COTTON MEETS A FRIEND
Mr. William Gibson, of Broadwood Academy, really deserves no place in
this narrative, yet I hardly see how we can keep him out inasmuch as
his trip to Yardley that Saturday afternoon proved to be the first link
in a chain of events involving many of the principal actors in our
little drama. For if Gibson had not come to Yardley he would not have
been ignominiously imprisoned in the telephone booth, and if he had not
been shut up in the booth he would not have run across Charles Cotton,
and――but I am getting ahead of the story.
The practice of detailing players or coaches to attend games played
by a rival school or college in order to gain information that may
aid in defeating such rival is a questionable one, in spite of its
prevalence, and I have no intention of defending it. At the same time
I very much doubt if William Gibson――over at Broadwood they called
him Billy――considered that he was doing anything out of the way. I am
willing, even eager, to attribute the highest patriotic motives to
Mr. Gibson, up to the time he met Charles Cotton. For what happened
subsequently I offer no excuses. Even the most rabid patriotism will
not explain it.
Gibson had purposely attired himself to look as little like a
student as possible. That is, he had donned a derby hat instead of
the usual cap and a rather dressy light overcoat, hoping perhaps
to give the impression of being a young gentleman of mercantile
pursuits, say a youthful but promising bank clerk or a budding broker.
Unfortunately, Billy’s countenance and figure, once seen, were nearly
unforgettable. The countenance was heavy and pugnacious and the figure
broad-shouldered and massive, massive even for his eighteen years. He
had never actually attained a first choice position on the Broadwood
eleven, but he was a good player and an excellent substitute guard, and
he had more than once opposed Yardley during his football career. He
had taken pains to arrive early at the field and was in his seat before
the teams came on the field, and it is probable that his presence
would not have been discovered by the enemy had not Davis’s eyes gone
roaming over the Forest Hill contingent in search of an acquaintance.
Gibson saw that he was recognized; the hostile stares of the group
below told him that; and he was disappointed. However, there was no
help for it, and, as he was there, he might as well remain. Even if
Yardley failed to show any new tricks it was still possible to get a
line on her formations in attack and defense and get a general idea of
her ability. When The Duke summoned him to the telephone Gibson had no
suspicions. It was quite possible that the Broadwood coach had thought
of some feature of Yardley’s playing that he wanted information on.
He hesitated for a moment to show himself, thinking that perhaps his
presence might be resented. Then, realizing that he had already been
recognized and that to disregard the summons would look strange, he
answered it. It was only when, cooped up in the telephone booth, he
learned from the Greenburg operator that there was no record of any
call for him that it began to dawn upon him that he had been made the
victim of a hoax.
Very angrily he slammed up the receiver and pushed at the door. A
minute or so later his anger had visibly increased. It was too dark
in the booth to examine the latch with any hope of discovering the
trouble. There was nothing for it but to raise his voice in a demand
for release, which he did. Unfortunately, however, it is very doubtful
if there was a living soul from one end of Oxford Hall to the other.
Eventually, perhaps ten minutes after he had unsuspectingly entered the
booth, the plan of breaking open the door occurred to him. He tried it.
The telephone company, however, had caused that booth to be constructed
of exceedingly strong materials, and finally Gibson, very warm and
breathless, gave up the attempt. Next he considered breaking the glass.
There were several panes and he could take his choice. But while he
had not hesitated to try to force the lock or wreck a panel the idea
of breaking glass struck him as peculiarly destructive and he paused
to consider. And at about that time it occurred to him that a very
simple way of escape confronted him. He snatched down the receiver and
explained his predicament to a sympathetic Central.
“I will call up the Office,” said the operator.
But the Office was empty and no one answered her ring. So she tried
Clarke Hall and was successful. The telephone in Clarke was in the
study of Mr. Collins, the Assistant Principal. Ordinarily Mr. Collins
would have been out at this hour of the afternoon, but it so happened
that a slight cold had suggested to him the advisability of remaining
indoors and taking a nap. The imperative ringing of the telephone bell
put an end to the nap, and, some five minutes later, having discarded
dressing-gown and slippers in favor of outer clothing and shoes, Mr.
Collins, none too pleased with the necessity, strode down the corridor
of Oxford and liberated a strange, perspiring youth from his cell.
Gibson, failing in the dimness of the hall to recognize authority in
the slight, medium-sized person before him, immediately gave vent to
his wrath.
“Say, what kind of a fool thing is that?” he demanded. “I’ve been
suffocating in there for twenty minutes!”
Mr. Collins viewed him gravely.
“Wonder you wouldn’t have that latch fixed! It would have served you
right if I’d bust the glass out of it!”
“It pains me deeply to learn of your discomfort,” replied the Assistant
Principal dryly. “Perhaps if you had telephoned to Central at once you’d
have been released sooner. May I ask who you are and how you happen to
have been using the booth?”
Gibson, having now discovered that he was talking to neither a student
nor the janitor, changed his tune. “My name is Gibson. I――I came to see
the football game. A fellow sung out that I was wanted on the telephone
and showed me up here. When I asked the operator she said no one had
called me. Then I tried to get out and couldn’t.”
