“The fellow who put these posts in,” grunted Bob, as he heaved and
tugged, “must have had more time than brains!”
It was Thursday afternoon. A hard frost, which had frozen the ground a
half-inch deep, had counseled him to finish the work of wrecking the
arbor. But three posts remained, and at one of these Bob, after having
dug around it, and pried at it with a bar until patience was exhausted,
was tugging lustily. Laurie, wiping the sweat of honest toil from his
brow, cast aside the bar and gave a hand.
“Come on,” he said hopefully. “One, two—three! Heave!”
“Heave!” muttered Bob.
But although the post, which had formed a corner of the arbor, gave from
side to side, it refused to leave its nest. Panting, the boys drew off
and observed it glumly.
“Guess we’ll have to dig some more,” said Bob.
“Wait a minute. Let me get a purchase on it with the bar.”
Laurie seized that implement again and drove it into the softened earth
beside the post. As the first drive didn’t send it far enough, he pulled
it out, and put all his strength into the next effort. This time he
succeeded beyond all expectations. The bar slipped through his fingers
and disappeared from sight!
“Well!” he gasped. “What do you know—”
“Where-where did it go to?” cried Bob, dumfounded.
“It went—it went to China, I guess! It just slipped right through my
hands, and kept on slipping!” Laurie knelt and dug at the hole with his
fingers.
“Find it?” asked Bob. “Try the shovel.”
“No, I can’t feel it. Hand it here.” Laurie took the shovel and dug
frantically. Then Bob dug. The result was that they enlarged and
deepened the hole around the post, but the crowbar failed to
materialize.
“I suppose,” said Laurie, finally, dropping the shovel and tilting back
his cap, “what happened was that I struck a sort of hole, and the bar
went right down in. Maybe it was a rat-hole, Bob.”
“I guess so. Anyway, it’s gone, and we’ll have to get a new one.”
“Oh, I guess we’ll find it when we get the post out. Let’s try the old
thing.”
They did, and, after a moment of indecision, it came out most
obligingly. But there was still no crowbar to be seen. Laurie shook his
head, mystified. “That’s the funniest thing I ever saw,” he declared.
“It surely is! Look here; maybe there’s an old well there.”
“Then why didn’t the post go down into it?”
“Because it’s covered over with stones. The bar happened to slip into
a—a crevice.”
Laurie nodded dubiously. “That might be it,” he agreed. “Or perhaps
we’ve discovered a subterranean cavern!”
“Caverns always are subterranean, aren’t they?”
“No; sometimes they’re in the side of a hill.”
“Then they’re caves.”
“A cave and a cavern are the same thing, you smart Aleck.”
“All right; but even if a cavern is in a hill, it’s underground, and
subterranean means under—”
“Help! You win, Bob! Come on and get hold of this log and let’s get it
out of here.” And, as they staggered with it across the garden to add it
to the pile of posts and lumber already there, he continued: “There’s
one thing certain, Bob, and that’s that you won’t get me to play tennis
on your court. I’d be afraid of sinking into the ground some fine day!”
“Maybe you’d find the crowbar then,” said Bob. “Heave!”
Laurie “heaved,” patted the brown loam from his hands, and surveyed the
pile. “There’s a lot of good stuff there,” he pondered. “Some of it’s
sort of rotten, but there’s enough to build something.”
“What do you want to build?”
“I don’t know. We could build a sort of covered seat, like the one in
Polly’s yard, where folks could rest and look on. Take about six of
these posts and some of the strips, and some boards for the seat—”
“Who’d dig the post-holes?” inquired Bob, coldly.
“Oh, we could get a couple of the others to help. Honest, Bob, it would
be a lot of fun. Maybe we couldn’t do it before spring, though.”
“I might leave the stuff here,” said Bob. “Thomas could sort of pile it
a little neater, you know. I love to carpenter. Sometime we’ll draw a
plan of it, Nod.”
“Right-o! How about those other posts? No use trying to do anything with
’em to-day, is there?”
“No; we’ll have to have another crowbar.”
Laurie looked relieved. “Well, let’s go over and see whether the Widow’s
got any of those little cakes with the chocolate on top,” he suggested.
“Hard work always makes a fellow hungry.”
