AN OLD FRIEND.
"MARCH! Joel March!"
Joel was striding along under the shadow of the chapel on his way from a
recitation to Mayer and his room. The familiar tones came from the
direction of the library, and turning he saw Stephen Remsen trotting
toward him with no regard for the grass. Joel hurdled the knee-high wire
barrier and strode to meet him. The two shook hands warmly, almost
affectionately, in the manner of those who are glad to meet.
"March, I'm delighted to see you again! I was just going to look you up.
Which way were you going?"
"Up to the room. Can't you come up for a while? When'd you arrive? Are
you going to stay now?"
"Third down!" laughed Remsen. "No gain! What a fellow you are for
questions, March! I got in this morning, and I'm going to stay until
after the Yates game. They telegraphed me to come and coach the tackles.
Instead of going to your room let's go to mine. I've taken a suite of
one room and a closet at Dixon's on the avenue. I haven't unpacked my
toothbrush yet. Come over with me and take lunch, and we'll talk it
all over."
So Joel stuck his books under his arm and the two crossed the yard,
traversing the quadrangle in front of University and debouching on to
the avenue near where the tall shaft of the Soldiers' Monument gleams in
the sunlight. But they did not wait until Remsen's room was gained to
"talk it all over." Joel had lots to tell about the Hillton fellows whom
he had not lost sight of: of how Clausen was captain of the freshman
Eleven and was displaying a wonderful faculty for generalship; how West
was still golfing and had at last met foemen worthy of his steel; how
Dicky Sproule was in college taking a special course, and struggling
along under popular dislike; how Whipple and Cooke were rooming together
in Peck, the former playing on the sophomore class team and going in for
rowing, and the latter still the same idle, good-natured ignoramus, and
liked by every fellow who knew him; how Digbee was grinding in Lanter
with Somers; how Cartwright had joined the Glee Club; and how Christie
had left college and gone into business with his father.
"And Cloud?" asked Remsen. "Have you seen him?"
"Yes, once or twice. I've heard that he was very well liked when he left
St. Eustace last year. I dare say he has turned over a new leaf since
his father died."
"Indeed? I hadn't heard of that."
"West heard it. He died last spring, and left Cloud pretty near
penniless, they say. I have an idea that he has taken a brace and is
studying more than he used to."
"The chap has plenty of good qualities, I suppose. We all have our bad
ones, you know. Perhaps it only needed some misfortune to wake up the
lad's better nature. They say virtue thrives best on homely fare, and,
like lots of other proverbs, I guess it's sometimes true."
Then Remsen told of his visit to Hillton a few weeks previous. The
Eleven this year was in pretty good shape, he thought; Greene, an upper
middle man, was captain; they expected to have an easy time with St.
Eustace, who was popularly supposed to be in a bad way for veteran
players. That same Greene was winning the golf tournament when he was
there, Remsen continued, and the golf club was in better shape than ever
before, thanks to the hard work of West, Whipple, Blair, and a few
others in building it up.
The two friends reached the house, and Remsen led the way into his room,
and set about unpacking his things. Joel took up a position on the bed
and gave excellent advice as to the disposal of everything from a pair
of stockings to a typewriter.
"It's a strange fact," said Remsen as he thrust a suit of pajamas under
the pillow, "that Outfield West is missed at Hillton more than any
fellow who has graduated from there for several years past. Perhaps I
don't mean exactly strange, either, for of course he's a fellow that
every one naturally likes. What I do mean is that one would naturally
suppose fellows like Blair or Whipple would leave the most regrets
behind them, for Blair was generally conceded to be the most popular
fellow in school the last two years of his stay, and Whipple was surely
running him a close second. And certainly their memories are still
green. But everywhere I went it was: 'Have you heard from Outfield
West?' 'How's West getting on at college?' And strange to say, such
inquiries were not confined to the fellows alone. Professor Wheeler
asked after West particularly, and so did Briggs, and several others of
the faculty; and Mrs. Cowles as well.
"But you are still the hero there, March. The classic history of Hillton
still recounts the prowess of one Joel the First, who kicked a goal from
field and defeated thereby the hosts of St. Eustace. And Professor
Durkee shakes his head and says he will never have another so attentive
and appreciative member of his class. And now tell me, how are you
getting on with Dutton?"
So Joel recited his football adventures in full, not omitting the
ludicrous touch-down, which received laughing applause from his
listener, and recounting his promotion to the position of Varsity
substitute.
