AN AWKWARD ENCOUNTER
The tall thin gentleman had been struck squarely in the face.
The shock and the hurt must have been considerable. But apart from
this, insult was added to injury by the mud on the ball that spattered
over the man's immaculate shirt front and vest.
Garry, in dismay at what he had unintentionally done, ran swiftly
across the field in pursuit of the offending pigskin, intent upon
making his peace with the victim of the accident.
Peace, however, was the last thing in the thoughts of the stranger, who
had taken out his handkerchief and was busily engaged in wiping the mud
from his face and clothes.
He stared angrily at Garry when the boy approached, out of breath and
full of apologies.
"I didn't see you coming," Garry panted, genuinely penitent. "I'm
awfully sorry, sir. I hope it didn't hurt you much. It was only an
accident."
"Accident!" sneered the man in a voice trembling with rage. "Quite an
unfortunate accident, young man. You ought to be ashamed of yourself."
"I'm dreadfully sorry," repeated Garry. "I wouldn't have done it for
the world!"
"I suppose it was an accident, too," the stranger went on, as though
Garry had not spoken, "that you happen to be playing football in a
vacant lot close to a fairly populous thoroughfare. Any passerby is in
danger of being assaulted as I have been."
Garry stared at the man helplessly, hardly knowing what answer to make
to the stilted, pedantic speech.
"Perhaps you had better come into our house," the boy suggested, still
anxious to make amends. "You can wash there and have your clothes
cleaned."
"I'm not in need of any suggestions from you," replied the man, giving
Garry a look out of his cold gray eyes that made the lad think of a
snake. "All you can do is to make me an abject apology."
"I've already said that I am sorry," replied Garry, growing a bit red
in the face at the stranger's implacable tone, "and I am--_very_ sorry."
"People don't usually cross this lot," Nick broke in, coming to Garry's
relief; "and you came around that corner so suddenly that we didn't
see you till after the punt was made."
"I was taking a short cut to Mr. Elliny's house," the man rejoined,
turning his cold gaze from Garry to Nick. "Not that I feel called on
to offer an explanation, since the lot was not fenced in," he added
loftily. "It's an outrage for you boys to practice with that filthy
football within the town limits," with a glance of distaste at his
muddy waistcoat. "I ought to report this affair to the authorities."
With this the outraged stranger swept the group with an icy stare,
scowled fiercely at Garry, and continued on his way with a dignity that
refused to be marred by the consciousness that his immaculate clothes
had suffered sadly.
Nick whistled softly.
"Going to Mr. Elliny's house," he repeated thoughtfully. "Isn't Elliny
the head of the Board of Education?"
"Great Scott! So he is," cried Garry, beginning to see whither Nick's
question led. "I bet that tall, thin guy is a teacher!"
"Well, you did it that time, Garry!" crowed Rooster. "Sure, that old
boy is a teacher. You could tell it by the look of him."
"By the look in his eyes he'll never forgive you, Garry," predicted
Nick. "You hurt his dignity."
"Anyway you got some dirt off der ball," said Carl Zukor, who had not
yet shaken off his German accent.
"Yeah. Think of that and cheer up, old boy," said elephantine Sloppy
Hume, clapping Garry on the shoulder. "It wasn't your fault, anyway.
Don't let it faze you."
"Just the same, I'm mighty sorry it happened," replied Garry, as he
resumed his position in the field. "I don't suppose it's any fun to
have a muddy football smack into you. You can't blame the man for
feeling sore."
"You can't blame him for being an old crab, either," said Nick
cheerfully. "But you don't exactly love him for it. If he'd been a
regular fellow, he'd have accepted your apology and let it go at that."
"Well, come on, play ball," called Garry, and in a few moments practice
was in full swing again.
But though he entered heartily into the sport, Garry could not shake
off a feeling of regret that the accident had occurred. There had been
a look of bitter animosity in the look the man had turned on him, and
he had a feeling that he would hear of the matter further.
