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THE CRIMSON SWEATER
by
RALPH HENRY BARBOUR
Author of "The Half-Back," "For the
Honor of the School," etc.
With Illustrations by C.M. Relyea
[Illustration: The final game between Ferry Hill and Hammond.]
[Illustration]
New York
The Century Co.
1906
Copyright, 1905, 1906, by
The Century Co.
Published October, 1906
The De Vinne Press
TO
MY KINDLY CRITICS
RUTH AND MOLLY
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I THE CRIMSON SWEATER'S FIRST APPEARANCE 3
II ROY MAKES AN ENEMY AND A FRIEND 17
III A MIDNIGHT HAZING 32
IV ROY CHANGES HIS MIND 39
V CHUB EATON INTRODUCES HIMSELF 53
VI METHUSELAH HAS A SORE THROAT 70
VII COACHES AND PLAYERS 81
VIII FORREST LOSES HIS TEMPER AND ROY KEEPS HIS PROMISE 103
IX RED HAIR AND WHITE RABBITS 116
X THE CROSS-COUNTRY RACE 131
XI HARRY FINDS A CLUE 143
XII A NIGHT IN THE QUARRY 156
XIII FORMING THE HOCKEY TEAM 169
XIV THE ENTERTAINMENT AND HOW IT ENDED 183
XV A DEFEAT, A VICTORY AND A CHALLENGE 196
XVI "JUST FOR THE SCHOOL" 210
XVII THE HOCKEY CHAMPIONSHIP IS DECIDED 221
XVIII ON FOX ISLAND 236
XIX A NIGHT ALARM 247
XX ROY VISITS HAMMOND 258
XXI FERRY HILL CHANGES ITS LEADER 272
XXII THE POACHING 286
XXIII ON INNER BOUNDS 298
XXIV SID'S POPULAR PROTEST--AND WHAT FOLLOWED 311
XXV THE BOAT-RACE 327
XXVI THE GAME WITH HAMMOND 338
XXVII THE CRIMSON SWEATER DISAPPEARS 352
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
The Final Game between Ferry Hill and Hammond--_Frontispiece_
Roy Porter 9
"'That will do, Horace,' said the newcomer. 'You can
rest awhile'" 21
"Roy lifted his hat, and nodded with a friendly smile, but
his only reward was an unseeing glance from the blue eyes" 45
"'If you'll do your honest best there, I'll stick to you
as long as you live'" 51
"'Run along, Porter,' counselled the peacemaker" 55
"'Of course I wasn't christened Chub'" 61
"'Poor old 'Thuselah,' she murmured" 73
"Even Harry joined her shrill voice, the while she waved
her flag valiantly" 91
"Roy leaped upward and forward, clearing him by a
foot" 113
"'My, what a temper!'" 123
"At last Roy stumbled over a root, went head over heels
into a clump of bushes" 139
Mr. Cobb and the search-party looking for Roy 151
"'Look where you're going, Mr. Cobb!'" 161
"They had gathered chairs of all descriptions from all
over the school" 179
"Chub's tambourine flew whirling out of his hand" 187
"It was Roy who dashed across the stage" 193
Roy giving instruction in hockey 199
"Schonberg made a last despairing effort when twenty
feet from the line" 217
"Quiet fell over Fox Island" 245
"Roy held his breath and waited" 261
"Then slowly, he headed away in the darkness" 269
"It was unlocked and the crimson sweater lay in the top
of the till" 289
"'When you're down on your luck,' he murmured, 'grin
as hard as you can grin'" 307
"'The way that gal sassed me was a caution!'" 315
"Ten hard ones made a difference" 331
"'About this!'" 347
"Roy's bearers waited" 365
THE CRIMSON SWEATER
THE CRIMSON SWEATER
CHAPTER I
THE CRIMSON SWEATER'S FIRST APPEARANCE
"Hello, Lobster!"
The boy in the crimson sweater raised a pair of blue eyes to the
speaker's face and a little frown crept into the sun-burned forehead;
but there was no answer.
"Where'd you get that sweater?"
The older boy, a tall, broad-shouldered, deep-chested youth of nineteen,
with a dark, not altogether pleasant face, paused on his way down the
gymnasium steps and put the question sneeringly. Below, on the gravelled
path leading to the athletic field, a little group of fellows had turned
and were watching expectantly; Horace Burlen had a way of taking conceit
out of new boys that was always interesting. To be sure, in the present
case the new boy didn't look especially conceited--unless it is conceit
to appear for football practice in a dandy crimson sweater which must
have cost well up in two figures--but you never could tell, and, anyway,
Horace Burlen was the school leader and had a right to do what he
pleased. Just at present it pleased him to scowl fiercely, for the new
boy was displaying a most annoying deliberation. Horace examined the
other with awakening interest. He was a fairly tall youth, sixteen years
of age, well set up with good chest and shoulders and rather wide hips.
Like Horace, the younger boy was in football togs, only his sweater
instead of being brown was crimson and in place of the letters "F H"
sported by Horace the front of his garment showed where the inscription
"H 2nd" had been ripped away. But the difference between the two boys
didn't end there; Horace Burlen was tall and big and dark; Roy Porter
was several inches shorter, not so wide of shoulder nor so deep of
chest; and whereas Horace's hair was straight and black, Roy's was
light, almost sandy, and was inclined to be curly. Under the hair was a
good-looking sun-browned face, with a short, well-built nose, a good
mouth and a pair of nice grey-blue eyes which at this moment were
regarding Horace calmly. The older boy scowled threateningly.
"Say, kid, at this school we teach 'em to answer when they're spoken to;
see? Where'd you get that silly red sweater?"
"It was given to me," answered Roy coolly.
"Think you'll ever grow enough to fill it?"
"I guess so."
"Who gave it to you?"
"Seems to me they're a bit inquisitive at this school. But if you must
know, my brother gave it to me."
"Too big for him, wasn't it?"
Roy smiled.
"Not to speak of. He got a better one."
"Hope he changed the color," said Horace with a sneer.
"Why, yes, he did, as it happened. His new one is black with a crimson
H."
Horace started and shot a quick glance up and down the form confronting
him.
"Is your brother Porter of the Harvard eleven?" he asked with a trace of
unwilling respect in his voice. Roy nodded.
"I suppose you think you can play the game because he can, eh? What's
your name?"
"Porter," answered Roy sweetly.
"Don't get fresh," admonished the other angrily. "What's your first
name?"
"I guess it will do if you just call me Porter," was the reply. There
was a sudden darkening of the blue eyes and in spite of the fact that
the lips still smiled serenely Horace saw the danger signal and
respected it.
"You're a pretty fresh young kid at present, but you'll get some of it
taken out of you before you're here long," said the school leader
turning away. "And I'd advise you to take off that red rag; it's too
much like the Hammond color to be popular here."
"Fresh, am I?" mused Roy, watching the other join the group below and
cross the lawn toward the field. "I wonder what he thinks he is? If he
ever asks me I'll mighty soon tell him! Red rag! I'll make him take
that back some day, see if I don't."
Roy's angry musings were interrupted by the sudden outward swing of the
big oak door behind him. A dozen or so of Ferry Hill boys in football
attire trooped out in company with Mr. Cobb, an instructor who had
charge of the football and baseball coaching. Roy fell in behind the
group, crossed the lawn, passed through the gate in the well-trimmed
hedge and found himself on the edge of the cinder track. The gridiron
had just been freshly marked out for this first practice of the year and
the white lines gleamed brightly in the afternoon sunlight. Half a dozen
footballs were produced from a canvas bag and were speedily bobbing
crazily across the turf or arching up against the blue sky. Roy,
however, remained on the side-line and looked about him.
Beyond the field was a border of trees and an occasional telegraph pole
marking the road over which he had journeyed the evening before from the
Silver Cove station, where he had left the train from New York--and
home. That word home sounded unusually pleasant to-day. Not that he was
exactly homesick, in spite of the fact that this was his first
experience of boarding school life; he would have been rather indignant,
I fancy, at the suggestion; but he had made the mistake of reaching
Ferry Hill School a day too early, had spent the night in a deserted
dormitory and had killed time since then in arranging his possessions in
the scanty cupboard assigned to him and in watching the arrival of his
future companions. It had been a dull time and he may, I think, be
pardoned if his thoughts turned for an instant a bit wistfully toward
home. Brother Laurence had given him a good deal of advice--probably
very excellent advice--before taking himself away to Cambridge, fall
practice and glory, and part of it was this:
"Keep a stiff upper lip, Roy, mind your own affairs and when you're down
on your luck or up against a bigger man grin just as hard as you can
grin."
That was the Harvard way, although Roy didn't know it then. But now he
recalled the advice--and grinned. Then he began again the examination of
his surroundings. Very beautiful surroundings they were, too. To his
left, beyond the turn of the track, were the tennis courts all freshly
limed. Beyond those the trees began and sloped gently upward and away in
a forest of swaying branches. Turning, he saw, below the courts, and
divided from them by a stone wall, a good-sized orchard across which the
apple and pear trees marched as straightly and evenly as a regiment of
soldiers. Below the orchard lay the vegetable garden, filled with the
blue-green of late cabbages and the yellower hues of waving corn. Then,
facing still further about, until the field was at his back, he could
look over the level top of the wide hedge and so down the slope of the
campus. To his right were the two white barns and clustering outhouses
with the tower of School Hall rising beyond them. Further to the left
was the red brick, vine-draped "Cottage," residence of the Principal,
Doctor Emery, and his family. Then, further away down the sloping turf,
stood Burgess Hall, the dormitory and dining room, while here, close by,
was the handsome new gymnasium. Beyond the campus the "Grove," a small
plantation of beech and oaks, shaded the path which led to the river and
the boat house at its margin. A long expanse of the Hudson was in sight
from where he stood, its broad, rippled surface aglint in the September
sunshine. At the far side of the stream, a group of red buildings
huddled under giant elms, stood Hammond Academy, Ferry Hill's life-long
rival. In the far distance loomed the blue summits of the nearer
mountains. Yes, it was all very beautiful and picturesque, and Roy
admitted the fact ungrudgingly; he was very anxious to discover merits
and lovable qualities in the place which was to be his home for the
better part of the next two years.
"This way, everybody!" called Mr. Cobb, and Roy turned and joined the
group of candidates. There were forty-three students at Ferry Hill that
year, and at first glance it seemed that every last one of them had
decided to try for the football team. But a second look would have found
a handful of juniors whose size or age made them ineligible watching
proceedings from the side-line. And there were one or two older boys,
too, among the spectators, and Roy wondered whether they were
crippled or ill! Surely no healthy boy could be content to watch from
the side-line!
[Illustration: Roy Porter]
"Fellows who played in the varsity or second last year," directed Mr.
Cobb, "take the other end of the field and practice passing for a while.
I'll be down presently. Captain Rogers won't be out until half-past
four. The rest of you chaps get a couple of balls and come over this
way. That's it. Make a circle and pass the balls around. Stand nearer
together than that, you fellows over there. That's better."
Roy found himself between a short, stout youth of apparently fourteen
and an older boy whose age might have been anywhere from sixteen to
eighteen. He reminded Roy of a weed which had spent all its time growing
upward and had forgotten to fill out at the sides. He wore a faded brown
sweater with crossed oars dividing the letters F H. Roy experienced a
touch of respect for him as a member of the crew quite out of keeping
with the feeling of amusement aroused by his lanky body, unkempt hair
and unpleasant beady brown eyes. Roy liked the little chunky youth on
his other side better. He was evidently a new hand and was in a
continual funk for fear he would drop the ball when Roy passed it to
him. For this reason Roy took some pains to put it to him easily and
where he could best catch it, a piece of thoughtfulness that more than
once brought a shy glance of gratitude from the youngster's big, round
eyes. But if Roy gave courtesies he received none. The lanky youth
seemed to be trying to slam the ball at Roy as hard as he knew how and
once Roy caught a gleam of malicious amusement from the squinting eyes.
"Just you wait a minute, my friend," he muttered.
Despite the tall boy's best endeavors he was unable to make Roy fumble.
No matter where he shot the ball nor how hard he sent it, Roy's hands
gripped themselves about it. After one especially difficult handling of
the pigskin Roy looked up to find Mr. Cobb watching him with evident
approval. The big fellow who had taken exception to the crimson sweater
was not in the squad and Roy concluded that he was one of the last year
team. Presently the order came to reverse and the balls began going the
other way. Here was Roy's chance for revenge and he didn't let it slip.
The first two balls he passed to his tall neighbor quite nicely, but
when the third one reached him he caught it in front of him and without
turning his body sped it on swift and straight for the tall one's chest.
The tall one wasn't expecting it quite so soon and Roy looked properly
regretful when the ball went bobbing away into the center of the circle
and the shaggy-haired youth went sprawling after it, only to miss it at
the first try and have to crawl along on elbows and knees until he had
it snuggled under his body. The tall one rewarded Roy with a scowl when
he got back to his place, but Roy met the scowl with a look of cherubic
innocence, and only Mr. Cobb, watching from outside the circle, smiled
as he turned away. After that Roy kept the tall one guessing, but there
were no more fumbles. Presently Mr. Cobb called a halt.
"That'll do, fellows. I want to get your names now, so keep your places
a moment."
Out came a note book and pencil and one by one the candidates' names
were entered. Roy looked on while he awaited his turn and thought that
he was going to like Mr. Cobb. The instructor was rather small, a trifle
bald-headed and apparently a bunch of muscles. His scarcity of hair
could hardly have been due to advanced age for he didn't look a bit over
thirty. In his time he had been a good quarter-back on his college
eleven and one of the best shortstops of his day.
The small youth at Roy's right, after darting several diffident looks in
his direction, at length summoned courage to address him.
"You're a new boy, aren't you?" he asked.
"Brand new," answered Roy smilingly. "How about you?"
"Oh, I've been here two years." The knowledge lent a degree of assurance
and he went on with less embarrassment. "I was a junior last year and
couldn't play. You know, they won't let the juniors play football here.
Mighty mean, I think, don't you?"
"Well, I don't know," answered Roy. "I played when I was twelve, but I
guess it's pretty risky for a kid of that age to do it. How old are
you?"
"Fourteen. Do you think I'll stand any show to get on the team?"
"Why not? You look pretty solid. Can you run?"
"Not very fast. Ferris said I wouldn't have any show at all and so I
thought I'd ask you; you seemed to know about football."
"Did I? How could you tell?" asked Roy surprisedly.
"Oh, by the way you--went at it," answered the other vaguely.
"Oh, I see. Who's Ferris?"
"S-sh!" The small youth lowered his voice. "That's he next to you; Otto
Ferris. He's trying for half-back. He almost made it last year."
"Is he on the crew?" asked Roy.
"Yes, Number Three. He's a particular chum of Burlen's."
"You don't say? And who's Burlen?"
The other's features expressed surprise and something very much like
pain.
"Don't you know who Burlen is?" he asked incredulously. "Why, he's--"
But Roy's curiosity had to go unsatisfied for the moment, for Mr. Cobb
appeared with his book.
"Well, Sidney, you're out for the team at last, eh?"
"Yes, sir; do you think I can make it, sir?"
"Who knows? You'll have to get rid of some of that fat, though, my boy."
Mr. Cobb turned to Roy.
"Let's see, I met you last evening, didn't I?"
"Yes, sir."
"I thought so; and the name was--er--Brown wasn't it?"
"Porter, sir."
"Oh, Porter; I remember now. How old are you?"
"Sixteen, sir."
"Played before, haven't you?"
"Yes, sir."
"Where abouts?"
"In New York, on my grammar school eleven."
"What position?"
"Quarter, first; then left half."
"Which was the best?"
"Quarter, I think, sir."
"What class are you in?"
"Second senior."
"Thank you; that's all."
The coach passed on and Sidney claimed Roy's attention again.
"Do you think I'm very fat?" he asked anxiously.
"I should say you had about ten or twelve pounds that might as well come
off," answered Roy.
"Does drinking vinegar help?"
"I never tried it," laughed Roy. "But exercise is a heap surer."
"All right, fellows," called the coach. "Ferris, you take charge of the
squad until I come back. Let them fall on the ball a while. I want
Gallup and Rogers to come with me."
A sturdily-built youth stepped out of the group and Mr. Cobb looked
around a trifle impatiently.
"Rogers!"
There was no answer. Roy thought the coach was looking at him, but
couldn't think why he should. Then he heard Sidney's voice at his elbow.
"He means you! He never remembers names. You'd better go."
Doubtfully Roy stepped forward.
"Oh, there you are!" exclaimed Mr. Cobb. "What's the trouble with your
ears? Not deaf, are you?"
"No, sir," answered Roy meekly.
"That's good. You must keep your ears open here and step lively when
you're called. I'm going to give you two a try on the first squad. Come
on."
And Mr. Cobb strode briskly off down the field.
CHAPTER II
ROY MAKES AN ENEMY AND A FRIEND
A few minutes later Roy found himself acting as quarter-back on one of
the two squads made up of last season's first and second. The boy in
front of him, playing center, was a big youth who had a half hour before
insulted his precious sweater and who Roy now discovered to be Horace
Burlen. Burlen hadn't shown himself especially delighted at Roy's
advent, but so far had refrained from addressing him. For a time the
work went well enough. Each squad, since there were not enough players
present to make up two full elevens, held nine men, five in the line and
four behind it, and the work consisted of snapping the ball back by
center and handing it to one of the backs by quarter. No signals were
used and the passing was slow, the idea being merely to accustom the
players to handling the ball. Roy was instructed in the holding of the
pigskin and in passing and the backs in receiving the ball and placing
it against the body. Roy showed an aptitude for the work which more than
vindicated Mr. Cobb's judgment and for ten minutes or so, during which
time Roy's squad traversed the length of the field, there were few
fumbles and few mistakes. But presently, when Mr. Cobb had taken himself
off to the other squad, the cry of "Ball!" went up and Roy was on his
stomach snuggling the oval in his arms. The backs took their places
again and the ball went back to center. This time there was no hitch,
and full-back, followed by left and right halves, trotted through the
line between guard and tackle. But on the next play the erratic pigskin
again eluded Roy's hands, and after that fumbles and the cry of "Ball!
Ball!" became so frequent that Mr. Cobb's attention was attracted and he
came over.
"What's the trouble here? Who's doing all that fumbling?" he demanded.
"My fault, sir," answered Roy.
"What's the matter?"
"I can't seem to get my hands on to it, sir. I don't think--I don't
think it is coming back very well."
Horace Burlen turned wrathfully.
"You're no good, that's what's the trouble with you!" he exclaimed. "I'm
sending that ball back same as I always do."
"Well, try it again," said the coach.
Strange to tell there were no more fumbles as long as Mr. Cobb was by,
but almost as soon as his back was turned the trouble began again.
Fumbles, perhaps, were not so frequent, but almost always there was
delay in getting the ball from center to back. Finally Horace Burlen
stood up and faced Roy disgustedly.
"Say, kid, can't you learn to handle that ball?" he asked. "Haven't you
ever seen a football before?"
Roy strove to keep his temper, which was already at boiling point.
"I'll do my part if you'll do yours," he said. "You're trying to see how
poorly you can pass."
"Oh, get out! I played football when you were in the nursery! Maybe if
you'd take that red rag off you'd be able to use your arms."
Somebody behind him chuckled and Roy had to shut his lips resolutely to
keep back the angry words. Finally,
"Ball to left half, through left tackle," he called. Horace grunted and
stooped again over the pigskin. Again the ball came back, this time
trickling slowly along on the turf. The next time it came back high and
to the left and was fumbled. Roy said nothing as he recovered it and
pushed it back to center, but it was plain that the fellows, whispering
amongst themselves, were losing interest in the work. Roy, without
turning his head, became aware of the presence of a newcomer behind him.
He supposed it was Mr. Cobb and hoped the coach would notice the manner
in which Burlen was snapping back. This time the ball was deliberately
sent back to Roy as hard as Horace could send it with the result that it
bounded from his hands before he could close his fingers about it and
went wiggling off across the turf. Roy, arising to go after it, almost
ran into a tall, good-looking youth of apparently eighteen, a youth
with clean-cut features and snapping grey eyes.
"That will do, Horace," said the newcomer dryly. "You can rest awhile.
You're pretty bad."
The center, facing around with a start of mingled surprise and dismay,
met the unsmiling eyes of the captain with an attempt at bravado.
"Hello, Jack," he said. "It's about time you came. They've given us the
worst apology for a quarter you ever saw. Why, he can't hold the ball!"
"Yes, I noticed it," replied Jack Rogers. "And I noticed that you seemed
to have an idea that this practice is just for fun. You'd better take a
couple of turns around the track and go in. O Ed! Ed Whitcomb! Come over
here and play center. Fernald, you take Ed's place on the other squad."
The changes were made in a trice. After a muttered protest that the
captain paid no heed to and a threatening look at Roy, Horace Burlen
took himself off. The captain went into the left of the line and
practice was taken up again. After that there was no more trouble.
Presently Mr. Cobb called a halt and the candidates were put at punting
and catching, which, followed by a trot twice around the quarter-mile
cinder track, completed the afternoon's work.
[Illustration: "'That will do, Horace,' said the newcomer. 'You can rest
awhile.'"]
Roy had worked rather hard and, as a result, he found himself pretty
well out of breath when the second lap was half over. He had gradually
dropped back to last place in the straggling procession and when the
end of the run was in sight he was practically alone on the track,
almost all of the others having turned in through the gate and made for
the gym. Roy had just finished the turn at an easy jog when he heard
cries of distress from the direction of the stables behind him.
"Spot, drop it! Oh, you bad, wicked cat! John! John! Where are you,
John? Spot! _Spot! O-o-oh!_" The exclamations ended in a wild,
long-drawn wail of feminine anguish.
"A girl," thought Roy. "Wonder what's up. Guess I'd better go see."
Turning, he struck off from the track at a run, crossed a triangle of
turf and found himself confronted by the wide hedge. But he could see
over it, and what he saw was an odd little enclosure formed by one end
of the barn and two walls of packing cases and boxes piled one upon
another. In the center of the enclosure stood a girl with the bluest of
blue eyes, the reddest of red hair and the most despairing of freckled
faces. At first glance she seemed to be surrounded by dogs and cats and
pigeons; afterwards Roy found that the animals were not so numerous as
had first appeared. The girl saw Roy quite as soon as he saw her.
