Kitabı oku: «Full-Back Foster», sayfa 9
CHAPTER XVII
A CHANCE ENCOUNTER
The team left for North Lebron at eleven o’clock the next forenoon. The town that had the honour of containing Musket Hill Academy was not so far away in distance, but those who had arranged the train service had not consulted the Parkinson School Football Team, and as a result of this oversight there was an hour and a half to be spent at a junction that boasted, besides a decrepit station, only a blacksmith’s shop, a general store and eight assorted dwellings. Myron knew that there were eight dwellings because he counted them twice. There wasn’t much of anything else to do.
He was not journeying to North Lebron in any official capacity, for his name had not been amongst those announced yesterday by Manager Farnsworth. He was going along, with some sixty other “fans,” mostly because Chas Cummins had insisted on his doing so. Privately, he had entertained the thought up to an hour after breakfast that, not having been invited to attend the contest as a member of the team, it would be the part of dignity to remain away. But Chas wasn’t greatly concerned with dignity, and he had a masterful way with him, and the result was that at a little before nine o’clock Myron was in possession of the knowledge that he was going to North Lebron at eleven-four.
At twelve he was seated on an edge of the platform at the junction, juggling three pebbles in his hand and boredly wondering what it would be like to have to live in the fifth dwelling; the one with the blue-green blinds and the sagging porch and the discarded wagon-seat serving as a porch settle. The day was positively hot for October and few of the travellers had elected to remain inside the coaches. Some of the school fellows were adorning the platform, like Myron, others were strolling about the adjacent landscape in search of adventures, and a merry handful were exercising the baggage truck up and down the planks to the restrained displeasure of the sad-looking station agent. Coming over, Myron had shared a seat with a stranger, a lad of fourteen or so, and had managed to pass the time in conversation on various subjects, but now the youngster had disappeared and no one else appeared to care about taking his place. Joe and Chas were with the football crowd in the forward car, and Myron had seen neither of them to speak to since leaving Warne. Andrew Merriman had not been able to come. In consequence, Myron had no one to talk to and was fast reaching the decision that he would have had more pleasure had he remained at home. Even the assurance that he was irreproachably arrayed in a suit of cool grey flannel, with a cap to match, a cream-coloured shirt and patriotic brown tie and stockings didn’t mitigate his boredom. Of late he had been deriving less satisfaction than of yore from his attire. Somehow, whether his tie and stockings matched or whether his trousers were smoothly pressed seemed of less consequence to him. Several times of late he had forgotten his scarf-pin!
His discontented musings were interrupted by the arrival beside him of a youth of perhaps nineteen. Myron had glimpsed him once on the train and been struck by his good looks and by the good taste of his attire. He wore blue serge, but it was serge of an excellent quality and cut to perfection. And there was a knowing touch to the paler blue scarf with its modest moonstone pin and something pleasantly exceptional in the shape of the soft collar. Myron felt a kindred interest in the tall, good-looking youth, and determined to speak to him. But the stranger forestalled him, for, as soon as he had seated himself nearby on the platform edge, he turned, glancing at Myron and remarked: “Hot, isn’t it?”
The stranger’s tone held just the correct mixture of cordiality and restraint. Myron, agreeing, felt flattered that the well-dressed youth had singled him out. The weather, as a subject of conversation, soon failed, but there were plenty of other things to discuss, and at the end of ten minutes the two were getting on famously. The stranger managed to inform Myron without appearing to do so that he was interested in a sporting goods house in New Haven, that he had been in Hartford on business and that, having nothing better to do today, he had decided to run over to North Lebron and see the game between Musket Hill and Parkinson. “I fancy you’re a Parkinson fellow?” he said questioningly. And when Myron acknowledged the fact: “A fine school, I’ve heard. I’ve never been there. Warne’s off my territory. I’ve been thinking, though, that some day I’d run over and see if I could do any business there. I suppose you chaps buy most of your athletic supplies in New York.”
“I think so. There’s one store in Warne that carries a pretty fair line of goods, though.”
“I think I’ll have to try your town. Parkinson’s rather a big place, isn’t it?”
“We have over five hundred fellows this year.”
“Is that so? Why, there ought to be some business there for my house. I suppose you chaps go in for most everything: football, baseball, hockey, tennis? How about track athletics?”
