Kitabı oku: «Full-Back Foster», sayfa 13
CHAPTER XXV
FALSE COLOURS
The preliminary season came to an end the next day with the St. Luke’s Academy game. Football affairs had become fairly hectic now and the school marched to the field behind a strident brass band, cheering and singing. Mass-meetings had been held twice weekly ever since the Warne High School contest, and songs had been practised and cheers rehearsed, and today Parkinson was in fine voice and filled with enthusiasm. St. Luke’s was not a formidable opponent, and for that reason had been chosen to fill in the last date before the Kenwood game. A wise coach selects the semi-final adversary with care and deliberation, and a wrong selection may work much harm to his charges. St. Luke’s was warranted by past experience to give Parkinson a good battle without requiring any extraordinary exertions on the latter’s part. Usually the score was one or two touchdowns to none, although not so long ago the generally docile St. Luke’s had kicked over the traces in the annual event and thrown a healthy scare into Parkinson. On that historic occasion the final score had been 17 to 10 in the home team’s favour.
The Brown line-up was exactly as at the start of the Chancellor game, with a single exception. The name of Foster appeared as full-back instead of Kearns. Whether he had been put in to save Kearns for the Kenwood game or whether he was there on his merits, Myron couldn’t decide. But he played a good game while he remained in the line-up. The cheering was fine and put heart into them all, and Myron felt that afternoon as though he could “lick his weight in wild-cats,” as Joe might have put it. He wasn’t called on for many punts, which was perhaps fortunate, for his punting still lacked control. If he got distance he was likely to send the pigskin to the wrong place, while if he obtained direction he was liable to kick short. But in the other departments he showed up strongly. He was a big addition to the backfield on defence, using his weight very knowingly, and more than one St. Luke’s gain was nipped in the bud by him. Speed aided him at line plunges, and his runs, of which he got off three during the time he played, together netted nineteen yards against clever ends. Altogether, he was a success, and coach and school recognised the fact, and when, five minutes after the beginning of the second half, he got rather the worst of a mix-up with the St. Luke’s left half and was taken out in favour of Kearns, he got a hearty cheer as he walked none too steadily to the bench.
Myron was not the only player who deserved praise that afternoon, for every fellow on the team was good. If the perfection exhibited in the Chancellor game was not quite duplicated it was possibly because the incentive was lacking. St. Luke’s was outweighed by several pounds and was slower than she should have been. And she seemed, too, to lack plays adapted to her style of football. Parkinson failed to score in the first quarter, ran up eleven points in the second, seven more in the third and, in the last period, with a line consisting almost entirely of substitutes, and with second-string backs behind it, added a field goal by way of good measure. Every one, even Coach Driscoll, appeared perfectly satisfied with the afternoon’s performance, and Parkinson’s stock soared high that evening. It looked very much as if the season was to glide smoothly and uneventfully to a satisfactory close. But a week still intervened, and in a week much may happen.
On Monday, Norris, right end, started the programme of events by breaking a bone in his right ankle. He did it by falling over a pail on the stairs in Williams Hall. It wasn’t a serious disaster, but it might easily impair his playing ability five days later. Tuesday, Grafton, first-choice substitute for Captain Mellen, came down with laryngitis, and Snow, who was due to take Cantrell’s place at centre in the event of that player’s retirement, was called home to Illinois because of serious illness in the family. Coach Driscoll smiled grimly and wondered what further misfortunes could happen in the remaining three days. Coach Driscoll, it may be said, was never designed for the peaceful life. He was more contented when he was facing difficulties. Jud Mellen, himself worried by the ill-luck, remarked almost resentfully Tuesday evening: “Gee, Coach, any one would think you’d got news that the whole Kenwood team was down with the sleeping sickness, you look so bright and merry. I’m sick!”
“No use pulling a long face, Cap,” replied Mr. Driscoll. “After all, we’ve come through the season remarkably. Something was bound to go wrong, and I felt it. I guess I’m rather relieved to find out what it is. And it might have been worse.”