"Oh, quick, _quick_!" she commanded, pointing toward the roof of a low
shed nearby. "Spot has got one of the babies and he's killing it! Can't
you hurry, boy?"
Roy looked doubtfully at the broad hedge. Then he retreated a few steps,
took a running jump, landing three-quarters way across the top and
wriggled himself to the ground on the other side in a confusion of
circling pigeons.
"Where?" he gasped when he had gathered himself up.
"There!" shrieked the girl, still pointing tragically. "Can't you climb
up and get it away from him? Can't you do anything, you--you stupid
silly?"
At last Roy saw the reason for her fright. On the edge of the shed roof,
lashing his tail in ludicrous ferocity, crouched a half-grown cat, and
under his claws lay a tiny young white rabbit. Roy looked hurriedly
about for a stick, but nothing of the description lay at hand. Meanwhile
the red-haired girl taunted him to action, interspersing wails of
despair with pleas for help and sprinkling the whole with
uncomplimentary reflections on his courage and celerity.
"Aren't you going to do _anything_?" she wailed. "Are you going to stand
there all night? Oh, please, _please_ rescue him!"
The reflection on Roy's celerity weren't at all merited, for scarcely a
quarter of a minute had passed since his advent. But if "the baby" was
to be rescued there was no time to lose. The cat, apparently not
understanding what all the noise and excitement was about, still held
his captive and looked down wonderingly from the edge of the roof. Roy
hesitated for just an instant longer. Then he seized the first
apparently empty box that came to hand, turned it upside-down at the
corner of the shed, and, amidst more despairing shrieks than ever,
leaped onto it. Perhaps he was scared by the sudden appearance of Roy's
head over the edge of the roof, perhaps by the renewed and more
appalling clamor; at all events the cat abandoned his prey on the
instant and took off along the roof. Roy managed to save the rabbit from
a bad fall by catching it in one hand just as it rolled over the edge
and in another moment was holding it forth, a very badly frightened
little mass of white fur and pink eyes, to its distressed mistress. But
strange to say the mistress seemed more anguished than ever. What she
was saying Roy couldn't for the life of him make out, but it was
evidently something uncomplimentary to him. In another moment the
mystery was explained. Following the excited gestures of the red-haired
girl, Roy turned just in time to see the box upon which he had stood
topple and fall. Whereupon from out of it stalked a highly insulted red
and green parrot, quite the largest Roy had ever seen. The bird emerged
with ruffled plumage and wrathful eyes, cocked his head on one side and
remarked fretfully in a shrill voice:
"Well, I never did! Naughty Poll! Naughty Poll!"
Then he chuckled wickedly and rearranged his feathers with a formidable
beak. After that he turned and viewed Roy with a glittering, beady eye,
and,
"Stop your swearing! Stop your swearing! Stop your swearing!" he
shrieked at the top of his voice.
This outburst was so unexpected and excruciating that Roy gave back
before it. But as though satisfied with the dismay he had caused the
parrot broke out into a shrill burst of laughter and waddled toward the
girl, who had now transferred her attention to the rescued rabbit.
"I--I didn't know he was in the box," stammered Roy.
"No, I don't suppose you did," answered the girl grudgingly. "Boys are
so stupid! You might have killed him! Come here, Methuselah, and tell me
all about it. Did the wicked boy frighten you most to death? Did he?
Well, he was a wicked thing, so he was."
The parrot closed his beak carefully about one of her fingers and was
lifted to her arm, where he sat in ruffled dignity and stared at Roy
with malevolent gaze. The rescued rabbit lay meanwhile, a palpitating
bunch of white, in the girl's other hand. Presently, having examined him
carefully for damages and found none, she stepped to one of the boxes
and deposited him on a litter of straw and cabbage leaves.
"I've had such horrid luck with the babies," she said confidently, her
indignation apparently forgotten. "There were three at first. Then one
died of rheumatism--at least, I'm almost sure it was rheumatism,--and
one was killed by a rat and now only poor little Angel is left. I call
him Angel," she explained, turning to her audience, "because he is so
white. Don't you think it is a very appropriate name?"
Roy nodded silently. Like the parrot, he had had his temper a bit
ruffled; the girl's remarks had not been especially complimentary. If
she guessed his feelings she showed no signs of it. Instead,
"You're a new boy, aren't you?" she asked.
"Yes," answered Roy.
"What's your name?"
"Roy Porter."
"Mine's Harry--I mean Harriet Emery; they call me Harry. Harriet's a
beast of a name, isn't it?"
Roy hesitated, somewhat taken back.
"Oh, you needn't mind being polite," continued the girl. "I hate polite
people--I mean the kind that say things they don't mean just to be nice
to you. Harriet is a beast of a name; I don't care if I was named for
Aunt Harriet Beverly. I hate it, don't you? Oh, I forgot! You're one of
the polite sort!"
"No, I'm not," answered Roy, laughing. "I don't like Harriet any better
than you do. But I like Harry."
"Do you?" she asked eagerly. "Honest? Hope to die?"
"Hope to die," echoed Roy gravely.
"Then you may call me Harry."
"Thanks. Is Doctor Emery your father?"
"Yes. Only they don't call him Doctor Emery--the boys, I mean."
"Don't they? What do they call him?"
"Emmy," answered Harry with a giggle. "It's such a funny name for papa!
And mamma they call 'Mrs. Em.'"
"And they call you Harry?" said Roy for want of something better to say.
Harry's head went up on the instant and her blue eyes flashed.
"You'd better believe they don't! That is, not many of them. They call
me _Miss_ Harry."
"Oh, excuse me," Roy apologized. "_Miss_ Harry."
Harry hesitated. Then,
"Those that I like call me Harry," she said. "And you--you rescued the
baby. So--you may call me Harry, without the Miss, you know."
"I'll try to deserve the honor," replied Roy very gravely.
Harry observed him suspiciously.
"There you go being polite and nasty," she said crossly. Then, with a
sudden change of manner, she advanced toward him with one very brown and
somewhat dirty little hand stretched forth and a ludicrous smirk on her
face. "I forgot you were a new boy," she said. "I hope your stay with us
will be both pleasant and profitable."
Roy accepted the proffered hand bewilderedly.
"There," she said, with a little shake of her shoulders and a quick
abandonment of the funny stilted tone and manner, "there, that's done.
Mamma makes me do that, you know. It's awfully silly, isn't it?"
Methuselah, who, during the conversation, had remained perched silently
on the girl's shoulder, now decided to take part in the proceedings.
"Well, I never did!" he exclaimed hoarsely. "Can't you be quiet? Naughty
Poll! Stop your swearing! Stop your swearing!"
This resulted in his banishment, Roy, at Harry's request, returning the
borrowed box to its place, and the parrot being placed therein with
strict injunctions to remain there.
"Doesn't he ever get away?" asked Roy.
"Oh, yes, sometimes. Once he got into the stable and went to sleep on
the head of John's bed. John's the gardener, you know. And when he came
in and saw Methuselah sitting there he thought it was an evil spirit and
didn't stop running until he reached the cottage. My, he was scared!"
And Harry giggled mischievously at the recollection.
Then Roy was formally introduced to the numerous residents of the
enclosure. Snip, a fox terrier, had already made friends. Lady Grey, a
maltese Angora cat, who lay curled up contentedly in one of the lower
tier of boxes, received Roy's caresses with well-bred condescension.
Joe, one of her kittens, and a brother of the disgraced Spot, showed
more interest and clawed Roy's hand in quite a friendly way. In other
boxes were a squirrel called "Teety," two white guinea pigs, a family of
rabbits, six white mice and a bantam hen who resented Roy's advent with
a very sharp beak. And all about fluttered grey pigeons and white
pigeons, fan-tails and pouters and many more the names of which Roy
quickly forgot. And while the exhibition was going on Roy observed the
exhibitor with not a little interest.
Harriet--begging her pardon! Harry--Emery was fourteen years old, fairly
tall for her age, not overburdened with flesh and somewhat of a tomboy.
Considering the fact that she had been born and had lived all her short
life at a boys' school the latter fact is not unnatural. I might almost
say that she had been a trifle spoiled. That, however, would be rather
unkind, for it was just that little spice of spoiling that had made
Harry so natural and unaffected. The boys called Harry "a good fellow,"
and to Harry no praise could have been sweeter. As might have been
expected, she had grown up with a fondness for boys' sports and
interests, and could skate as well if not better than any pupil Ferry
Hill had ever known, could play tennis well, could handle a pair of oars
knowingly and wasn't _very_ much afraid of a swiftly-thrown baseball.
Her muscles were hard and illness was something she had long since
forgotten about. But in spite of her addiction for boys' ways there was
still a good deal of the girl about her, and she was capable of a dozen
different emotions in as many minutes.
Roy decided that she was rather pretty. Her hair was luridly red, but
many persons would have called it beautiful. Her eyes were very blue and
had a way of looking at you that was almost disconcerting in its frank
directness. Her face was brown with sunburn, but there was color in the
cheeks. A short, somewhat pugnacious little nose, not guiltless of
freckles, went well with the red-lipped, mischievous mouth beneath. For
the rest, Harry was a wholesome, lovable little minx with the kindest
heart that ever beat under a mussy white shirt-waist and the quickest
temper that ever went with red hair.
Roy's examination of his new acquaintance was suddenly interrupted by
the subject, who swung around upon him with an expression of great
severity.
"Do you know," she asked, "that the boys aren't allowed in here without
permission and that if papa finds it out you'll be punished?"
Roy shook his head in bewilderment.
"And," continued Harry impressively, "that John is coming along the
lane, and that if he sees you here he'll have to report you, and--"
"What shall I do?" asked Roy, looking about for an avenue of escape.
"Why," said Harry, laughing enjoyably at his discomfiture, "just stay
where you are. I'm the one who gives permission!"
CHAPTER III
A MIDNIGHT HAZING
After the lights were out that night Roy lay for quite a while in his
bed in the Senior Dormitory reviewing the day. He was tired as a result
of the football practice and he had a lame tendon in his left leg which
he believed he had sustained in his flying leap onto the hedge when
going to the relief of Angel, and which bothered him a little now that
he had stopped using it. But his weariness and soreness hadn't kept him
from eating an enormous dinner in the Dining Hall down stairs, any more
than it was going to keep him from going to sleep in a few minutes.
During dinner he had begun to feel at home. He had found himself at Mr.
Cobb's table, which later on would be weeded out to make room for the
football players, and had sat next to Captain Rogers, who had spoken to
him several times quite affably, but not about football. The other
fellows, too, had shown a disposition to accept him as one of them, if
we omit Horace Burlen and Otto Ferris, and by the time Roy had scraped
the last morsel of pudding from his dish he had commenced to think that
life at Ferry Hill might turn out to be "both pleasant and profitable,"
as Harry had phrased it. After dinner he had spent the better part of an
hour in the study room on the first floor composing a letter home. That
finished, he had wandered down to the river and had been mildly rebuked
by Mr. Buckman, an instructor, for going out of bounds after eight
o'clock. There had been prayers at nine in the two dormitories and after
that, in the midst of shouts and laughter and general "rough house," he
had undressed, washed, donned his pajamas and jumped into the narrow
white enamelled bed to which he had been assigned.
Tomorrow lessons would begin and he wondered how he was going to fare.
He had entered on a certificate from his grammar school and had been put
into the Second Senior Class. If he could keep up with that he would be
ready for college in two years. Roy's father pretended to think him
backward because he would not enter until he was eighteen, and delighted
in telling him of boys who had gone to college at sixteen. But Roy's
mother always came to his defence. There was no sense, she declared
warmly, in boys going to college before they were old enough to
understand what it meant and to derive benefit from the life. And Roy's
father would shake his head dubiously and mutter that he had never
expected a son of his to be a dullard.
Greek and English were what Roy was afraid of. Latin and mathematics
held no terrors for him. As for the other studies, he believed he could
worry along with them all right. His mother had hinted hopefully of a
scholarship, but Roy knew his capabilities better than she did and
looked for no such honors.
Meanwhile the dormitory, full of whispers and repressed laughter for the
first few minutes of darkness, had become silent save for a snore here
and there. Roy's thoughts wandered back to the football field and to
Horace Burlen, who was lying somewhere near in the dark, and presently
his eyelids fell together and he was asleep.
How long he slept he never knew, but when he awoke suddenly to find
hands gently shaking him by the shoulders it seemed that it must be
morning. But the dormitory was still in darkness and the breathing of
the sleepers still sounded.
"Get up and don't make any noise," commanded a voice at his ear.
Sleepily, he strove to get his thoughts together. For a moment nothing
was very clear to him. Then the command was repeated a trifle
impatiently and Roy began to understand.
"What for?" he asked, temporizing.
"Never you mind. Just you do what we tell you, and mind you make no fuss
about it. There are a dozen of us here and we won't stand any nonsense."
Roy hadn't given any thought to hazing, but now he concluded that, to
use his own inelegant expression, he "was up against it." Of course, if
it was the custom to haze new boys there was no use making a fuss about
it, no use in playing baby. The only thing that bothered him was that
the speaker's voice sounded unpleasantly like Horace Burlen's and there
was no telling to what lengths that youth's dislike might lead him.
However, his companions, whoever they were, would probably see fair
play. So Roy, with a sigh, tumbled softly out of bed. He could just see
indistinct forms about him and hear their breathing.
"Hold still," said the voice, and Roy, obeying, felt a bandage being
pressed against his eyes and secured behind his head. Then, with a hand
grasping each arm, he was led silently across the floor. Down two
flights of stairs he was conducted, through the lower hall and then the
chill night air struck his face. More steps, this time the granite
flight in front of the hall, and his bare feet were treading
uncomfortably on the gravel. So far there had been no sounds from his
captors. Now, however, they began to whisper amongst themselves and,
although he couldn't hear what was being said, he gathered that they
were undecided as to where to take him. The procession halted and all
save the two who stood guard beside him drew away. The night air began
to feel decidedly chill and he realized that cotton pajamas aren't the
warmest things to wear for a nocturnal jaunt in late September.
Presently the others returned and they started on again. In a moment the
path began to descend and Roy remembered with a sinking heart that he
had trod that same path earlier in the evening and that at the end of it
lay the river!
By this time his teeth were chattering and he was quite out of sympathy
with the adventure. For a moment he considered escape. But if, as the
leader of the expedition had stated, there were a dozen fellows in the
party, he would be recaptured as sure as fate. Unconsciously he held
back.
"None of that," said the voice threateningly, and he was pulled forward
again. For a few steps he tried digging his heels in the ground, but it
hurt and did no good anyhow. So he went on without further resistance.
In a minute the procession stopped. Then he heard the keel of a boat
grate lightly on the pebbles.
"Step up," was the command. Roy obeyed and felt the planking of the
float under his bare feet. Then,
"Get into the boat," said the voice. Roy did so very cautiously and
found a seat. Oars were dipped into the water and the boat moved softly
away from the landing.
"Can you swim?" asked the voice, and this time Roy was certain that it
was Horace Burlen's. For an instant he wondered what would happen if he
said no. Probably they would devise some punishment quite as
uncomfortable as a ducking in the lake. The latter wasn't very
terrifying, and, at all events, the water couldn't be much colder than
the air was! So,
"Yes," he answered, and heard a chuckle.
"Good, you'll have a chance to prove it!"
For what seemed several minutes the boat was paddled onward. By this
time, thought Roy, they must be a long way from shore, and he suddenly
wondered, with a little sinking at his heart, whether the current was
very strong thereabouts and how, when he was in the water, he was to
tell in which direction the land lay. Then the oars had ceased creaking
in the rowlocks and the boat was rocking very gently in the water.
"Stand up," said the voice. Hands guided him as he obeyed and steadied
him.
"When I count three you will jump into the water and swim for land,"
continued the leader.
"You've got to take this thing off my eyes, though," protested Roy.
"That may not be," answered the voice sternly, and Roy caught a giggle
from behind him which was quickly suppressed.
"Then I'm hanged if I'll do it," he said doggedly.
"Better to jump than be thrown," was the ominous reply.
Roy considered.
"Which way do I swim?" he asked. "Where's the landing?"
"That you will discover for yourself. We may tell you no more."
"Don't see that you've told me much of anything," muttered Roy
wrathfully. "How do you fellows know that there isn't a big old rock
here? Want me to bust my head open?"
"We are in clear water," was the answer. "And"--and now the formal
phraseology was abandoned--"if you don't hurry up and get ready we'll
plaguey soon heave you in head over heels."
"Oh, go to thunder, you old bully!" growled Roy. "Go ahead and do your
counting. I'd rather be in the river than here with you."
"Take him out farther," said the voice angrily. But the order wasn't
obeyed. Instead there was a whispered discussion and finally the voice
said:
"All right. Now then, all ready, kid! One!... Two!... Three!"
The grasp on Roy's arms was relaxed, he raised them above his head and
sprang outward. But just as he was clearing the boat a hand shot forward
and grasped his ankle just long enough to spoil his dive. Then he had
struck the water flat on his stomach and, with the breath gone from his
body, felt it close over his head.
CHAPTER IV
ROY CHANGES HIS MIND
For an instant his arms thrashed wildly. Then he was standing, gasping
and sputtering, with the bandage torn away and the ripples breaking
against his thighs! From the bank, only a few feet away, came roars of
laughter, diminishing as his captors, having drawn the boat up onto the
little pebbly beach, stumbled up the path toward the school. And Roy,
shivering and chattering, stood there in a scant three feet of icy water
and impotently shook his fist in the darkness!
At first, as he scrambled with his bare feet over the sharp pebbles to
the shore, he could not understand what had happened. Then he realized
that all the rowing had been in circles, or possibly back and forth
along the shore. For some reason this made him madder than if they had
really made him dive into deep water beyond his depth. They had made a
perfect fool of him! And all the way back up the hill and across the
campus he vowed vengeance--when his chattering teeth would let him!
A few minutes later, divested of his wet pajamas, he was under the
covers again, striving to get some warmth back into his chilled body.
When he had tiptoed noiselessly into the dormitory whispers had greeted
him and unseen persons had asked softly whether he had found the water
warm, how the walking was and how he liked diving. But Roy had made no
answer and soon the voices had been stilled. Sleep was long in coming to
him and when it did it brought such unpleasant dreams that he found
little rest.
At breakfast, when the announcements were read by Mr. Buckman, Roy found
himself one of four boys summoned to call on Dr. Emery at the office in
School Hall after the meal was over. Looking up he encountered the eyes
of Horace Burlen fixed upon him threateningly. Roy smiled to himself. So
they were afraid that he would tell on them, were they? Well, they'd
see!
When Roy's turn to enter the office came, after a few minutes of waiting
in the outer room in company with the school secretary, he found himself
a little bit nervous. Perhaps the Principal had already learned of last
night's mischief and held him to blame in the matter.
But when, five minutes or so later, Roy came out again he looked quite
contented. In the outer office he encountered Mr. Buckman, who nodded to
him, paused as though about to speak, apparently thought better of it
and passed on into the Principal's room. Roy hurried over to the Senior
Dormitory, armed himself with books, pad and pencils and managed to
reach his first class just as the doors were being closed. Lessons went
well enough that first day, and when, at four o'clock, Roy trotted onto
the gridiron for afternoon practice he hadn't a worry in the world.
Perhaps that is one reason why he did such good work at quarter on the
second squad that Jack Rogers patted him once on the shoulder and told
him to "keep it up, Porter," while Mr. Cobb paid him the compliment of
almost remembering his name!
"Good work, Proctor!" said the coach.
There were several absentees that afternoon, notably Horace Burlen and
Otto Ferris, and there was much discussion amongst the fellows as to the
reason. Before practice was over the report had got around that the
absent ones had been "placed on inner bounds." Roy didn't know just what
that meant, but it sounded pretty bad, and he was almost sorry for the
culprits. When, after practice was over, Roy did his two laps with the
others, he looked across the hedge as he passed the stables. The doves
were circling about in the late sunshine and the wicked Spot was sunning
himself on the edge of the shed roof, but the girl with the red hair was
not in sight.
At supper Roy found a decided change in the attitude of the fellows
toward him. Instead of the friendly, half curious glances of the night
before, the looks he received were cold and contemptuous. For the most
part, however, the fellows avoided noticing him and all during the meal
only Jack Rogers and Mr. Cobb addressed him, the former to inquire where
he had played football before coming to Ferry Hill and the latter to
offer him a second helping of cold meat. Later Roy accidentally
overheard a conversation not intended for his ears. He was in the study
room, whither he had taken his books. The window beside him was open and
under it, on the granite steps outside, was a group of the younger boys.
"Emmy called them to the office at noon," one boy was saying, "and
raised an awful row with them. Said hazing was forbidden, and they knew
it, and that he had a good mind to send them all home. He tried to get
them to tell who started it, but they wouldn't. So he put them all on
inner bounds for a month."
"How'd he know who was in it?" asked another boy.
"Why, the new chap squealed, of course!" was the contemptuous answer.
"Horace Burlen says so. Says he doesn't know how he guessed the other
fellows, but supposes he recognized him by his voice. A mighty dirty
trick, I call it."
"That's the way with those public school fellows," said a third speaker.
"They haven't any principles."
"It's going to just about bust up the eleven," said the first boy. "Why,
there's Burlen and Ferris and Gus Pryor and Billy Warren all football
men!"
"Mighty little difference Otto Ferris's absence will make, though."
"Oh, he'd have made the team this year, all right."
"Well, a month isn't very long. They'll get back in time to play the big
games."
"S'posing they do, silly! How about practice? If Hammond beats us this
year it will be that Porter fellow's fault."
"I don't believe he told on them," said a low voice that Roy recognized
as Sidney Welch's. "He--he doesn't look like that sort!"
"Doesn't, eh? Then who did tell? Think they peached on themselves?" was
the scathing reply. "You'd better not let Horace hear you talking like
that, Sid!"
Roy stole away to a distant table with burning cheeks and clenched
hands.