“There’s a track team,” answered Myron, “but this is my first year and I don’t know much about it yet.”
“I see.” The other looked appraisingly and, Myron thought, even admiringly over his new acquaintance. “I say, you look as if you ought to be playing football yourself, old man. Or is baseball your game?”
“Football, but I’m not on the first. It’s hard work breaking in at Parkinson.”
“Good guess of mine, wasn’t it?” laughed the other. “Thought you had the build for a good football man. I meet a good many of them, you see. How’s this team you’ve got ahead there? Going to lick Musket Hill this afternoon?”
“I don’t know. I hope so. I have an idea that our coach rather expects a hard game, though. I’ve heard that Musket Hill is further along than we are.”
“Those fellows play good football,” said the stranger. “I’ve seen them in action once or twice. I hope you chaps get away with the game, but my opinion is that you’ll have to go some to do it. Got some good men on your team?”
Myron was quite willing to sing the praises of Parkinson, and during the ensuing half-hour the stranger was treated to quite a fund of information regarding the school, the football team and Myron Warrenton Foster. Football, though, seemed to interest the tall youth most of all, and several times Myron was turned back to that subject by polite questions. When the train from the south pulled in the two were still conversing and it was but natural that they should share a seat for the remainder of the journey. The stranger could talk interestingly himself and the last part of the trip was occupied with absorbing and even startling adventures met with by him in his business trips. More than once Myron’s credulity was severely taxed, but a glance at the narrator’s frank and pleasing countenance dispelled all suspicions of mendacity. Myron found this chance acquaintance so interesting that he rather hoped they might witness the game together, but when North Lebron was reached the stranger announced that he had one or two errands to attend to before going up to the field.
“Maybe I’ll run across you there – er – What’s the name, by the way?”
“Foster.”
“Mine’s Millard. I haven’t a card with me. Wish I had. But, I say, Foster, if you don’t mind I’d like to look you up if I get to Warne. Those little towns are dull holes if you don’t know any one in them.”
“I wish you would!” said Myron. “You’ll find me in 17 Sohmer Hall. Can you remember that?”
“Sohmer, you said? Number 17? I’ll remember, Foster. Awfully glad to have met you. It’s jolly nice to run across a chap who’s – well, a chap who has your own views on things, if you get me.” He shook hands cordially, evidently regretfully. “I’ll try to find you at the game, old man. If I don’t, look for me in your burg before long. I’m going to have a go at that dealer you spoke of.”
“I’ll try and save a seat for you if you think you’re likely to find me,” offered Myron.
But the other waved a hand. “Don’t bother. I can squeeze in. And I may be rather late in getting there. Good-bye and good luck. Hope you beat ’em!”
That encounter restored both Myron’s self-esteem and good humour, and he enjoyed the sandwich and pie and milk which he ate in company with half a hundred other youths at the little lunch-room on the way uptown. Later, wandering by himself through the leaf-strewn streets about the school campus, he came across Joe and Paxton Cantrell, the latter a sturdy, wide-shouldered youth who was playing his second – and last – season at centre. Cantrell left them a minute or two later to speak to an acquaintance and Myron and Joe walked on to the school gymnasium together.
“They fed us at a hotel down there by the station,” said Joe sadly, “and I want to tell you that not one of us over-ate. Everything came to us in bird baths and you needed a microscope to find the contents. Norris lost his roast beef and didn’t find it until he was through dinner, and where do you suppose it was?”
“In his lap, I guess.”
“No, sir, it had slipped under his thumb-nail!”
Myron told of the stranger encountered at the junction and was quite full of his subject, but Joe didn’t seem to find it interesting and soon interrupted to point out a building. “What do you suppose that is?” he asked. “Looks like a factory of some sort, don’t it? Only it ain’t – hasn’t got any chimneys, as far as I can see.”
“Maybe it’s a hospital or something,” replied Myron. “He says he’s coming to Warne pretty soon and will look me up. I’d like to have you meet him, Joe.”
“Who’s this?”
“Why, Millard, the chap I was speaking of,” answered Myron disgustedly.
“Oh! Glad to know him. Which street do we take now?”
They parted at the gymnasium and Myron joined the throng pressing toward the field, a short block away. He looked for Millard, but didn’t see him. Later, during the intermission, he thought he caught sight of him in the throng behind the Musket Hill bench, but others intervened and he was not able to make certain.
