HALDEN REPEATS
Of course the joke was too good to keep, and two days later Blash’s
friends--and he had a good many--developed a disconcerting fashion of
greeting him with: “Is Blashington in the house?” Blash, however, could
take a joke as well as play one. Dick had secret doubts as to his right
to accept credit for the conspiracy, for without Stanley it could never
have been born. Still, like a great many other great ideas, it had, in
a manner of speaking, fashioned itself, and perhaps Dick had had as
much to do with it as Stanley.
On the following Monday Dick found himself again in charge of one of
the squads in practice. He had a suspicion that Harry Warden had said a
good word for him to the coach, for more than once he found the latter
watching him. With this encouragement Dick buckled down and worked very
hard with the somewhat discouraging material supplied him. Halden was
not with him today, but there was an excellent understudy for him in
the shape of a chunky youth named Davis. Davis was just as slow as
Halden had been, but he didn’t gloom or grouch. He was cheerful and
apologetic and really tried hard, and Dick took a good deal of trouble
with him and was extremely patient. When the squads were called in
and the scrimmage began Davis insinuated himself between Dick and a
neighbour on the bench.
“Say, Bates, I’m mighty sorry I was so stupid. And it was white of you
to let me down easy the way you did.”
“Oh, that’s all right. You tried, and that’s more than some of them
did. Look here, Davis, why don’t you brush up on the signals a bit
before tomorrow? You didn’t seem to remember them very well.”
“The trouble is that I can’t think quick enough, Bates. You say ‘Six!
Twelve! Fourteen!’ and I know that I’m going to have the ball----”
“No, you’re not!” laughed Dick. “Not on those signals!”
“Eh? Oh, that’s right! Well, ‘_Five_, twelve, fourteen, then. What I
mean is, that while I’m getting the first number you call the third and
then the ball is snapped and I haven’t found out where I’m going with
it!”
Dick laughed. “Can’t think quick enough, eh? You’ll have practice on
that then. Look here, Davis, who told you you were made for a back?”
“No one, but you see I sort of wanted to play there. You don’t think I
can?”
“Oh, I don’t want to say that,” answered Dick kindly, “but I do think
you’d do better work in the line. Seems to me you’d fit in pretty well
at guard.”
“I guess I’m too short,” said Davis sadly. Then, brightening: “But I
wouldn’t have to remember so many figures, would I?” he asked.
“Well, anyway, you’d have another second or so to think about them,”
chuckled Dick. “Why don’t you tell the coach you’d like to try playing
guard? You are a bit short, but you’ve got weight and you look husky.
How old are you? Sixteen?”
“Seventeen. I don’t look it, do I? Say, I suppose you wouldn’t want to
speak to Mr. Driscoll, would you?”
“Me? It wouldn’t do any good, my speaking to him, Davis. I’m just one
of the dubs like the rest of you.”
Davis appeared to doubt that. “I thought--Well, you won’t be long.
Anyone can see that you know the game. Maybe I’d better ask Bob Peters,
though. I’m sort of scared of Mr. Driscoll.”
“All right, Davis, go to it. Neither of them will bite you, I guess.
Were you here last year?”
Davis nodded. “And the year before. I’m in the Third.”
“Oh, are you? Well, how does Mr. Driscoll stand with the fellows?”
“Stand with them? Oh, ace-high, Bates,” answered the other earnestly.
“He’s a corker! Don’t you like him?”
“I don’t know him, but it seems to me he’s sort of old for the job. And
he doesn’t seem to----” Dick stopped. “Oh, I don’t know, but he acts a
bit stand-offish, and football seems so much of a _business_ here! I
guess I can’t explain just what I mean.”
Evidently he hadn’t, for Davis looked blank. “He isn’t though,” he
affirmed. “Stand-offish I mean. I like him immensely. Most everyone
does. And he can turn out good teams, Bates.”
“Well, that’s the main thing. I wonder if we have punting practice
after the scrimmage. Who is the skinny chap that was in charge of the
punters Friday?”
“Gaines. He’s playing on the further squad there. See him? At right
half: the fellow with the new head-gear. He’s pretty good, too. He
played right half last year. I’m no use at punting. Guess my leg’s too
short.”
