COTTON TRIES FOOTBALL
Kendall emerged from the doorway of Whitson Hall and stood for a
minute at the top of the flight of worn granite steps. It was a warm,
lazy day in the last week of September, a day that promised to become
even warmer and lazier as it progressed. Just now the time was only a
little after half-past eight, and breakfast was just over. The first
recitation hour was at nine and in front of the buildings fellows were
loitering in the sunlight. Here on the steps of Whitson at least a
dozen were holding forth: Girard, who played center on the football
team; Jensen, another pigskin follower; Davis, the manager, who was
somewhat handicapped with the given name of Percival, which had been
mercifully shortened and amended to “Perky”; Perry Whitehall, the
dignified editor-in-chief of the school weekly, _The Scholiast_; and
others whom Kendall knew only by sight. Many looked up as he came out
and nodded or spoke to him. Doubtless any one of the three or four
groups sitting or standing about the steps would have been pleased had
he joined them, for Kendall had been a school hero in a small way ever
since when, nearly a year ago now, he had won the Broadwood game by a
kick from placement in the last two minutes of play. But Kendall was
still rather shy, still very modest in his estimate of his own merits,
and would rather have taken a licking than intrude where he wasn’t
wanted.
He had been rooming with Gerald Pennimore in 28 Clarke for four days
now and was still wondering about it. Why Gerald, who was perhaps the
richest boy in school――there was a Fourth Class fellow named Hodgkins
who had just entered and whose father, a railway magnate, was popularly
credited with the possession of more wealth than Mr. John T. Pennimore,
the Steamship King――why Gerald, wealthy and popular, had selected him,
who was anything but wealthy and whose circle of friends included
possibly not more than a dozen or so, for a roommate was a puzzle.
The only likely explanation, Kendall decided, was that Gerald had
done it out of pure kindness of heart. Whatever the reason, however,
Kendall was intensely grateful. It was fine to have such a fellow
as Gerald Pennimore for a friend, fine to share such a comfortable,
even luxurious room as Number 28, fine to get away from his former
roommate, Harold Towne, a chap with whom anyone with less patience and
good nature than Kendall could never have put up.
But there was something else that Kendall was yet more grateful for,
and as he stood there at the top of the steps and let his gaze wander
over the scene before him, he realized it anew. He was very grateful
to his father, who, by more than one sacrifice, had found the money
for Kendall’s second year at Yardley. There had been a time during
the summer when the boy’s chances of returning to school had looked
pretty slim. It had been a bad summer for potatoes, and up in Aroostook
County, Maine, where the Burtis farm was, a failure of the potato crop
spelled trouble. It had been not until almost a fortnight before the
commencement of the Fall Term that Kendall had been quite certain of
returning to Yardley, and he very well knew that back home more than
one comfort would be dispensed with the coming Winter that he might
keep on with his education. And he had made up his mind that none of
the money spent on him should be wasted. He meant to study hard and
learn all he could this year, for it might be his last. He had resolved
to win a scholarship if hard work would do it. There was the Gordon
Scholarship which rebated the entire tuition fee, or, failing that,
there remained four Sidney Scholarships of eighty dollars. One of the
five Kendall meant to win.
From where he stood, Long Island Sound, blue and still, stretched east
and west, visible over the tops of the trees which ran for nearly a
half-mile between the school grounds and the shore. The buildings
circled about the edge of a plateau down which a well-kept roadway
dropped to the meadow lands below and wound westward to the little
village of Wissining, to the river beyond, and, finally, to the small
city of Greenburg beyond that. The river flowed down from behind the
school property, a placid tidal stream which in fair weather was
usually alive with boats and canoes. There were six school buildings,
four of them, Clarke, Whitson, Dudley and Merle, dormitories, one of
them, Oxford, given over to recitation rooms, library, assembly hall,
the Office, the Principal’s living quarters and the rooms of the
two school societies, Cambridge and Oxford. Beyond Merle Hall, the
dormitory for the Preparatory Class boys, was the Kingdon Gymnasium,
completing the line. Between the gymnasium and the river lay the
athletic grounds. Here were the tennis courts, the baseball and
football fields, the hockey rink in winter, the quarter-mile cinder
track and the boathouse and floats. The golf links began nearby and
wandered away along the curving stream, uphill and down.
Yardley Hall School is so well known that it is perhaps unnecessary
for me to bore you with description. Therefore, a few more words and
I am done. The school’s enrollment is about two hundred and seventy
students. There are five classes, First, Second, Third, Fourth and
Preparatory. The faculty numbers twelve, ranging from the Principal,
Dr. Tobias Hewitt, known as “Toby,” down to Mrs. Ponder, the matron,
affectionately――and surreptitiously――called “Emily.”