The afternoon wore on, and the boys were at length forced to call an
end to the practice. As they reluctantly dispersed to their homes Garry
carefully deposited his precious football in the barn "gym" and entered
the house.
There he found that his mother had an errand for him that must be
attended to at once.
Garry was muddy and hot and needed a bath badly. Nevertheless, he
started off without protest, thinking that perhaps he could work in a
shower when he returned.
At the first corner, as luck would have it, he ran into his sister Ella
with two of her girl chums. One was Jane Danter, Nick Danter's pretty
sister, and the other an out-of-town girl whom Garry did not know.
Since Ella rarely missed an opportunity to tease her brother, she could
not resist the opportunity his rather unkempt appearance gave her.
"Garry Grayson! who's been throwing mud at you? Or have you been making
mud pies? Of all things! I shouldn't have recognized you if it weren't
for your walk. You look like something the cat dragged in."
"Is zat so?" was the only retort Garry in his confusion was capable of
making. He felt it was not a very effective one, and his peace of mind
was not increased by the sound of the girls' giggles as he passed on
with what dignity he could muster.
He realized ruefully that he ought to have taken a moment to wash
himself and brush off his clothes. Handling a muddy football during an
afternoon of hard practice was not conducive to a good appearance.
"I sure look like a tramp," he thought to himself. "I suppose I'll run
into every one I know just because I've got mud all over me."
The first person he saw when he entered the store on his mother's
errand was Sandy Podder, who looked Garry over disdainfully from head
to foot.
After the first look that passed between them, Garry ignored Sandy and
stood with his back toward him while he waited for his order to be
filled.
But Sandy was evidently in no mood to be ignored. He started a
conversation with the storekeeper in a loud tone that was clearly
intended to reach Garry's ears.
"Lot of fellows I know entering Lenox High this fall," remarked Sandy.
"That so?" inquired the storekeeper, without a great deal of interest.
"Sure," continued Sandy. "Some crack football players too, from Webster
and Cherry Street schools."
"Some from Hill Street too, if what I hear is true," remarked the man,
giving Garry a friendly wink.
"Oh, that bunch! They think they're players, of course." Sandy Podder's
scorn was immense. "But they won't have a chance against such fellows
as Pete Maddern and Tom Allison. Those two are what I call real
football players."
Thinking that Sandy had not recognized Garry as the former captain of
the Hill Street team, the well disposed storekeeper tried to give him a
hint.
He pointed towards Garry's still averted back and said in a low tone:
"Gently! Gently! That's Garry Grayson himself."
"Well, what of it?" Sandy laughed and snapped his fingers flippantly.
"Do you think I'm afraid of him?"
"You bet your life you are!" Garry whirled on him so swiftly that
Sandy, though much the bigger of the two, shrank back in alarm. "You
stow that kind of talk, Sandy Podder, if you know what's good for you."
Sandy recovered himself enough to bluster:
"Who's going to make me, I'd like to know?"
Garry took a step forward, his eyes blazing. But here the storekeeper
intervened.
"Easy, boys, easy," he admonished. "Don't let's have any trouble in
here."
Garry drew back at the words and Sandy sneered openly, thinking that he
had an ally, if only a negative one.
"You think you're going to make the team at Lenox High, I suppose,"
continued the trouble-maker. "Well, let me tell you that you haven't
the ghost of a chance with Allison and Maddern in the field against
you."
Garry was holding himself in with a great effort. When he spoke it was
in a deceptively quiet voice.
"You seem to forget that as captain of the Hill Street team I've met
both Pete Maddern and Tom Allison--"
"And licked them too," interposed the storekeeper, rubbing his hands
with enjoyment. "My boy was there at both those games, and he said they
were the prettiest he ever saw."
"Just luck!" sneered Sandy again with that offensive snap of his
fingers. "I was there--and I know."
"Oh, you know, do you?" Garry's voice was still calm, but there was
something in it that warned Sandy Podder he had gone too far. "Since
you know so much, perhaps you can tell me what became of that money
that Mr. Long gave you for your father and that your father never got?"