The game started at half-past two, by which time the morning heat had been somewhat abated by a fresh breeze that blew across the oval field and fluttered the big maroon banner above the covered stand that held the Musket Hill rooters. Parkinson’s sixty odd supporters, grouped together on the other side of the field, did valiant service with their voices, but to Myron it seemed that their contribution to the din that prevailed as the two teams trotted on together was very slight. He was wedged in between a stout youth named Hollis, whom he instinctively disliked because of his high-pitched voice, and a studious-appearing boy in spectacles whose name he didn’t know. Hollis had vindicated Myron’s verdict before the teams had finished warming up by showing himself to be one of those cock-sure, opinionated and loud-talking youths of which every school is possessed. His neighbour at his left elbow proved inoffensive and only once during the game uttered any sound that Myron could hear. Then, while every one else was on his feet, shouting and gesticulating, the spectacled youth smiled raptly and murmured, “Oh, bully indeed!”
Myron purchased a score-card from a boy with a maroon band about his arm, exchanging a bright ten cent piece for a flimsy, smoochy slip of paper that, so far as the visiting team was concerned, was as untruthful as it was unlovely. The card declared that “Mullen” would play left tackle for Parkinson, that “Sawtrell” was her centre and that “Wildram” was the name of her left half-back. Myron corrected these misstatements when Captain Mellen had trotted his warriors out on the field, and some others besides, for Coach Driscoll had sent five substitutes to the fray, four linemen and a back. When Myron had got through making over his score-card it looked like one of his corrected English compositions and read as follows: Stearns, l.e.; Mellen, l.t.; Brodhead, l.g.; Cantrell, c.; Dobbins, r.g.; Flay, r.t.; Grove, r.e.; Cater, q.b.; Brounker, l.h.; Brown, r.h.; Kearns, f.b.
Myron was glad that Joe was to have his chance in a real game, and for the first period watched his room-mate so closely that the general aspect of the game was quite lost on him and he came to with a start when the teams changed fields, realising that however nicely Joe had played – and he had played well: there was no question about that – the eleven as a whole had failed to show anything resembling real football. While neither team had found its gait, Musket Hill had already threatened the visitors’ goal and only a sad fumble had held her away from it. And now, with the second ten-minute period beginning, the ball was again in the Maroon’s possession on Parkinson’s thirty-three yards. Myron sat up and took notice, deciding to let Joe play his game unaided by telepathic waves from the grandstand!
Musket Hill was a heavy team, although her players got their weight from height rather than breadth. They were, almost without exception, tall, rangey youths with an extremely knowing manner of handling themselves. Myron’s brow clouded as he watched that first play after the whistle. Musket Hill used an open formation, with her backs side by side a full pace further distant than usual. From this formation, with the quarter frequently joining the line of backs at left or right, Musket Hill worked a variety of plays: straight plunges at centre, delayed passes sliding off tackle, quarter-back runs, even punts, the latter, thanks to a steady bunch of forwards, never threatened with disaster. The Maroon played a shifty game, changing her plays often, seldom attacking the same place twice no matter what gains might result. Toward the end the latter rule did not hold good, but for three full periods she observed it rigorously, even to the impatience and protests of her supporters. Before that second period was three minutes old she had settled down into her stride and demonstrated the fact that, whatever favours of fortune might occur, on the basis of ability alone she was more than a match for her opponent.
The Maroon secured her first score less than three minutes from the start of the second quarter as unexpectedly as deftly, and Myron and his companions on the west stand had scarcely recovered from their surprise by the time the goal was kicked! The ball had been on Parkinson’s forty-two yards, after Musket Hill had punted, caught again and carried the pigskin four yards in two downs. The Maroon’s trick of punting from that three-man formation, and close to the line, had got the enemy worried. The latter was never quite certain when an unexpected kick would go over a back’s head, for Musket Hill punted without rule or reason, it seemed. To keep two men up the field at all times was impossible, and so Parkinson compromised and put Brown midway between the line and Cater. As Musket Hill had netted but four yards in two downs, it was fair to assume that she was just as likely to kick on the third down as to rush, and Brown edged further back at Cater’s call. But Musket Hill did the unexpected. There was a quick, dazzling movement behind her line and then the ball arched away to her left. Somehow an end was under it when it came down and, although Stearns almost foiled him, caught it and reached the five-yard line before he was seriously challenged by Brodhead. He had kept close to the side-line, and Brown, playing well back, was his nearest foe when the twenty-five-yard line was reached. But Brown never had a chance, for a Musket Hill youth brought him low, while a second effectively disposed of Cater a moment after. Brodhead alone stood for an instant between the Brown and disaster – none ever knew how he had managed to get back to the five yards – and for a heart-beat it seemed that the runner was doomed. But Brodhead’s tackle only spun the red-legged runner about and sent him across the final white line like a top in its last gyrations.