There was a rousing football meeting in the auditorium that evening,
with speeches and music, songs and cheers; and the enthusiasm spilled
over to the yard afterward, and threatened to become unruly until Dan
Whipple mounted the steps of School Hall and spoke with all the
authority of eighteen years and the senior class presidency. Whereupon
someone suggested a cheer for the Doctor, and the joyous crowd thronged
to the west end of the building and gave nine long “Hillman’s,” with a
“Doctor Hillman” on the end. And then suddenly the lights flashed on on
the porch, and there were the Doctor and Miss Tabitha, the former
looking very much as if he had awakened very recently from a nap—which
was, in fact, the case. But he was smiling as he stepped to the doorway
and near-sightedly surveyed the throng.
“This—er—testimonial would appear to demand some sort of a response,”
he announced, as the applause that had greeted his appearance died away.
“But I find myself singularly devoid of words, boys. Perhaps some of you
recall the story of the visitor in Sunday-school who was unexpectedly
called on by the superintendent to address the children. He hemmed and
hawed and said, finally, that it gave him much pleasure to see so many
smiling, happy faces. And he hoped they were all good little boys and
girls and knew their lessons. And then his eloquence failed him, and
after an unhappy interim he asked: ‘And now, children, what shall I
say?’ And a little girl in the front row lisped: ‘Pleathe, Mithter, thay
“Amen” and thit down!’
“Perhaps I’d better say ‘Amen’ and sit down, too,” he went on, when the
laughter had ceased; “but before I do I’d like to assure you that I am
‘rooting’ just as hard as any of you for a victory the day after
to-morrow. My duties will not allow me to see the team in action, as
much as I’d like to, but I am kept well informed of its progress. I have
my scouts at work constantly. Mr. Pennington reports to me on the work
of the linemen; Mr. Barrett advises me each day as to the backs; Mr.
Wells is my authority on—er—stratagem.”
This amused his hearers intensely, since none of the three instructors
mentioned had ever been known to attend a game or watch a practice.
“And,” continued the principal, when he could, “I follow the newspaper
reports of our enemy’s progress. Of course, I don’t believe all I read.
If I did I’d be certain that only overwhelming disaster awaited us on
Saturday. But there is one thing that troubles me. I read recently that
the Farview center is a very large youth, weighing, if I am not
mistaken, some one hundred and seventy pounds. While mere weight and
brawn are not everything, I yet tremble to consider what may happen to
the slight, atomic youth who will oppose him. Young gentlemen, I shudder
when I dwell on that unequal meeting, that impending battle of David and
Goliath!”
When the new burst of laughter had subsided, the doctor continued more
soberly: “I wish the team all success, a notable victory. Or, if the
gods of battle will it otherwise, I wish it the manly grace to accept
defeat smilingly and undismayed. I am certain of one thing, boys, which
is that, whether fortune favors the Dark Blue or the Maroon and White,
the contest will be hard fought and clean, and bring honor alike to the
victor and vanquished. You have my heartiest good wishes. And”—the
doctor took the hand of Miss Tabitha, who had been standing a few steps
behind him—“and the heartiest good wishes of another, who, while not a
close follower of your sports, has a warm spot in her heart for each and
every one of you, and who is as firmly convinced as I am of the
invincibility of the Dark Blue!”
“Three cheers for Tab—for Miss Hillman!” cried a voice; and, at first a
trifle ragged with laughter, the cheers rang forth heartily. Then came
another cheer for the doctor and a rousing one for “Hillman’s!
_Hillman’s!!_ HILLMAN’S!!!” And the little throng, laughing and
chattering, dispersed to the dormitories.
Friday saw but a light practice for the first team and a final
appearance of the scrubs, who, cheered by the students, went through a
few minutes of snappy signal work, and the waving sweaters and blankets
dashed off to the field-house, their period of servitude at an end. For
the first team there was a long blackboard drill in the gymnasium after
supper, and Ned, who, somewhat to his surprise and very much to his
gratification, had been retained on the squad, returned to Number 16 at
nine o’clock in a rather bemused condition of mind. Kewpie, who
accompanied him, tried to cheer him up.
“It’ll be all right to-morrow, Nid,” he declared. “I know how you feel.
Fact is, I wouldn’t know one signal from another if I got it this
minute, and as for those sequences—” Words failed him. “But when you
get on the field to-morrow it’ll all come back to you. It—it’s sort of
psychological. A trick of memory and all that. You understand!”
“I don’t see why he needs to worry, anyhow,” observed Laurie, cruelly.
“He won’t get a show in to-morrow’s game.”