Kendall descended the steps and turned to his left. At the first
entrance of Clarke Hall he entered and climbed two flights of well-worn
stairs, bore to his left again and opened the door of the last room on
the front of the building. Number 28 was a big, square, well-lighted
room. Beside the shallow bay windows in front there was a window on the
side from which, past the obtruding shoulder of Whitson, one caught a
brief view of Wissining and the mouth of the river in the distance and
of The Prospect in the foreground. Each side of the room held a bed, a
washstand and a bureau. A big, broad study table held the center and
was flanked by easy chairs. There were many pictures, photographs
and trophies on the walls, the carpet was cheerful in tones of brown
and gold and the window-seat was piled high with many-hued cushions.
Altogether the room looked home-like and cheerful, and while there
were numerous evidences of wealth, from the silverbacked brushes and
toilet articles on Gerald’s chiffonier to the heavy, soft-piled carpet
underfoot, there was no ostentation.
Gerald, half-buried in the cushions of the window-seat, was having
a last look at “Wilhelm Tell” before going into class. A German
dictionary was lying beside him on the sill of the open window and a
frown was playing about his brow. He looked up when Kendall came in and
slammed the volume of Schiller shut with a sigh of relief.
“It’s criminal, Kendall, to have to translate German on a day like
this. You can’t do justice to it. It needs a thick fog to gargle
with. No one can manage a good German pronunciation on a fair day;
no one, that is, but a German.” Gerald gathered the books together
and sat up. “Thanks be, I’m not a German! Think of going through life
having to call an insurance policy a――a――wait a minute!” He opened the
dictionary and fluttered the leaves quickly. “Ha! Having to call it
a _versicherungsschein_! Wouldn’t that be――well, _niederschlagend_?
Wouldn’t it?”
“Worse than that,” laughed Kendall. “It would be _grimmig_!”
“_Grimmig?_” Gerald frowned a moment. “That’s furious, isn’t it?”
“Yes, or fierce!”
“Oh! I wonder if the Germans can talk slang. I bet they can’t. Any
nation that calls an irregular verb an _unregelmässig Zeitwort_ must be
far too deficient in humor to produce any George Ades. What time is it?”
Kendall glanced at a small traveling clock on Gerald’s chiffonier and
informed him that it was twelve minutes to nine. Gerald sighed again.
“I’m off to the sacrifice then,” he murmured. “By the way, don’t make
any engagement for to-morrow, please. I want you to have dinner with me
at the house. Afterwards, if it doesn’t rain”――Gerald looked anxiously
at the bank of haze along the horizon――“we’ll kick along shore in the
launch. See you later.”
As the door closed Kendall, picking up his Cicero, smiled. It wasn’t
very likely that he would have had an engagement on Sunday! Then
the smile faded and he wondered, as he went out, what sort of an
appearance he would make at Sound View. He had been there once before,
but there had been several others with him and the occasion had been
most informal. Sunday dinner, he reflected ruefully, was a different
proposition. Perhaps, however, his blue serge suit, purchased in
Greenburg last Spring and pretty well worn since, would do if it
were well brushed. As he reached the stairs The Duke clattered down
the flight above and overtook him. The Duke was radiant in a suit
of intensely blue flannel, the coat of which, cut extremely low and
secured with two buttons, allowed a generous view of a vividly pink
shirt. The Duke was bare-headed and his coppery hair showed evidences
of having been recently wet and brushed.
“Hello, Burtis,” he greeted, ranging himself alongside. “I’ve got grand
news for you.”
Kendall looked politely curious.
“Yes, sir, stu-pend-ous news! Mr. Charles Cotton is going out for
the football team!” The Duke chuckled. “Can you imagine it? Picture
the doughty Charles hurling himself fiercely against the――the craven
foe, his eyes lighted with the joy of battle and the ball clasped
desperately to his heaving chest! Get it? What? He told me of his
decision this morning, his epoch-marking decision. Epoch-marking is
some language, what? I’ve been simply bursting with the news ever
since, but you’re the first fellow I’ve told. My word, but I’ll bet
Payson will be pleased!” He looked at Kendall and grinned. “Simply
lays you flat, doesn’t it? Can’t express yourself at all, what? I
knew you’d be overcome. I congratulated Charles with tears in my
voice, Burtis. I said to him, ‘Charles, my boy, this is indeed a happy
moment for the old school. I thank you. I thank you on behalf of my
schoolmates, Charles, on behalf of the team, on behalf of the coach and
the captain! And I thank you on my own behalf, Charles, for you have
brought joy to my sad heart, light to my weary eyes and laughter to my
lips!’ Yes, sir, I said all that. And do you think he was pleased? Not
a bit of it! He turned upon me like――like a viper and called me――well,
I think I’d better not tell you what he called me. It was distinctly in
bad taste.”