A well-kicked goal added another point to the six, and the teams went back to the centre of the field once more. To Myron it seemed then that Parkinson realised defeat, for there was that in the attitudes and movements of the players that had not been there before. It was not dejection, but it might have been called the ghost of it. And yet for the remainder of the period Parkinson took and held the upper hand and the half ended with the ball in her possession on her forty-eight yards.
Myron wanted to talk over the game very badly, but the youth with spectacles was doing what appeared to be an intricate problem in algebra on the back of his score-card, while as for the stout boy on his other side, he had heard enough of his conversation already. Just now he was knowingly informing his companion that the trouble with Parkinson was that she needed a decent coach. His brief glimpse of Millard – if it really was Millard – distracted him for a moment or two, and after that he listened to the joyful sounds from the Musket Hill side and felt rather disappointed and lonesome.
CHAPTER XVIII
MYRON GETS HIS CHANCE
I should like to tell how Parkinson found herself in the last half of the game and won the contest. But nothing of that sort happened. Coach Driscoll started the third period with all his regulars in the line, and, in consequence, Musket Hill found slower going. Gains in the line were far less frequent, and only outside of tackles was the Maroon likely to win territory. But the home team clearly out-punted the visitors, although, in the final period, Garrison was pulled back from the line to swing his toe for Parkinson. Musket Hill made but one long advance in the last twenty minutes, and, as before, a forward pass was the method chosen. Keene, who had taken Stearns’ place at left end, was caught napping badly, and Meldrum, the left half, who should have seen the signs and been on guard, found himself tied up with the enemy. The result was a fine thirty-seven yard gain that placed the pigskin on Parkinson’s nine yards.
From a Parkinson point of view, the most encouraging feature of the day developed then when the Brown line, forced back to its six yards and then to its four, and finally retired to its two for being off-side, stood firm and took the ball away a foot from her goal-line. It was then that the west stand shouted and cheered and that Myron, silent a moment for want of breath, heard his spectacled neighbour give vent to the enthusiastic remark already recorded. But no team can win who can’t score, and Parkinson couldn’t score. On attack she was decidedly weak. The ability was there, but the team had not yet learned to make use of it. Individually, nearly every fellow in the Brown line played really excellent football, but teamwork was missing. For a brief four or five minutes at the beginning of the last quarter there came a semblance of it, and Parkinson, securing the ball on a punt near her thirty yards, managed to work it down to the enemy’s thirty. Guy Brown was the bright particular star, and, aided by Meldrum, tore off gain after gain through a weakened left side of the enemy’s ranks. But when Musket Hill brought in two substitutes to bolster the point of attack the advance petered out, and when Brown had twice failed to gain and Kearns had lost a yard on a wide end run, Parkinson was forced to punt. That punt marked the end of Parkinson’s defiance. From then on she plugged away doggedly to avert a worse defeat and, aided by the over-zealousness of Musket Hill’s several substitutes and by the sharp-eyed officials, succeeded. When the final whistle blew Parkinson was down on her twelve yards, her back again to the wall, and only that whistle saved her.
Musket Hill appeared more than satisfied with her score of 7 to 0. It was only her second victory over Parkinson in many years of contest, although there had been ties and close scores, and Myron, standing in his place with the other Parkinsonians and cheering bravely, witnessed a hilarious celebration as Musket Hill overflowed the field and began a sinuous snake-dance from side to side and from goal to goal. Then came a hurried scramble for the four-forty-eight train and a tedious and, for his part, dejected journey back to Warne. He hoped that Millard would show up, although that engaging youth hadn’t spoken of returning by that train. He didn’t, however, and Myron had a dull time of it.