Ned looked hopeful for a moment, then relapsed into dejection as Kewpie
answered: “I’d like to bet you he will, Nod. I’d like to bet you that
he’ll play a full period. You just watch Farview lay for Pope! Boy,
they’re going to make hard weather for that lad! They were after him
last year, but they couldn’t get him and he played right through. But
I’d like to bet you that to-morrow they’ll have him out of it before the
last quarter.”
“What do you mean?” asked Laurie, in surprise. “They don’t play that
sort of a game, do they?”
“What sort of a game?” responded Kewpie. “They play hard, that’s the way
they play! And every time they tackle Pope, they’ll tackle him so he’ll
know it. And every time he hits the line, there’ll be one of those
red-legs waiting for him. Oh, they don’t play dirty, if you mean that;
but they don’t let any chances slip, believe me!”
“It sounds sort of off color to me, though,” Laurie objected. “How are
you going to put a fellow out of the game if you don’t slug or do
something like that?”
Kewpie smiled knowingly. “My son,” he said, “if I start after you and
run you around the dormitory about twenty times—”
Ned, in spite of his down-heartedness, snickered at the picture evolved,
and Kewpie grinned.
“Well, suppose some one else did, then. Anyhow, after he’d done it about
a couple of dozen times, you’d be all in, wouldn’t you? He wouldn’t have
to kick you or knock you down or anything, would he? Well, that’s what I
mean. That’s the way they’ll go after Pope. They’ll tire him out. You
understand. And every time they tackle him, they’ll tackle him good and
hard. Well, suppose Pope does go out, and there’s a chance for a field
goal, as there’s likely to be. Who will Pinky put in? Why, Nid, of
course! Who else is there? Brattle can’t kick one goal in six. No more
can Deering. What do you think Mulford’s been nursing Nid all the season
for?”
“Next year?” said Laurie, questioningly.
“Sure—and this year, too. You watch and see. I’d like to bet you that
Nid’ll have a goal to kick to-morrow—yes, and that he’ll kick it, too!”
“Don’t!” groaned Ned. “I never could do it!”
“Well,” laughed Laurie, “I don’t bet for money, Kewpie, but I tell you
what I’ll do. If Ned kicks a goal to-morrow, I’ll take you over to the
Widow’s, and I’ll buy you all the cream-puffs you can eat at one
sitting!”
“It’s a go!” cried Kewpie. “And if he doesn’t, I’ll do it to you!”
“Of course,” explained Laurie, in recognition of his brother’s look of
pained inquiry, “I’m not making the offer because I think Ned can’t do
it, or because I don’t want him to play. You bet I do! It’s because I do
want him to, Kewpie. You see, I usually lose bets!”
“All right, you crazy galoot. I’ve got to beat it. Pinky made us swear
by the Great Horn Spoon to be in bed by ten. Good night. Don’t let the
signal stuff worry you, Nid. It’ll come out all right to-morrow. You
understand. Night!”
When the door had closed, Laurie laughed and turned to Ned. “He’s a good
old scout, isn’t he? I say, what’s the matter with you, Ned? You look
like the end of a hard winter! Cheer up! It may not be true!”
But Ned shook his head, although he tried to smile unconcernedly. “It’ll
happen just the way he told, Laurie,” he said, sadly. “I just know it
will! They’ll get Pope out of the way, and there’ll be a field goal
wanted, just as there was Wednesday, and Mulford will send me in!”
“Well, what of it? You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
“I—I’m scared!”
“Oh, piffle, Neddie! You’ve got nerves, that’s all. The night before the
battle, you know, and all that! In the morning you’ll be as right as
rain. Get your clothes off and tumble in. Want me to read a story to
you? There’s a corker in the ‘Post’ this week.”
“No, thanks; I guess not. I’d better go to sleep.”
But, although Ned, stifling a desire to sit up and read the corking
story himself, put the light out at ten minutes before ten, he lay awake
until after midnight and suffered as blue a case of funk as any boy ever
did. And when, at length, sleep came, it was filled with visions in
which he stood in the center of a vast arena, the object of countless
eyes, and tried over and over, and never with success, to kick a
perfectly gigantic leather ball over a cross-bar that was higher than
the Masonic Temple at home!
The truth is that Ned was over-trained and stale. And the further truth
is that when he awoke to as sweet a November morning as ever peered down
from a cloudless sky through golden sunlight, he felt, as he phrased it
to himself, like a sock that had just come through the wringer!