KIRK EXACTS A PROMISE
Kendall returned to his room a half hour before supper time in a
condition of mental amazement. He had practically agreed to “go out”
for the _Scholiast_ after Christmas recess and had made the startling
discovery that an editorship on the school weekly was just what he
wanted! Whitehall had kindly and almost apologetically explained that
at first, “just for a while, you know,” Kendall would have to do
reporting so as to learn the ropes. But none of the group on the island
had seemed to doubt for a moment that Kendall would ultimately succeed
to the position of editor-in-chief! When he had spoken modestly of
his lack of experience the fellows had waved the thing aside as of no
consequence.
“That will be all right,” Davis had declared. “It won’t take you any
time to get the hang of it.” And there had been a most flattering
emphasis on the “you.”
Only Jim Hough had seemed unenthusiastic. Jim had expressed doubt
that a fellow could be on the _Scholiast_ and give the proper amount
of time and attention to football. Whereupon had ensued an argument
between Jim and Whitehall as to the comparative importance of football
and journalism, the latter making the absolutely absurd claim that
journalism was the greater pursuit of the two! In the end they had
appealed to Kendall for his opinion and he had put an end to the
dispute by smilingly suggesting that they allow him to defer judgment
until he knew more about journalism, a suggestion that seemed to
impress everyone with its marvelous wisdom. Or everyone save The
Duke. The Duke had grinned like the Cheshire cat all the time and had
more than once favored Kendall with a surreptitious and knowing wink,
thereby adding to Kendall’s embarrassment.
For it was embarrassing. To discover suddenly that instead of the
nonentity one supposes oneself to be one is in reality a public
character, a person of prominence, in short a quasi-hero, is bound
to be both embarrassing and disturbing. But once having had his eyes
opened, Kendall could not doubt that The Duke had spoken truly. He had
only to observe how attentively the others listened to what he said,
how eager they seemed to have him express opinions, how stoutly they
believed in his ability to make the _Scholiast_ and succeed at the
work. But it was pleasant, almost intoxicatingly pleasant, and Kendall
went back to Clarke Hall in a mood far different from that in which he
had left. The world no longer seemed dull or empty. It was, indeed, a
very wonderful world, filled with many likable people and teeming with
possibilities! Kendall’s feelings were reflected so plainly in his
countenance when he entered Number 28 that Gerald, who had unexpectedly
returned for supper and was entertaining George Kirk, viewed him in
surprise.
“Hello,” he exclaimed, “what’s happened to you, Kendall? Anybody left
you a fortune?”
“Not that I know of,” replied Kendall after greeting Kirk. “I――I’ve
been on the river with The Duke. We had a bully time.”
“With The Duke? What the dickens did you do?”
“Oh, nothing much. Just paddled up to the island and sat there. Some
fellows came along and we talked.”
“And that’s your idea of a bully time!” marveled Gerald. “George,
observe our young friend and take a lesson from him. Forget that
Broadwood beat you yesterday. Paddle on the river and cheer up!”
“Did they really beat us?” asked Kendall.
Kirk nodded gloomily. “They simply slaughtered us.”
“Don’t get him on the subject again, Kendall,” begged Gerald. “I found
him moping on the steps and brought him along to brighten him up. He’s
wailed and bewailed for half an hour and I can stand no more of it.
Let’s find a cheerful subject of conversation, such as supper.”
“I’m awfully sorry,” said Kendall sympathetically.
“Let it go at that, then,” said Gerald. “You’ll start him off again if
you aren’t careful. What lovely weather we’re having, George!”
Kirk laughed. “Well, we’ll get back at them in the Spring,” he said
hopefully. “I wish you’d try for the team, Burtis.”
“I don’t think I’d ever make a golfer,” replied Kendall. “You know I
tried last year, Kirk.”
“I know you did. And did mighty well, too. All you need is practice.
I wish you’d think it over. It’s so hard to get good fellows for the
team!”
“Maybe I will, if you want me to,” said Kendall. “I like golf very
much, only I don’t believe I’d ever become much of a player.”
“I think you would,” replied Kirk earnestly. “Any fellow who can do
as well in football as you’re doing, and has such a dandy sense of
directions and distance as you must have to kick those goals, ought to
make a good golfer.”
Kendall smiled, and, seeing the inquiring look on Kirk’s face,
explained. “I was thinking of something Ned Tooker said last year. Ned
said that a good football player couldn’t be a good golf player; that
the one spoiled him for the other; I forget just why.”
Kirk laughed. “Well, Ned was the best golfer we’ve ever had here, but
he didn’t know everything. And, besides, Ned was fond of saying things
just for the sound of them!”