The next afternoon, being Sunday, he and Joe visited Andrew Merriman, and later they rescued Zephaniah from his box-stall and, accompanied by that joyous companion, took a long walk into the country. The afternoon was ideal, although too warm for brisk walking. Andrew spied some butternut trees up a lane and they prospected. But the nuts were still green, for no hard frosts had visited them yet. The boys found a sunny spot nearby and stretched themselves out on a bank of ferns and Zephaniah had a monstrous adventure with a cricket and got tangled in a blackberry vine and fell off a stone wall and, in short, spent the most glorious hour of his young life.
Andrew and Joe did most of the talking that afternoon. Myron was in a rather gloomy frame of mind, although he couldn’t have found any explanation for the fact. Andrew rallied him once on the score of his silence, and Myron said he was tired. After that he really thought he was. Joe was in high spirits. He had been pitted against a worthy adversary yesterday and, during the time he had faced him, had had a glorious time. Every one said that he had outplayed his opponent, and Joe knew it. He regretted that Mr. Driscoll had seen fit to put Garrison in his place in the last half, however, earnestly assuring Andrew and Myron that if he had stayed in he would have had “that guy Fraser eating out of my hand in the last quarter!” But a good tussle always cheered Joe up wonderfully, and the effects of that strenuous twenty minutes lasted him for several days: just as a fine big vari-coloured lump under his left eye did!
When Myron returned to Sohmer at dusk he found a scrawled note from Chas Cummins. “No one home!” he read. “Looked for you on the train coming back, but couldn’t find you. What do you know about us? Looks like Fortune favours the brave and all that sort of thing, doesn’t it? Watch for developments tomorrow! Yours, C.C.”
Myron found the note somewhat cryptic. For a minute he thought of going around to see Chas in the evening, but then he decided that if Chas had wanted to see him he would have said so. As a result, he stayed at home and did some much-needed studying.
Monday afternoon found a number of the regulars absent from practice. The game on Saturday had been a strenuous one and several of the players had earned a rest. Chas was on hand, however, although not in togs, and the same was true of Jud Mellen. Cantrell and Garrison and Cater were absent, and one or two others, and the first squad had a sort of shot-to-pieces look. Dummy practice started the proceedings, and, since much poor tackling had been shown in the Musket Hill contest, the drill was a long one. It seemed to Myron that every one had nerves today, from Coach Driscoll down to the last and least important substitute. Manager Farnsworth, pulling the rope that shot the canvas dummy across the trolley, was short of speech and jerky of manner, Jud Mellen, watching grimly from beside the freshly-spaded pit, frowned and twisted his hands about in his uprolled sweater and made biting comments, and even Billy Goode, normally sweet-tempered as a cherub, looked and spoke as if some one had been casting aspersions on Ireland! Only Chas, grinning like a catfish, appeared unaffected by the general epidemic. Chas joked and jollied and got himself thoroughly hated by all.
Back on the gridiron, Coach Driscoll called Myron from the bench and fixed him with a calculating eye. Myron had visions of clearing out his locker and retiring from football affairs. But what the coach said was: “Cummins tells me he had you at full-back the other day. Ever played there?”
“No, sir, not until Friday.”
“You’re a half, aren’t you? Well, we’ve got plenty of those, such as they are. Think you could learn full-back? Ever done any punting?”
“Some, yes, sir.”
“Get a ball and show me.”
Over on the second gridiron, with a substitute back to catch or chase, Myron swung his foot and dropped the ball and saw it go off at a tangent, and heard the coach say: “Take your time, Foster; you’ve got all day.” When the back had relayed the pigskin from the first team gridiron and Myron had it again in his hands he decided to try to forget that the coach was watching. The result was much better, for the ball went straight toward the other goal and into the waiting arms of the back. The punt wasn’t long, but it had been true, and Mr. Driscoll nodded hopefully.
“Try it again,” he ordered, “and hold your leg straighter. Lock your knee and keep it so.”
After the next attempt he called down the field. “Where did you catch that, Morton?” he asked. The back turned and counted the lines.
“About the forty, sir,” he shouted.
“Not bad,” commented the coach. “We’re on the twenty-five here. Try a low one now. And follow through with your foot. Don’t stop when you strike the ball: keep your foot going right on up: there’s plenty of room for it!”
