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WINNING HIS “Y”
BY RALPH HENRY BARBOUR.
Each Illustrated, 12mo, Cloth, $1.50.
Double Play.
Forward Pass!
The Spirit of the School.
Four in Camp.
Four Afoot.
Four Afloat.
The Arrival of Jimpson.
Behind the Line.
Captain of the Crew.
For the Honor of the School.
The Half-Back.
On Your Mark.
Weatherby’s Inning.
D. APPLETON & COMPANY, NEW YORK.
[Illustration: “Gerald drew ahead steadily.”]
WINNING HIS “Y”
A STORY OF SCHOOL ATHLETICS
_By_
RALPH HENRY BARBOUR
AUTHOR OF
“THE SPIRIT OF THE SCHOOL,” “THE HALF BACK,”
“FORWARD PASS,” “DOUBLE PLAY,” ETC.
[Illustration]
ILLUSTRATED
NEW YORK AND LONDON
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
1910
Copyright, 1910, by
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
_Published September, 1910_
TO
GEORGE OSBORNE FORREST
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I.――GERALD EVENS OLD SCORES 1
II.――HILTZ ENTERS A PROTEST 16
III.――WHICH MAY BE SKIPPED 30
IV.――POETRY AND POLITICS 34
V.――DAN BUYS A TICKET 48
VI.――CONDUCTING A CAMPAIGN 60
VII.――THE ELECTION 70
VIII.――AT SOUND VIEW 80
IX.――THE CROSS-COUNTRY MEET 90
X.――AT THE FINISH 98
XI.――BY ONE POINT 106
XII.――OFF TO BROADWOOD 114
XIII.――“FIGHTING FOR OLD YARDLEY” 122
XIV.――AROUND THE BONFIRE 137
XV.――THE NEW CAPTAIN MAKES A SPEECH 146
XVI.――THE PICNIC 158
XVII.――THE RETURN 173
XVIII.――BUILDING THE RINK 185
XIX.――THE HOCKEY TEAM AT WORK 199
XX.――FIRST BLOOD FOR YARDLEY 213
XXI.――THE BASKET BALL GAME 222
XXII.――GERALD GOES ON AN ERRAND 232
XXIII.――THE CUP DISAPPEARS 241
XXIV.――GERALD WATCHES 254
XXV.――THE CUP IS FOUND 268
XXVI.――WINNING HIS “Y” 279
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
FACING
PAGE
“Gerald drew ahead steadily” _Frontispiece_
“‘I guess I won’t go, thanks,’ said Dan” 56
“‘Don’t take the rug away yet,’ begged Alf” 166
“His wide, startled eyes held Gerald’s for a long moment” 270
WINNING HIS “Y”
CHAPTER I
GERALD EVENS OLD SCORES
“All together! Cheer on cheer!
Now we’re charging down the field!
See how Broadwood pales with fear,
Knowing we will never yield!
Wave on high your banner blue,
Cheer for comrades staunch and true;
We are here to die or do,
Fighting for old Yardley!”
They sang it at the top of their voices as they came down the hill, arm
in arm, and crossed the meadow toward the village. There was no one to
hear, and they wouldn’t have cared if there had been. Tom Dyer sang the
bass, Alf Loring the tenor and Dan Vinton whatever was most convenient,
since about the best he could do in a musical way was to make a noise.
It was a glorious morning, in the middle of October, and there was a
frosty nip in the air that made one want to sing or dance, and as they
were in a hurry and dancing would have delayed them, they sang.
“That’s a bully song, Dan,” said Alf. “You ought to think of another
verse, though, something with more ginger in it. How’s this:
“‘We will knock them full of dents
And we’ll send them home in splints?’”
“Rotten,” growled Tom. “It doesn’t rhyme.”
“It doesn’t have to rhyme,” said Alf. “It’s poetic license.”
“Well, you’re no poet. What you need is a dog license, Alf!”
“He’s just peeved because he didn’t think of it himself,” explained
Alf to Dan. “He’s one of the most envious dubs in school. Personally I
consider it a very pretty sentiment and just chock-full of――er――poetic
feeling. And I won’t charge you a cent for it, Dan; it’s yours. No, no,
not a word! I won’t be thanked.”
“Don’t worry, you won’t be,” said Tom. “If you put that in the song,
Dan, I’ll stop playing, and howl!”
“That might be a good idea,” responded Alf. “I’ll bet you’d cut more
ice howling than you would playing, Tom.”
“I’ll try and think of another verse,” said Dan. “But I don’t think
I’ll work in anything about dents and splints, Alf. Besides, that
doesn’t sound very well coming from the captain. Remember that you’re a
gentleman.”