“A common failing,” grieved Gerald as he splashed and gurgled at the
stand. “Alas, how”――gurgle――“few of us”――sniff! splash!――“consider the
sense”――sniff! sniff!――“of our utterances! Where’s that towel?”
“Then it’s a promise, is it, Burtis?” asked the golf captain eagerly.
“Why――er――yes, if you like. At least, I’ll give it a fair try, Kirk.”
“Good stuff! We’ll have some games together after the Broadwood game’s
over. Well, I’ll run along. ’Bye, Gerald.”
“’Bye,” answered Gerald from behind a towel. “Call again, Georgie.”
“Perhaps I will some day. By the way!” Kirk stopped at the door. “What
sort of a chap is that Cotton? I mean the fellow who rooms with The
Duke. All right, is he?”
“All right?” echoed Gerald. “I’d say he was pretty much all wrong.
There’s no harm in him, though, I guess. Ask Kendall. He’s a great chum
of Kendall’s. Thick as thieves, they are!”
“Oh, well, I guess he’s all right, then,” said Kirk. “I asked
because――――” He stopped, looked thoughtfully puzzled a moment and then,
nodding, went out.
“Wonder what Cotton’s done to him,” said Gerald cheerfully. “If I were
a punster I’d say it was evident Kirk doesn’t cotton to him. But I’m
not, and so I won’t. Did I hear you murmur your thanks?”
“Eh?” asked Kendall blankly.
“Well, where have you been? Still thinking of what a wonderful time you
had on the river?” Gerald seemed a little disgruntled over that.
“No, I was just――just thinking.”
What he had been thinking was that if he succeeded in making the
_Scholiast_ and the Golf Team, he would be a pretty busy chap the rest
of the year!
Just how the trick played on Gibson of Broadwood got out is not known.
Neither Gerald nor Kendall divulged it, and The Duke refused to own
to having spoken of the matter. But get out it did, for by Monday
the whole school knew about it and was laughing delightedly. Even the
_Scholiast_, most dignified of school publications, could not forebear
a fling and the next issue contained at the bottom of a page this brief
note:
“The Broadwood Academy Press announces for early publication ‘Personal
Recollections of Booth’; by Gibson.”
Football practice on Monday was hard and long. Several second string
players were temporarily promoted to the First Team, for a number of
the regulars were still showing the effects of Saturday’s game. Kendall
played two periods and then yielded his position to Fayette and was
sent off. On Tuesday, however, strains and bruises were healed and
the First Team lined up as on Saturday, with the exception that Adler
was in place of Metz at right end. Oliver Colton, a former Yardley
captain, arrived on Tuesday and stayed until the end of the week,
putting in three days of hard coaching. Under his tuition the guards
and tackles improved perceptibly. The first serious accident of the
season happened Wednesday, when Lin Johnson, center of the Second Team,
broke a shoulder blade and did it in such a messy way that there was
no question of any more football for him that season. Ireland, who
had been playing full-back on Hough’s team, took Johnson’s place,
but he didn’t make much of a center and the First, when it wanted a
gain through the middle of the opposing line, spoke of taking “a short
trip through Ireland.” But the Second struggled on gamely and, if it
was no longer able to score touchdowns on the First, sometimes got a
field-goal over.
The mass-meetings began Thursday night. Everyone piled into Assembly
Hall on the top floor of Oxford and listened to speeches by Mr. Payson
and Captain Merriwell and Mr. Bendix, Physical Director, and sang
the old songs and experimented with new ones, and cheered themselves
hoarse. The Banjo and Mandolin Club provided the music, assisted by
Perky Davis at the piano, and its efforts to master some of the tunes
offered by enthusiastic amateur composers occasioned much merriment
among the audience below the stage. Afterward Kendall, who had promised
himself an hour’s tussle with algebra that evening, went back alone
to Number 28, Gerald and Harry wandering off with Pete Girard to the
latter’s room in Dudley. To Kendall’s disgust, when he reached Number
28 he found the door ajar and Charles Cotton seated at the table
apparently deeply immersed in calculations with pencil and paper.
Kendall disguised his surprise and disappointment and greeted the
visitor politely if without overmuch enthusiasm. Cotton, however,
seemed to notice no lack of warmth.
“Just the fellow I wanted to see,” he announced, without rising from
Kendall’s chair. “Saw you at the meeting, but lost you outside. I want
you to see what you think of this scheme, Burtis.”
“What is it?” asked Kendall, tossing aside his cap and leaning over the
other’s shoulder. On the table lay a square of paper rudely scrawled
with circles and figures. “I’m not much good at puzzles, Cotton.”