“Hm,” said Mr. Collins. “We have reported the matter to the company and
they have agreed to send up and fix that latch. As a matter of fact,
I presumed that they had done so. I am very sorry, Gibson. I don’t
understand, however, why the messenger should have deceived you. Some
mistake, doubtless.”
“He――he did it on purpose,” blurted Gibson, still too angry to be
discreet. Mr. Collins looked surprised. They had reached the steps and
now the Assistant Principal viewed the boy thoughtfully.
“Why?” he asked.
“I――I don’t know,” muttered Gibson. “It doesn’t matter, though. I――I’ll
be going. Thank you, sir.”
“One moment, please. You live in Greenburg?”
Gibson hesitated. Then, “No, sir, I――I’m at Broadwood. I just came over
to see the game.”
“Really?” Mr. Collins raised his brows. “Your Broadwood team doesn’t
play to-day, then?”
“Yes, sir, they play Nordham.”
“At home?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You, however, preferred to see this game, eh? I see. Now this boy who
brought you up here, Gibson; what was he like?”
Gibson, rather uncomfortable under the other’s sarcastic gaze, thought
a moment and at last gave a very excellent description of The Duke.
Mr. Collins nodded again. Then he smiled. It was a fleeting smile, but
Gibson saw it.
“He knew I’d get locked up in there,” he declared aggrievedly. “He
closed the door after me himself!”
“I find no difficulty in crediting that, Gibson,” replied Mr. Collins
gravely. “I think I know the young gentleman and I’ll have something to
say to him. Good-day, Gibson. I regret exceedingly that you have missed
seeing so much of the game. Perhaps, however, it is not yet entirely
over.”
But whether it was or wasn’t Gibson had no idea of returning to the
field. He remained on the steps a moment, watching Mr. Collins out of
sight around the corner of the old stone building, and then, thrusting
his hands into his pockets, set off with a frown down the drive. He had
almost reached the entrance gate at the foot of The Prospect when he
saw a boy walking rapidly toward him from the direction of the village.
Gibson wasn’t at all interested in the other pedestrian and gave him
no more than a thought. But when they drew abreast he glanced up
casually. Recognition was mutual.
“Hello, Cotton, what the dickens are you doing here?”
“Hello, Gibson! What are _you_ doing here?”
“Me? Just came over to see the game. Say, you aren’t at school here,
are you?”
Cotton nodded. “Yes, I entered this Fall. I don’t like it, though.”
Gibson grinned none too kindly. “You don’t like it anywhere very long,
do you? I thought someone said you were at school somewhere down South.”
“I was last year. But I’d rather be up North.”
“Gee, did _they_ fire you, too?” laughed Gibson.
Cotton colored. “No,” he answered shortly, “I didn’t like it. So I
didn’t go back.”
“They didn’t like you, you mean! How you getting on here?”
“All right,” replied Cotton, ignoring the statement in favor of the
question. “It’s a punk school, though. Not half as good as Broadwood.”
“Wonder you didn’t behave yourself when you were with us, then,” said
Gibson. “You’re a bit of a mutt, Cotton, I guess. Well, I must be
getting on. How far is it to Greenburg?”
“Oh, twenty minutes, maybe. Is the game over?”
“No, judging by the sounds it isn’t. I’ve had enough of it, though.
You’ve got a rotten team here this year, Cotton.”
“You bet we have!” assented the other eagerly. “That’s what I tell
them. You’ll lick the stuffing out of them, Gibson. Are you on the team
this year?”
“Me? Not exactly. I’m running Browne pretty hard, though. I may get on
next week. Why aren’t you at the game?”
“I had to get a letter off on the three o’clock mail and the only way
to do it was to take it to Greenburg. They only have two collections a
day up here. It’s a rotten place. I wanted to see the game, too. That’s
why I was hurrying back.”
“Well, don’t let me keep you.”
“Oh, that’s all right. They’ll get licked, anyway.”
Gibson, who had turned to go on, paused and observed Cotton attentively,
speculatively. “You don’t seem to love your team, Cotton,” he suggested.
“Oh, they’re a great bunch of snobs,” replied Cotton bitterly. “If you
haven’t got some sort of a drag you can’t get any show. It’s that way
with everything here. Now, at Broadwood――――”
“Your admiration for your dear old alma mater is touching,” sneered
Gibson. “I suppose you tried for the team and got chucked, eh?”
“I didn’t have any pull. They don’t care how well you play. If you
don’t know the fellows――――”
“Hm,” said Gibson thoughtfully. “Well, say, if you aren’t crazy to see
the end of the game, Cotton, why don’t you turn around and walk back to
Greenburg with me? I’ll treat to a soda, if you like, and we’ll have a
chin.”
“Sure! I don’t care about the game. It must be almost over now,
anyway. But what were you doing over here, Gibson?” Cotton frowned his
perplexity.
“Me? Oh, just watching.” Gibson winked slowly and meaningly.
“By Jove!” Cotton smiled delightedly. “That’s your game, eh? Did you
get anything?”
“Think I’d tell you if I did?” laughed Gibson, taking the other boy’s
arm.
“Oh, shucks!” said Cotton. “You can trust me, old man; you know that.”
“Well, come along and I’ll tell you about it.”