When bedtime came things were even worse. All the time he was undressing
he was aware that he was the subject of much of the whispered discussion
around him and the hostile glances that met him made silence almost
impossible. But silent he was, doing his best to seem unaware of what
the others were thinking and saying. He passed down the dormitory to the
wash-room with head held high and as unconcerned a look as he could
manage, but he was heartily thankful when Mr. Cobb put his head out of
the door of his room at the end of the dormitory, announced "Bed,
fellows," and switched off the electric lights. Roy wasn't very happy
while he lay awake there in the darkness waiting for sleep to come to
him. He had made a sorry beginning of school life, he reflected
bitterly. To be sure, he might deny that he had told on Burlen and his
companions, but what good would it do when every fellow believed as they
did? No, the only way was to brave it out and in time win back the
fellows' respect. But how he hated Horace Burlen! Some day, how or when
he did not know, he would get even with Burlen! Meanwhile sleep came to
him after a while and he fell into troubled dreams.
The next day his cup of bitterness was filled yet fuller. Harry cut him!
He met her on the way across the campus at noon. She was immaculately
tidy in a blue skirt and a fresh white shirt-waist and her red hair fell
in a neat braid at her back. She carried a bundle of books under her arm
and Snip, the fox terrier, ran beside her. Roy nodded with a friendly
smile, but his only reward was an unseeing glance from the blue eyes.
The color flamed into Roy's face and he hurried on with bent head. I
think Harry regretted her action the next instant, for when he had
passed she turned and looked after him with a little wistful frown on
her face.
On the football field life wasn't much pleasanter than in hall. Roy had
already worked himself into the position of first substitute
quarter-back, and Bacon, the last year's quarter, was looking anxious
and buckling down to work in a way that showed he was not over-confident
of holding his place. But when the men before and behind you had rather
make you look ridiculous than play the game you are in a hard way. And
that was Roy's fix. Whitcomb, who was playing center in Burlen's
absence, was inclined to treat Roy rather decently, but there were
others in the squad who never let slip an opportunity to worry him. The
way his signals were misunderstood was extraordinary. Not that it
mattered so much these days, since practice was in its most primitive
stage, but after three afternoons of such treatment Roy was ready to
give up the fight. After practice on Saturday he waited for Jack Rogers
outside the gymnasium and ranged himself alongside the older boy as he
turned toward the dormitory. Jack shot a quick glance at him and nodded.
[Illustration: "Roy lifted his hat, and nodded with a friendly smile,
but his only reward was an unseeing glance from the blue eyes."]
"I thought I'd better tell you," began Roy, "that I've decided to give
up football."
"Think so?" asked the captain dryly.
"Yes," replied Roy, looking a little bit surprised. There was nothing
further from the other and Roy strode on at his side, trying to match
his long stride and somewhat embarrassedly striving to think of what to
say next.
"You see," he said finally, "there's no use in my trying to play quarter
while the fellows are down on me. It's just a waste of time. I--I don't
seem to be able to get things right."
What he meant was that the others were doing their best to get things
wrong, but he didn't want to seem to be complaining of them to Rogers.
The latter turned and observed Roy thoughtfully.
"That your only reason?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Well, let's stop here a minute if you've got time." The two seated
themselves on a wooden bench under the trees a few yards from the
entrance to the dormitory. "You're new here," continued Jack, "and there
are some things you don't know. One of the things is this: we've got to
win from Hammond this Fall if we have to work every minute between now
and the day of the game. They beat us last year and they didn't do it
very squarely. That is, they played a great big fellow named Richardson
at right guard who had no business on their team. We protested him, but
it did no good. He was a student of the academy at the time, and
although we knew he was there just to play football, we couldn't do
anything beyond making the protest. As it turned out we were right, for
Richardson left Hammond a week after the game, and this year he's
playing on a college team. He was a big fellow, twenty years old,
weighed two hundred pounds and simply played all around our men. He used
up two of them before the game was over. He played mighty dirty ball,
too. Our captain last year was Johnny King--he's playing with Cornell
this year--and he was plucky clean through. The whole school was in
favor of refusing to play Hammond, and Cobb was with us. But King said
he'd play them if they had the whole Yale varsity to pick from. When we
went out for the second half with the score eleven to nothing against us
he said to me: 'Jack, you'll be captain next year, and I want you to
remember to-day's game. Get a team together that will lick Hammond. Work
for it all the Fall. Never mind what other teams do to you; keep Hammond
in mind every minute. Lose every other game on the schedule if you have
to, but beat Hammond, Jack! I'll do all I can to get coaches for you,
and I'll come down myself for a day or two if I can possibly manage it.
What do you say?' I said 'All right, Johnnie,' and we shook hands on it.
Hammond scored again in that half, and after it was over we had to carry
Johnnie back to the gym. Well?"
He stopped and looked inquiringly at Roy.
"I guess I'll go ahead and play," answered Roy.
"That's better. You're one of us now, and that means that you've got to
work yourself blue in the face if necessary to make up for what Hammond
did to us last Fall. I can't promise you that you'll get into the game,
although I don't see why you shouldn't, but even if you don't, even if
you stay on the second all season you'll be doing just as much toward
winning the game as any of us--if you'll do your best and a little more.
And it mustn't make any difference to you how the fellows treat you or
what they say. You're there to play football and run your team. Of
course, what takes place between you and the others is none of my
business and I shan't step in to help you, not once; but just as soon as
I find that they are risking the success of the eleven you can count on
me to back you up. I won't stand any nonsense from them, and they know
it; or if they don't know it now they mighty soon will. They say you
gave away the fellows who hazed you the other night. I don't know
whether you did or didn't, and I don't want you to tell me. I don't
care. You can play football, and that's enough for me. I wouldn't care
this year if you had stolen the cupola of School Hall. I have nothing to
do with what you are off the football field. If you'll do your honest
best there I'll stick to you as long as you live. Will you?"
"Yes," answered Roy.
"Good! Shake hands! Now let's go on."
"About that hazing affair, though," said Roy as they left the seat. "I'd
like to tell you--"
"I don't want to be told," answered Jack curtly. "If you told on Burlen
and the others maybe you had reason, and if you're a decent sort of a
chap they'll get over it in time. If you didn't you've got nothing to
worry about. If a chap plays fair and square fellows pretty soon know
it. See you at supper. So long."
Jack turned down the path toward the Cottage and Roy ran up the steps of
Burgess Hall with a lighter heart than he had had for several days.
[Illustration: "'If you'll do your honest best there, I'll stick to you
as long as you live.'"]
CHAPTER V
CHUB EATON INTRODUCES HIMSELF
Roy had stayed to speak to Mr. Buckman after the geometry class had been
dismissed, and so, when he reached the entrance of the hall on his way
out, he found the broad granite steps well lined with boys. Nearly a
week had passed since the hazing episode and the beginning of the
present ostracism, and during that period Roy had become, if not used to
it, at least in a measure inured. The smaller boys--the Juniors--were
the worst, and they, Roy felt certain, were being constantly egged on by
Horace Burlen and his chums, of whom Otto Ferris was apparently the
closest. Horace himself refrained from active animosity. When he met Roy
he pretended to consider the latter beneath notice and did no more than
sneer as he turned his head away. But Otto never allowed an opportunity
to be mean to escape him. And to-day, an opportunity presenting itself,
he seized upon it.
Roy, looking straight ahead, passed down the steps, trying hard to
forget that well nigh every eye was fixed upon him. He had reached the
last step but one and the ordeal was almost over when Otto saw his
chance. The next instant Roy had measured his length on the gravel path
below and his books and papers lay scattered about him. He scrambled to
his feet with blazing cheeks and eyes and strode toward Otto. The
latter, too, got to his feet, but showed no overmastering desire to meet
the other. Instead he retreated a step and began to look anxious.
"You tripped me up," charged Roy angrily.
"Who tripped you up?" asked Otto. "You fell over my foot. You ought to
look where you're going."
Some of the older boys, their sympathies aroused by Roy's fall, moved
between the two. The youngsters gave vocal support to Otto until
commanded to "cut it out." Roy attempted to push by one of the boys, but
was restrained.
"Run along, Porter," counselled the peacemaker. "It was a shabby trick,
but you won't do any good by scrapping."
"Supposing you keep out of it," suggested Roy angrily.
"Now don't you get fresh," answered the other warmly. "You can't scrap
here, so run along as I told you. I dare say you only got what was
coming to you."
"He deserved it, the sneak!" cried Otto, who, divided from the enemy by
strong defences, had recovered his bravery. Roy heard and threw
discretion to the winds. He ducked under the arm of the boy in front of
him and had almost reached Otto when he was caught and dragged back.
Otto, standing his ground because he could not retreat, looked vastly
relieved. Roy struggled in the grasp of his captors.
"You let me go!" he cried. "It's none of your affair. Why don't you let
him look after himself, you bullies?"
"That'll do for you, freshie," responded one of the older boys named
Fernald. "Don't you call names or you'll get in trouble."
"You'd better do as he says," counselled a quiet voice at Roy's side.
"There wouldn't be any satisfaction in licking Ferris, anyway; he's just
a coward. Come along and pick up your books."
There was something quietly compelling in the voice, and Roy, ceasing to
struggle, looked about panting into the round, good-humored face of a
boy of about his own age.
"Come on," said the boy softly. And Roy went.
Together they rescued the scattered books and papers, while on the steps
discussion broke out stormily; Otto was being "called down" by the older
boys and volubly defended by the youngsters.
When the books were once more under his arms Roy thanked his new friend
and, without a glance toward the group on the steps, turned toward the
dormitory. When he had gone a few steps he became aware of the fact that
the round-faced boy was beside him and looked about in surprise.
"I'm going your way," said the other smilingly. "Going to get my
sweater on and go out in the canoe awhile. Do you paddle?"
"No, I never tried it," answered Roy, rubbing the blood from his
knuckles where they had been scraped on the gravel and shooting a
puzzled glance at the other.
"Well, never too late to learn," responded his companion cheerfully.
"Come along down and take a lesson. It's a dandy day for a paddle."
"Thanks, but I've got to study a bit."
"Oh, leave that until to-night. No practice, is there?"
"No, most of the fellows went to Maitland with the first eleven."
"Maitland will beat us, probably. We always lose the first two or three
games. Why didn't they take you along?"
"Didn't need me, I guess. Bacon is the regular quarter, you know."
"Yes, but I don't see why they need to play him all through the first
game. Well, here we are. Get a sweater or something on and meet me down
here."
They had paused on the landing outside the Junior Dormitory and Roy
hesitated. Then,
"You live here, do you?" he asked.
"Yes, I have a corner bed by the window, and last year, when they wanted
to put me upstairs, I kicked. So they let me stay; told me I could be
useful keeping an eye on the kids. You'll come, eh?"
"Well, I--I guess so. It's good of you to ask me."
"Not a bit. I hate to go alone; that's all."
He turned smilingly into the dormitory and Roy went on upstairs, got rid
of his books and scrambled into his red sweater. It wasn't necessary to
pass School Hall on the way down to the river, and Roy was glad of it.
He felt that in losing his temper and slanging the older fellows on the
steps he had also lost ground. Instead of making friends he had possibly
made one or two new enemies. Then the realization that the boy beside
him was showing himself more of a friend than any other fellow in
school, with the possible exception of Jack Rogers, brought comfort,
and, in a sudden flush of gratitude, he turned and blurted:
"It was mighty nice of you to take my part and I'm awfully much
obliged."
"Shucks, that wasn't anything! I'm always for the under dog, anyhow--if
you don't mind being called a dog."
"No," answered Roy. Then he added a trifle bitterly, "I guess some of
them call me worse than that."
"Oh, they'll get over it," was the cheerful reply. "Just you pay no
attention to 'em, mind your own affairs and look as though you didn't
give a rap."
"That's what Laurence said," replied Roy thoughtfully.
"Sensible chap, Laurence," said the other smilingly. "Who might he be?"
"My brother. He's in Harvard."
"Oh, yes, I remember some one said your brother was 'Larry' Porter, the
Harvard football man. I guess that's how you happen to put up such a
dandy game yourself, eh?"
"I don't think I've done very well," answered Roy. "But--it hasn't been
all my fault."
"Nonsense! You've played like an old stager; every fellow says that."
"Really?" asked Roy eagerly.
"Of course! I've heard lots of the fellows say that Bacon will have to
do better than he ever has done to keep his place. And I know what you
mean about its not being all your fault. But I guess the chaps on your
squad will behave themselves after the dressing down Jack gave them the
other day."
"Were you there?"
"No, I don't very often watch practice. I don't care much for football,
I'm afraid. Baseball's my game. No, I wasn't there, but Sid Welch was
telling me about it. Sid's a very communicative kid."
"He's trying to make the team," said Roy, smiling. "He asked me one day
if drinking vinegar would make him thinner."
"He's a funny little chump," laughed the other. "Not a bad sort, either.
He has the bed next to mine, and he and I are pretty good chums. By the
way, you didn't tell me what it was your brother said."
"Oh, why, he said once that if I wanted to get on I must keep a stiff
upper lip and mind my own affairs. And--and he said 'when you're down
on your luck or up against a bigger fellow grin as hard as you can
grin.'"
[Illustration: "'Of course I wasn't christened Chub.'"]
"Good for him!" cried the other. "I'd like to meet him. That's what I
say, too. No use in looking glum because you're put out at the plate.
Just smile and keep your mouth shut, and likely as not you'll make good
the next time. Besides, if the other chap sees you looking worried it
makes him feel bigger and better. Yes, that's good advice, all right. By
the way, I know your name, but I guess you don't know mine; it's Chub
Eaton."
"Are you a Senior?"
"Same as you, Second Senior. Of course, I wasn't christened Chub; my
real name's Tom; but the fellows began calling me Chub the first year I
was here because I was kind of fat then, and I didn't mind. So it stuck.
Well, here's the canoe. Just give me a hand, will you? We'll put her
over the end of the float."
The boat house was deserted, but out in mid-stream was a pair-oar and a
rowboat, the latter well filled. Roy helped in the launching and soon
they were afloat.
"It's an awful handsome canoe, isn't it?" asked Roy.
"Pretty fair. I thought the color would fetch you; it's just a match for
your sweater. Got the paddle? Well, try your hand at it. Just stick it
in and push it back. You'll get the hang after a bit. We'll get out
around the island so as to catch the breeze. I hate calm water."
It was a glorious afternoon. September was drawing to a close and there
was already a taste of October in the fresh breeze that ruffled the
water as soon as they had swung the crimson craft around the lower end
of Fox Island. Toward the latter the owner of the craft waved his
paddle.
"That's where we have fun April recess," he said. "If you know what's
good you'll stay here instead of going home. We camp out there for
almost a week and have more fun than you can shake a stick at. Hammond
usually comes over and tries to swipe our boats, and two years ago we
had a regular battle with them. Take it easier, or you'll get sore
muscles. That's better."
Roy obeyed directions and soon discovered that paddling if done the
right way is good fun. Before the Autumn was gone he had attained to
quite a degree of proficiency and was never happier than when out in the
canoe. But to-day his muscles, in spite of training, soon began to ache,
and he was glad when the boy at the stern suggested that they let the
craft drift for a while. Presently, Roy having turned around very
cautiously, they were taking their ease in the bottom of the canoe, the
water _lap-lapping_ against the smooth crimson sides, the sunlight
slanting across the glinting ripples and the cool down-river breeze
making the shelter of the boat quite grateful. They talked of all sorts
of things, as boys will at first meeting, and as they talked Roy had his
first good chance to look his newly-found friend over.
Chub Eaton was sixteen, although he looked fully a year older. He was
somewhat thick-set, but not so much so that he was either slow or
awkward. He was undeniably good-looking, with a good-humored face, from
which a pair of bright, alert brown eyes sparkled. His hair was brown,
too, a brown that just escaped being red, but which did not in the least
remind Roy of Harry's vivid tresses. Chub looked to be in the fittest
physical condition and the coat of tan that covered his face and hands
made Roy seem almost pale in comparison. Chub had an easy, self-assured
way of doing things that Roy couldn't help admiring, and was a born
leader. These same qualities were possessed by Roy to a lesser extent,
and that, as the friendship grew and ripened between the two, they never
had a falling-out worthy of the name, proves that each must have had a
well-developed sense of fairness and generosity. As I have said, their
conversation touched on all sorts of subjects, and finally it got around
to Horace Burlen.
"Horace has the whole school under his thumb," explained Chub. "You see,
in the first place he is Emmy's nephew, and the fellows have an idea
that that makes a difference with Emmy. I don't believe it does, for
Emmy's mighty fair; and besides, I've seen him wade into Horace good and
hard. But he's school leader, all right. The Juniors do just about
whatever he tells 'em to and are scared to death for fear he will eat
'em up. It's awfully funny, the way he bosses things. I don't believe
there are half a dozen fellows in school who wouldn't jump into the
river if Horace told them to. And the worst of it is, you know, he isn't
the best fellow in the world to be leader."
"How about you?" asked Roy. "You're not one of his slaves, are you?"
"Me? Bless you, no! Horace and I had our little scrap two years ago and
since then he has given me up for lost. Same way with Jack Rogers.
Jack's the only chap that can make Horace stand around. Jack could have
taken the lead himself if he'd wanted to, but the only thing he thinks
of is football. Horace hates him like poison, but he makes believe he
likes him. You see, Horace was up for captain this year and would have
got it, too, if Johnny King hadn't made a lot of the team promise last
Fall to vote for Jack. It wasn't exactly fair, I guess, but Johnny knew
that Horace would never do for football captain. So that's the reason
Horace has it in for him."
"Well, he will never get me to lick his boots for him," said Roy
decisively.
Chub looked at him smilingly a moment. Then,
"No, I don't believe he will. But you'll have a hard row to hoe for a
while, for Horace can make it mighty unpleasant for a chap if he wants
to."
"He's done it already," answered Roy.
"Oh, that's nothing," was the cheerful reply. "Wait till he gets to
going. He can be mighty nasty when he tries. And he can be fairly
decent, too. He isn't a coward like Otto Ferris, you see; he's got a
lot of good stuff in him, only it doesn't very often get out."
"He's a Second Senior, isn't he?"
"Yes, he's been here six years already, too. He isn't much on study, and
Emmy gets ripping mad with him sometimes. Two years ago he didn't pass
and Emmy told him he'd keep him in the Second Middle for six years if he
didn't do better work. So Horace buckled down that time and moved up.
Well, say, we paddle back. You stay where you are if you're tired; I can
make it against this little old tide all right."
But Roy declared he wasn't tired and took up his paddle again. As they
neared the school landing the rowboat came drifting down from the end of
the island, the half dozen lads inside of it shouting and laughing
loudly. Suddenly Roy started to his feet.
"Sit down!" cried Chub sharply.
Roy sat down, not so much on account of the command as because he had
started the canoe to rocking, and it was a choice between doing that and
falling into the river.
"Their boat's upset!" he cried back.
"So I see," answered Chub. "But it isn't necessary to upset this one,
too. Besides, they can all swim like fishes."
Nevertheless he bent to his paddle and, with Roy making ineffectual
efforts to help him, fairly shot the craft over the water. But long
before they had neared the overturned boat it became evident that their
aid was not required, for the boys in the water, laughing over their
mishap, were swimming toward the beach and pushing the capsized boat
before them. Chub headed the canoe toward the landing.
"You see," he explained, "no fellow is allowed to get into a boat here
until he can swim, and so, barring a swift current, there isn't much
danger. That's Sid in front. He's a regular fish in the water and it's
even money that he upset the thing on purpose. He'd better not let Emmy
know about it, though. By the way, how about you? Can you swim? I forgot
to ask you."
"Yes, I can swim pretty fair," answered Roy.
"All right. I took it for granted you could. You look like a chap that
can do things. Do you play baseball?"
"No; that is, I've never played on a team. Of course, I can catch a ball
if it's coming my way."
"Good! Why not come out for the nine in the spring? Will you?"
"I don't believe there'd be much use in it," said Roy. "I know so little
about the game."
"That's all right. You could learn. Half the fellows who try have never
played before. And I know you can start quick and run like a streak. I
saw you make that touchdown day before yesterday. You'd better try."
"Well," answered Roy, as they lifted the canoe from the water and bore
it into the boat house, "maybe I will. Only I don't think the captain
would be very glad to see me."
"Don't you worry about the captain," laughed Chub. "He's too glad to get
material to be fussy."
"Who is captain?" asked Roy.
"I am," said Chub. "That's how I know so much about him!"
CHAPTER VI
METHUSELAH HAS A SORE THROAT
Football practice was hard and steady the next week, for Maitland had
trounced Ferry Hill 17 to 0, and as Maitland was only a high school,
albeit a rather large one, the disgrace rankled. Jack Rogers wasn't the
sort of chap to wear his heart on his sleeve, and so far as his
countenance went none would have guessed him to be badly discouraged.
But he was, and Roy, for one, knew it. And I think Jack knew that he
knew it, for once in a lull of the signal practice he looked up to find
Roy's eyes on him sympathetically, and he smiled back with a dubious
shake of his head that spoke volumes. Things weren't going very well,
and that was a fact. The loss of Horace Burlen during that first month
of practice meant a good deal, for Horace was a steady center and an
experienced one. To a lesser extent the absence of Pryor and Warren,
Horace's friends in exile, retarded the development of the team. By the
end of the second week of practice a provisional eleven had been formed,
for Mr. Cobb believed in getting the men together as soon as possible,
having learned from experience that team work is not a thing that can
be instilled in a mere week or two of practice. Whitcomb was playing
center on the first squad in Horace's absence. Roy was at quarter on the
second, with a slow-moving young giant named Forrest in front of him.
But Forrest was good-natured as well as slow, and in consequence he and
Roy got on very well, although they never exchanged unnecessary remarks.
The back field had learned that Jack Rogers would not stand any
nonsense, and if they had any desire to make things uncomfortable for
the quarter-back they didn't indulge it on the football field. The
second stood up very well in those days before the first, in spite of
the fact that sometimes there weren't enough candidates to fill the
places of injured players. With only forty-odd fellows to draw from it
was remarkable that Ferry Hill turned out the teams that it did.
Meanwhile life was growing easier for Roy. Even the younger boys had
begun to tire of showing their contempt, while the fact that Chub Eaton
had "taken up" the new boy went a long way with the school in general.