“Yes, we might have lost the whole team,” responded Jud sarcastically. “Oh, I suppose we can pull through if nothing worse happens, but I’m expecting Katie to fall off a roof or Brown to get kicked by a mule tomorrow. This has got me going for fair!”
“You look after Number One,” advised the coach. “The best way to kill a trouble is to laugh it to death!”
Jud expressed incredulous surprise when Wednesday passed without further misfortunes. There was a monster meeting that night and a march through town and a speech by the Principal from the porch of his residence and much enthusiasm and noise. Myron did not take part in the observances, for the players were now required to remain in their rooms evenings as far as possible and to be in bed promptly at ten o’clock. So far, Myron had felt no nervousness, nothing approaching stage-fright, but when Thursday arrived and the field was well surrounded with cheering youths and townsfolk and the band that was to play on Saturday was adding to the din and there was only light signal work, followed by punting and catching for the backs, instead of the relief of a good, hard scrimmage, why, then he felt a trifle fluttery about the heart. It meant so much to all those eager-eyed, laughing but secretly earnest boys about him, that hoped-for victory, and he was chosen to aid in the securing of it! The realisation of responsibility sobered him and then left him a trifle panic-stricken. Suppose he failed them, the coach and Captain Mellen and the school! For the moment it seemed that in such an event he would not have the courage to stay on and face them all. He almost wished that Coach Driscoll would let Kearns play instead! But that wish didn’t last long, and the panic was short-lived, too. There was still a vague uneasiness disturbing him, however, and that uneasiness was due to remain with him during his waking hours until the whistle blew on Saturday.
The second team, its usefulness at an end, cheered and was cheered and performed a dignified ceremony behind the east goal, to which, since the first team players had trotted back to the gymnasium, the audience flocked. Gravely, reverently, torn jerseys, worn-out pants, shoes beyond aid and various other disreputable articles of football attire and use were piled on the jumping pit. Then a football rules book was laid on top of all, a gallon of kerosene applied and around the blazing pyre the members of the second team slowly circled with joined hands, chanting a strange jumble of atrocious Latin and scarcely more acceptable English. Gradually the pace grew faster and the pæan brisker until, presently, the scene was a ludicrous whirl of bodies amidst a wild shriek of song and a cloud of smoke. In such manner the second team disbanded, at the end, spent with laughter and breathless from their exertions, giving three feeble groans for Kenwood and “nine long Parkinsons”!
Friday was a long and gloomy day. There was little use trying to do anything at recitations if you were on the team, and not much more if you weren’t. You just bluffed, if you could, or threw yourself on the mercy of the instructors, trusting that they would prove human enough to be lenient. They usually were, for long experience had proved to the Parkinson faculty that for a week before the big game and for several days after it normal members of the student body were incapable of interest in studies. To make matters more dismal on Friday, it rained. It didn’t rain in a cheerful, whole-souled way, but drizzled and stopped and sulked and drizzled again, and you wanted to be outdoors if you were in and wanted to be back again as soon as you were out. There was blackboard work for the players in the afternoon and signal drill in the evening. Afterwards Myron and Joe and Andrew chatted in Number 17 until bedtime, while from over in front of Parkinson Hall the cheers of some five hundred youths arose to the cloudy sky. Then came ten o’clock, and Andy went, and the room-mates got thoughtfully out of their clothes and crept beneath the covers, each a trifle more silent than usual. To Myron’s surprise, sleep came after a very short time, and when he awoke the sun was bright in a crisp November world and there were roystering sounds from the bath-rooms down the corridor.