Kendall laughed and The Duke, encouraged, rattled on. “Now the question
is whether we’d better divulge the news all at once or sort of prepare
folks for it. I tell you it’s going to make an awful difference to
the team, having Cotton on it. With his noble example before you, you
fellows can’t help but go in and win. I hope Broadwood won’t hear about
it. If she did she’d probably disband her team to-morrow.”
“Has he ever played before?” asked Kendall as they joined the throng
crowding its way into Oxford.
“No, never, I believe. I think he offered his services last year
wherever he was, but they were not accepted. He lays the fact to
jealousy. Isn’t it sad such things can be? Where are you headed? Latin?
Me, too. And that reminds me that I forgot to do my composition. Won’t
Collins be pleased!”
If the Assistant Principal was pleased he didn’t allow the fact to
become evident, for he said several dryly sarcastic things to The Duke
and ended by suggesting to him that he deliver the Latin composition to
him at his room not later than six o’clock that evening. Whereupon The
Duke, cheerful and forgiving, promised to accept the suggestion and the
Orations of Marcus Tullius Cicero engaged the attention of the class.
As it was Saturday, football practice began at three o’clock instead
of four. Kendall joined the stream of candidates that flowed from the
gymnasium locker room to the field and wondered whether Coach Payson
would see fit to start him to-day with the first squad. Kendall’s
opinion of his football ability was modest, but he firmly believed
that, while there was undoubtedly plenty left for him to learn, he
could play half-back as well as either Fayette or Crandall, players who
thus far enjoyed the call for the position he coveted. However, he kept
this opinion to himself, which was a wise thing to do.
Fifteen minutes later, one of a dozen candidates for places behind the
line who were busily engaged in catching punts and running them back,
he spied the redoubtable Cotton, long, lanky, awkward and bewildered,
hurling himself to the ground in the effort to land upon a deceptive
pigskin tossed by the hand of a bored and pessimistic veteran to whom
the drudgery of breaking in a squad of green candidates had been
entrusted. Cotton was suitably arrayed, and his canvas breeches and
cleated shoes held the stamp of newness. The striped blue and white
jersey, however, in which the upper part of his thin body was attired
had evidently seen service of some kind. Observing him a moment,
Kendall decided that the jersey had not reached its present faded and
torn condition on the football field, for Cotton was so palpably out
of his element that the spectacle he afforded was almost pathetic.
Kendall, recalling Wellington’s nonsense, smiled. Cotton, he told
himself, had a hard row to hoe before he reached the First Team!
Still later, after a full half hour of signal work in the squad
directed by Holmes, Kendall walked back to the bench, draping a blanket
over his shoulders, and spied an empty space beside Cotton. He was not
favorably impressed by that youth, but the latter’s attempts had been
so pathetic and his countenance now showed so much weariness that
Kendall, from kindness of heart, squeezed into the space and asked
cheerfully how he had got on. Cotton evidently did not for the minute
recognize in football togs his host of a few nights before, nor did he
respond very affably to the overture. Instead he shot a rather sullen
and somewhat suspicious glance at Kendall and said, “All right,” in a
tone that seemed to ask what business it was of the inquirer’s.
“Have you ever played before?” asked Kendall. “I think Wellington said
you had, though.”
“A little.” He examined Kendall curiously, began to recall his features
and thawed. “I went out for the team last Fall, but”――he shrugged his
shoulders, hinting at things too regrettable to mention――“I didn’t make
it. Say, you’re Burtis, aren’t you? I didn’t know you at first.”
Kendall acknowledged it. “What school were you at last year?” he asked,
less from curiosity than a desire to seem friendly.
“Kingston Manor; near Baltimore. It’s a pretty good school; not as big
as this, but I didn’t care much for the fellows there. It was awfully
cliquish. That’s why I didn’t get on the team. I wasn’t swell enough
for them.” He laughed disagreeably.
“Too bad.” Kendall tried to put into his voice sympathy he didn’t
feel. For some reason Cotton awakened a feeling in him closely akin
to dislike, and it troubled Kendall, for there seemed no excuse for
it. Kendall could almost invariably find something to like in an
acquaintance, and when he couldn’t he still stopped short of actual
antipathy. In the present case, fearing that he was doing the other an
injustice, he took especial pains to be nice. They talked football for
a minute or two. Cotton expressed doubt of obtaining a fair trial.