“Oh, this isn’t a puzzle. It’s something new in football signals.”
“You don’t say? What’s the idea?”
“Well, look here. Have you got another chair? Bring it up, like a good
fellow. I’m awfully interested in this and I want you tell me what you
think of it. Now then,” he continued when Kendall had drawn a chair to
the table and seated himself, “here’s the idea. You know the signals
they use now are dreadfully complicated.”
“Are they?”
“Well, aren’t they? Take the Yardley system, for instance. We have two
sets of signals, like this.” Cotton indicated his diagram. “Here are
the holes numbered from 1 to 8. Then the two ends, the two tackles and
the four backs are numbered from 1 to 8. Now that’s confusing, isn’t
it?”
“I don’t see why,” Kendall objected, getting interested now. “We use
three numbers, the first a fake, the second indicating the runner, and
the third the hole. That’s not hard.”
“Then we have special plays numbered, too.”
“Yes, a special play is called by tacking its number on to 500 and when
Simms calls that he calls it right after the fake. You can’t get mixed
up there, can you?”
“N-no,” replied Cotton doubtfully. “I suppose not. Still――now suppose
left half was to take the ball through guard-tackle hole on the right.
How would you call that?”
“We haven’t any such play. If we had, though, Simms would give us, say,
22, 76, 36.”
Cotton studied his diagram. “That sounds harder than need be. Your
22 is your fake, your 76 is your runner, the second numeral of the
number indicating left half-back, and the 36 is the hole, the 6 meaning
between right guard and tackle. That’s it, isn’t it?”
“Of course.”
“Have I got the positions numbered right?”
“Not quite. You’ve got quarter numbered 7; should be 5.”
“That so? Well, you draw a diagram for me, will you? I’m a lobster at
it. Got another piece of paper?”
Kendall drew a pad toward him and quickly made a row of circles for the
forwards and added four more beneath for the backs. Then he numbered
the holes and the players. Cotton nodded approvingly.
“That’s fine and neat,” he commended. “Now suppose you were to punt,
Burtis; what would be the signal for that?”
“‘Burtis back; 24, 49, 16.’”
“Nine means kick, doesn’t it?”
“Yes, and the 16 means nothing. When you get to the 9 you know it is to
be a kick and pay no attention to anything afterwards. Same way with
special plays, Cotton. For instance, ‘75, 506, 102’ means that the play
is to Play Number 6. The 102 means nothing; it’s just tagged on to fill
out.”
“Well, that isn’t as complicated as it seemed at first,” owned Cotton.
“As long as I was on the team we used only hole numbers, you know, and
the quarter indicated the runner with his fingers on his hip.”
“Yes, the Second does that still, I think. It’s not a bad way if all
the backs can see the quarter’s fingers. What is this scheme of yours,
though?”
Cotton frowned a minute. Then he shook his head. “It doesn’t seem so
good now,” he confessed. “My plan was to use numbers for the holes
and letters for the players. It seemed to me it would be easier to
remember.”
“That’s not new,” smiled Kendall. “They used to use letters altogether
sometimes, I’ve heard. Used to take a word with ten or eleven letters,
no two the same, of course, and let a letter stand for the hole and the
player, too. I guess the number codes are better, though.”
“I suppose so, or they wouldn’t use them,” replied Cotton thoughtfully
folding up the paper. “Still, I think a fellow might figure out a
simpler scheme than the one we use.”
“Try it,” laughed Kendall. “If you hit on anything good I guess Payson
will be glad to use it.”
“I suppose the best thing about the number signals is that they can be
changed easily. Now I suppose these signals won’t be used in Saturday’s
game.”
“Yes, they will. But they’ll be changed for Broadwood.”
“I see.” Cotton absently dropped the sheet of paper in his pocket as he
stood up. “Well, I’m going to have another go at it, anyway. I’ll bet I
can beat this scheme. I hope I haven’t been in the way. Were you going
to do anything?”
“Only grind a little,” replied Kendall. “There’s plenty of time yet. So
long, Cotton. Let me know how you get on with that.” He nodded toward
the pocket in which lay the paper.
“I will.” Cotton patted his jacket as though he wasn’t at all sure
where he had placed the sheet, and nodded. “Good-night.”
Kendall, hunting his books, reflected that Cotton wasn’t so bad, after
all. Why, to-night he had been quite human! Of course, he shouldn’t
have taken possession of the room in the absence of the occupants.
There was an unwritten law at Yardley that if a fellow was not in,
you went no further than the threshold unless you happened to be a
particular friend and had permission to make yourself at home. However,
Cotton had behaved so amiably that Kendall was ready to forgive the
breach of manners. He had almost liked the fellow to-night!