Chub was not popular in the closest sense of the word; he was far too
indifferent for that; but every fellow who knew him at all liked
him--with the possible exception of Horace--and his position of baseball
captain made him a person of importance. Consequently, when the school
observed that Chub had selected Roy for a friend it marvelled for a few
days and then began to wonder whether there might not be, after all,
extenuating circumstances in the new boy's favor. And besides this
Roy's work on the gridiron had been from the first of the sort to
command respect no matter how unwilling. And it was about this time that
another friend was restored to him.
Roy had come across Harry but once or twice since she had passed him in
the campus, and each time he had been very careful to avoid her. But one
morning he ran plump into her in the corridor of School Hall, so plump,
in fact, that he knocked the book she was carrying from her hand. Of
course there was nothing to do but stoop and rescue it from the floor,
and when that was done it was too late to escape. As he handed the book
back to her he looked defiantly into the blue eyes and said, "Good
morning, Miss Harriet." Strange to say, he was not immediately
annihilated. Instead the blue eyes smiled at him with a most friendly
gleam, and,
"Good morning," said Harry. Then, "Only I oughtn't to answer you for
calling me 'Miss Harriet'; you know I hate Harriet."
"Excuse me, I meant Miss _Harry_," answered Roy a trifle stiffly. It was
hard to forget that cut direct.
"That's better," she said. "You--you haven't been down to inquire after
the health of the baby since you rescued him."
"No, but I hope he's all right?"
"Yes, but Methuselah is awfully sick."
"He's the parrot, isn't he?" asked Roy. "What's wrong with the old
sinner?"
"He's got a dreadful sore throat," was the reply. "I've tied it up with
a cloth soaked in turpentine half a dozen times, but he just won't let
it be."
"Are you sure it's sore throat?" asked Roy gravely.
"Yes, his voice is almost gone. Why, he can scarcely talk above a
whisper!"
Roy thought to himself that that wasn't such a catastrophe as Harry
intimated, but he was careful not to suggest such a thing to her.
Instead he looked properly regretful.
"Don't you want to see him?" asked Harry, in the manner of one
conferring an unusual favor. Roy declared that he did and Harry led the
way toward the barn, her red hair radiant in the morning sunlight. On
the way they passed two of the boys, who observed them with open-eyed
surprise. Harry's favor was not easy to win and, being won, something to
prize, since she stood near the throne and was popularly believed to be
able to command favors for her friends.
Methuselah certainly did look sick. He was perched on the edge of his
soap box domicile, viewing the world with pessimistic eyes, when Harry
conducted the visitor into the enclosure and sent the pigeons whirling
into air. Harry went to him and stroked his head with her finger.
"Poor old 'Thuselah," she murmured. "Did he have a sore throat? Well, it
was a nasty, mean shame. But he's a naughty boy for scratching off the
bandage Harry put on. What have you done with it? You haven't--" she
looked about the box and the ground and then viewed the bird
sternly--"you haven't eaten it?"
Methuselah cocked his eyes at her in a world-wearied way that seemed to
say, "Well, what if I have? I might as well die one way as another." But
Roy discovered the bedraggled length of linen a little way off and
restored it to Harry.
"I'm so glad!" said the girl with a sigh of relief. "I didn't know but
he might have, you know. Why, once he actually ate a whole ounce of
turnip seeds!"
"Hurt him?" asked Roy interestedly.
"N-no, I don't believe so, but I was awfully afraid it would. John, the
gardener, said he'd have appendicitis. But then, John was mad because he
needed the seeds."
Methuselah had closed his eyes and now looked as though resolved to die
at once and get it over with. But at that moment Snip trotted out from
the barn, where he had been hunting for rats, and hailed Roy as a
long-lost friend. Perhaps the incident saved the bird's life. At least
it caused him to alter his mind about dying at once, for he blinked his
eyes open, watched the performance for a moment and then broke out in a
hoarse croak with:
"Stop your swearing! Stop your swearing! Stop your swearing! Stop your
swearing!"
It was such a pathetic apology for a voice that Roy had to laugh even at
the risk of wounding Harry's feelings. But Harry, too, found it amusing
and joined her laugh with his. Whereupon Methuselah mocked them
sarcastically in tones that suggested the indelicacy of laughing at a
dying friend.
"I think," said Harry, "he'd like you to scratch his head."
Roy looked doubtfully at the bird and the bird looked suspiciously at
Roy, but when the latter had summoned up sufficient courage to allow of
the experiment Methuselah closed his eyes and bent his head in evident
appreciation and enjoyment.
"I don't believe you're nearly so sick as you're making out," said Roy.
"I believe you're an old bluffer."
And the bird actually chuckled!
Harry doused the bandage with turpentine again and once more tied it
around Methuselah's neck.
"Now don't you dare scratch it off again," she commanded severely,
shaking her finger at him.
"Well, I never--" began the bird. But weariness overcame him in the
middle of the sentence and he closed his beady eyes again and nodded
sleepily.
"I don't believe he slept very well last night," confided Harry in a
whisper.
"Maybe he was cold," Roy suggested.
"I've thought of that. I don't usually move them indoors until much
later," said Harry thoughtfully, "but the weather is so cold this Fall
that I think I'll put them in to-day. Maybe he's been sleeping in a
draft. Mamma says that will almost always give you a sore throat."
They walked back to the cottage together and on the way Harry was
unusually quiet. Finally, when Roy had pleaded a recitation, she
unburdened her mind and conscience.
"I--I'm sorry about the other day," she said suddenly.
Roy, who had turned away, looked around in surprise.
"I mean when I didn't speak to you one morning," explained Harry
bravely. Her cheeks were furiously red and Roy found himself sharing her
embarrassment.
"Oh, that's all right," he muttered.
"No, it isn't all right," contradicted Harry. "It was a low-down thing
to do and I was sorry right away. Only you didn't look and so--so I--I
didn't call you. I--I wish you had looked. It was all Horace's fault. He
said--said--"
"Yes, I guess I know what he said," interrupted Roy. "But supposing what
he said is so?"
"I wouldn't care--much," was the answer. "But I know it isn't so! Is
it?"
Roy dropped his eyes and hesitated. Then,
"No," he muttered. "It isn't so, Harry."
"I knew it!" she cried triumphantly. "I told him I knew it afterwards!
And he said girls weren't proper persons to judge of such things, and I
don't see what that's got to do with my knowing--what I know, do you?"
Roy had to acknowledge that he didn't.
"And you're not cross with me, are you?" she demanded anxiously.
"Not a bit," he said.
"That's nice. I don't like folks I like to not like--Oh, dear me! I'm
all balled up! Only I mustn't say 'balled up.' I meant that I
was--confused. Anyway, I'm going to tell all the boys that it isn't so,
that you didn't squeal--I mean _tell_--on Horace and the others! And I
think it was a nasty trick to play on you! Why, you might have caught
your death of cold!"
"Or a sore throat, like Methuselah," said Roy, smiling.
"Or you might have been drowned. Once there was a boy drowned here, a
long, long time ago, when I was just a kid. It was very sad. But you
weren't drowned, were you? And so there's no use in supposing, is there?
But I'm going to tell the boys that--"
"I'd rather you didn't, please, Harry," broke in Roy.
Harry, who was becoming quite enthusiastic and excited, opened her eyes
very wide.
"Not tell?" she cried. "Why not?"
"Well," answered Roy hesitatingly, "I--I'd rather you didn't."
"No reason!" said Harry scornfully.
"If they think I'd do such a thing," muttered Roy, "they can just keep
on thinking so. I guess I can stand it."
Harry looked puzzled for a moment; she was trying to get at his point of
view; then her face lighted.
"Splendid!" she cried. "You're going to be a martyr and be misunderstood
like--like somebody in a book I was reading! And some day, long after
you're gone--" Harry looked vaguely about as though searching for the
place Roy was to go to--"folks will discover that you're innocent and
they'll be very, very sorry and erect a white marble shaft to your
cherished memory!" She ended much out of breath, but still enthusiastic,
to find Roy laughing at her.
"I guess I'm not hankering for any martyr business, Harry. It isn't that
exactly; I don't know just what it is. But if you won't say anything
about it I'll be awfully much obliged."
"Well, then, I won't," promised Harry regretfully. "Only I do wish you
were going to be a martyr!"
"I shall be if I don't hurry," answered Roy. "I have math with Mr.
Buckman in about half a minute."
"Pooh! No one's afraid of Buck!" said Harry scornfully. "Cobby's the one
to look out for; he's awfully strict." Roy was already making for School
Hall. "You'll come and see Methuselah again soon, won't you?"
"Yes," called Roy.
"And you'll play tennis with me some day, too?"
"I don't play very well."
"Never mind," answered Harry, "I'll teach you. Good bye!"
CHAPTER VII
COACHES AND PLAYERS
October went its way, a period of bright, crisp, golden weather filled
with hard work for the football players. There were defeats and
victories both in that early season, but on the whole the team showed up
fairly well. Burlen and Warren and Pryor returned to practice at the end
of their probation and, although each was more or less stale, their
presence in accustomed positions heartened the team. Otto Ferris, too,
returned, but his advent was not portentous, since the best he could do
was to make the second as a substitute back. Bacon still held his place
at quarter, although in two games he had been kept out of the play, his
position being filled by Roy. The latter had done excellent work, but he
had not had the experience gained by Bacon, and this, together with the
fact that he and Horace did not work smoothly together, made it pretty
certain that Bacon would go into the game with Hammond. Roy was not
greatly disappointed, for he had scarcely dared hope to make the first
team that Fall. Next year Bacon would be gone from school, and then,
barring accidents, the place would be his. Meanwhile, ever mindful of
his promise to Jack Rogers, Roy worked like a Trojan on the second and
ran that team in such a way that a score against the first at least
every other day of practice became something to expect. Had Roy been
able to work with Horace as he did with Forrest, Bacon's position would
not have been so secure. Roy was like a streak of lightning when he once
got away for a run, and, like a streak of lightning, was mighty hard to
catch. At this he quite outplayed Bacon. The latter seldom managed to
make his quarter-back runs tell, but he knew his men from long
experience and used them like a general.
Chub Eaton, inspired by his friendship for Roy, became a regular
attendant at practice and even travelled on more than one occasion to a
neighboring town with the team. Chub, however, didn't approve of Roy's
presence on the second.
"It's all poppycock," he declared warmly. "You can play all around Bacon
and I don't understand why Cobb and Jack don't see it. You're too
easy-going, Roy. You ought to make a kick; tell 'em you want what's
coming to you; make 'em give you a fair try-out on the first. I tell
you, my young friend, you don't gain anything in this world by being
over-modest. Get out and flap your wings and crow a few times till they
take notice of you!"
At all of which Roy smiled calmly.
The two had become inseparable. Whenever it was possible they were
together. In the evening they sat side by side in the study room and
afterwards Roy spent his time on the edge of Chub's bed in the Junior
Dormitory until the bell rang. There were many stolen hours in the
canoe and always, rain or shine, Sunday afternoon found them on the
river, floating down with the stream or paddling about the shores
engaged in wonderful explorations.
Roy had recovered from his first nervousness regarding studies and was
getting on fairly well. He was never likely to astonish any of the
instructors with his brilliancy, but what he once learned he remembered
and he was conscientious where studies were concerned. His mother
mentioned the scholarship less frequently nowadays in her letters and
his father asked sarcastically whether they taught anything besides
football at Ferry Hill, but was secretly very proud of his son's success
in that line.
So November came in with a week of chill, wet days, days when outdoor
practice meant handling a slippery ball and rolling about in puddles of
water, but which sent them in to supper with outrageous appetites.
Green Academy came and saw and conquered, Pottsville High School was
sent home beaten, Cedar Cove School was defeated by a single point--Jack
himself kicked the goal that did it--and lo, the schedule was almost at
an end, with only the big game of the season, that with Hammond, looming
up portentously ten days distant!
The whole school was football mad. Every afternoon of practice saw boys
and instructors on the field either playing or watching; only severe
illness kept a Ferry Hill student away from the field those days. Every
afternoon some graduate or other appeared in a faded brown sweater and
after watching practice awhile suddenly darted into the fracas and laid
down the law. And there were long and earnest consultations afterwards
between the grad and Jack and Mr. Cobb, and fellows who were not too
certain of their places trembled in their muddy shoes. And there were
changes, too, in the line-up, and more than one pair of muddy shoes
either went to the side-line or scuffled about with the second. But only
one of the changes became permanent; for Mr. Cobb had selected well. Roy
never forgot the day when Johnny King made his appearance.
It was just a week to a day before the Hammond game. Roy was one of the
first on the field that afternoon, but Jack and Mr. Cobb were ahead of
him, and with them was a big, broad-shouldered youth in his shirt
sleeves. Roy groaned in sympathy with the first team, knowing from
experience that they would have an unpleasant time of it. The grad had
the look of a chap who knew football, knew what he wanted and was bound
to have it. Then the players assembled, went through a few minutes of
catching and punting and signal line-up, and finally faced each other in
two eager, determined lines. Mr. Cobb blew his whistle and the first
came through the second for a yard outside of left tackle. By this time
Roy had learned the identity of the graduate, and when he could he
examined him with interest, remembering what Jack Rogers had told of the
last year's captain. For awhile King had little to say; he merely
followed the game as it went back and forth in the middle of the field.
Then came a try around the second's left end and Roy, running in,
brought the first's left half-back to earth. The tackle was a hard one
and the half-back lost the ball and sprang to his feet to find Roy
edging toward the first's goal with it under his arm. It was the
second's first down then, and Roy sent full-back crashing against the
opposing left-guard for a yard and a half. That began an advance that
the first was unable to stay. Roy was everywhere, and time and again,
when the whistle had blown, he was found at the bottom of the heap still
trying to pull the runner ahead. But a fumble by the second's
left-tackle, who had been drawn back for a plunge, changed the tide and
the ball went back to the first almost under her goal posts. A halt was
called, Johnny King conferred a moment with Mr. Cobb and Roy was
summoned to the first, Bacon slipping across to the other line. But Roy
could have told King then and there that the change wouldn't pay, for he
knew Horace Burlen. And it didn't. King frowned and puzzled during three
plays. Then his brow lighted.
"Change those centers," he commanded.
Forrest, amazed and embarrassed by the unexpected honor, changed places
with Horace.
"Somebody tell him the key number for the signals," said King. "Forrest,
let's see you wake up; you're slower than you were last year. Now get in
there and do something!"
And Forrest smiled good-naturedly and bent over the ball.
Things went better at once, and, Forrest and Roy working together like
well fitted parts of a machine, the ball went down the field on straight
plays and over the line for the first score. But Forrest had to work,
for Horace, smarting under the indignity of a return to the second,
fought over every inch of the ground. The ball was taken from the first
and given to Bacon. And then there was a different story to tell. Bacon
piled his men through center, Horace getting the jump on Forrest every
time and crashing through in spite of the efforts of the secondary
defense. King shook his head and frowned. Then he called Jack Rogers out
of the line and talked to him for a minute, while the players repaired
broken laces and had their heated faces sponged off. Roy, making the
rounds of the men, cheering and entreating, caught by accident a portion
of the conversation between the two.
"That's where you've made your mistake," King was saying sorrowfully.
"You've failed to see the possibilities in Forrest. Slow? Sure he is;
slow as an ice wagon! But you could have knocked a lot of that out of
him. He's too good-natured; I know the sort; but mark my words, Jack, if
you can get him mad he'll play like a whirlwind! Oh, it's too late now;
Bacon and Burlen are your best pair. Only--well, there's no use
regretting. You've picked a pretty good team, old man, and if you can
ginger them up a bit more, get more fight into them next Saturday,
you'll stand to win. Remember this, Jack; a fresh center that knows the
game, even if he is slow, is better than a tuckered one. Give Forrest a
chance in the second half, if you can; and put Porter in with him.
They're a good pair. Too bad Porter can't work better with Burlen; he's
a streak, that kid! Well--"
Roy moved out of hearing and presently he and Forrest were back on the
second and they were hammering their way down the field again. The first
fifteen-minute half ended with the ball in possession of the second on
the first's twenty-yard line. The players trotted to the side-line and
crept under their blankets and sweaters, King and Rogers and Cobb
talking and gesticulating a little way off. Roy found himself next to
Forrest. The center, rubbing thoughtfully at a strained finger, heaved a
sigh.
"Sorry I disappointed Johnny," he said. "But, shucks! Why, I couldn't
stand up ten minutes against that Hammond center! I know what I'm good
for, Porter; I don't try to deceive myself into thinking I'm a great
player; only--well, I'm sorry I couldn't do better for Johnny King."
"You'll do a heap better next Saturday," answered Roy.
"Pshaw! They won't let me into it!"
"You wait and see," said Roy. "And if you go in I guess I will. And if
we do get into it, Forrest, let's show them what we can do, will you?"
Forrest turned and observed the other's earnest countenance smilingly.
"I'll do the best I know how," he said good-naturedly, "but I guess
they'll do better to leave me out."
"Oh, you be hanged!" grunted Roy. "You'll fight or I'll punch you!"
"Oh, I guess I'll get my fill of punches," laughed Forrest. "They say
that Hammond center is a corker at that game!"
"I believe you're scared of him," taunted Roy.
But Forrest only shook his big head slowly.
"Oh, I guess not," he answered. "Come on; time's up."
The first scored again soon after play was resumed, Jack Rogers getting
through outside left-tackle for a twelve-yard plunge across the line.
Then the ball went to the second and, with the injunction to confine his
plays to straight plunges at the line, Roy took up the fight. But the
first were playing their very best to-day; perhaps the presence of the
old captain had a good deal to do with it; at all events, the second's
gains were few and far between and several times it lost the ball only
to have it returned by order of the coaches. They were trying out the
first's defense and although twice Roy stood inside of the first's
ten-yard line, the practice ended without a score for the second.
"I thought you'd made the first that time," said Chub as he and Roy
walked back to the campus together later. "You would have, too, if
Horace hadn't passed like an idiot."
"I knew he would," said Roy. "There wasn't much use trying to do
anything with him in front of me. If only Forrest would get some snap
into his playing! Great Scott, he's a regular tortoise!"
"Well, there's a week yet," said Chub hopefully. "There's no telling
what may happen in a week."
"There won't anything happen as far as I am concerned," answered the
other a trifle despondently.
Nor did there. When practice was over on Thursday Roy stood with the
second and answered the cheer given them by the first, and afterwards he
and Forrest walked over to the gymnasium together trying not to feel
blue.
"Well, that's over with for this year," grunted Forrest. "Tomorrow we'll
be gentlemen and strut around in some decent clothes." He looked
thoughtfully at his torn and faded brown jersey. "I guess this is the
last time I'll wear you, old chap," he said softly.
But Forrest was mistaken, for the next afternoon he and Roy and four
other members of the second were out on the gridiron again walking
through plays and learning the new signals of the first. Jack Rogers
wasn't going to lose the morrow's game on account of lack of players.
There was a solid hour and a quarter of it, and when Roy went to bed at
half-past nine, a half hour earlier than usual, formations and signals
were still buzzing through his brain.
The gridiron, freshly marked, glistened under bright sunlight. November
could not have been kinder in the matter of weather. There had been no
hard freeze since the rains and the field was as springy under foot as
in September. Over on the far side a big cherry and black flag
fluttered briskly in the breeze and beneath it, overflowing from the
small stand onto the yellowing turf, were Hammond's supporters. Opposite
were the Ferry Hill hordes under their brown and white banner and with
them a sprinkling of townsfolk from Silver Cove. Here were Doctor Emery,
Mrs. Emery and Harry, the latter armed with a truculent brown and white
banner; nearby was Mr. Buckman acting as squire to a group of ladies
from the town. Beyond was Roy, one of a half-dozen blanketed forms;
still further along, squatting close to the side-line, was Chub Eaton,
and from where he sat down to the farther thirty-yard line boys with
brown and white flags and tin horns were scattered. And between the
opposing ranks were two dozen persons upon whom all eyes were fixed.
Eleven of them wore the brown jerseys and brown and white striped
stockings of Ferry Hill School. Eleven others wore the cherry-colored
jerseys and cherry and black stockings of Hammond Academy. Two more were
in ordinary attire save that sweaters had taken the places of coats.
These latter were the officials, both college men, the umpire showing in
his sweater the light red of Cornell, and the referee, by the same
means, proving allegiance to Columbia. The two teams had been facing
each other for fifteen minutes, during which time the ball had hovered
continuously in mid-field. And now for the fourth time it had changed
hands and Bacon was crying his signals. From the Ferry Hill supporters
came a rattling cheer; "Rah, rah, rah! Rah, rah, rah! Rah, rah, rah!
Ferry Hill! Ferry Hill! Ferry Hill!"
[Illustration: "Even Harry joined her shrill voice, the while she waved
her flag valiantly."]
And from across the field of battle swept back, mocking and defiant,
Hammond's parody "Rah, rah, rah! Rah, rah, rah! Rah rah, rah! Very Ill!
Very Ill! Very Ill!"
Then cheers were forgotten, for Kirby, Ferry Hill's full-back, was
tearing a gash in the red line outside of right-guard. He was almost
free of the enemy when Pool, the opposing quarter, dragged him down. But
twelve yards is something to gladden the heart when for a quarter of an
hour half-yard gains have been the rule. Ferry Hill forgot to cheer; she
just yelled, each boy for himself, and it was more than a minute before
Chub, leading, could get them together. This time Hammond forgot to mock
and instead sent up a long, lusty slogan that did her credit:
"Rah, rah, rah! Who are we? H-A-M-M-O-N-D! Hoorah, Hoorah! Hammond
Academy! Rah, rah, rah!"
