STATION W.L.L.O. BROADCASTS
Mill’s room was quite full at the appointed hour. Mr. and Mrs. Lyle
and Betty had come with Peaches and Toby. Mrs. Anderson, a plump,
good-natured lady, overflowed from her chair and, of course, Zo was
there, and Mill himself. The only absentee was Barry, but Peaches
explained that he would be along later.
Mill had changed the location of the radio set. It now stood close to
the high chiffonier and several feet from the wall. The table on which
it reposed was draped with a heavy cloth――loaned for this occasion
only by Mrs. Anderson――which fell to within a few inches of the floor.
As the cloth was gorgeously crimson, it added greatly to the scene
and set off beautifully the shining black panel of the receiver and
the wide-mouthed horn beside it. Of course the guests had to view the
apparatus at close range and have its mysteries explained to them, and
after that they retired expectantly to the half-circle of chairs and
Mill became busy at the dials.
“I hope we’ll get something to-night,” he announced. “I’ve been having
pretty good luck, but you never can tell.” Toby, who had inspected
the instrument with the others but had failed to show himself much
impressed, was here heard to utter a suspicious “Huh!” Mill ignored
it. “We’ll try for some music first,” he went on, both hands busy at
the little black knobs. Then, with startling suddenness, some one was
singing an Irish ballad! Mrs. Lyle gasped, “Gracious goodness!” and
Mr. Lyle beamed and rubbed his hands quite as though he were entirely
responsible for the miracle.
“W.D.J.K,” announced Mill, above the voice of the singer. “New York.
That’s a fellow named Burns singing. He’s pretty good.”
“Oh,” sighed Mrs. Lyle, “I thought it was John McGregor!”
“McCormack, Mamma,” Betty corrected gently.
“Yes, of course, dear. I meant――”
There was an orchestral selection after that, mysteriously picked out
of the air by the simple readjustment of the knobs, and then an almost
deafening shriek of static that made Mrs. Lyle jump and produced a
painful facial contortion from Toby, no longer a doubter. Mill put
the instrument through its paces very thoroughly for the benefit of
its eager audience and was patiently trying to pick up Cleveland when
Peaches interrupted:
“Say, Mill, it’s almost eight, and I told Toby you’d get that Onondaga
University lecture. You know, the one by Professor Brown about frogs.”
Mill looked blank for a moment. Then he said:
“Oh, yes, I remember. Was that at eight? All right. Let’s see.” He
consulted a sheet of paper. “W.L.L.O. That’s it. I’ll see if there’s
anything doing yet.” He manipulated the knobs of the dials again, at
first with no result. “That’s funny,” he muttered.
Mr. Lyle consulted his watch.
“Seven fifty-six,” he said. “Likely it isn’t time yet.”
“Oh, they don’t always start just on the minute,” said Peaches. “Do
they, Mill?”
“Not always.” Mill turned the knobs some more and then stood up and
leaned over the table. “Maybe the wiring’s loose,” he muttered. He said
something else, probably to himself, since it was not intelligible to
the audience, while leaning over the dark space behind the table. Then,
although it still lacked three minutes of being eight o’clock,――Mr.
Benjy set his watch every day by the station clock,――a rather
high-pitched voice suddenly broke into the expectant silence:
“Station W.L.L.O., Onondaga University Experimental Station, Onondaga,
New York, broadcasting. The first number on our program this evening
will be a paper read by Professor N. B. Brown, D.S., S.D., R.O.T.,
of the Department of Zoölogy, Onondaga University. Station W.L.L.O.,
broadcasting.”
There was a pause.
“Much more distinct,” said Mr. Benjy, looking around for confirmation.
Mrs. Lyle nodded. “Different,” she whispered. “Sounds almost as if――”
Toby was leaning forward and gazing absorbedly at the horn, seeking
enlightenment on the care of Antonio. Betty, her eyes dancing, was
looking questioningly at Peaches’ impassive countenance. After a brief
moment a deeper voice came to them, somewhat muffled but very distinct.
Toby’s intent frown indicated almost painful effort.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” began the unseen lecturer, “I shall speak to
you this evening, very briefly, on the subject of ‘The Care and Feeding
of Batrachians.’ Batrachians, as most of you know, are frogs, toads,
snakes, and similar insects of a zoöphagous nature.”
“What’s he mean――‘insects’?” demanded Toby, in a hoarse and protesting
whisper.
Peaches said, “S-sh!” and frowned him into silence. The voice of the
professor possessed quite a different tone than those who had preceded
him. It was no clearer, but it gave the impression of coming from a
point much nearer than Onondaga, New York. The professor did not seem
used to public addresses, either, for he hesitated frequently and
frequently repeated himself.
“The domestication of the frog is a simple matter and is becoming more
and more popular. Indeed, it would seem that the day is not far distant
when every family will have its pet frog or toad. The frog is capable
of being trained into a useful household member. It is affectionate and
faithful, responding readily to kind treatment. Efforts now being made
by the American Frog Fanciers’ Association to produce a breed of very
large frogs to take the place of watch-dogs promise to be successful.