“He knows better than that; don’t you?” said Tom.
“I know I’ll roll you around in the dust if you don’t shut up, you old
Pudding Head!” answered Alf truculently.
“Come on, you fellows,” interrupted Dan. “We haven’t any time for
scrapping if we’re going to get there to see the start.”
“How far do they run?” asked Tom.
“About three miles,” replied Dan, as he climbed the fence and jumped
down into the road. “They start at the corner beyond the bridge, take
the Broadwood road and circle back beyond Greenburg and finish at the
bridge again.”
“Is that the route when they run against Broadwood?” Alf inquired as
they went on toward the Wissining station.
“Yes, only then they’ll start at the Cider Mill and finish a mile
beyond toward Broadwood, and that makes it a mile longer.”
“Suppose little Geraldine will have any show?”
“I don’t know, Alf. He’s been at it ever since school began, though.
He asked me if I thought he could make a cross-country runner and I
told him to go ahead and try. I knew it wouldn’t do him a bit of harm,
anyway, and he was sort of sore because Bendix wouldn’t pass him for
football.”
“Bendix was right, too,” said Tom. “Gerald’s too young and weak to
tackle football.”
“He’s fifteen,” objected Alf, “and, as for being weak, well, I know
he handed me some nasty jabs in the gym last week when we boxed. They
didn’t _feel_ weak.”
“His father didn’t want him to play this fall,” said Dan, “and I’m glad
he’s not going to. If he got hurt, Mr. Pennimore would sort of hold me
to blame, I guess.”
“Glad I’m not responsible for that kid,” laughed Alf. “You’ll have your
hands full by next year, Dan.”
“Oh, he will be able to look after himself pretty soon, I fancy. They
haven’t started yet; let’s get a move on.”
They hurried their pace past the station and across the bridge which
spans the river just beyond and connects Wissining with Greenburg.
Anyone meeting them would, I think, have given them more than a second
glance, for one doesn’t often encounter three finer examples of the
American schoolboy. Dan Vinton was in his second year at Yardley
Hall School and was sixteen years of age. He was tall and somewhat
lean, although by lean I don’t mean what he himself would have called
“skinny.” He had brown eyes, at once steady and alert, a very straight,
well-formed nose, a strong chin and a mouth that usually held a quiet
smile. He was in the Second Class this year and, like his companions,
was a member of the football team, playing at right end.
Alfred Loring was eighteen, a member of the First Class, captain of
the eleven and of the hockey team. He was scarcely an inch taller than
Dan, in spite of his advantage in age, and, like Dan, hadn’t an ounce
of superfluous flesh on his well-built frame. He had a merry, careless
face, snapping dark brown eyes, an aquiline nose and hair which he wore
parted in the middle and brushed closely to his head. He was as good
a quarter-back as Yardley had ever had and this year, with Alf at the
head of the team, the school expected great things.
Tom Dyer, his roommate, was a big, rangy, powerful-looking chap, rather
silent, rather sleepy looking, with features that didn’t make for
beauty. But he had nice gray eyes and a pleasant smile and was one of
the best-hearted fellows in school. Tom was captain of the basket-ball
team, a First Class man and in age was Alf’s senior by two months. All
three of them were dressed in old trousers and sweaters that had seen
much use, and all three wore on the backs of their heads the little
dark-blue caps with the white Y’s that in school heraldry proclaimed
them members of the Yardley Hall Football Team.
A short distance beyond the bridge, on the outskirts of Greenburg,
they joined a throng of some eighty or ninety boys. Of this number
some thirty or so were attired for running and were engaged in keeping
warm by walking or trotting around in circles or slapping their legs.
The trio responded to greetings as they pushed through the crowd. Andy
Ryan, the little sandy-haired, green-eyed trainer, was in charge of the
proceedings and was calling names from a list which he held in his hand.
“All right now, byes,” he announced. “You know the way. The first
twelve to finish will get places. Get ready and I’ll send you off.”
“There’s Gerald,” said Alf, pointing to a youngster who, in a modest
attire of sleeveless shirt, short running trunks and spiked shoes, was
stepping eagerly about at a little distance. “Looks as though he could
run, doesn’t he? Good muscles in those legs of his. That’s what boxing
does for you.”
“There he goes,” groaned Tom. “Honest, Dan, he thinks boxing will do
anything from developing the feet to raising hair on a bald head!”
“That’s all right,” said Alf stoutly. “It’ll develop the muscles of the
legs, my friend, just about as much as any other muscles. O-oh, Gerald!”