Four more punts, varying in distance from a wretched twenty yards to a glorious forty-five, followed, Myron seeking to profit by the coach’s instructions. Then: “I guess that’s enough, Foster,” said Mr. Driscoll. “You’ll stand a lot of practice, but you’ve got a good swing and I wouldn’t be surprised if you could make a pretty fair punter. I’ll give you a chance to show what you can do at full-back. If you buckle down and try hard you’ll stand a chance of a place, for we need another man there. Wish you had about ten more pounds on you, though. Go around with Warren’s squad over there for a while and watch how Houghton does it. I’ll see you again.”
Blanket-wrapped, for Billy Goode had sharp eyes for his charges and the weather had turned colder overnight, Myron followed the first team substitutes in their signal practice for a good twenty minutes. Now and then he caught Chas Cummins’ eye as the squad trotted by, but that youth’s expression was blank and innocent. Finally the benches filled again, coach and captain and manager compared notes like three gentleman burglars meditating a midnight sortie, the trainer busied himself with blankets and the sparse audience on the stand kicked their feet against the boards to put warmth into them. Then Mr. Driscoll faced the benches.
“First and second squads,” he called. “First will kick off. Second, take this goal. Who’s playing right half for the second? You, Robbins? Well, we want you on the first. Morton, you go to the second. All right now? What’s that, Grove? Left tackle? Oh, all right. Simkins! Go in on the first: left tackle. All right, Hersey! Start it up!”
Myron wondered if the coach had forgotten his promise, for Williams was playing full-back on the first squad and Houghton on the second and he, Myron, was adorning the bench with some twenty-odd other subs. Perhaps Mr. Driscoll had changed his mind, thought Myron. At that moment Chas called to him and led him down the side-line a ways. “Drop your blanket, old chap,” he said. “Coach says I’m to pass you a few, though I’m blessed if I know how he expects me to work in a pair of trousers that are two inches too small for me! Get over there by the end of the stand. If you miss them you won’t have to chase them so far. Now then, perhaps you know that in the modern game of football, the full-back is called on to take the snap-back straight from the centre on numerous occasions. Well, I’m the gentlemanly centre for the nonce. That’s a bully word, ‘nonce.’ Now we will suppose” – Chas’ voice diminished to a murmur as he turned his back and placed the ball he had brought on the sod before him. Myron spread his hands as he had seen Houghton do, Chas cast a backward glance at him and swept the ball toward him. By leaping two feet off the earth Myron was just able to tip it with his fingers. Chas laughed delightedly.
“Gee, that’s just like Cantrell does it!” he exulted. “In fact, I believe I got it two or three inches higher than he ever did. Guess I’ll get Driscoll to let me play centre!”
Myron recovered the ball and tossed it back. “Maybe I’d better get a soap-box or something to stand on,” he suggested.
“None of your lip, my lad! Watch your step, now!”
This time the ball came straight and shoulder high, and Myron caught it, shifted it to the crook of his left arm and dived forward. “Splendidly done, old chap!” applauded Chas. “Quite professional. Any one can play full-back if he has a good centre like me to pass to him, though. Now, then, here we go again!”
Chas kept it up until he was red in the face from stooping and Myron was tired of it, and only stopped, as he said, because he had heard a suspicious ripping sound in the neighbourhood of his waist. “It’s all right,” he explained a trifle breathlessly, “to die for your school, but no one wants to bust his trousers for it!”
On the way back to the bench Myron said: “What did you mean in your note about Fortune, Cummins? I didn’t get that. Sorry I was out, by the way.”
“I meant that things were coming our way, old chap. Didn’t you observe what a mess of things Steve Kearns made Saturday?”
“Not especially. I guess I wasn’t watching Kearns much.”
“And you grooming for his place! What do you know about you? Well, poor old Steve balled up everything he tried. Every time he got the ball he lost a yard. If they’d turned him around he’d have won the game for us! Between you and me and the bucket there, Foster, you’ve got the chance of a life-time to land on all four feet right square behind the first team. All you’ve got to do is show horse-sense, old chap, and be willing to learn. By the way, you got off a couple of nice punts over there.”
“I don’t see, though, why I couldn’t have had a show at half,” said Myron dubiously. “I don’t know enough about playing full-back, Cummins. I may make an awful mess of it.”