The deep-bass challenge of a watch-frog will, I think, strike terror to
the heart of any midnight marauder.”
Toby’s face was a study now. He turned puzzled, searching glances
on the other members of the audience, but nowhere could he discern
anything save ready acceptance of the professor’s surprising
statements. Perhaps Mr. Benjy looked a trifle startled, but certainly
not incredulous. Mrs. Anderson beamed contentedly, Mrs. Lyle listened
with flattering attention, and Betty, with lowered head, seemed
completely absorbed in the subject. Peaches and Zo wore expressions of
polite interest and Mill――well, Toby couldn’t see Mill’s face, as the
latter was increasingly busy with the instrument.
“The feeding of the frog while in captivity,” continued the professor,
“is a matter of great moment and one little understood by the
amateur frog-owner. Experiments conducted by the Onondaga University
Experimental Station, under my direction, have recently thrown much
light on this subject. While the frog in his natural environment
is a carnivorous mammal, once placed in captivity he soon becomes
herbivorous, thriving on a vegetable diet. With a little training the
domesticated frog will, in fact, eat almost anything. Here at the
station we have found that a breakfast of corn-flakes, with a small
amount of milk and sugar, a luncheon of pickled beets or raw onions――”
Toby was in a pathetic state of protest. He made all sorts of strange
noises in his throat and would doubtless have exploded had it not been
for the stern gaze of Peaches.
“――and a dinner of sauer-kraut, with perhaps a small portion of
hard-boiled egg, have proved very satisfactory. A firm in New York
is now putting on the market a ‘frog biscuit’ which I can heartily
recommend.”
“He’s crazy;” protested Toby, hoarsely. “He――he――”
“Shut up!” warned Peaches, and Mrs. Lyle shook her head in gentle
deprecation. Betty fumbled for her handkerchief. Toby glared and
muttered beneath his breath, and shuffled his feet rebelliously.
“The frog,” the professor was continuing, now seeming more en rapport
with his subject, “should be provided with a warm bed, free from
drafts. Nothing is better than the frog-kennel which may now be
procured from any enterprising dealer in frog-supplies. This should be
lined with cotton batting, while a few thicknesses of some soft woolen
material should be provided for the frog to draw over him on cold
nights.”
“Huh! Just a lot of lies!” shrieked Toby. “He doesn’t know what he’s
talking about! Listen a minute――”
But no one seemed able to listen. Peaches was holding his head in his
hands, Zo was frankly weeping,――or something,――and Betty was snuffling
into her handkerchief. Even Mr. Benjy seemed strangely affected. Queer
sounds mingled with the speech proceeding from the direction of the
radio, sounds of suppressed sobs, sighs, chokes! Mill was leaning his
head against a dial, his shoulders shaking. Toby stared, open-mouthed,
from one to another, and while he was still striving to understand what
it all meant the professor gave utterance to what was to prove the last
verbal straw.
“For this,” declared the professor, “we have the word of no less an
authority on the domestication of the frog than Mr. Tobias Theocritus
Nott, the eminent――”
There was a roar from Toby, the crash of an overturned chair, and then
bedlam!
“_Look out for the radio!_” shrieked Mill, stretching protective arms
about the instrument.
Toby was almost lost to view under the folds of the red cloth, but not
for long. Breathing stertorously, he emerged, dragging behind him in
his remorseless grasp the disheveled form of Barry――Barry helpless
with laughter and holding in one hand a crushed megaphone and in the
other a crumpled sheet of paper!
“Huh!” said Toby when the audience had calmed down once more, “I
knew there was something mighty funny about it! Feeding a frog with
sauer-kraut and――and all that piffle! Huh! Any fellow would know that
was perfectly crazy!” He gazed scornfully about him, encountered
the streaming eyes of Peaches, and gave a grudging chuckle. “Well,
I ain’t saying you didn’t fool me just at first,” he acknowledged,
“but――shucks!――it didn’t take me long to find out! Say, who made up all
that stuff? I’ll bet it was you, Peaches. Gee! you were ignorant! Why,
say, you called a frog an insect right at the first of it!”
Peaches gave way to a fresh spasm of emotion, clinging to Zo’s chair.
Mrs. Lyle was saying to Mrs. Anderson:
“Well, I did think it was sort of―― But so many things go on nowadays――
And coming right out of the radio machine like that――”
“Don’t――don’t say any more, Toby!” begged Peaches, wiping his eyes.
“I――I can’t stand it!”
“Well, well!” Mr. Benjy chuckled admiringly; “quite a――er――quite a
hoax, Mother!”
“Wonderful!” Mrs. Lyle agreed. “And I don’t see yet how Barry made that
music. It sounded so natural that――”
“But, my dear, the music was――er――that was real,” explained Mr. Benjy.
“The deception began with the――er――the speech by the professor.”
“Goodness gracious!” exclaimed Mrs. Lyle. “So that’s how it was! Well,
I’m sure――”
“Please, Barry, may I have the――the speech?” asked Betty. “I’d love it.”