“That can’t be my trouble,” laughed Dick.
“Oh, you! I thought you were mighty good at it,” said Davis approvingly.
“I wish I could do half as well as you did.”
“Well, I can get distance sometimes,” acknowledged Dick, “but I’m just
as likely to kick to one corner of the field as the other! Direction is
the hard thing.”
“I suppose so, only it’s all hard for me.” After a moment of silence he
said: “Do you know, Bates, half my trouble today was that I was scared.
I was afraid you’d jump me the way you did Sandy Halden the other day.”
“You weren’t on the squad that day,” answered Dick, puzzled.
“I was trailing behind. When you let Sandy go I wanted to take his
place, but I was pretty sure I’d do even worse! You ought to have heard
Harry Warden chuckle when you slammed Sandy.”
“Did he? Well, I had a lot of cheek to do that, because I wasn’t
supposed to change the line-up. But Halden was too much for me. Has he
played before this year?”
“Oh, sure! Sandy tried last year, but they dropped him to the Second
and he got peeved and quit. He’s always trying something. He had the
golf bug last Fall and thought he was going to do wonders. But that
petered out, too. Nobody would play with him after awhile because
he was always blaming things on them. If he topped a ball he said
the other fellow had coughed or moved or something. He was playing
with Rusty Crozier one day: Rusty’s a mighty good player: and he was
fiddling over his ball on a tee when Rusty began swinging his club
behind Sandy. Sandy told him he should keep still when his adversary
was playing. Rusty had heard a lot of that and he got mad. ‘That so?’
he asked. ‘Let me show you something, Sandy.’ He pushed Sandy aside,
and took a fine long swing at Sandy’s ball and sent it into the woods
over by the old quarry. ‘There,’ he said. ‘Now you go hunt for that,
Sandy, and when you find it try to swallow it. Maybe you’ll choke on
it!’”
“Did he find it?” asked Dick amusedly.
“Don’t think so. Anyway, he hasn’t choked yet!”
On Wednesday Sandy Halden fell to Dick’s squad in signal drill. There
had been a very strenuous twenty minutes with the tackling dummy and
most of the fellows were still smarting under the gentle sarcasms of
Billy Goode, and some nursed sore spots as well. Halden had failed as
signally as any of that particular squad to please the trainer and had
come in for his full share of disparagement, and his temper was not of
the best when signal work began.
Dick resolved to have no trouble with Halden; nor any nonsense either.
But Halden started off more hopefully today and managed to get through
the first ten minutes of drill without a mistake. He showed Dick,
however, that he was still resentful by scowling on every occasion.
Davis had, it appeared, found enough courage to ask for his transfer
to the line, for he was on Dick’s squad at left guard. Of course,
with none to oppose him Davis managed to go through the motions
satisfactorily enough, but whether he could ever be made into a good
guard remained to be seen. There were five signal squads at work that
afternoon, and several of them were followed by blanketed youths
for whom no positions remained. Coach Driscoll and, at times, Billy
Goode and Manager Whipple moved from one squad to another, the coach,
however, devoting most of his time to the squad containing the more
promising of the substitute material--or what seemed such at that early
period. Captain Peters was at right end on the first squad, which held
all of last season’s veterans: Furniss, Harris, Cupp, Upton, Newhall,
Wendell, Stone, Gaines, Warden and Kirkendall. The weather had turned
cold since Saturday and there was a gusty north-east wind quartering
the field, and the more seasoned squads were charging up and down the
gridiron with much vim.
Dick had his men pretty well warmed up at the end of ten minutes and
plays were going off fairly smoothly. Then, down near the east goal,
came the first serious mix-up in the back field. Showers, playing
full-back, had received the ball from centre direct and was to make the
wide-turn run outside his own left end, the two half-backs going ahead
as interference. It was a play that had already been gone through half
a dozen times that afternoon. But now for some unknown reason Halden,
instead of sweeping around to the left in the wake of the other half,
plunged straight ahead at the right guard-tackle hole and emerged
triumphantly beyond. His triumph ceased, though, when he saw Showers
and the right half-back trotting along a good fifteen yards distant.