Another break in the cherry-hued line and Ferry Hill was down on the
opponent's thirty-yard line Jack Rogers holding the ball at arm's-length
as he lay on the turf with half the Hammond team upon him. Then came two
unsuccessful attempts to get through the center, followed by a
double-pass that barely gained the necessary five yards. Chub was busy
now and so were all the others on that side of the gridiron. Even Harry
joined her shrill voice, the while she waved her flag valiantly. Again
the Brown charged into the enemy's line, but this time her attack was
broken into fragments and Whitcomb was borne back for a loss of six
yards. A tandem on right-tackle failed to regain more than a yard of the
lost ground and Pryor, left half-back, fell back for the kick. It was a
poor attempt, the ball shooting almost straight into air. When it came
down the Hammond right-tackle found it, fought his way over two white
streaks and was finally pulled to earth on the forty-yard line. Then the
tide of battle turned with a vengeance. Back over the field went
Hammond, using her heavy backs in a tackle-tandem formation with telling
effect. The gains were short but frequent. The wings caught the worst of
the hammering, for at center Hammond found it impossible to gain,
although Jones, her much-heralded center-rush, was proving himself a
good match for Horace Burlen. Jack Rogers, at left-tackle, was a hard
proposition, but Fernald, beside him at left guard, was weak, and not a
few of the gains were on that side. On the other side Hadden at tackle
was playing high, and although Gallup was doing his best to break things
up, that wing gave badly before Hammond's fierce onslaught. The backs
saved the day time and again, bringing down the runner when almost clear
of the line. Hammond tried no tricks, but pinned her faith to straight
football, relying upon an exceptionally heavy and fast set of backs.
Down to Ferry Hill's twenty-five yards swept the line of battle, slowly,
irrevocably. There, Bacon shrieking his entreaties and Jack heartening
the men with slaps on backs and shoulders, the brown-clad line held
against the enemy and received the ball on downs.
Maybe Ferry Hill didn't leap and shout! Down the side-line raced Chub
and his companions, waving flags and awakening the echoes with
discordant, frenzied tootings on their horns. And Mr. Cobb, quietly
chewing a grass-blade, smiled once and heaved a sigh of relief.
The Brown's first attempt netted scarcely a yard. Her second, a
quarter-back run, came to an inglorious end, Bacon being nailed well
back of the line. Then, with six yards to gain on the third down, Pryor
once more fell back for a kick. This time he got the ball off well and
the opponents went racing back up the field. Hammond's quarter gathered
it in, reeled off some ten yards and was brought down by Warren. Once
again the advance began, but now there were fewer gains through the left
of the brown line; Fernald had found his pace and he and Jack Rogers
were working together superbly. The other side was still vulnerable,
however, and soon, before the fifty-five-yard line had been passed, the
Ferry Hill supporters saw with dismay that Hammond was aiming her
attack, and not without success, at the center of her opponent's line.
Horace Burlen was weakening, and although Fernald and Gallup, on either
side, were aiding him all in their power, Hammond's tandem plunged
through his position again and again for small gains. Bacon's voice,
hoarse and strained, coaxed and commanded, but down to the forty yards
went the cherry and black, and from there to the thirty-five, and from
there, but by shorter gains now, to the thirty.
"Hold 'em! Hold 'em! Hold 'em!" was the cry from the wavers of the brown
and white banners. But it was far easier said than done. Once more
within sight of a score, Hammond was desperately determined to reach
that last white line. To the twenty-five yards she crept, and then she
was almost to the twenty. A long plunge through center and the fifteen
was close at hand. And then, while the wearied and battered defense
crawled to their feet, a whistle shrilled sharply and the half was over!
And Jack Rogers as he limped across the trampled turf to the bench
thanked his star for the timely intervention.
The players disappeared through the gate to the gymnasium, followed by
Mr. Cobb and a handful of graduates. On the other side of the gridiron
the Hammond warriors, wrapped in their red blankets, sat in a long row
and were administered to by rubbers and lectured by coaches. On the
Ferry Hill side the boys were singing the school song and interspersing
it with cheers and blasts of tin horns. Chub sought out Roy.
"Everybody says you'll go in this half," he whispered. "If you do, sock
it to 'em!"
"I won't get in unless Forrest does," answered Roy.
"Well, he's sure to, isn't he? Why, Horace is almost done up already!"
"Maybe, but ten minutes of rest brings a fellow around in great shape,
and I wouldn't be surprised if he lasted the game out."
"Last nothing! Look at the way Hammond was plowing through him! Say,
that's a great tandem of theirs, isn't it?"
"Pretty good."
"Pretty good! I should think so!"
"It wouldn't be so much against a team that got started quicker. Our
line's too plaguey slow and half of them are playing away up in the air.
Look at Hadden! Rogers ought to make him get down on his knees. Hello,
here they come."
"Can we keep them from scoring, do you think?" asked one of the
substitutes anxiously as the brown-stockinged players trotted back
through the gate.
"Yes, I guess so," Roy answered. "But I don't believe we can score
ourselves."
"Well, a tie is better than being beaten," said the first youth
hopefully.
"No it isn't," said Chub. "It's the meanest kind of an ending. You've
done nothing and the other fellow's done nothing and you're no better
off than you were when you started. We played eleven innings with
Hammond year before last and quit six to six. My, but we were mad! And
tired! I'd rather they'd licked us."
"Hope I get a show," muttered the other wistfully. He was a substitute
end and only his lack of weight had kept him off the team.
"There's Cobb laying it down to 'em," whispered Chub. "Watch his finger;
you'd think he was in class, eh? Any new men going in? Yes there's--No,
it isn't, either. Blessed if every man isn't going back! Oh, hang!"
"Some of them won't be there long, I guess," said Roy.
"Well, I must go back and get some noise. The lazy chumps don't half
cheer. Hope you get on, old chap. So long!"
Presently the Ferry Hill cheer was ringing across the field, and Chub,
his coat thrown aside, was out on the side-line leading as only he
could. Over the fading white lines the two teams arranged themselves.
From the Hammond side came a last burst of noise. Spectators scurried
back to points of vantage. The referee raised his hand.
"Ready, Ferry Hill?"
Jack answered "Ready!"
"Ready, Hammond?"
"All right," called the Cherry's right-end and captain.
The whistle sounded and the game was on again.
The greater part of the second half was almost a repetition of the
first. Both teams were playing straight football and it would be
difficult to say which was the more aggressive. For a time, the ball was
in Ferry Hill's territory, and then for another ten minutes, in
Hammond's. There were many nerve-racking moments, but each side,
whenever its goal seemed in danger, was lucky enough to get the ball on
downs and, by a long punt, send it out to the middle of the field.
Jack Rogers kicked off to Hammond's left half-back who made fifteen
yards behind good interference and landed the ball on his own
thirty-five yards. Back went the right-tackle, the tandem swept forward
and broke into fragments against the Brown's left wing. No gain. Once
more it sprang at the line and this time went through between Gallup and
Hadden for two yards. Third down and three to go. A fake kick gave the
ball to the right half and that youth reeled off four yards before he
was downed. The next attack, at the center, netted a yard and a half;
the next, at the same place, two yards; the rest of the distance was
gained outside of left tackle. So it went for awhile and once more the
ball was in Ferry Hill territory.
Hammond was plugging steadily now at center and right side, Burlen,
Gallup and Hadden all receiving more attention than they coveted. At
last a long gain through Hadden left that youth crumpled up on the turf.
The whistle blew and a big sub, tearing off his sweater, raced onto the
field. Hadden was up in a minute, only to discover that his way led
toward the side-line. The sub, Walker, was a trifle harder proposition
for Hammond, and for awhile that side of the line showed up well, but by
the time the tide had swept down to the thirty-five-yard line Hammond
was once more gaining almost as she liked through right-tackle and
guard. There were no gains longer than four yards, and such were
infrequent owing to the good work of the backs, but almost every attack
meant an advance, and not once did Hammond fail of her distance in three
downs. But on the thirty-yard line Ferry Hill called a halt. The play
was directly in the middle of the field and the goal-posts loomed up
terribly near. Hammond's first try failed, for Bacon guessed the point
of attack and Ferry Hill threw her whole force behind Burlen. Foiled
there, Hammond tried right-tackle again, shoved Walker aside and went
through for a scant two yards. It was third down, and over on the
side-line Roy measured the distance from cross-bar to back-field and
watched for a place-kick. But Hammond, true to her plan of battle, made
no attempt at a kick but sent her tandem plunging desperately at the
line. It was a mistake, as events proved, to point the tandem at Jack
Rogers, for although the attack gained something by being unexpected, it
failed to win the required distance. Jack gave before it, to be sure,
and spent a minute on the ground after the whistle had blown, but when
the referee had measured the distance with the chain it was found that
Hammond had failed of her distance by six inches!
Bedlam let loose on the Ferry Hill side as Bacon ran in from his
position almost under the goal-posts, clapped his hands and cried his
signals. Pryor fell back to the fifteen-yard line, there was a
breathless moment of suspense, and then the ball went arching up the
field, turning lazily over and over in its flight.
Hammond captured it on her forty yards but was downed by the Ferry Hill
left-end. Then it began all over again, that heart-breaking,
nerve-racking advance. And this time the gains were longer. At center
Hammond went through for a yard, two yards, even three. Once a penalty
cost Hammond five yards, but the distance was regained by a terrific
rush through Gallup, that youth being put for the moment entirely out of
the play. Later, down near Ferry Hill's forty-five-yard line, a fumble
by Pool, the plucky, hard-playing Hammond quarter, cost his side ten
yards more. And although Pool himself managed to recover the ball it
went to the opponent on downs.
I think that fumble was in a measure a turning point in the game.
Hammond never played quite as aggressively afterwards. She had gained a
whole lot of ground at a cost of much strength, only to be turned back
thrice. It began to look as though Fate was against her. And a minute
later it seemed that Fate had decided to favor her opponent. For when
Pryor kicked on first down the breeze suddenly stiffened and took the
ball over the head of Pool. The latter turned and found it on the bound
near the ten yards, but by that time the Ferry Hill ends were upon him
and he was glad to call it down on his fifteen yards. The sight of the
two teams lined up there almost under Hammond's goal brought joy to the
hearts of the friends of the Brown, and the cheering took on a new tone,
that of hope. But the ball was still in the enemy's hands and once more
the advance began. They hammered hard at Burlen and gained their
distance. They swooped down on Walker and trampled over him. They thrust
Gallup aside and went marching through until the secondary defense piled
them up in a heap. But it was slower going now, there was more time
between plays, and knowing ones amongst the watchers predicted a
scoreless game. And there was scarcely twelve minutes left.
Roy, his blanket trailing from his shoulders as he moved crouching along
the border of the field, prayed for a fumble, anything to give his side
the ball there within striking distance of the Hammond goal. But Hammond
wasn't fumbling to any extent that day; wearied and disappointed as they
were, her players clung to the ball like grim death. On her twenty-five
yards she made a gain of three yards through center and when the pile of
writhing bodies had been untangled Horace Burlen still lay upon the sod.
Roy turned quickly toward Forrest. That youth was watching calmly and
chewing a blade of grass. Failing to catch his eye, Roy looked for Mr.
Cobb. Already he was heading toward them. The substitute end tied and
untied the arms of the brown jersey thrown over his back with nervous
fingers. But the coach never looked in his direction.
"Forrest!" he called. And Forrest slowly climbed to his feet.
"Porter!" And Roy was up like a flash, had tossed aside his blanket and
was awaiting orders.
CHAPTER VIII
FORREST LOSES HIS TEMPER AND ROY KEEPS HIS PROMISE
The coach led Roy and Forrest to the field and gave them his orders.
"Get in there, you two," he said briskly, "and show what you can do.
There's small hope of scoring against Hammond, but if the chance comes
work their ends for all there is in it. What you've got to do--_got_ to
do, mind!--is to keep them away from your goal-line. Forrest, if you
ever moved quick in your life do it now. You've simply got to get the
jump on Jones. He's a good man, but recollect that he's been playing
pretty nearly an hour and is dead tired. He'll play foul, too, I guess;
Burlen's face is pretty well colored up. But don't you dare to slug back
at him; understand?"
Forrest nodded smilingly.
"And as for you, Porter, just you play the best game you know how. Keep
the fellows' courage up; that's half of it. I'm taking Rogers out--he's
not fit to stand up any longer--and you'll act as captain. I guess
you'll know what to do on defense, and if you get the ball remember the
ends. Try it yourself on that formation for tandem on guard; and give
Whitcomb a chance, for I think you can get through between tackle and
end. Don't be afraid to take risks; if you get the ball risk anything!
Go ahead now!"
Roy and Porter trotted toward the group of players. As they approached
Burlen and Rogers were coming unwillingly off, the former looking pretty
well punished and the latter limping badly. Jack Rogers turned from his
course to speak to them.
"Good boy, Forrest!" he panted. "We've got to stop them and you can do
it. Porter, remember your promise!"
Roy nodded and sprinted into the group.
"All right now!" he cried cheerfully. "Get into it everybody and stop
this. You fellows in the line have got to play lower. Get down there,
Walker, you're up in the clouds. Charge into 'em now! Stop it right
here! You can do it. Look at 'em! They're beaten right now!"
"Only we don't know it," growled a big guard, wiping the perspiration
from his face onto the sleeve of his red jersey. Roy grinned across at
him.
"You will know it pretty soon, my friend," he answered. "All right now,
fellows! Every man into it!"
Then he retreated up the field and watched.
Hammond had replaced her left-tackle and left half with fresh men, and,
when the whistle blew, went at the work again as though she meant
business. A straight plunge by the new left half gained a yard through
Gallup. Then the tandem formed again and again the hammering began.
Presently Roy saw that Forrest had been picked out for attention and was
getting a lot of it. Two gains through him in quick succession brought
the ball back to the thirty yards. Roy raced up to the line, pulled
Forrest about by the shoulder and shook a fist in the face of that
amazed young giant.
"Forrest, if you let 'em through here again I'll lick you till you can't
stand up!" shouted Roy, his blue eyes blazing. "You coward! Get in there
and do something! Put that man out. Get the jump on 'em! He's half dead
now!"
Forrest forgot to smile.
"All right," he growled.
After the next attack at center Roy again ran up. Forrest turned with a
bleeding nose and a new light in his eyes.
"You don't need to scold," he said quietly. "He just handed me this."
"What are you going to do?" asked Roy scathingly.
"Do?" grunted Forrest, mad clear through. "I'm going to put him out of
commission."
"No slugging, remember!"
"I won't slug; I'll just play ball!"
And he did. There were no more games through center while play lasted.
Time and again Jones, the big Hammond center, was literally lifted off
his feet by Forrest's savage onslaught; twice the pass was practically
spoiled. Forrest was angry, and being angry forgot both his good-nature
and his slowness. Hammond soon transferred her attention to the wings
again and found a fairly vulnerable spot where Jack Rogers had given
place to a substitute. But there was no chance for her to score and she
knew it. Now she was only killing time, determined to keep the ball in
her possession and guard her goal until the whistle blew. And she would
have done it, too, had not Forrest lost his temper. That blow on the
nose hurt and he set out to make life as unpleasant as possible for his
adversary. He didn't slug once, but he pushed and hauled and upset Jones
until that gentleman was thoroughly exasperated. Over and over he
appealed to the officials to watch Forrest.
"He's interfering with the ball," he declared.
But the officials couldn't see it that way. And finally, when the ball
had been worked back to the center of the field and the word had gone
around that there was only five minutes of time left, Forrest spoiled a
snap-back, the ball trickled from Pool's hands and Forrest plunged
through and fell upon it.
Roy raced in, crying signals as he came. Time was called while the
Hammond center and the Hammond captain made vain appeals to have the
ball returned to them, claiming interference with the snapper-back. But,
as before, they were denied and the two teams lined up again, this time
with the ball in Forrest's hands.
"_7-6-43-89!_" called Roy, and Whitcomb, with the pigskin snuggled in
his elbow, was racing around left end. All of eight yards gained, and
the crowd on the side-line went wild with delight! Flags waved and horns
shrieked, and over it all, or so Roy thought, could be heard the shrill
voice of Harry!
It was a time for risks, the coach had said. And Roy took them. Over and
over he attempted hazardous plays that ought not to have succeeded, but
that did, partly, perhaps, because of their very improbability! Twice
more Whitcomb was sent outside of left end; once Pryor got through for
four yards between right tackle and guard; and once Kirby, full-back,
hurdled Jones for a good gain. It made joy in the Ferry Hill camp and
the wavers of the brown and white banners had visions of a score. But
they were not considering the fact that the timer's watch proclaimed but
two minutes left and that that official was walking out toward the teams
proclaiming the fact.
Two minutes was not time enough for Ferry Hill to rush the ball from the
forty yards down to the goal line for a score, even when the backs were
getting two, three and even four yards at a plunge. But even those who
up until the last moment had hoped that the Brown by merit or fluke
would win out could not but feel almost satisfied at the ending of the
game. For now Ferry Hill was outplaying Hammond man for man, in spite of
the fact that what superiority there was in age and weight was with the
rival team. Both elevens were tired, but Ferry Hill was the least so,
and to her admirers it seemed that her warriors fought harder, more
determinedly every moment. Chub, watching anxiously between vocal
efforts, came to this conclusion and turned to Sidney Welch, who, having
failed to make the team, was patriotically doing his best to cheer it on
to victory.
"Sid," said Chub, "if we had another quarter of an hour to play we'd
lick 'em sure as fishing! Why, we're playing better every minute! And
look at Roy Porter! The chump is just getting warmed up! Did you ever
see a team run any finer than that, eh? And look at the way he gets
around himself, will you? Why, he's all over the shop and into
everything! He reminds me of Snip out in the barn. I saw Snip kill a
rat, bite the cow's leg, chase a fly and scratch his ear all inside of
ten seconds one day. And Roy's just like him. And, just between you and
me, Sid, the fellows are working better for him than they did for Bacon,
but maybe it's because they're finding their pace. If only Whitcomb
could get away around the end! The whistle will blow, I'll bet a cookey,
just when we're on the edge of a score! Why doesn't Roy try a
quarter-back run, I wonder? Look at Jack Rogers; he's over there on the
ground, see? I'll bet he doesn't know whether he's on his head or his
feet, and I don't believe he could tell you his name this minute if you
asked him. Fact is, my boy, I feel rather better myself for talking
every minute; it sort of keeps my heart out of my mouth. And as for
you, Sid, that button will be off in just about two more turns. Here,
let's give 'em a cheer."
Chub leaped to his feet and in a moment the slogan was thundering across
the field to where eleven brown-clad figures were forming once more
against the foe. And it did them good, that cheer; it proclaimed
confidence and affection, and it heartened them so that when the dust of
battle had blown aside the man with the ball lay across the thirty-yard
line!
It was maddening. Only thirty yards to go, only six trampled white lines
to cross, and not time enough to do it, unless--Roy called for time to
tie a lace and while he bent over his shoe he thought hard. Ever since
he had taken charge of the team he had been studying the disposition of
the enemy's force. He had one more trump to play, a quarter-back run. He
had kept it for the last because he did not want to appear to be seeking
personal glory. For that reason he had given every one of the backs, as
well as the two tackles, a chance. But while they had made good gains
they had failed to get clear for a run. And now he was surely entitled
to a try himself. Not that he was very hopeful of succeeding where the
others had failed, for Pool, the rival quarter, was a veritable wonder
and time and again had called the play in time to allow the back-field
to spoil the run. But time was almost up--there could scarcely be more
than a minute and a half remaining--and it was now or never.
The ball was on Hammond's twenty-eight yards and well over to the left
of the gridiron. Pool had halved the distance to his goal and was
standing there on his toes, somewhat over toward the right, watching
like a lynx. The whistle blew and Roy called his signals. Right tackle
fell back of the line and left half and full formed behind him in
tandem. The attack was straight at center, and with Forrest heaving and
shoving and half and full pushing from behind tackle went through for
two yards. Again the same formation and the same point of attack. But
this time Hammond's backs were there and the gain was less than a yard.
It was third down and a trifle over two to go. Once more the signals and
the tandem. But as the backs, led by right tackle, plunged forward, Roy,
with the ball hidden at his side, dodged behind them and sped along the
line toward the right. For a moment the ruse went undiscovered, but
before he had reached his opening between tackle and end Pool had seen
him and had started to head him off. Then, as luck would have it, Roy's
own right end got in his way and Roy was forced to run behind him. That
settled the fate of the attempt at a touchdown. Pool was close up to him
now. Roy ran across the field in an attempt to shake him off but to no
purpose. He had not gained a foot, and he knew it. There was no use in
heading toward the side of the field any longer; he must try to capture
the necessary two yards. So, swinging quickly, he headed in, got one of
the yards, made a brave attempt to dodge the wily Pool and came to
earth.
"Hammond's ball; first down!" called the referee.
Roy trotted back up the field, trying his best not to show his
disappointment. Hammond was not going to take any risks there in front
of her goal and so her quarter fell back for a punt. Pryor ran back to
cover the left of the field. Roy heard the signals called and then saw
the Ferry Hill forwards plunge through in an endeavor to block the kick.
Then the ball was arching up against the darkening sky. For a moment it
was impossible to judge of the direction. Then Roy was running to the
right and back up the field. It was a splendid punt and must have
covered all of fifty yards, for when it settled into Roy's arms he was
near his own thirty-five-yard line.
For once the tuckered Hammond ends were slow in getting down and for a
moment Roy had an open field. With Pryor leading he dashed straight up
the middle of the gridiron. At least he would put the ball back in
Hammond territory. Ten yards, and then Pryor met the first of the enemy.
Roy swerved and dodged the second. Then the foe was thick in front of
him. The Ferry Hill players turned and raced beside him, forming hasty
interference, and for a while he sped on unmolested to the wild shrieks
of the watchers. Then the Hammond left half broke through and dove at
him. Somehow, in what way he could never have told, he escaped that
tackle, but it had forced him toward the side of the field. The
fifty-five-yard line was behind him now. Back of him pounded the feet of
friend and foe alike; ahead of him were the Hammond right half and
quarter, the former almost at hand. Roy edged a bit into the field, for
the side-line was coming dangerously near. Then he feinted, felt the
half-back's clutch on his knee, wrenched himself loose and went
staggering, spinning on. He had recovered in another five yards and was
running swiftly again. He had little fear of being caught from behind,
for he believed himself a match for any runner on the Hammond eleven,
but in front of him was Pool, coming up warily with eager outstretched
hands, striving to drive him out of bounds. Roy cast an anxious glance
toward the goal-line and his heart leaped. Already he was passing the
thirty or twenty-five-yard line and the final white streak looked
encouragingly near. Then he shifted the ball to his right arm and turned
acutely toward the middle of the field. Pool was directly in his path
now as Roy, fighting for breath, sped on straight for the goal. For one
brief instant of time the quarter's eyes burned into his. Then the
decisive moment had come, and Roy, taking a deep breath, gathered
himself. Forward shot the enemy in a splendid diving tackle, clutching
fingers outspread. But the fingers grasped empty air, for as he left the
ground, Roy, the ball clutched tightly against his breast, leaped upward
and forward, clearing him by a foot!