The first Kenwood invaders appeared well before noon, and every hour after that brought more until by two o’clock the streets of the town, already fairly impartially arrayed as to shop windows with the blue and the brown, wore a decidedly cerulean hue. For the team, dinner was served at twelve instead of one, and after that there remained a long hour and a half before they could find relief from inaction. They were at liberty to do as they liked within reasonable limits, and Myron and Joe and Chas wandered across the campus and down School Street in search of diversion. Chas was, in his own language, “too old a bird to have nerves,” and he didn’t intend that either of the others should either. He was bubbling over with good spirits and kept Myron and Joe laughing from the time the three of them left the campus. Perhaps his cheerfulness was largely due to the fact that, at the eleventh hour, Coach Driscoll had chosen him over Brodhead for left guard. And perhaps the coach had never intended to do anything else. Chas never knew as to that. But he did know that had things turned out differently for him his plans for next season would have been of as much interest as a last year’s bird’s nest!
Their progress through the unusually thronged streets was frequently interrupted while Chas greeted an acquaintance, generally one of the enemy. In front of the hotel quite a crowd had collected to peer through doors and windows at the Kenwood heroes, who, having eaten dinner, were herded in the lobby about coach and trainer and rubbers. The three pushed into the throng until they could glimpse their adversaries, and Chas pointed out several of the notables to the others: Leeds, captain and right tackle; the much-respected McAfee, left half-back; Odell, full-back and goal kicker extraordinary; Garrity, the Blue’s clever quarter. “And the others I don’t know the names of,” said Chas, “although that whaling big, pop-eyed monster must be Todd, their centre. He’s a new one this year. Wonder which of the bunch is Lampley, the chap I’m up against.”
“And I wonder which is my man,” said Joe. “I hope he’s like his name!”
“Frost, isn’t it?” asked Chas. “They say he’s good, but you’ll know more about him along toward four-thirty.”
“Who are the fellows over there by the desk?” asked Myron.
“The tall one’s their coach, and I guess the others are the Board of Strategy, which is a fancy name for a bunch of fellows who travel around with the team and get their expenses paid out of the travelling fund. I think the short fellow is Whitely, their manager, but I’m not certain. Come on, we’ll see enough of them before the afternoon’s over!”
In the act of turning, Myron’s gaze encountered a rather tall youth in the lobby whose face became for the first time visible to him at that moment. Surely it was Maurice Millard, he thought. And yet it couldn’t be, since Millard would never be hob-nobbing with the Kenwood coach. Resisting Chas’ tug at his sleeve, he gazed at the object of his speculations while a vague uneasiness took possession of him. It was Millard! He knew him now. It was Millard in a long fuzzy brown ulster and a derby hat, Millard looking far less carefree and cordial than he remembered him. Myron seized the departing Chas and literally dragged him back through the crowd.
“Who’s the tall, good-looking fellow in the brown coat?” he demanded anxiously.
“Where is he? I don’t see any good, tall-looking fellow in – Oh, yes! That’s What’s-his-name, the Kenwood third baseman. He’s a pill. He’s played with them two years. Know him?”
“I think so,” answered Myron, “a – a little. His name’s Millard, isn’t it?”
“Mill-ah? No, it isn’t Mill-ah; it’s Cooke, Arthur Cooke. Come along home and stop annoying the animals.”
Myron looked again, but there was no chance for doubt. He turned and made his way through the group of loiterers in the wake of Chas and Joe. When he had overtaken the former he asked earnestly: “Are you quite certain his name is Cooke, Cummins?”
“Sure I am! Why not? He’s the blow-hard that was going to do all sorts of things to Liddell last spring, if you believe the papers. He is a pretty fair batter, and that’s no joke, but Liddell had him swinging like a gate and as mad as a hornet. He got a scratch single, and that’s all he did get, the big boob!”
“And – and he’s – he’s one of the Kenwood Board of Strategy, as you call it?” asked Myron faintly.
“Yes, sort of. He scouts for them, I guess. Anyway, I heard they caught him snooping around the grounds of Chancellor last year and mighty near tore his shirt off. Kenwood has a fine old spy system, Foster, but it never gets her anywhere except back home!”