Gerald Pennimore looked around, smiled, and waved his hand. He was a
good-looking youngster of fifteen, with an eager, expressive face, a
lithe body that needed development, and a coloring that was almost
girlish. His eyes were very blue and his skin was fair in spite of the
fact that he had tried hard all the summer to get it tanned like Dan’s.
What bothered him more than all else, however, was the fact that his
cheeks were pink and that the least emotion made him redden up like a
girl. His hair, which he kept cut as short as possible, was the color
of corn tassels, but the summer had streaked it with darker tones and
Gerald was hopeful that in time it would all turn to an ordinary shade
of brown. Another trial that he had to endure was being thought even
younger than he was. It was bad enough to be only fifteen when the
fellows you most liked were from one to three years older, but to have
folks guess your age as fourteen was very discouraging.
“All ready!” warned Andy Ryan.
Gerald poised himself in the second line of starters and waited
eagerly, impatiently for the word. Then it came and he bounded off as
though the race was a quarter-mile run instead of a three-mile jaunt
over a hard road and some rough hills and meadows.
“Easy, Gerald!” cautioned Dan as the runners swept by. “Get your wind.
Hello, Thompson! Hello, Joe! Stick to ’em!”
“There’s that chap Hiltz,” said Alf. “Didn’t know he had enough energy
to run. By the way, we mustn’t forget about the Cambridge Society
election next month. You’ve got to beat Hiltz out, you know, if we are
to get Gerald in as we promised. Hiltz and Thompson were the Third
Class members of the Admission Committee last year and I suppose
they’ll be up for election from the Second Class this year. We must
find out about that, and if Hiltz is going to try to get in again
you must do a little canvassing on your own hook. We’ll organize a
campaign. You can beat him, though, without trying, I guess.”
“We made a mistake in thinking it was Thompson who blackballed Gerald
in May, didn’t we?”
“Yes, I guess Thompson’s a pretty square sort of chap. He and Gerald
are quite thick this year.”
The runners trotted out of sight around a bend of the road and the
three boys perched themselves on the top rail of the fence and, with
the others, waited for the runners to return. Cross-country running
was something new at Yardley. The sport had been growing in popularity
among the colleges and from them was spreading to the preparatory
schools. Broadwood, Yardley’s chief rival, had sent a challenge in
September and it had been accepted. Since then the school had been
quite mad on the subject of cross-country running, and Andy Ryan, in
the interims of his work with the football players, had been busy
training candidates for a cross-country team to meet Broadwood. The
dual meet was to take place on the morning of November 21st, on the
afternoon of which day Yardley and Broadwood would clash in the final
football game at Broadwood, some four miles distant. Each team was
to consist of ten runners, and to-day’s try-out was to enable the
trainer to select a dozen of the numerous candidates, two of them to be
substitutes. The newly formed team was to elect a captain that evening.
Cross-country running, however, didn’t long engage the attention of the
three on the fence. The conversation soon turned to football, which,
since they were all players, was only natural. They discussed that
afternoon’s game with St. John’s Academy, which, although of minor
importance and not difficult, was the last of the preliminary contests
and would settle the fate of more than one player.
“Don’t forget, fellows, that I want to stop and see Payson on the way
back,” said Alf. “He thinks we ought to play two twenty-minute halves,
but I think a twenty and a fifteen would be better. It will be fairly
warm this afternoon. What do you say?”
“I don’t care,” answered Tom indifferently. “Let’s play what they want
to play.”
“It isn’t up to them,” said Alf. “We fix the length of halves. It’s all
well enough for you, Tom; you’re a regular ox for work; but some of the
new chaps will feel the pace, I guess.”
“How long will the halves be next week with Carrel’s?” asked Dan.
“Twenty, I suppose. We don’t usually play twenty-fives until the Brewer
game.”
“Then thirty-five minutes altogether ought to be enough for to-day, I
would say. Although I don’t care as far as I’m concerned.”
“We’ll stop and talk it over with Payson,” said Alf. “Did you hear that
Warren, the Princeton center of last year, is going to help coach at
Broadwood this fall?”
“No, really?” asked Dan.
“That’s what I heard. I wish we could get a good chap to help Payson.
We ought to have some one to coach the back field on catching punts and
running back; some one who could come down here after the Brewer game
and put in two good hard weeks.”
“How about that brother of yours?” asked Tom. Alf shrugged his
shoulders.
“He won’t be able to get away much. He’s going to come when he can, but
he knows only about line men. Considering the number of fellows we send
to Yale I think they might help us out a little with the coaching.”