“I guess so,” said Barry. “If Peaches doesn’t want it. It was so dark
back there I couldn’t see the writing half the time. That’s why I sort
of muddled it.”
“But where were you when we came in?” asked Betty. “I’m sure I didn’t
see you behind the table, for I looked there. Walter showed us where
the wires went.”
“Under it,” chuckled Barry. “And there wasn’t much room there, either!”
* * * * *
Cloudy sky and chill winds greeted Barry when he awoke the next
morning. Mount Sippick had hid its head under a leaden-hued canopy of
mist. Leaves were scurrying along the road and overnight, or so it
seemed, Brazer’s marsh had turned to russet and crimson. But it was
fine football weather, and that afternoon practice went with more vim
than ever before that season. The squad was noticeably smaller and
Barry learned that the Major had made a cut the day before.
“Where have you been?” asked Ike Boardman, who supplied the information.
“The notice was on the board yesterday after practice.”
“I didn’t see it,” said Barry. “Did you――you didn’t happen to――I mean
was my name down?”
“Yours? No, of course not. Don’t you worry, Locke. I’ll bet a hat the
Major will have you in the line-up before long. He’s got a crush on
you, I guess. No offense, Locke. I’ll say you’ve got as much right
there as Gissing or Allen.”
“Allen!” exclaimed Barry. “You mean Clyde Allen?”
“Sure. That’s the only Allen we’ve got, isn’t it? What’s so surprising?”
“Gee! I wouldn’t like to――” Barry lapsed into troubled silence.
“Oh, I see!” chuckled the substitute quarter. “Allen’s a side-kick of
yours, isn’t he? Well, listen, kid: friendship ceases on the football
field. If you can beat him for a half-back job you go ahead and do it
as hard as you can. It’s up to him, Locke. I believe you can do it,
too. He can’t punt, can he? I’ve never known him to, anyway.” Boardman
chuckled. “Oh, boy! and wouldn’t it get his goat! Your friend Allen,
Locke, thinks he’s a regular terror in the back-field. Some one ought
to tell him to stop fancying himself and get to work.”
Barry had hitherto considered Ike Boardman rather a sensible chap,
but now it was apparent that he possessed very poor judgment. To say
that Clyde was in danger of losing out to him, Barry, proved it. That
was a ridiculous notion, evidently born of Ike’s lack of appreciation
of Clyde. Barry almost, but not quite, wished that Major Loring had
included his name in the list of those released from the squad. It
would have made it much easier to face Clyde presently. Clyde was
getting awfully sort of distant nowadays, and Barry didn’t like that.
However, such reflections didn’t last long, for Major Loring drove the
players hard that day, and when one is plunging at a canvas dummy that
is being drawn creakily past on its rusted cable, or is concentrating
on a series of numbers in the effort to determine what they mean to a
substitute right half-back, there is little opportunity for thought on
other matters.
For the first time in a drill Barry was called on to punt that
afternoon, and although he was inwardly nervous as he retired to
kicking position and was over long in getting the ball away, he did
well enough. On two subsequent occasions he bettered his effort
considerably. When scrimmaging began he sat once more on the bench,
with Clyde a dozen spaces beyond and seemingly unaware of his
existence. He was glad when Clyde was summoned by the coach.
Just before the practice game was over Barry was called in, together
with four or five other bench-warmers, and had a few minutes of real
battle. He was given the ball but once and then managed to get some
three yards off the first-squad right tackle. A minute later he missed
a play and so was instrumental in securing a four-yard gain by Demille,
for which he received a merited dressing-down from the Major. After
that unfortunate incident he was not sorry when the horn squawked an
end to the session.
He went along with the team on Saturday, one, and perhaps the least
important member, of a squad of thirty-two players. Major Loring used
twenty-eight of the thirty-two during four twelve-minute periods, but
was not able to avoid defeat. Greenville Academy showed more advanced
football than did the visitors, using several complicated plays that
Broadmoor had learned no defense for. The final score was 14 to 6,
Greenville inflicting seven points on an already vanquished opponent in
the final moments of the last period.
Barry, viewing the contest all through from the side-line, alternately
hoped and despaired, rejoiced and groaned, and in the end took the
defeat much to heart and didn’t recover his spirits until he had
experienced the cheering effects of supper. The fact, gleaned from the
Sunday paper the next morning, that Hoskins had fairly romped away with
her game that afternoon brought no encouragement to the supporters of
the Purple-and-Gray. Pessimism and criticism were rife throughout the
school.
Monday brought back the daily grind of lessons and practice. The
weather relented and provided some warm days. Barry found that he had
become a regular member of Squad 3 and that Major Loring was giving him
a flattering if embarrassing amount of attention. The punting practice
continued and the school took cognizance of the fact that the Major was
engaged in developing a fellow named Locke, a Third-Class chap, into an
understudy for Tip Cartright and Ira Haviland; Barry discovered that he
had become a person of some small consequence. Fellows who had a month
before appeared unaware of his existence now took pains to nod to him,
and his circle of speaking acquaintances grew rapidly. All of which
pleased him. And then, on Friday, the impossible came to pass!