Myron set the pace for the rest on the way back, his thoughts appearing to affect his feet. It was still only a little after a quarter past one and they were not due at the gymnasium until two. In that scant three-quarters of an hour, reflected Myron sickeningly, he must find Coach Driscoll and make his humiliating confession. Whether he had given Millard, or Cooke, enough information to affect the game, Myron didn’t know, but he did know that the manly and honest thing to do was to tell the coach all about it and let him decide that question. That Mr. Driscoll would let him play on the team after his confession had been made was highly improbable, but there was no help for that. In front of Parkinson Hall he made some sort of confused excuse to the others and hurried away.
CHAPTER XXVI
BEHIND THE STAND
“You mean to tell me,” said Coach Driscoll incredulously, “that you talked about the team to a perfect stranger, Foster, to a fellow met on a station platform?”
“Not so much the first time, sir,” answered Myron miserably. “It was when he came here. He didn’t seem like a stranger then, and I thought he was what he said he was.”
“You did, eh? Why, he has prep school written all over him! I simply can’t understand it, Foster!” The coach looked helplessly to Jud Mellen and from Jud to Farnsworth and Chas and Katie. Myron had run Mr. Driscoll to earth at last in the gymnasium, in consultation with the trainer, and now they were in the little office of Mr. Tasser, the physical director. The others had been summoned from the locker room downstairs, being the only players then in the building. Having produced them, Billy Goode had discreetly closed the door behind them and retired to the entrance, where Myron could see him now through the glass partition, his purple and white sweater radiant in the sunlight that flooded through the doorway. Myron rather preferred looking at Billy to meeting the accusing gaze of the coach. He was not having a very happy time of it.
“Cooke’s crafty,” offered Katie. “I guess he could easily make you believe he was a travelling salesman if he wanted to try, and you didn’t know him.”
Chas nodded, scowling, but the coach said impatiently: “What of it? Even if Foster thought he was that, he shouldn’t have talked. A travelling man is the last person on earth to tell secrets to! Didn’t it even occur to you, Foster, that the fellow might repeat what you said?”
“No, sir, it didn’t. He seemed such a – a decent sort, Mr. Driscoll!”
“Let’s get this right,” said Jud impatiently. “Tell us again just what you told him, as near as you can remember.”
Myron did so. His recollection of the two conversations was none too clear, however, and he faltered several times.
“And then he brought in the subject of signals?” prompted the coach. “Can you remember what you told him then?”
“I don’t think I told him anything of – of consequence,” answered Myron. “He said he thought that simple signals were best and told a lot of stories about games where the players had got the signals wrong because they were too complicated. And he told about some team a long while ago where they used to use words instead of numbers. I said our signals were simple enough, and he said he supposed we numbered the openings and the players from right to left; or maybe he said left to right. And I told him we didn’t; that we began at the ends and numbered in; and then Eddie Moses stopped the cab quick and threw us off the seat.”
“Eddie appears to deserve a medal and resolutions of thanks,” observed the coach drily. “You’re quite certain that was all you told him, Foster? It was at the point you speak of that the jolt came?”
“Yes, sir. I think I had started to say something else, but I didn’t have time.”
There was a moment of thoughtful silence. Myron looked about the circle of troubled faces and wished himself at the bottom of the ocean. At last Chas spoke. “Well, say, folks, I don’t see that there’s been much harm done. Foster didn’t tell that fox anything Kenwood didn’t know already, I guess, except about the signals. They’ve seen us play all fall and know just about as much about our players and the way they play as we do.”
“That’s so,” murmured Farnsworth. “They had three scouts at the Chancellor game.”
“What about the signals, though?” asked Mr. Driscoll, frowning. “How much could Cooke make of what Foster so kindly informed him?”
“Mighty little, I’d say,” answered Katie. “There are just as many ways of numbering from the ends to the middle as there are from one end to the other, or from the middle out. Seems to me this Eddie boy put the brakes on at about the right minute!”
“Eddie ought to get a season ticket,” said Chas.
“Well, the fat’s in the fire and there’s no use trying to pull it out now,” said the coach resignedly. “If we find they’re on to our signals we’ll have to switch. I guess we’d better arrange a new code before the game, Cater.”