“Have they ever been asked to?”
“Oh, a couple of years ago we tried to get them to send some one down,
and they did send a chap for a week or so, but he wasn’t much good;
just stood around and criticized the plays we were using. What we need
is some one who’ll take his coat off and knock some plain horse-sense
into the fellows. I think I’ll talk to Payson about it and see what he
thinks.”
“Well, look here,” said Tom. “Colton’s on the Yale freshman team. Why
not write to him and see what he can do?”
“Colton,” answered Alf dryly, “was a great big thing when he was
captain here last year, but just at present he’s only one of some
sixty or seventy candidates trying for a place on the freshman eleven.
I guess he has all the trouble he wants. Look, isn’t that one of our
long-distance heroes footing it down the road there?”
“Yes,” answered Dan. “Come on.”
They jumped down and hurried over to the finish line.
“Here they come!” some one cried, and there was a rush for places of
observation. Andy Ryan got his pencil ready and handed his stop watch
to Alf.
“Take the time of the first three,” he directed.
“Track! Track!” The first runner trotted down the road looking rather
fagged and as the trainer set his name down he crossed the line and
staggered tiredly into the arms of a friend. He was Goodyear, a Second
Class fellow. Fifty yards behind three runners were fighting hard for
second place. They finally finished within ten feet of each other and
Ryan entered their names: Henderson, Wagner, French. Two minutes passed
before the next man came into sight.
“That’s young Thompson,” said Alf. “He doesn’t look as though the
distance had troubled him much, does he? Good work, Thompson! See
anything of Pennimore up the line?”
“Yes,” answered Arthur Thompson as he joined them, breathing hard but
seemingly quite fresh after his three-mile spin. “I passed him about a
mile back. He looked pretty fit, Loring, and I guess he’ll finish. I
hope he does.”
Four boys came down the road well bunched and there was a good-natured
struggle for supremacy as they neared the waiting group. “Norcross,
Maury, Felder, Garson,” called Andy Ryan as they crossed the line.
“Don’t stand around here, byes; go home and get a shower right off.”
“That’s nine,” said Alf. “Any more in sight? If Gerald doesn’t finish
one of the next three he’s dished. Here’s another chap now. It isn’t
Gerald though, is it?”
“No, that’s not Gerald,” said Tom. “It’s――What’s-his-name?――Sherwood,
of your class, Dan.”
“Yes, I know him. Good for you, Sher! You’ve got a dandy color!”
Sherwood grinned as he trotted by. There was another wait and then
another runner came into sight at the turn, and a second later two
more, running side by side.
“Gee, that’ll be a race!” exclaimed Dan. “Only two of them will get
places. By Jove, fellows, one of them’s Gerald. See him?”
“That’s right, and the fellow with him is Hiltz.” Alf chuckled. “Here’s
a fine chance for him to get even with Hiltz for queering him with
Cambridge last spring. I wonder if he can do it.”
The first of the three, glancing back, eased his pace and finished a
good twenty yards ahead, very tired. Gerald Pennimore and Jake Hiltz
were struggling gamely for the twelfth place in the race. As they came
near Alf gave a whoop.
“Gerald’s got it!” he cried. “Come on, you Geraldine! You’ve got him
beat! Dig your spikes, boy! Don’t let up!”
It was a battle royal for a dozen yards at the finish, but Gerald drew
ahead steadily, turning once to look at his adversary, and crossed the
line two yards to the good, Alf and Tom and Dan running out to seize
him in case he fell.
But Gerald had no idea of falling. Instead he walked off the road,
resisting the outstretched arms, and sat down on a rock, looking up a
trifle breathlessly but quite smilingly at his solicitous friends.
“I was twelfth, wasn’t I?” he gasped.
“You’re the even dozen, Gerald,” said Dan. “How’d you do it?”
“It wasn’t hard,” answered Gerald. “I could have finished ahead of that
fellow Groom if I’d wanted to, but I thought I’d rather have some fun
with Hiltz. He was all in long ago.”
This was quite evidently so, for Hiltz was lying on his back struggling
for breath, with a friend supporting his head.
“Gerald,” said Alf sorrowfully, “I’m afraid that’s not a Christian
spirit. You should――er――love your enemy.”
“Oh, I love him better now,” laughed Gerald, holding out his hand to
be helped up. “I guess I’ve got even with him for keeping me out of
Cambridge last year, haven’t I?”
“You have,” said Tom. “Get your bath robe and come on home. You fellows
trot along and see Payson, if you want to; I’ll go back with the kid.”