[Illustration: "Roy ... leaped upward and forward, clearing him by a
foot."]
From there to the goal-line was only a romp, although he had to fight
hard for breath and although the defeated right half-back was close
behind him all the way. Straight between the posts he staggered,
placed the ball on the turf and rolled over on his back beside it.
Somewhere they were cheering madly and nearer at hand people were
shouting. Then, recovering from his momentary giddiness, Roy opened his
eyes, shut them again because someone was slapping a great cold, wet
sponge over his face and then sat up. Someone gave him a hand and he got
on to his feet, swayed a little dizzily and then found himself in the
grip of what at first seemed a bear and afterwards turned out to be Jack
Rogers.
"You remembered your promise, Porter," Jack was saying softly, "and I'll
not forget mine. You're a trump!"
Pryor failed miserably at the try for goal, but who cared? Surely not
Jack Rogers, leading the cheer for his defeated rivals; nor Roy, dodging
his fellows as he tried to steal away to the gymnasium; nor Harry,
waving her brown and white flag and shrieking lustily; least of all the
throng of fellows who, with banners flying and tin horns sounding,
danced madly around the field in the November twilight.
CHAPTER IX
RED HAIR AND WHITE RABBITS
A fellow can't make a touchdown in the last thirty seconds of play, and
so win the game for his school, without affecting his position. No
matter what he was before, after that he's a hero and a saint and a
public benefactor all rolled into one. Roy's case was no exception. He
woke up Saturday morning a rather unimportant and quite unpopular
person. He climbed out of bed Sunday morning to find that,
metaphorically, the world was his! As soon as the bell had rung the
difference was apparent. There was no more dressing in silence, no more
waiting till the others were through for a chance at the wash-room. It
was "Morning, Porter! How are you feeling after it?" "Hello, Mr.
Quarter-back! How'd you sleep?" "Here, Stearns, get out of here and give
Porter a show; he's been waiting hours!" And in the midst of it Chub
came tumbling upstairs half dressed to sit on Roy's bed and delay
matters so that they barely scraped into dining hall between the closing
doors.
Well, you and I aren't going to begrudge him the satisfaction the
changed conditions brought him. Life has been using him rather badly
for six weeks or so and he surely deserved some compensation. The only
fly in the ointment was the thought that, after all, the sudden
popularity was his only as a clever quarter-back, that, for the rest, he
was still, to the fellows, the tale-bearer. But in this he was not
altogether correct, for the majority of boys argued that any chap who
could display the qualities that Roy had shown on the football field
must of necessity be all right, and that if he had told on Horace and
Otto and the others he must have had some good reason for it. But Roy
couldn't know this, and so he was rather unresponsive through it all and
held himself aloof from all save Chub and Jack Rogers and Tom Forrest.
He was polite enough, but if any of his admirers hoped at that time to
make friends with him they were doomed to disappointment. But there was
still another that Roy admitted to a certain degree of friendship, and
that other was Sidney Welch. Sid became a most devoted admirer, followed
Roy about like an amiable puppy and was content to sit and watch him in
awed admiration as long as Roy would let him. Sid, whose overwhelming
ambition was to make the first eleven and aid in defeating Hammond, had
hero worship in its most virulent form. After two or three days of Sid's
attention Roy got so that he would dodge out of sight when he saw the
youngster coming.
It required some bravery on Sid's part to show open admiration for Roy,
for Horace still ruled the school, and the juniors especially, with an
iron hand, and Sid was, as he well knew, courting dire punishment. But
it was a time of open revolt against Horace's supremacy and Sid, with
many others, escaped chastisement. Horace hated Roy worse than ever,
hated Tom Forrest because that youth had succeeded where he had failed,
and, now that he had nothing to gain by seeming friendliness toward the
football captain, even threw down the gauntlet to Jack Rogers, who,
happy as a clam over the outcome of the game and over the receipt of a
letter from Johnny King, paid no attention to Horace. Otto Ferris,
disgruntled over his failure to make even the second team save as a
substitute, shared Horace's sentiments with enthusiasm and aided that
youth to the best of his ability in his efforts to discount Roy's
triumph. But it was a hard task that they had set themselves, for Roy
had won gratitude as well as admiration. Ever since the previous autumn
when Hammond had triumphed unfairly over the Ferry Hill eleven the
school had looked forward almost breathlessly to revenge. And now it was
in no mood to withhold adulation from the one who had secured it for
them. And so, ere a week had passed, the revolt had grown to
well-defined proportions.
The nucleus of the anti-Burlen camp was comprised of Roy, Chub, Rogers,
Forrest and Sid, for at the end of three or four days Sid had thrown off
the yoke. To this handful of revolters came others as the days passed;
Bacon, the quarter-back, who had been almost the first to wring Roy's
hand and congratulate him, Whitcomb, Fernald and Post, of the eleven,
and a few others. There were no open hostilities between the opposing
camps, but before the Christmas vacation arrived the school was sharply
divided and every fellow there had been forced to take sides with either
Horace or Roy, for in some manner Roy had come to be considered the
leader of the opposing force. But before this other things had happened
which had a bearing on the matter.
About a week after the Hammond game Dr. Emery arose one morning after
breakfast, at which time it was customary for him to make announcements,
and said that he wished to correct an erroneous impression which had
prevailed for some time.
"At the commencing of school this Fall," said the Doctor,
absent-mindedly polishing his glasses with a napkin, "there occurred an
unpleasant incident. One of the new boys was taken from his bed in the
Senior Dormitory by a number of the older boys and given a bath in the
river. As hazing has always been prohibited at Ferry Hill the guilty
ones were promptly punished. It has only been within the last day or so
that I have learned of an unfortunate thing in connection with the
matter. It seems that the student who was hazed was suspected of having
given information leading to the discovery of the culprits. As a result,
I am informed, this student has until very recently--in fact until the
game with Hammond Academy--been held in disgrace by his fellows. I am
not going to discuss here the justice or injustice of the attitude
assumed by you; my purpose is to remove the stigma of deceit from an
innocent boy. This boy, when summoned before me the morning following
the incident, declared that he believed he knew the leader of the
escapade, having recognized his voice. The identity of the others he did
not know. When asked for the name of the leader he declined to give it.
And, in accordance with our custom, he was not pressed."
A suppressed hum of applause swept over the dining hall. Roy stared
fixedly at a salt-cellar.
"Fortunately," continued Doctor Emery, "the instructor in charge of the
Junior Dormitory, Mr. Buckman, happened to be awake when the party
returned and so identified most, if not quite all, of its members. He
reported the matter to me, as he was required to do, and I meted out
such punishment as the offense merited. Naturally, had I known before
that the student was being made to suffer I would have made this
explanation at once. As it was, and as I have said, I learned of it only
yesterday, and then not from one of the school, from whom, it would
seem, information of such a nature should come, but from one whom, it
appears, has the welfare of the school closer at heart than most of you,
my daughter."
"Bully for Harry!" cried Chub quite audibly. And the sentiment met with
instant applause that grew in volume until the instructors commanded
silence.
"I believe," went on Doctor Emery, with a slight smile, "that since the
game with Hammond Academy the student in question has become
re-established in the respect and--ah--affection of the school." (The
applause threatened again to drown the speaker.) "And so it seems
scarcely necessary for me now to bespeak for him a reversal of opinion."
("No, sir!" This from the irrepressible Chub.) "You will, I am sure,
each one of you, wish to make such amends as possible for your former
treatment of him. He, I trust, holds no resentment. Indeed such a
sentiment would not become him, for, while his refusal to try to put
himself right with his fellows shows a certain commendable pride, yet it
was hardly fair under the circumstances. That is all, I think, on that
subject. I wish to see the following at my office after breakfast."
Then came the names of half a dozen fellows, which none, barring,
possibly, the fellows themselves, heard. For each table--and there were
five of them--was eagerly discussing the news; and it was wonderful how
many there were who had "known all along that Porter wasn't that sort!"
But the public vindication, while it disabused the minds of a few who
still doubted, and explained what had happened to those who had already
ceased to blame Roy in the matter, did not bring about any apparent
difference in the school's treatment of him. He already stood first in
school opinion and all the vindication in the world couldn't have placed
him any higher. He had won the game from Hammond; that was sufficient
for most fellows.
In view of Doctor Emery's disclosure you have already found me guilty of
having neglected to enumerate with Roy's adherents one of the staunchest
and most important. For it was no little thing to have Harry on your
side, even if she was only a fourteen-year-old girl; and that has been
proved already and will be again before the story is at an end. But it
was unfortunate that Harry's good offices should have led to an
estrangement between her and Roy.
It all came about in quite the most unforeseen manner. Roy had promised
to play tennis with her the afternoon of Doctor Emery's announcement.
They had had quite a few contests already and Harry had proved herself
more than a match for Roy. To-day they met outside the cottage, Harry
bringing her own racquet and one for Roy, since tennis had scarcely been
included in his education and he possessed no racquet of his own.
Unfortunately Roy started the conversation by accusing Harry of having
broken her promise. That was an awful accusation to bring against her,
since she had an almost quixotic regard for the given word. Stung, she
made no effort to set herself right, only declared sullenly that she had
done no such thing. Roy had not greatly cared, but her curt denials
aroused his impatience.
[Illustration: "'My, what a temper!'"]
"But, Harry," he protested, "you must have! He said so!"
"I didn't! I didn't! I didn't!"
"But, Harry, that's nonsense, you know."
"I didn't break my promise," she answered angrily.
"Well, then I'd just like to know how he found out. Of course I don't
care much if you did tell him, only--"
"You've just as good as said I've told a lie!" cried Harry, turning
suddenly with reddening cheeks.
"I haven't, Harry."
"You have, too! So! And you--you're very impolite!"
"Oh, pshaw, there's no use in getting mad about it. I only said--"
"I'll get mad if I want to," said Harry hotly. "And I guess I can keep a
promise as well as you can. You're just stuck-up because you made that
old touchdown!"
"I'm not!"
"You are!"
"My, what a temper! Just what you'd expect of a girl with red hair! Why,
I wouldn't--"
But he stopped there, for Harry's face went suddenly white with rage and
she gasped as though he had struck her.
"Now look here, Harry," he began contritely. But Harry had found her
tongue and he got no farther.
"Oh, you coward!" she cried, trembling. "You--you beast! I know my
hair's red, and I don't care if it is! And, anyway, I'd rather have it
red than just no color at all, like--like a fish!"
"Harry, I didn't mean--"
"Don't you speak to me again, ever and ever! I don't want to see you! I
hate you, hate you, hate you, Roy Porter, and I'll never speak to you
again as long as I live!"
"Oh, if you want to be nasty about it," muttered Roy.
But Harry had turned and was running swiftly along the path, trying her
best to keep back the angry tears that threatened every moment to
disgrace her. Roy watched her go, whistled softly, and then followed
slowly after.
"What a little spit-fire!" he muttered with a laugh that was half angry
and half regretful. "I don't see what I said, anyhow, except that her
hair was red. And it is, as red as fire! If she wants to stay mad she
may for all I care."
And then, two days later, there occurred an incident which still further
widened the breach between them.
Mr. Buckman opened his desk in Room B in School Hall and stared in
amazement. It was the first recitation and the class in geometry watched
interestedly. The instructor held forth a white rabbit in each hand.
"Who put these in here?" he demanded sternly.
There was no answer. The class was smiling broadly, but Mr. Buckman's
expression prohibited the laughter they longed to indulge in.
"It was a very funny joke," continued Mr. Buckman scathingly, "only,
unfortunately, one of the rabbits has been stupid enough to die and so
is unable to appreciate it. The other one appears to be on the point of
dying. I presume that they belong to Miss Harriet. I fancy she will
appreciate the joke heartily. I hope to be able to discover the
perpetrator of the delicate jest, in which case he will undoubtedly get
all the applause he desires."
Mr. Buckman bore the rabbits out of the room and the class, much
soberer, looked questioningly about and whispered inquiries. But
everyone professed ignorance on the subject.
"Ought to have his head punched, whoever he is," growled Chub to Roy.
And the latter heartily agreed.
When the class was dismissed Harry was waiting, with a white face and
blazing eyes, in the corridor. She made for Roy instantly.
"They're both dead," she cried, "and I hope you're satisfied. Of all
nasty, mean things to do, Roy Porter, that's the very meanest! I should
think you'd be ashamed of yourself! I should think you'd be ashamed to
look at me!"
"I don't know anything about it," protested Roy earnestly. "I'm awfully
sorry, Harry, honest!"
"Do you think I believe that?" demanded Harry, brushing aside the tears
that would leak out in spite of her. "You did it to get even with me, I
know you did! I don't care what you do to me, but it was cowardly to
kill my poor rabbits!"
"Harry, I give you my word--!"
"I don't want your word! I wouldn't believe you, Roy Porter! You're a
mean, contemptible thing!"
"Oh, very well," said Roy angrily, walking away. "You can think whatever
you like; I don't care!"
But he did care, nevertheless.
After dinner he spent a few minutes in the office, but his
straightforward denial convinced Doctor Emery of his innocence. The
affair remained a mystery, although Chub professed to have no doubts in
the matter.
"Nobody but Horace would think of such a thing," he asserted. "And if
Harry had any sense she'd know it."
But Harry was apparently firmly convinced of Roy's guilt and all he
received from that young lady during the next week was black looks.
Meanwhile an event of much interest to the school was approaching and
the incident of the white rabbits was soon forgotten by it. Every year,
on the afternoon of Thanksgiving Day, was held the Cross Country Run.
There was a cup for the individual winner and a cup for the class five
of whose entries finished first. Ferry Hill had developed cross country
running into something of a science. The annual event always awakened
much interest and the rivalry between the four classes was intense.
There were no handicaps, all entries starting together from the steps of
the gymnasium, taking off north-east for three miles to the village of
Carroll, from there to a neighboring settlement called Findlayburg and
so home by the road to the gymnasium, a total distance of six miles. At
Carroll and Findlayburg they were registered by the instructors. In
deference to the cross country event Thanksgiving dinner was postponed
until evening. It was customary for the football players to remain in
training for the run, and this year they had all done so with the
exception of Forrest, Gallup and Burlen, whose weights kept them out of
the contest. No one was prohibited from entering and even the youngest
boy in school was down for the start. One year the junior class had
captured the cup and ever since then succeeding junior classes had
striven mightily.
As always there were favorites, and this year Chub, Roy and a Middle
Class boy named Townsend were considered to have the best chances. Roy
himself was doubtful of his prowess, for, while he could sprint and even
do a quarter of a mile in good time, he had never tried long-distance
running. But Chub gave him a lot of good advice, assured him that he
stood a good chance to win and ended up with: "Anyhow, it's the best
training in the world and will do you a whole lot of good even if you
don't get the cup." So for a week preceding the day of the contest the
countryside was sprinkled with boys panting up the hills, loping
through the woods and trotting doggedly along the frosty road. And at
two o'clock on Thanksgiving Day afternoon thirty-four boys awaited the
word in front of the gymnasium.
CHAPTER X
THE CROSS-COUNTRY RACE
There were boys of all ages between twelve and eighteen in the group
which awaited the word from Horace Burlen. And there were all kinds and
descriptions of costumes. It was a frosty nippy day, cloudy and with
occasional gusts of wind, but nevertheless several of the runners wore
cotton running trunks and short stockings, and the expanse of bare leg
between hose and trunk required lots of rubbing and slapping to keep the
blood in circulation. Others were warmly attired in knickerbockers and
sweaters. Roy had taken Chub's advice in the matter of apparel, and wore
short trousers, woolen stockings, his crimson sweater and a pair of
spiked running shoes. Chub was similarly dressed, as was Jack Rogers and
a number of others. The Juniors had evolved a wonderful plan whereby
certain of their runners were to save themselves until the final turn
toward home and were then to pitch in and beat everything in sight, and
they were gathered in a group plotting excitedly in whispers. Sid Welch
was asking every fellow who would pay attention to him whether he
thought he could last through the race. Sid had worn off eight pounds
during the football season, but had already begun, greatly to his
despair, to put them back again. Chub told him that if he'd run the last
part of the race backwards he might finish--some day. And Jack assured
him that they would see that dinner was kept warm for him.
"I'm going to keep with you fellows," said Sid, "if you don't mind." And
he glanced devotedly toward Roy.
"You honor us," answered Chub with a low bow. "Just keep right alongside
Roy and if he tries to run away from you make him take your hand. What
do you weigh now, Sid?"
"Find out," answered Sid impolitely.
Whereupon Chub tried to catch him and Sid led him a wild chase through
the crowd, finally seeking protection behind Roy. Roy, however, refused
to be drawn into the affair and Sid was duly made to apologize for his
cheek. By that time Horace was giving instructions again.
"The course is the same as last year," he announced. "At Carroll you
must give your names to Mr. Cobb, who will be on the porch of the
Windsor House and at Findlayburg you must give them to Mr. Buckman at
the corner store. The finish will be at the gate here. No fellow whose
name doesn't show on both Mr. Cobb's and Mr. Buckman's list will stand
any show, so you want to be sure you get checked. All ready now,
fellows. Get back of the gravel there, Townsend and Young. Are you
ready? Go!"
The throng moved forward at a trot, pushed and scrambled through the
gate and went across the field. At the farther side was the first
obstacle, a high rail fence, and Sid had his first mishap there at the
outset. He reached the top of the fence beautifully and then
deliberately fell over on the other side into a mass of brush and
wayside weeds. Chub paused to pull him out and put him on his feet again
and Roy waited for them. As a consequence, when they had crossed the
road, surmounted a stone wall and had begun to breast the long slope of
meadow on the other side the three were well toward the rear of the
crowd. By the time the hill-top was reached the field of runners was
well spread out and not a few of the younger boys were already losing
interest in the affair. Jack Rogers was well toward the front now and
Chub suggested to Roy that they close up with him. So there was a little
sprint along the ridge of the hill and they soon found themselves
alongside Jack and with barely a half-dozen runners ahead of them. But
the sprint had played havoc with Sid's wind and he was puffing like a
young porpoise.
"Slow work so far," called Jack.
"Why don't you set the pace awhile?" asked Chub.
"I'll take it through the woods," Jack answered, "if you'll take it from
there to the village."
"All right. Say, Sid, you'd better drop our acquaintance now. You've
done beautifully and I wouldn't be surprised if you came in pretty near
first--counting backward. But you don't want to overdo it at the start,
you know."
Sid shot a doubting and suspicious glance at him, shook his head and
puffed on.
Now that he had got his second wind, Roy found it exhilarating, this
trotting up and down the slopes in the cold November afternoon. There
was a fine glow in his face, the gusts of cold wind that met him now and
then felt good as they ruffled his hair and the half-frozen turf offered
firm hold to his spikes. He would have liked to speed ahead and try
conclusions with the Middle Class boy who was in the lead, for he was
not in the least tired and felt now as though he could run for weeks.
But they had covered only a scant mile and three-quarters, according to
Chub, and that meant plenty of hard work ahead. Down a hillside
sprinkled with rocks and low bushes they went, forded a sandy stream,
scrambled over a tumble-down wall and entered the woods. Here Jack, with
a sprint, took the lead and made fast going. For the first hundred yards
it was difficult work, but after that they found themselves on a
grass-grown road which wound and twisted about over stumps and fallen
logs. Many a youth took a cropper hereabouts, and among them was Sid.
When Roy saw him last he was sitting on a rotted tree which had proved
his Waterloo sadly watching the procession go by. And a procession it
was by this time, for the runners were strung out in single file for a
quarter of a mile.
Roy and Chub were running fourth and fifth as they left the woods and
found themselves on the edge of a wheat field with the church tower of
Carroll a half a mile away. Jack dropped back and Chub took his place at
the head of the line. It seemed to Roy that Chub let up on the pace a
little, but it may have been only that it was easier going here along
the edge of the field. At all events, Roy was glad of it, for the work
was beginning to tell on him. And he was still gladder when Chub, at the
corner of the field, leaped the wall and went trotting down a lane and
from there into a country road. In another minute or two they were
jogging along the village street and Roy could see Mr. Cobb, paper and
pencil in hand, on the steps of the old brown hotel near at hand. Quite
a little group had formed about him and the runners swept along to a
chorus of criticisms, laughter and applause. As they passed Mr. Cobb,
they cried their names and were answered;
"Eaton!"
"Eaton!" And the instructor checked the name on the list he held.
"Pryor!"
"Pryor!"
"Townsend!"
"Townsend!"
"Rogers!"
"Rogers!"
"Porter!"
"Porter!"
"How are we making it?" sang out Jack as he passed.
"A minute and a fraction behind the record!" was the reply.
"Hit it up, Chub!" shouted Jack.
"Go to the dickens!" answered Chub. "Who wants the lead?"
"I'll take it," Pryor replied.
"All right." And Chub dropped back to Roy.
"Minute and a fraction--be hanged!" he gasped. "I'll bet--we're right
on--time! How you coming?"
"Getting tuckered," answered Roy. "How much farther?"
"Not quite--three miles. Ouch! Stepped on--fool stone!"
"Better save your wind, you two," advised Jack.
"Wish I had some to save," thought Roy.
Then there occurred the first division in the ranks. Pryor left the road
and scrambled over into a field. Jack, Chub and Roy followed, but
Townsend kept to the road and others as they came up followed him.
"What's the matter--with the road?" asked Roy.
"Longer," Chub answered briefly.
They jogged up a steep hill, turning to the right at the top and then
went down at a brisker pace, Roy wishing his sweater wasn't quite so
heavy. All the spring had gone from his feet now and the exhilaration
was forgotten. It was just hard work. The downward slope lasted for
quite a way and Roy judged that Pryor was letting himself out in the
hope of reaching the road again before the others who had kept to it
arrived. There was a bad bit of brush to struggle through, and then came
the wall and the road. As they climbed over they looked backward, but
only a farmer's wagon was in sight.