“That’s easy, Coach. Just change about and number from the centre out.”
“Wouldn’t do, Cater. The fellows would get balled up unless they had a good hour’s drill first. We’ll have to think up some simpler method.”
“Double the odd numbers,” suggested Chas. “Call 1, 11, 2, 22; and so on. They did that last year on the second and we couldn’t get it at all till they told us after the season.”
“That might do,” agreed the coach, and the rest nodded. “That would make outside left end 99,” he reflected. “Sound all right to you, Cater?”
“Sure! That’s easy enough, but what about 11, 13 and 15? Call them 111, 113 and 115?”
“I think so. We’ll have to change the sequence call, though. We’ll make it any even number over 100.”
“Your friend Cooke wouldn’t approve, though, Foster,” said Farnsworth. “He’d say they were too complicated.”
Myron flushed, but made no answer.
“Get the team together as soon as you can, Cap,” said the coach, “and let Cater go over the new signals with them a couple of times. Mind, though, we don’t change unless it’s evident that Kenwood is solving the plays. That’s all, you fellows. Just a minute, Foster, please.”
The rest hurried out and down the stairs. Myron leaned back again in the chair with a sigh. Mr. Driscoll viewed him coldly.
“I suppose you realise that you’ve made rather a mess of things,” said the coach. Myron assented in silence. “The things you let out to this Kenwood spy may mean just the difference to us between winning and losing. I hope they won’t, but they may. I don’t believe in hitting a man when he’s down, Foster, and so I won’t say any more about it. I suppose you’re feeling rather rotten yourself.” The boy’s glance was answer enough. “I was going to have you start the game at full.” He paused and Myron’s heart sank. “I’ve changed my mind. There may be a chance for you before the game’s over, but don’t count on it. If you should by any possibility get in, Foster, I shall expect you to try very hard to make up for any mischief you’ve caused with that tongue of yours. That’s all. You’d better hustle down and go through those signals.”
When Myron had gone Mr. Driscoll frowned. “I wonder,” he muttered, “if that was the right thing. Sort of tough on him, too. And if he should get sore – Well, we’ll see.” Lifting the telephone beside him, he called the locker room. “Hello! Who is this? Oh, Mistley? Well, ask Farnsworth to come up here a minute, please.”
The manager appeared promptly and behind the closed glass door the two spoke briefly with heads close together. Then Farnsworth arose and sped out, an expression of unholy glee on his countenance, and the coach, tapping the ashes from his pipe, dropped it into his pocket and went downstairs.
Across the campus a clock struck two.
The teams that faced each other that afternoon were fairly matched in weight and, as events proved, closely matched in skill. Neither the Brown nor the Blue found herself until the first fifteen-minute period was nearly over. Each seemed to lack confidence, and those who hoped to see one team or the other take the lead at the start were doomed to disappointment. There was much punting in that first quarter, some half-hearted rushing that soon slowed down, several fumbles and not a little bad judgment. Each team appeared more intent on watching her opponent than on playing the game, and it was not until the very end that Parkinson awoke from her lethargy and got into her stride.
A fortunate forward-pass started her up, and from her own forty-two yards to the enemy’s thirty-four she took the ball on line attacks varied by one wide, swinging run by Meldrum. But the Blue was also awake now and her line steadied and Parkinson was forced to punt. Kenwood plunged twice and returned the punt and Cater caught and was downed in his tracks. Kearns made a scant yard at guard on the right of the line and time was called.
Starting again from near Parkinson’s forty-yard line, the ball went across the centre and back again. Cater was nailed when he attempted a quarter-back run to the left and Brown made four yards in two tries. Keith fell back and punted out of bounds at the twenty-five. No advantage accrued to either team for the next five minutes. Parkinson was set back for holding and Kenwood was twice penalised for off-side. The spectators’ hearts went into their throats when a Kenwood back misjudged a punt, and it looked for an instant as if the Brown was to score. But Norris missed the ball and the Kenwood quarter fell on it eight yards from the goal-line. The Blue promptly punted out of danger. Parkinson failed to gain at the Blue line and made a forward which grounded. She then punted to the enemy’s thirty yards. The half ended with the pigskin in Parkinson territory near the middle of the field and in Kenwood’s possession.