“I guess if you don’t have friends here it’s about the same as it was
at Kingston or――or anywhere else.”
“I don’t think that,” responded Kendall. “I don’t believe they care
much here who or what you are if you can play football. Why, I didn’t
know a soul in school when I got here last Fall. I don’t know very many
yet.”
“Oh, well, you got taken up by Pennimore and that crowd,” replied
Cotton with something like a sneer.
“Not exactly that,” said Kendall quietly. “I did make a few friends,
though, of course, but the reason I got on at football was because I
could do a little something and they found it out. You buckle down and
learn the game, Cotton, and then, if you can play fairly well, you’ll
get your chance. There isn’t a squarer man alive than Coach Payson,
and Captain Merriwell is a mighty good sort, too. Just the same, it
won’t do you any harm to meet fellows, and I tell you what you do,
Cotton; you come down some evening and make a call. Fellows are always
drifting in and out of our room. Lots of them I don’t know very well
myself, but Gerald will introduce you.”
“Thanks,” replied Cotton almost gratefully. “I will. Wellington doesn’t
like me very well, I guess, and I don’t think much of him, either. He’s
a sort of a Smart Aleck, isn’t he?”
“I don’t know him very well,” answered Kendall noncommittally. “Here
comes the scrimmage. Don’t forget, Cotton. Come and see us some
evening.”
“First and second squads!” called Mr. Payson. “Line up as you did
yesterday.”
Blankets were tossed aside, head-guards caught up and twenty-two
eager aspirants thronged on to the field. Kendall trotted out to his
place on the second squad. Across the field, at the other end of the
fifteen-yard line, was Greene. Under the goal stood Holmes, who was
fighting hard against Simms for the quarter-back position. Up the
field the first squad were lined up for the kick-off, on their toes,
awaiting the whistle. Then Fales, left-guard, swung his long leg and
the brown oval came flying over the white lines, turning lazily in
its flight. Down rushed the enemy. The second squad defenders moved to
the left to meet the onslaught as the ball dipped into Greene’s arms.
The interference formed quickly. Bodies thudded together, players went
down. Greene, clutching the ball, shot forward, three players cutting
a path for him. A feint to the left, a quick turn to the right and
the opening was found. One, two, three white lines passed under his
pounding feet. Then a lithe body sprang upon him. Greene struggled
forward. Another foeman charged and the three went down. The whistle
piped.
“First down! Ten to go!” called the referee.
There was a quick lining-up, Holmes rattled off the signal, Kendall
trotted back to punting position, Best, at center, passed the ball,
Kendall caught it breast-high, stepped forward, swung his leg and away
hurtled the pigskin, arching high against the blue afternoon sky, and
away sped the players to line up again on the first squad’s thirty
yards. The punt had been a good one, forty-five yards in distance and
high enough to let the ends down under it and upset the runner before
he could more than get started.
There was no scoring in the first ten-minute period. Andy Ryan kept a
close watch on the water pail, for the day was warm and the temptation
to drink a dipperful was great. “Easy with the water, boys,” he
counseled time and again. And, “Get your blankets on! Don’t stand
around there getting cold! Have you no sense at all?” There were many
changes for the last period, but Kendall was retained, and, since the
first squad seemed to have gained more by the influx of fresh material
than the second and forced the playing from the start, he was needed.
Five times he was called on to punt out of danger from under his own
goal and as many times, coolly and exactly as though he were practicing
on an empty gridiron, he responded successfully. Then, in the last
minute of play, the tragedy occurred. First swept down to the twenty
yards. Two tries netted but four yards more. A forward pass, unexpected
and well executed, went to Cousins, but Kendall downed him in his
fourth stride and the ball went to the second on her fifteen-yard line.
Folsom, who had taken Holmes’ place at quarter, called on Kendall and
Kendall dropped back just under the cross-bar. For once Best passed
badly. The ball struck the ground a yard in front of the punter and
although Kendall got it on the bound and swung and even started the
kick away, the first squad forwards crashed through, the ball struck an
upraised hand and Captain Merriwell fell on it behind the goal-line.
Simms missed a try-at-goal. Score, first squad, 6; second squad, 0.
A moment later, panting, tired, aching, the players trotted up the
hill to the gymnasium, blankets trailing and flapping, to feel the
grateful splash of the warm water over their bodies, to writhe and gasp
as the icy-cold deluge followed, and to talk it all over, accusing,
defending, explaining, regretting, exulting! Then to dress leisurely,
weariedly and withal happily in an atmosphere of steam and witch hazel
and arnica, in a babel of talk and laughter, silently resolving better
things for next practice, wondering how they could live through the
whole long hour that must elapse before they could have supper!