"Beat 'em!" gasped Chub.
On the road they slowed down considerably and Roy gave silent thanks. He
knew now that he would never be able to keep up with Chub and the
others, but he was determined to stick it out as long as he could.
Presently a little group of buildings came into sight ahead; a store, a
blacksmith shop, a tumble-down shed and three houses. Mr. Buckman was
awaiting them in front of the store, supported by the storekeeper and a
handful of loungers.
"Are we ahead?" shouted Pryor as they came up. "Yes, and ahead of the
record," was the answer. "All right, Pryor. All right, Rogers, Eaton and
Porter."
Then they were past, trotting along a frosty, rutted country road.
"Anyone want the lead?" grunted Pryor.
"How about you, Roy?" asked Jack.
But Roy shook his head dumbly and Chub moved up to the head of the
group. The wind had increased and was blowing icily out of the
north-east, but it was almost behind them and so helped them along.
Pryor nodded towards a dead beech tree beside the road. Jack nodded
back.
"Two miles more," he said.
"Road or hill?" asked Chub, looking around a moment.
"Don't care," answered Pryor.
"Hill," said Jack.
At a turn of the road Chub left it to the right and the others followed.
"Is this--shorter?" asked Roy.
"About--even thing, I think," answered Pryor.
"A whole minute shorter," said Jack.
Roy sighed for the road as he dragged his feet up a little hill and saw
before him a rough bit of country in which rocks and stunted bushes
sprang everywhere. For the next quarter of a mile they were always
either going up hill or going down; level ground was not on the map
thereabouts. Jack took the lead again presently and Chub fell back to
where Roy was heroically striving to keep his place. At last Roy
stumbled over a root, went head over heels into a clump of bushes, and
sat up with the last bit of breath knocked out of him. Chub had stopped,
grinning. Roy shook his head and waved his hand for the other to go on.
"Hurt?" asked Chub anxiously.
[Illustration: "At last Roy stumbled over a root, went head over heels
into a clump of bushes."]
Roy shook his head, found a little breath and gasped:
"I'm--all right. Go ahead. I'll--follow--presently."
Chub glanced hesitatingly from Roy to the others. Then he nodded and
went on. At a little distance he turned, waved a hand to the right and
shouted something about the road. Roy nodded indifferently and then fell
back onto the turf and didn't care a rap what happened. It was blissful
just to lie there, stretch his aching legs and get his breath back.
Anyone who wanted that dinkey pewter mug could have it, as far as he
cared. Only--well, he did wish he could have finished! Then it occurred
to him that he could, that if he went on he might even finish well up on
the list. He judged that five minutes had passed since the others had
left him. He already felt better and had regained his wind remarkably.
Well, he'd just go on and have a try; maybe he could help win the mug
for the Second Seniors. So he climbed to his feet and set off in the
direction taken by Chub.
But a minute or so later he concluded that he had lost the way, for now
the wind instead of being behind him was coming against his left cheek.
Of course the wind might have swung around, but it was much more
probable that he had unconsciously borne to the left. The best thing to
do, he thought, was to get back to the road, which was somewhere in the
direction he was going. So he pushed on, his trot becoming a walk as the
bushes grew thicker and thicker about him. Ten minutes, fifteen minutes
passed and he had found no road. Up and down little hills he went,
across open stretches and through tangles of leafless bushes. He kept
the wind against his left cheek and went on. It was getting toward
twilight and was still cloudy and cold. His legs began to feel stiff and
his feet would drag in spite of him. A half an hour must have passed--he
had left his watch at school and so could only guess--and he was still
travelling over wind-swept upland. He began to feel a bit uncomfortable;
the prospect of spending the night up there wasn't enticing. Observing a
little bush-crowned hill that looked higher than any he had yet found,
he made his way to it. From the top he could perhaps see the road, or,
failing that, discover where the river lay.
So he climbed up the rise, his feet slipping over loose gravel. At the
top he paused and looked about him. There was no road to be seen, but
behind him were a few twinkling lights, perhaps a mile away, and--yes,
surely, that was the river over there, that ribbon of steely-gray! He
would get to the river, he decided, at its nearest point and then follow
along the bank until he found the school, if he did not stumble across a
road or a house or something before that. So he got the direction firmly
fixed in his mind, broke through the bushes in front of him, gave a cry
of terror, grasped ineffectually at the branches and went plunging,
crashing downward to lie in a silent, motionless heap thirty feet
below.
CHAPTER XI
HARRY FINDS A CLUE
When Chub left Roy lying gasping for breath in the bushes and took up
the race again he was a good hundred yards behind Jack and Pryor, who
were just dropping from sight beyond the brow of one of the little
hills.
"Keep over that way--get back to the road," he turned and shouted. He
saw Roy nod wearily. Then he set out in earnest to make up lost ground.
That was the hardest bit of the whole run for Chub and it took him the
better part of a mile to make up that hundred yards. Jack and Pryor did
their level best to maintain their advantage. But when they were back on
the road once more Chub was running even with them. Pryor tried to slip
aside and make him take the lead and set the pace, but Chub was too
wary. It could scarcely be called running now, for with less than a mile
to go it became a question with each one of them whether they could stay
on their feet long enough to finish and their pace was a slow jog that
was little like the springy gait with which they had started out.
There was no breath wasted now in talk. They cast quick looks at each
other, searching for signs of weakness and discouragement. It was every
man for himself, Pryor struggling along with drooping head for the glory
of the Middle Class, Jack resolved to win the honor for the First
Seniors, and Chub equally determined to gain it for the Second Seniors.
A quarter of a mile from the school, just as they turned into the Silver
Cove road, Pryor's time came. He faltered once, stumbled, and Chub
turning aside to avoid him, slowed down to a walk, his breath coming in
agonized gasps. Chub and Jack went on without a turn of the head, side
by side, their eyes glued doggedly on the red-tiled tower of the
gymnasium visible now above the tree-tops a few hundred yards away. Then
the road turned a bit and a group of waiting boys marked the corner of
the school grounds.
Chub looked at Jack and the latter shook his head with a wry twisted
smile. But when Chub threw his head back and strove to draw away from
him Jack responded gallantly and refused to own himself beaten. So they
had it nip and tuck down to the corner, pounding the hard road like cart
horses and yet making but slow work of it, while the audience shouted
them on, scattering away from the rail fence that they might have plenty
of room. And they needed it. Twice Chub strove to throw his leg across
the topmost bar and twice he failed. Jack, with set teeth, got over on
the second attempt, and when Chub came tumbling after him he had a good
six yards of lead. Ahead, at the gate across the field, stood Doctor and
Mrs Emery and Harry.
"Hurry! Hurry!" cried the latter, dancing excitedly about. "Oh, it's
Jack Rogers and Chub Eaton! Hurry, Jack! Hurry, Chub! Oh, _can't_ you
run faster?"
"Which do you want to win, my dear?" asked her mother smilingly. Harry
answered breathlessly without turning.
"Oh, I don't know! Both!"
Meanwhile across the gridiron Chub and Jack, accompanied by applauding
friends and partisans, were fighting it out gamely. Chub had almost made
up the distance between him and Jack when the track was reached. Across
the cinders they staggered, the gate and finish but a few yards away.
Then fortune, thus far quite impartial, turned her face to Chub. Jack
stumbled on the wooden rim of the track and, while he saved himself from
falling, gave Chub his chance, and in another second the latter youth
was through the gate and lying with tossing arms on the lawn. Jack
finished a scant yard behind him and keeled over in his turn.
Horace Burlen set down the times on the list he held and others sprang
to the aid of the exhausted runners. Then all eyes turned again toward
the corner of the field, for someone was struggling over the fence
there. Down he jumped and came trotting across, apparently much fresher
than Chub and Jack. It was Townsend, of the Middle Class. When he was
half way across the field a fourth runner appeared, made several
attempts to surmount the bars, leaned against them a moment, and found
his breath and then came over.
"It's Pryor," said Horace. "That's two for the Middlers, and one each
for the First and Second Seniors."
"What was Chub Eaton's time?" asked Forrest as Townsend finished.
"Four and three-eighths minutes better than the record made four years
ago by Gooch," answered Horace.
"Well, I'm glad Roy Porter didn't win," said Harry vindictively. Chub
rolled over on his elbows.
"He went down and out--two miles back," said Chub. He looked across at
Jack, who was sitting up and breathing like a steam-engine. "Sorry I
beat you, Jack. I wouldn't have if you hadn't stumbled."
Jack nodded with a smile.
"Glad you won, old man," he said. "It was a tough old run, and you can
bet I'm glad it's over. Phew! but I'm tuckered."
"Same here. That last mile was the dickens. There's someone else
coming--two, three of them! One of 'em's fallen off the fence. Gee! I
thought I'd never get over that thing!" He got up, followed by Jack, and
passed through the gate. "Hello, Townsend! How was the road?"
"Rutty as anything and mighty hard running. I got a stitch in my side
about a mile back and had to let up for a while. Passed Pryor moseying
along down near the corner. Who's that coming?"
"Porter, by Jove!" cried Chub.
"Porter nothing!" said Horace. "That's Warren. And the next two are
Glidden and Chase. That makes First and Second Seniors and Middlers
tied for first so far. Chase is a Junior, isn't he?"
"Yes," answered Townsend.
Chase, a youngster of thirteen, made a plucky race across the field and
beat Glidden of the Second Senior Class by three yards. Then for a while
no more finished. Chub and Jack and the others disappeared into the
gymnasium, and Doctor and Mrs. Emery returned to the Cottage. Harry,
however, still remained. It was getting dim now, and when, after five or
six minutes had passed, more runners reached the fence it was impossible
to identify them. But when they drew near a shout went up. Two of them
were First Seniors, one was a Middler and one a Junior. The First
Seniors needed but one more runner now to give them the cup. And a few
minutes later he came in the person of Bacon and received the biggest
sort of a welcome. From then on until almost dinner time the others
straggled in to find the finish deserted and to crawl weariedly up the
gymnasium steps. Harry had taken her departure when Bacon had finished,
returning to the Cottage through the gathering twilight, looking, unless
her face belied her, rather disappointed, and telling herself over and
over that she was awfully glad Roy Porter hadn't won.
Dinner that evening was a jolly meal. Every fellow was frantically
hungry for his turkey and sweet potatoes and mince pie and the
appropriate "trimmings." The First Seniors drank their sweet cider out
of the mug they had captured, passing it from one to another like a
loving cup. Perhaps there was no one there who had a bigger appetite or
more to tell in the way of adventures than Sidney Welch, and he talked a
steady streak until Chub told him he'd choke himself.
It was not until dinner was well-nigh over that Roy's absence was noted
by any save Chub. But when, at half-past nine, he had not returned, the
matter was reported to Doctor Emery and the telephone became busy. But
neither Carroll nor Silver Cove knew anything of the missing boy. The
Principal waited until eleven o'clock, and then a searching party was
made up. Mr. Cobb and Mr. Buckman took charge and with four of the older
boys and Chub, who was taken along to show where Roy had last been seen,
left the Cottage at a little after eleven. They carried two lanterns and
Jack Rogers had slipped a revolver into his pocket which, he said, could
be heard where a shout couldn't. But he said nothing to the instructors
about it, since firearms were forbidden and Jack feared confiscation.
Mr. Emery saw them off from the Cottage porch and instructed Mr. Cobb to
telephone him from Carroll or Silver Cove if he had a chance. It was as
dark as pitch as they made their way across the field and found the
road, and the wavering light from a couple of lanterns seemed only to
accentuate the gloom. Once away from the school they began to call at
intervals but got no response. Chub and Jack had some difficulty in
finding the place where they had returned to the road from the uplands,
but at last they discovered it and the party took off up the hill. It
was soon after that that Mr. Buckman stopped and asked:
"How many are there in this party, anyhow?"
"Should be seven of us," answered Mr. Cobb. "Why?"
"Because, unless I'm much mistaken, I counted eight a minute ago. Who's
that over there, the last one?"
"Warren, sir."
"No, I don't mean you. Who's next to you?"
There was a moment's silence. Then,
"Blest if I know, sir," answered Warren in puzzled tones.
"It's me," said an apologetic voice.
"Who's me?" asked Mr. Cobb moving toward the speaker.
"Harry," was the answer.
"Harry! Harry Emery?" exclaimed Mr. Cobb, forgetting his politeness.
"Yes, I--I thought I'd come along."
"Well, if that isn't the greatest! Did the Doctor say you could come?"
"I--I didn't ask him," answered Harry. "Please don't send me back, Mr.
Cobb. I won't be in the way a bit and I can walk miles!"
"Send you back! Why, I can't send you back now--that is--not alone. I
suppose you'll have to come, but supposing your mother finds you're
missing?"
"Oh, she won't," answered Harry cheerfully. "She thinks I'm in bed and
asleep. And I was--that is, I was in bed."
"Well, come along then, but see that you stick close to us," grumbled
Mr. Cobb. "We don't want to loose any more persons to-night!"
So Harry trudged along at the tail of the party, keeping close to Jack
Rogers and Chub and starting nervously when she heard strange noises in
the bushes along the way.
It was slow going and when they were well up on the hills the night wind
stung hands and faces. It was well upon midnight when Chub announced
that they should have reached the place where he had left Roy. But a
locality looks very different at night by the light of a wavering
lantern than it does in the daytime, and when they had cast about for a
while, calling and shouting, Chub was forced to acknowledge that he
wasn't certain of the place.
"It ought to be about here," he said anxiously, "but somehow this
doesn't look like it. It doesn't seem to me it was quite so hilly; and
there weren't any trees about that I remember."
After a quarter of an hour more of unsuccessful search Mr. Cobb and Mr.
Buckman held a consultation and decided that the best thing to do,
unless they wanted to get lost themselves, was to stay where they were
and wait for dawn. So they found a sheltered spot in the lee of a big
rock and made themselves as comfortable as they could. Warren suggested
a fire and a half-hour was spent in finding fuel within the radius of
lantern-light. Finally, however, the flames were leaping and the sparks
flying and the party regained some of their ebbing spirits.
[Illustration: Mr. Cobb and the search-party looking for Roy.]
"If he sees the light he will look it up," said Mr. Buckman. "That was a
good idea of yours, Warren."
"What I'm afraid of," said Mr. Cobb, "is that he has met with an
accident of some sort. Seems to me that if he had the use of his limbs
he would have reached the school before this, or at least have
communicated with us. Well, we'll have to make the best of things until
the light comes. Better take a nap, fellows, if you can."
But they were in no mood for napping. The leaping flames lent their
tinge of romance to a situation already sufficiently out of the common
to be exciting and the boys wanted to live every moment of it. The
uncertainty as to Roy's fate added a qualm of uneasiness, but when once
Warren had got well into his story of the Wyoming outlaws who lived in a
cave and robbed trains and stage coaches, even Chub forgot the purpose
of the expedition for whole minutes at a time. I think Harry
unconsciously dozed several times, although she always denied it
indignantly. Now and then one of the party would mend the fire and then
crawl back to the protection of the ledge and the waving bushes. Mr.
Cobb followed Warren with some stories of Cornwall wreckers which he had
read, and after that every member of the party save Harry, who happened
to be very quiet about that time, contributed some tale of dark deeds.
Presently Jack made the discovery that it was possible to see the
branches of the wind-whipped bushes behind them. Chub climbed to the
summit of the ledge and announced that there was light away down on the
horizon toward the east. Then followed an hour of waiting during which
the world gradually turned from black to gray. The fire died out for
lack of fuel and the boys snuggled into the collars of their sweaters,
for it seemed to grow more chill each moment. Then, when objects a few
yards away could be distinguished, Mr. Cobb suggested that they "break
camp." So they spread out in a line and took up the search again,
calling as they went. The light grew quickly and in the east the sky
took on a tinge of rose. Mr. Cobb stopped once and picked something from
the ground.
"Must be slate quarries about here," he said. "There's a lot of broken
pieces here and loose gravel. Yes, here's a hole," he went on, walking
forward, "but they only went down a few feet. I wonder if there are more
of them?"
Suddenly there was a cry from the other end of the line.
"Mr. Cobb, come see what I've found!"
It was Harry's voice and Mr. Cobb made his way to her where she stood at
the edge of a thicket of leafless brambles.
"What is it, Harry?" he asked.
For answer she held up a tiny bit of crimson yarn.
"What do you make of this?" asked the instructor, looking at it in a
puzzled way.
"I think it came from his sweater!" declared Harry triumphantly. "It was
on that branch there."
"Good for you, Harry!" cried Chub, who had joined them ahead of the
others. "Roy had his red sweater on and it's money to muffins that
thread was pulled out as he went by."
"He didn't go by, though," said Harry. "He went through. Don't you see
how the bushes are trampled down? Come on!"
CHAPTER XII
A NIGHT IN THE QUARRY
When Roy regained consciousness and opened his eyes he found himself in
pitch darkness. His head felt strangely dizzy and for a moment he lay
still and strove to recall what had happened to him. Then he remembered
and with a sudden fear at his heart moved cautiously. But although every
bone in his body felt bruised he was able to climb to his feet. The
effort however, left him so weak and dizzy that he reached out for
support, found a branch and clung to it while a minute or two passed.
And in clinging to it he became aware of the fact that his left hand
hurt him a good deal. Presently, when he could stand without holding on,
he felt of the aching member and found it swollen and sore to the touch.
The trouble seemed to be at the wrist and he wondered whether in falling
he had landed on it and broken it. But it didn't feel broken, for he
could bend it and even wriggle his fingers, although it pained horribly
to do it. Probably it was only a sprain or a dislocation; that could
keep. Meanwhile he would like very much to know where he was.
When he had fallen he had caught a glimpse of a dark pit, the sides of
which were hidden here and there by bushes. It had been the briefest
sort of a glimpse, for he had stepped over the edge and, without a
second's warning, had plunged downward into twilight darkness. He
remembered clutching at a branch which came away in his hand, and he
remembered crashing through a bush which had broken but not stopped his
fall. Of what happened after that he could remember nothing.
Now he stepped cautiously forward, feeling in front of him with hands
and feet. The ground was loose and uneven. Three short steps brought his
hands in contact with a smooth expanse of stone. His fingers could find
no place to clutch, even though he managed to fit the toe of one shoe
into a niche a foot or so above the ground. He moved to the right
through the darkness. But the wall of stone continued. Now and then it
became uneven and his hands scraped over rough edges, but it offered no
chance of escape. On and on he went. He knew that he must be describing
something of a circle, since he was in a pit of some sort, but it seemed
that he was edging straight away from where he had fallen. At last he
found bushes and for a moment he had hope. But, although he wormed his
way upward through them for the space of a few feet, at last he brought
up against a perpendicular wall of rock and he was forced to retreat. He
became conscious of a dim feeling of fright and strove to fight it down.
His hands were moist and the perspiration stood on his forehead in
little cold drops. He stopped and leaned against the wall behind him. As
he did so he became aware of hundreds of little noises about him and a
cold shiver travelled down his back. Then,
"Pshaw!" he muttered. "There's nothing here but birds and such things.
Even snakes don't come out after dark. I guess I'm settled for the night
and I might as well make the best of it. I dare say I've already been
around this old hole half a dozen times. No, I haven't, though, for I've
only found those bushes back there once. I'll go on, I guess; maybe
there's a regular macadamized road out of here."
He moved on, whistling softly to keep from feeling discouraged. But his
left wrist and hand pained frightfully, and presently he stopped and
tried to find a position for it that would ease the ache. Finally he
found his handkerchief, tied it about his neck and placed the injured
arm through the improvised sling. It helped a little. After that he
continued his search, but rather half-heartedly. He longed for light and
fell to wondering what time it was. Presumably he had fallen in there
about half-past four or maybe five. But there was no knowing how long he
had lain unconscious. It might be eight o'clock or it might be well
toward morning! He wished he knew!
Above his head, how far he could only guess, the night wind was whipping
the bare bushes. Now and then a gust came down and made him shiver, but
on the whole it was not uncomfortable down there as long as he was
moving about. But he couldn't keep that up much longer, for his head was
aching, his legs were stiff and lame and every movement sent little
thrills of pain down his arm from elbow to fingers. He was glad now of
his thick sweater and wished his legs were as warm as the upper part of
his body.
For a while he sat on a little rock near the wall along which he had
been travelling. Then he began to feel drowsy. That was fine, he
thought; if he could only go to sleep he could forget his discomforts,
and perhaps when he awoke it would be morning. So he felt about on the
broken stone and moist gravel that formed the floor of his prison half
fearsomely, afraid of encountering uncanny things in the dark. But his
hands found only soil and rock and scant vegetation and he laid himself
down gingerly out of respect to his aching body and closed his eyes. But
for a while the discomforts of his couch made themselves too apparent to
allow of slumber. Queer, stealthy little noises sounded about him and he
imagined all sorts of things creeping toward him through the darkness.
Once or twice he kicked his feet and cried "Scat!" loudly. Then he
laughed at himself for his nervousness and strove not to think of the
sounds. He wondered who had won the race and whether they had missed him
at school: whether Chub had caught up with Jack and Pryor; what Chub was
thinking about his disappearance. Then he started out of his drowsiness.
Surely he had heard his name called! He sat up and listened intently.
Then he called at the top of his voice half a dozen times. But he heard
nothing more, and presently he lay down again with a sigh, eased the
position of his throbbing arm and went quietly to sleep.
And the very next moment, as it seemed to Roy, he heard his name called
again, quite loudly and distinctly this time, and opened his eyes,
blinking, to find his prison filled with the grey, misty light of
morning and to hear voices above him. Then came his name again, in the
unmistakable tones of Mr. Cobb, and he had time to marvel smilingly that
the football coach had really got his name right for once before he sat
up and answered loudly. Then came sounds of crashing branches and Roy
jumped dizzily to his feet.
"Look out!" he shouted. "There's a hole here. Look where you're going,
Mr. Cobb!"
Then Mr. Cobb was kneeling above at the edge of the quarry looking down
upon him anxiously and Harry's face appeared behind his shoulder, a
rather white, frightened countenance in the pale light.
"Hurt, Porter?" asked Mr. Cobb.