Neither team had shown ability to gain consistently at her opponent’s line. Parkinson had made two first downs and Kenwood one. At punting Kenwood had outdistanced the Brown by some five yards on each kick, but had not gained any advantage by it, since Stearns and Norris were playing the game of their lives. In short, it was still anybody’s game. During half-time the rivals contended with cheers and songs, the contest going to Parkinson by reason of a slight advantage in numbers and the possession of a brass band. It was about the middle of that fifteen-minute intermission that a small youth in the attire of a messenger boy came wandering along the edge of the Kenwood stand. “Mr. Cooke!” he droned. “Message for Mr. Cooke!”
In response a youth in a fuzzy brown overcoat arose from the group on the nearly deserted players’ bench. “All right, kid!” he called. “Here I am! Let’s have it!”
“You Mr. Cooke?” asked the boy suspiciously.
“Yes, A. M. Cooke. Is it for me?”
“Yeah, that’s right: A. M. Cooke. Well, you’re wanted at the telephone.”
“Where is it?” asked Cooke, vaulting the rope into the passage. The boy waved a thumb over his shoulder.
“Out there,” he said vaguely. “I’ll show you.”
Cooke followed, winding his way through the crowd about the entrance. At the gate he spoke to one of the ticket takers. “Let me have a check, will you?” he asked. “I’m coming back.”
The boy presiding at the box smiled mysteriously. “That’ll be all right,” he said. “You won’t need any check.”
Afterwards, Cooke concluded that it was at that moment that suspicion began to creep in. But the messenger led on and he followed around the back of the stand and into the presence of four grim-looking and extremely athletic first class fellows. Cooke saw no telephone, and a frown gathered on his classic brow. The messenger was speaking. “Here he is,” he said. “I got him. Where’s me half?”
A coin changed hands. Cooke looked on curiously, a question trembling on his lips. But he didn’t need to ask that question. Suddenly the four youths encompassed him closely and he felt no further interest in telephones.
“Is your name Cooke?” asked the spokesman.
Cooke wanted very much to deny it, but knew that denial would be futile. So he said yes, and the other went on as follows:
“Well, Cooke, we don’t like your sort. There’s a train that will take you to Kenwood leaving our station in fifteen minutes. If I were you I’d try mighty hard to get it. It won’t be healthy for you around here after it’s gone.”
Cooke moistened his lips. “Why should I?” he demanded in a weak attempt at bluster. “I paid to see this game – ”
“That’s all right. You’ll get your money back. We’ve bought your train ticket, and there’s eighteen cents change coming to you. You can walk to the station comfortably in twelve minutes.” The speaker looked at his watch. “You’ve just got twelve if you start now. These chaps are going with you to show the way and see that you don’t change your mind.”
Cooke looked at the faces surrounding him, bit his lip, laughed weakly and shrugged. “I suppose you think you’re frightfully clever,” he said, “but you’re not worrying me any. I don’t care to see the game, anyhow. We’ll beat you, so what’s it matter?”
“Eleven minutes,” was the reply. “You’ll have to run if you don’t start quick.”
“Suppose I don’t choose to go?” asked Cooke defiantly.
“Why, that would be very unhealthy for you,” answered the other, a smile threatening his gravity. Cooke looked up at the stand. There were plenty of friends there, but there seemed to be no way of reaching them. At the top a few occupants of the last row were looking down curiously, but they appeared quite unsuspicious of the indignity being visited on their schoolmate. Cooke yielded.
“All right,” he muttered.
“And, one thing more, Cooke,” said the spokesman of the little committee, “it will be better if you don’t come over here with the baseball team next spring. In fact, if I were you, I’d take good care to stay away from here. We don’t like spies.”