He pushed through toward Dick, who had been engaged with a mythical
opposing back, scowling darkly.
“You called for a straight buck!” he challenged.
“Wrong, Halden,” replied Dick quietly. “I called for a run outside
left end and you were supposed to be in advance of the ball.”
“You got your signal wrong, then!”
“I don’t think so. Everyone else understood it. We’ll try it again
presently, Halden. See if you can get it right next time.”
“I got it right that time. I heard the signal, and it was----”
“Hire a hall, Sandy,” advised a lineman. “You were all wrong.”
“I was not! Bates doesn’t give the signals so anyone can get them,
anyway. He talks down in his boots!”
“Never mind that, Halden. Signals! 9--11--You’re out of position,
Halden. Come on, come on!”
“What’s eating you? I’m in position!”
“You are now, but you weren’t. Signals! 9--11----”
“I haven’t moved an inch!”
“Well, do it now then. Move a couple of hundred inches and get out of
here.” Dick looked around for someone to take Halden’s place, but there
were no followers today. Halden had turned very red and now he stepped
up to Dick sputtering.
“You can’t put me off, you smart Aleck! I was put here by Driscoll and
I’ll stay until he tells me to go. You think you’re the whole thing,
don’t you? How do you get that way? You make me sick!”
Dick made no answer, but he watched Halden closely, for the boy was
quite evidently in a fighting mood. It was Davis who came to the rescue
by slipping out of his place in the line and inserting himself suddenly
between Halden and Dick.
“Sure, he’s got a right to fire you, Sandy, and you’re fired! So beat
it!” Davis pushed Sandy playfully away. “Bates is boss, son.”
“He is not! He’s no more on this squad than I am! Quit shoving me,
Short!”
“Driscoll is looking over here,” warned Showers uneasily. “Let’s get at
it, fellows.”
“Right you are,” responded Davis, jumping into his place again. “Let
her go, Bates!”
“I must have another half-back,” answered Dick, looking about.
“Oh, forget it,” growled Halden. “I’m not going off.”
“I think you are,” replied Dick quietly. He left the squad and walked
across to where Billy Goode was standing with Manager Whipple. “I’m
short a half-back,” he announced. “Got someone, Mr. Trainer?”
“What’s the matter? Someone hurt?” asked Billy.
“No, but I’ve let Halden go. He tried to make trouble.”
Billy looked at Dick quizzically. “_You_ let him go! What do you know
about that?” He turned inquiringly to Stearns Whipple.
Whipple smiled. “Benson’s not working,” he said. “Give him Benson.”
“Would you?” Billy shot a look of mingled disapproval and respect at
Dick. “Well, all right. Send Halden to me. Say, what’s your name?
Gates? Oh, Bates! Well, if I was you Bates, I wouldn’t get too uppity.”
Billy went off for Benson and Dick started back toward his waiting
squad, followed by the amused regard of Whipple. Benson trotted out
from behind a neighbouring group and joined Dick.
“Billy sent me over,” he said. “I’m a half-back.”
“Go in at left, will you? That’s all, Halden. Goode says to report to
him.”
Halden walked up to Dick and spoke very softly. “I’ll get you, Bates,
if it takes a year!” he said.
Dick nodded. “Come on, fellows! Signals!”
Some ten minutes later Coach Driscoll found Dick on the bench while
the first and second squads were taking the field for the scrimmage.
“Whipple tells me you had trouble with Halden,” he said. “What was
wrong, Bates!”
“He tried to hold up work arguing whether he or I was wrong about a
signal I gave.”
“Who _was_ wrong!”
“He was, sir, but that didn’t matter. He wouldn’t work. Just wanted to
chew the rag. So I let him go.”
The coach smiled faintly. “You probably did right, Bates, but perhaps
in future you’d better report the matter to me first. You see some
fellows might question your authority.” The coach’s smile grew. “Well,
I dare say Halden won’t trouble you again.” He nodded and went off.
Dick looked after him thoughtfully.
“When he smiles he doesn’t look so old,” he said to himself.