"No, sir, just shaken up a bit."
"Well, thank Heaven! Can you climb out anywhere?" Mr. Cobb's eyes
travelled dubiously about the pit.
"I don't believe so," answered Roy. "I tried to find a place last
night." He turned and looked about him.
And his face went white at what he saw.
[Illustration: "'Look where you're going, Mr. Cobb!'"]
In shape the quarry was a rough oval, its walls so steep that at first
glance escape even in daylight seemed impossible. In many places the
top of the wall overhung the bottom. Now and then a clump of grass or
weeds showed against the dark and discolored face of the rock, and in a
few places good-sized bushes had grown out. But all this Roy saw later.
At present he was standing with his back to the bank, staring in
fascinated dread at the center of the quarry. From the walls, all
around, the ground sloped downward toward the center and only a few feet
away from him was the margin of a pool some thirty feet in diameter.
There was no slime on the top, no weeds about its edge and in the dim
light of early morning the water looked black and ugly. Roy stepped
nearer and looked down into its depths. Far below him jutting edges of
rock loomed up but the bottom was not in sight. Shuddering, he
retreated. Had he fallen a little farther away from the bank, or had he
rolled over after falling, they would not have found him so easily. He
muttered a little prayer of thanks to the Providence which had watched
over him during the night and had guided his stumbling footsteps in
safety. Then his head felt dizzy and he sat down suddenly on the bank of
broken and crumbled slate and went off into a faint.
When he came to, Mr. Cobb was dabbing his face with a wet handkerchief
and Jack Rogers and Chub were slapping his hands and arms. Perhaps it
was the latter method which brought him around, for a dislocated wrist
doesn't take kindly to blows! He yanked his injured hand away with a cry
of pain and Mr. Cobb removed the sopping handkerchief.
"All right now, eh?" he asked kindly. "Hello, what's wrong there?" He
took the boy's hand and examined it, his fingers probing skilfully.
"How'd you do that? Fall on it?"
"I don't know," answered Roy. "It isn't busted, is it?"
"No, dislocated. Feel that bone sticking up there? We'll have to fix
that right now, I guess. Hurts, doesn't it? Give me a couple of
handkerchiefs, you chaps." Chub and Jack produced theirs and Mr. Cobb
took a long leather wallet from his coat pocket and emptied it of its
contents. "Just hold your hand out straight," he directed. Then, with
one hand above the wrist and the other about the fingers he pulled
steadily until the wrist slipped back into place. Roy winced a little,
but after the lump had disappeared his whole arm felt easier. Mr. Cobb
laid the leather wallet about the wrist and bound it tightly with the
handkerchiefs.
"That'll do until we get back," he said. "Put it back in that sling of
yours and keep it there, Porter. Now we'll see if we can get you out of
here. Do you think you can walk?"
For answer Roy climbed to his feet.
"All right, only remember that you've had a pretty good shaking up and
haven't had anything to eat since yesterday noon, and don't try to do
too much. We'll see if we can't boost you up over here."
He led the way to the other side of the pool and Roy saw that a rough
path zigzagged down the face of the bank there. So steep it was,
however, that they had to help each other here and there, and it seemed
a long time before Mr. Buckman and the others, awaiting them at the top,
were able to reach down and pull them over the edge of the rock. Roy
subsided breathless on the grass and looked about him. The sun was just
topping the rising hill beyond and the world looked very sweet to him at
that moment.
"That's where you went over," said Mr. Buckman, pointing across the pit.
"We followed you up to the edge. You must have struck against that bush
there and broken your fall; the branches are all broken, I noticed; a
good thing you did, too, I guess."
"I remember falling into some branches," said Roy. "That's the last
thing I do remember; when I woke up it was pitch dark."
"What's that?" asked Mr. Cobb. "Lose consciousness, did you? Did you hit
your head? Here, let's have a good look at you, my boy." And, presently,
"I should think you did! Doesn't that hurt when I press it?"
"A little," answered Roy.
"Hum! Guess you've got a pretty tough skull. Look at this place, Eaton.
Must have come down on a small stone, I should say. Well, that'll wait
until we get home. I wonder if we can carry him between us? Maybe one of
you chaps had better run back and tell them to send the phaeton."
But Roy protested that he could walk every inch of the way and finally
Mr. Cobb consented to let him try it, and the return journey began. Chub
walked beside Roy, anxiously solicitous. Most of the party were frankly
sleepy and worn out now that the excitement was over. Harry appeared to
have lost interest in the whole affair. Not once, so far as Roy knew,
did she even so much as glance in his direction.
"What's Harry doing here?" he whispered to Chub. And Chub recounted the
happenings of the night; how Harry had joined the party unknown to them,
how they had built a fire and waited for light and finally how Harry had
discovered the bit of yarn torn from his sweater.
"It was fairly easy after that," said Chub. "We could see here and there
where you had broken through the bushes, and once or twice we found your
footprints. We knew they were yours on account of the spikes. If it
hadn't been for Harry I guess you'd have been waiting yet. Though maybe
you could have got up that bank alone."
Roy trudged on in silence for a while. Then,
"Who won?" he demanded eagerly. Chub grinned.
"I won the individual cup and First Seniors got the class cup," he said.
"Jack and I had it nip and tuck all the way to the gate, and if he
hadn't stumbled over the track he'd have beat me."
"I'm glad you got it," said Roy. "I was afraid you wouldn't catch up
with them, after staying so long with me."
"I was a blamed idiot to leave you," answered Chub savagely. "I didn't
deserve to win anything. Why, you came mighty near killing yourself!"
"Yes, I guess I did," said Roy thoughtfully. "But it wasn't your fault,
you silly ass. I got all mixed up and couldn't tell where I was. And
then, the first thing I knew I--I wasn't anywhere!"
"Tell me about it," said Chub.
But just then Mr. Cobb told Roy he had better not tire himself by
talking and so Chub had to wait to hear his chum's adventures. An hour
later Roy was fast asleep in his bed. They had served him with some
milk-toast, scanty fare for a boy who had missed two meals, and he had
promptly turned over and gone to sleep. In the middle of the forenoon
the Silver Cove doctor appeared, re-dressed his wrist, put something on
his head and left a tumblerful of some sort of nasty-tasting medicine.
And the next day Roy was up and about again apparently as good as new
save for his injured arm. This was carried in a sling for over a week,
but he didn't mind that much.
The second morning after his rescue he went over to the Cottage and
asked for Harry. Presently she came down to the parlor where he was
awaiting her in front of the soft coal fire and he tried to remember the
formal speech of gratitude he had fashioned. But it had gone completely
from him. So he just held out his hand and said he was jolly much
obliged to her for what she had done.
"Everybody says that if you hadn't seen that bit of red yarn I'd have
been there yet," he declared.
Harry shook his hand formally, said she hadn't done anything, that she
was very glad he had had such a fortunate escape and asked politely
after his injury.
"Oh, the arm's all right now," said Roy.
After that conversation languished until Mrs. Emery came down and made
Roy tell her all about it. And during the narrative Harry disappeared.
It was quite evident that she hadn't forgiven him, thought Roy, as he
took his departure. He didn't look back as he went down the drive and so
failed to see somebody with red hair peering down from between the
curtains of an upstairs window.
CHAPTER XIII
FORMING THE HOCKEY TEAM
"Candidates wanted for the Hockey team. All those who have played or
would like to play please attend a meeting in the Gym at 4 P.M. on
Friday.
"J. S. ROGERS,
"T. H. EATON,
"ROY PORTER."
This notice appeared on the board in School Hall the last day of
November, and when, four days later, the meeting was called to order by
Jack Rogers, there were some twenty-five fellows adorning the wooden
benches in the locker room. A handful of the number had come for want of
anything better to do, for it was a dismal, wet afternoon offering
little encouragement to those whose tastes turned toward out-of-door
pursuits. For once the line separating the "Burlenites" and the
"Porterites" was not closely drawn, for there were not a few of the
former present, their desire for a chance to play hockey overcoming
their allegiance to Horace. Needless to say, however, neither Horace nor
Otto was on hand.
"Somebody turn that switch," began Jack, "and give us some light. That's
better. This meeting has been called by a few of us who want to get up
a hockey team. I don't know much about hockey myself and so I'll let
Porter do the talking. He started the thing, anyhow, and he ought to
have the fun of speechifying to you. But I'd like to say that, as you
all know, Hammond has been playing hockey for five or six years and has
challenged us almost every year to play her. If Hammond has a team we
ought to have one too. And if we have one maybe we can lick her at
hockey just as we have at football." (Deafening applause.) "There's no
reason why we shouldn't. Here, Roy, you tell them the rest."
Roy got up rather embarrassedly and faced the meeting.
"Well, all I've got to say is that hockey is a dandy game and we ought
to have a team--if only to lick Hammond. (Renewed applause.) It isn't a
difficult game to learn if a fellow can skate half decently and it
doesn't require much of an outlay. We've talked to Mr. Cobb and he has
secured permission for the formation of a team. And he knows something
about the game himself and will help us all he can. Our idea was to
build a rink along the river about where the old ferry landing is.
Doctor Emery says we can use what lumber there is in the landing and
shed to build the rink with. And I think there'll be more than we need.
Then we'd get a pump and pump water in from the river."
"Why not play on the river?" asked a boy.
"Well, that was the idea in the first place," answered Roy, "but Mr.
Cobb thought we'd better have a regular rink. It's hard to play without
boundaries because your puck gets away from you and you have to chase it
all around the shop. Then, too, Mr. Cobb says that half the time the ice
would be too rough or too much broken up to allow of playing on it.
We've figured it up and think the outside cost of the whole thing, rink,
pump, goals and sticks won't be much over eighty dollars."
"How you going to raise it?" asked one of the audience.
"That's what we've got to decide on," said Roy. "I suppose we couldn't
get nearly that much by subscription?"
Several shook their heads, and,
"I don't believe we could," said Chub. "But we might get half of it. If
every fellow gave a dollar--"
"Seems to me," said the boy who had raised the question, "that the
fellows who make the team ought to do the subscribing."
"I don't think so," said Jack. "If we made the football and baseball
teams pay all their expenses I guess we wouldn't have them very long. It
ought to be worth a dollar to every fellow here to have a good hockey
team."
"That's so," assented Chub.
"Well," went on Roy, "I wanted to hear what you'd say about it, but I
didn't think we could get the money that way, not all of it, I mean. So
I thought of another scheme. Why couldn't we get up an entertainment of
some kind and charge admission. How would that do?"
"Great!"
"Swell!"
"Fine and dandy!"
"Chub can sing 'The Old Ark's A-movin'!"
"Cole can do his card stunts!"
"Cut it out, fellows," said Jack. "Let's get the matter settled; it's
getting late."
So they got down to business again and Jack, Chub and Roy were formed
into an Entertainment Committee. After that Roy took the floor again.
"How many of you fellows will come out for practice?" he asked.
Practically every hand went up. "How many have played hockey?" Twelve
hands. "All right. We'll divide into two teams, first and second, and as
fast as the fellows on the second show that they can play well they'll
get onto the first. We probably won't be able to begin work on the ice
until after Christmas Recess. But as soon as we can get some money we'll
send for goals and sticks and pucks. Then we'll put one of the goals up
here on the floor and practice shooting. Later we'll have another
meeting, after practice has begun, and elect a captain and a manager.
And as soon as we get the manager we'll send a challenge to Hammond. Now
you fellows give your names to Chub Eaton before you go out, and watch
for notices on the board in School Hall."
That was the beginning of the Ferry Hill School Hockey Association,
which still flourishes and has to its credit several notable victories.
It was Roy's idea from the first. He had played hockey a good deal and
had seen many of the college and school games, and he had been surprised
to learn that Ferry Hill had never had a team. It was easy to enlist
Chub in the project of forming a club, and not very difficult to
interest Jack. Mr. Cobb had been quite enthusiastic but doubtful of
success.
"They've tried to form a hockey team two or three times," he said, "and
never did it. But I don't want to discourage you chaps. I'll get
permission from the Doctor, so you go right ahead. Try to get the whole
school interested in it; that's the only way to do."
By the middle of December the old ferry house and landing had been
demolished and the planks had been built into a three-foot barrier or
fence enclosing a space sixty feet wide by one hundred and twenty feet
long. All that remained was to flood the enclosed ground with water to
the depth of four or five inches and allow it to freeze. A hand suction
pump had been ordered from a dealer at Silver Cove, but there was delay
and in the end it did not reach the school until two days before
vacation. However, as December proved unusually mild, there was no harm
done. Meanwhile the goals, pucks and sticks had arrived and practice at
shooting and stick-handling was held five afternoons a week in the
gymnasium. At the second meeting of the candidates the Entertainment
Committee was able to report a plan for the entertainment. There was to
be a minstrel show followed by a series of tableaux in the gymnasium the
night before the beginning of Christmas Recess.
"Now," said Jack, who was explaining, "you chaps will have to get busy
and interest every fellow you know in the affair. We want a good big
crowd for the minstrels; we ought to have at least two dozen fellows.
There will be another meeting here to-morrow night and I want each of
you to bring me the names of fellows who are willing to take part. And
you must let me know what they can do, whether they can sing or recite
or do sleight-of-hand tricks, you know. And now I want to propose that
we make Harry Emery an associate member of the Club. You see, we
realized that we wouldn't be able to do much in the way of costuming
without her help, so we laid the matter before her. And she went right
into it; suggested the tableaux feature and offered to take part
herself. (Laughter from the audience.) So I think she ought to be taken
in."
"We ought to make Mr. Cobb and Mr. Buckman associate members, too,"
suggested Chub.
So Harry and the two instructors were duly admitted, and the meeting
went into the plans for the entertainment. Sid, one of the most
enthusiastic members present, reminded everyone that he could play the
banjo, and Jack promised to let him do his worst. Roy was elected
temporary captain and manager and Jack temporary treasurer. Then an
assessment of fifty cents each was levied and Jack spent the best part
of three days collecting the sums. He, Roy, Chub and two others had gone
down into their pockets and advanced the money for the goals, sticks and
pucks, and with Christmas Recess drawing near they were anxious to get
some of it back. The rink was to be paid for in January and the pump on
its arrival. It was going to be necessary to collect something over
sixty dollars from the entertainment, and the committee was getting
anxious. There was little time for rehearsal, and, with Horace and Otto
doing all in their power to throw cold water on the scheme, Roy and his
friends had plenty to worry them.
But Harry proved a brick. She went into it to the present exclusion of
all else and made things hum. She talked it up everywhere she went with
the result that the affair was extensively advertised before it was well
on foot. Harry attended a girls' academy at Silver Cove, and she wasn't
satisfied until every pupil there had faithfully promised to attend the
entertainment. She also persuaded Mr. Buckman to take part, something
that Jack and the others had failed at. Mr. Cobb had already consented
to sing and do a monologue. Then Harry devised costumes and found them,
levying on the wardrobes of most of her friends and acquaintances. And
in spite of the fact that she and Chub and Jack and Roy met at least
twice a day she still maintained her air of polite indifference toward
the latter.
When the morning of the day of the entertainment arrived affairs seemed
in the wildest chaos and even Harry lost her head for awhile. Some of
the promised participators had backed down at the last moment, the
principal soloist had a bad cold, the stage was still unbuilt, several
of the costumes were yet wanting and Harris and Kirby, down for a duet
and dance, weren't on speaking terms! And just as though all that wasn't
enough to drive the committee distracted, Chub had appeared at breakfast
with a long face and announced that he had forgotten to mail the poster
to Hammond Academy. In support of the assertion he produced it, stamped
and addressed. It had been lying in his pocket for three days. As
Hammond with its seventy-odd students had been counted on to send quite
a delegation, this was a hard blow. But Jack, with the cheerfulness of
desperation, obtained permission to deliver the poster by messenger and
sent Sid Welch across the river with it at nine o'clock.
That was certainly a day of troubles. Luckily there were few recitations
for anyone. Jack and Chub spent most of the morning directing and aiding
in the erection of the stage at the end of the gymnasium. The stage was
a sectional affair which, when not in use, was stored in the furnace
room. Unfortunately one section seemed to be missing, and putting the
thing together was, as Chub said, like joining one of those geographical
puzzles.
"You know the things, Jack; they're cut up with a scroll-saw into all
sorts of wiggly pieces, and Florida insists on getting next to New
Hampshire and Illinois won't fit anywhere except between South Carolina
and Georgia."
"There must be a piece of this missing," answered Jack. "I'm going to
have another look."
And presently he came back staggering under what looked like a length of
board walk.
"Funny you fellows couldn't find this," he said disgustedly as he swung
one end around against the wall and brought down six pairs of
dumb-bells. "It was right in plain sight; they were using it for a
carpenter's bench."
"It _is_ funny," growled Warren. "Wonder they didn't make an ice-chest
or a sewing-machine out of it!"
After that it was plain sailing until they came to the curtain. It was a
beautiful thing, that curtain, fourteen feet wide and twelve feet long
and bearing a picture of Niagara Falls in blue, green, purple and pink
surrounded by a wreath of crimson cabbages--only they were supposed to
be roses. Despite its beauty, work up and down it would not. Half way up
it began to range itself in artistic folds, apparently forgetting all
about the wooden roller at the bottom. Once it came down unexpectedly on
Chub's head, and Chub danced around and shook his fist at it and
declared that he'd cut holes in it for two cents. No one offered to put
up the two cents and so the curtain was saved. In the end Jack
manufactured a new pulley-block and after that the foolish thing worked
charmingly every other time.
"All we'll have to do," said Warren disgustedly, "will be to make
believe pull it up before we really mean to."
"Kind of disconcerting to the fellows on the stage," commented Jack,
"but I guess that's what we'll have to do."
The drop curtain, showing a lovely sylvan glade in unwholesome shades of
green, went up without trouble at the back of the stage, but the pieces
at the sides, very frayed trees with impossible foliage, refused to
stand up.
"We'll have to make props," said Chub. "I don't blame the old things for
wanting to lie down; it makes me tired just to look at them."
But when, finally, the stage was set and the boys stood off at a
respectful distance and examined it it really looked very well. Chub
admired the effect of distance and wondered where the path led to.
Warren said he'd like to meet the man who had chiseled out the statue
under the trees and another fellow wanted to go bird-egging. Then they
arranged the chairs and benches in rows. They had gathered chairs of all
descriptions from all over the school and the effect was finely
democratic. Doctor Emery's leather arm chair hobnobbed socially with a
plain pine chair from the dining hall and Mr. Buckman's favorite
hour-glass chair appeared to be trying to make an impression on Harry's
rattan rocker, the latter looking very dressy with its pink silk
head-rest.
[Illustration: "They had gathered chairs of all descriptions from all
over the school...."]
They went to dinner feeling rather more encouraged and found that Sid
had returned with good tidings. Hammond had learned of the entertainment
several days before and had been waiting eagerly for an invitation to
attend. And every fellow was coming, declared Sid. Roy, who had taken a
flying trip to the town for red and blue cheesecloth, reported excellent
progress on the last of the costumes. And Post, who couldn't eat any
dinner because he had been filling himself up all day with cough syrup
and licorice lozenges, thought he might be able to sing, after all. The
last rehearsal was at three o'clock, and after it was over Jack shook
his head dismally.
"I never saw such a bum show in my life," he declared gloomily. "And
talk about singing! Say, I wonder if we can bribe Post to stay away
to-night?"
"Why, I thought everything went beautifully!" declared Harry. "You wait
until to-night; they'll do a lot better."
"The chorus work was all right," said Chub. "And the tableaux were
simply swell. I do wish, though, that Bacon wouldn't look as though he
was going to die every minute!"
"But those jokes!" groaned Jack.
"Oh, never mind; I've heard lots worse ones," answered Roy cheerfully.
"Not outside of a Sunday newspaper supplement, I'll bet," said Jack.
"That one about Mr. Cobb and Miss Webb, and falling in love with her the
first time he 'spider' is the limit. I heard that when I was three
years old!"
"That's all right; folks like 'em old at a minstrel show," answered
Chub. "Old wine to drink, old books to read, old jokes to--"
"To cry over," prompted Jack. "All right. No use in cutting up rough
now. We'll have to make the best of a bad show. Just so long as Harris
and Kirby don't start to using their fists on each other during their
turn I suppose I can't kick."
"Well, let's go to supper," said Roy.
CHAPTER XIV
THE ENTERTAINMENT AND HOW IT ENDED
Entertainment for the Benefit of the Ferry Hill School Hockey
Association in the Gymnasium, Wednesday Evening, December 22d.
Programme
PART I.
OVERTURE: "_Uncle Sammy_," ORCHESTRA
FOR ONE NIGHT ONLY!
The World-Famous Aggregation of Senegambian Entertainers known as the
Darktown Minstrels, just returned from their Triumphant Tour of Europe,
Asia, Africa and New Jersey, where they delighted Royalty and barely
escaped with their Lives!
ONE NIGHT ONLY!! READ THE NAMES!!
_Interlocutor_ MR. ROGERS
_Bones_ MESSRS. POST AND HARRIS
_Tambourines_ MESSRS. EATON AND WHITCOMB
_Disturbers-of-the-Peace_ MESSRS. COBB, BUCKMAN,
THURLOW, FORREST, GALLUP, KIRBY, WARREN, PRYOR,
BACON, STONE, HARRIS, SHATTUCK, PATTEN AND WELCH.
_Solos_ (the audience permitting) by MESSRS. COBB, POST, THURLOW AND
FORREST.
_Duets_ (at any cost) by MESSRS. BUCKMAN AND COBB, HARRIS AND KIRBY.
_Monologues by_ MR. COBB
_Imitations by_ MR. EATON
To be followed by the First Appearance in this part of the Country of
Professor Carlos Cole, Prince of Prestidigitators, in Astounding Card
Tricks, Marvellous Feats of Sleight-of-Hand and Appalling Wonders of
White and Black Magic never before seen on any stage and not likely to
be again! (The Management earnestly requests Members of the Audience not
to loan the Professor either money or hats. The Management will not be
Responsible for the Return of such Articles.)
The Whole to Terminate in a Beautiful and Fantastic Revelry of Song and
Mirth entitled:
"_Christmas Eve on the Plantation!_"
INTERMISSION.