the unsought-for information that his name was Stiles, threw
light on the endeavors of the conflicting groups briefly, succinctly,
and Bowles began to fathom the philosophy of the game. Minutes passed.
The play surged this way and that, the ball, however, straying never
very far from the center of the gridiron. The teams were evenly
matched, it seemed. Toward the end of the third period Mount Morris
tried a difficult field-goal from the enemy’s thirty-eight yards, but
the ball fell far short of the goal and came speeding back in the
arms of Nick Blake. They seemed now to be doing more kicking, for the
pigskin was frequently in air. Once Vail, playing back with Nick,
fumbled a punt and a groan of horror arose from around Bowles, but the
next instant Vail had shouldered a Mount Morris end aside and himself
fallen on the bouncing ball.
Beside Bowles, his neighbor sat on the edge of the seat and squirmed
and yelped and shouted: “Get him, Ted! Get him, you chump!... Here
we go, fellows! Oh, look at that! Forty-five yards if an inch! Keyes
can’t punt a bit, can he? He’s no good at all, is he? Forty-five yards!
That’s all! Just forty―――― ... Oh, bully, Winslow! Oh, great stuff!
Right through! Three yards easy! How many downs is that? What? It can’t
be! Oh, all right. We’ll do it, just the same! They can’t stop us now!
We’re on our way to a touchdown! Get into ’em, Keyes! That’s the stuff!
Rip ’em up! What’d I tell you? Four more! Oh, there’s nothing to it, I
tell you, nothing to it at all!”
Down on the Green-and-White’s twenty-yard line now. Mount Morris
weakening a little. Two subs going into her line. Grafton as fresh as
ever, barring Trafford, perhaps. Trafford had a fierce jolt that time
in the third quarter. Enough to put most fellows out of the game. All
right now! Second down and eight to go! No gain? Well, Vail can’t do it
every time. Besides, they were looking for him. Two downs left. Seven
to go? Then he did gain a little. Here we go! Right through―――― Nothing
doing! Who had the ball? Keyes? Too bad! Bully chance to score! Have to
kick now. Well, three points is better than nothing, let me tell you!
Who’s going to―――― What’s the matter? Oh, quarter over? Gee, but that
was short! All right, everyone up now! Let ’em have it! “Rah, rah, rah,
Grafton! Rah, rah, rah, Grafton! Grafton! Grafton! _Grafton!_”
Bowles found he was clutching his knees tightly, doing no possible
good to his respectable trousers, and straining his respectable
gloves. Odd how excited one got about football! Extremely rough,
football, but――er――most interesting and――er――manly, of course. Oh,
rather! Ah, they were starting again at the other end of the field!
A scarlet-legged youth was standing well behind his fellows with
outstretched arms. Hello, he’d kicked it! Why didn’t the people
applaud? What was wrong? Oh, it had to go over that stick, eh, and it
hadn’t gone over? Oh, yes, of course. Most regrettable!
Back to the kicking game again now. Long punts, thrilling catches and
wonderful runs nipped in the bud by desperate tackles. Now and then an
attempted forward pass by Grafton, but never successful. Mount Morris
playing as if she’d be satisfied with an 0 to 0 tie, taking no chances
with the ball in her possession, playing it safe always. Grafton
growing more desperate every minute as the time shortens. Sending
Vail and Keyes banging into the left of the Green-and-White line for
short gains, whisking Blake and Winslow past tackle or outside end for
slightly longer ones, until again the ball is near the twenty-five
yards. Now the gains are shorter. Mount Morris plays doggedly, hurling
back attack. Three downs and only five yards gained. Back to the
thirty-two stalks Keyes. A hush settles over the field and stand. The
quarter’s signals are heard plainly. A brown streak into Keyes’ hands,
a swinging foot, a moment of suspense, and a groan of disappointment.
Again he has failed!
Across the field Mount Morris is cheering slowly over and over and
over. Only six minutes now. Here and there people are already leaving
their seats, to the discomfort of others. Mount Morris’s ball on her
forty-six yards. Rush――rush――rush――punt! That’s her game now. Hold them
off! No score for either side! Back comes Grafton. Four yards――that was
Winslow through tackle-guard on the left. Three yards more――that was
Vail outside tackle. Third down and only three needed. Nick makes it on
a delayed run, gets it by an inch only, but gets it! First down again
on Grafton’s twenty. Hello, what’s this? A punt on first down? Not
likely! A forward pass then. Yes! And made it, too!
Near the forty now and still going. But she’ll never get to the goal
that way. There isn’t time enough. Three minutes left? Is that all? Why
don’t they try another forward pass or run the ends? It’s the only way.
Plugging the line will never――There he goes! He’s off! It’s Winslow!
No, it’s Vail! Ten yards――fifteen――! Oh, bully tackle, Mount Morris!
First down again, though, and on their thirty or thereabouts. Here’s
where we score! Bust ’em up, Grafton!
Time out for someone. A Grafton player? No, he’s got green legs. It’s
Milton, their right half. No, it isn’t, it’s that big left guard of
theirs. Looks groggy, doesn’t he? Pretty near all in, if you ask me.
Here comes a Grafton sub; Zanetti, isn’t it? Wonder who they’ll take
out. Winslow, by thunder! That’s wrong! Winslow’s playing a dandy game.
What? I don’t care if Zanetti does want his letter. Let him wait until
next year. He’s only an Upper Middler, anyway. Yah! Ted Trafford’s sent
him off again! Now go ahead, Winslow, and show them we don’t _need_ any
subs!
The Mount Morris chap’s up. He’s going off. No, he isn’t! That’s
right, give him a hand. Here we go! Put it over, Grafton! Touchdown!
Touchdown! _Touchdown!_
Vail fails to gain on a crisscross and Dresser, running from position,
takes the ball from Nick and makes two around the other end. Grafton’s
trying to work over in front of goal. Once more, and Vail gets another
two yards through center. Hard luck! Fourth down now and we’ll have
to kick. Unless―――― No, it’s a kick. You can tell from the formation.
Wait a bit, though. Blake’s edging over. It’s a forward pass! If it
only works! Watch ’em now! Who’s got it? What’s wrong? Hi! There he
goes! _There he goes!_ Around this end! It’s Bert Winslow! Oh, go
it, you Winslow! Oh, go――They’ve got him! No! He’ll do it, he’ll do
it! Ten yards more! Look out for that man! Dodge him! That’s it! Oh,
bully! He’s past! He’s――_he’s over_! HE’S OVER! _Touchdown! Touchdown!
Grafton! Grafton!_ WO-A-OW!... I beg pardon, sir, did I break your hat?