"Yes, I saw in the paper last week that you had been placed on the sub
list of the Varsity. I hope you'll have a chance to play against Yates,
although I don't wish Prince any harm. He's a good fellow and a hard
worker. Hello, it's one-fifteen. Let's get some lunch."
A half hour later they parted, Joel hurrying off to recitation and
Remsen remaining behind to keep an appointment with a friend. After this
they met almost every day, and Remsen was a frequent caller at Joel's
room, where he with Joel and Outfield held long, cosy chats about every
subject from enameling golf balls to the Philosophy of Kant and the
Original Protoplasm.
Meanwhile the season hurried along. Harwell met and defeated the usual
string of minor opponents by varying scores, and ran up against the red
and blue of Keystone College with disastrous results. But one important
contest intervened between the present time and the game with Yates, and
the hardest sort of hard work went on daily inside the inclosed field. A
small army of graduates had returned to coach the different players, and
the daily papers were filled, according to their wont, with columns of
sensational speculation and misinformation regarding the merits of the
team and the work they were performing. Out of the mass of clashing
"facts" contained in the daily journals but one thing was absolutely
apparent: to wit, the work of the Harwell Eleven was known only to the
men and the coaches, and neither would tell about it.
At last, when chill November had been for a few days in the land, the
game with the red and white clad warriors from Ithaca took place on a
wet and muddy field, and Joel played the game through from start to
finish, Prince being engaged in nursing his treacherous ankle, which had
developed alarming symptoms with the advent of wet weather. The game
resulted in a score of twenty-four to five, the Ithacans scoring a neat,
but inexcusable, goal from field in the first half. Joel played like a
Trojan, and went around the left end of the opposing line time and again
for good gains, until the mere placing of the ball in his hands was
accepted by the spectators as equal to an accomplished gain.
Wesley Blair made a dashing charge through a crowded field for twelve
yards and scored a touch-down that brought the onlookers to their feet
cheering. Dutton, the captain, played a steady brilliant interfering
game, and Kingdon, at right half-back, plunged through the guard-tackle
holes time and again with the ball hugged to his stomach, and kept his
feet in a manner truly marvelous until the last inch had been gained.
But critics nevertheless said unkind things of the team work as they
wended their way back over the sodden turf, and shook their heads
dubiously over the field-goal scored by the opponents. There would be a
general shaking up on the morrow, they predicted, and we should see what
we should see. And the coaches, too, although they dissembled their
feelings under cheerful countenances, found much to condemn, and the
operations of bathing, dressing, and weighing that afternoon were less
enjoyable to the breathless, tattered men.
The next day the team "went into executive session," as Joel called it,
and the predicted shake-up took place. Murdoch, the left guard, was
deemed too slight for the place, and was sent to the side line, from
where he presently crawled to a seat on the great empty stand, and
hiding his blanketed head wept like a child. And there were other
changes made. Joel kept his place at left half, pending the bettering of
Prince's ankle, and Blair was secure at full. But when the practice game
began, many of the old forms were either missing or to be seen in the
second Eleven's line, and the coaches hovered over the field of battle
with dark, forbidding looks, and said mean things whenever the
opportunity presented itself, and were icily polite to each other, as
men will be when they know themselves to be in the right and every one
else in the wrong. And so practice that Thursday was an unpleasant
affair, and had the desired effect; for the men played the game for all
that was in them and attended strictly to the matter in hand, forgetting
for the time the intricacies of Latin compositions and the terrors of
coming examinations. When it was over Joel crawled off of the scale with
the emotions of a weary draught horse and took his way slowly toward
home. In the square he ran against Outfield, who, armed with a monstrous
bag of golf requisites, had just leaped off a car.
"Hello, Joel," he cried. "What's happened? Another off-sider? Have you
broken that finger again? Honest Injun, what's up?"
"Nothing, Out; I'm just kind of half dead. We had two thirty-minute
halves, with forty-'leven coaches yelling at us every second, and a
field like a turnip patch just before seeding. Oh, no, there's nothing
the matter; only if you know of any quiet corner where I can die in
peace, lead me there, Out. I won't keep you long; it will soon be over."
"No, I don't, my flippant young friend, but I know something a heap
better."
"Nothing can be better any more, Out. Still--well, what is it?"
"A couple of hot lemonades and a pair of fat sandwiches at Noster's.
Come along."
"You're not so bad, Out," said Joel as they hurried up the street. "You
have _moments_ of almost human intelligence!"