CHAPTER VIII

Something Brewing

The last words of the coach were almost lost in a tumultuous roar from Garry Grayson's friends--and there was no one in that crowd who was not his friend--that echoed back from the walls of the gymnasium.

"Garry Grayson! Garry Grayson!" they cried.

"Hurrah for the new captain!"

"Yea, Garry! Go to it, old boy!"

Coach Phillips presently silenced the uproar with a wave of his hand.

"I see that my appointment meets with approval," he laughed. "If Garry Grayson makes as good a captain of the first team as he did of the scrubs, I don't think we'll have any reason to complain. And now let's get down to business again."

As Garry, flushed and happy, took his stand with the regulars, his first wild thrill of elation was dampened by a sober second thought.

Bill Sherwood and Ted Dillingham had been left out!

Of course, all could not hope to make the first team. Still, it was hard on old Bill and Ted. Garry looked at them covertly and could see that they were trying hard to hide their disappointment.

Mr. Phillips had finished with the regulars--at least for the present. Now he began briskly to form the scrub team.

Pete Maddern was made captain in Garry's old place. Bill and Ted retained their former positions at center and left end respectively. To fill the positions left vacant by the promotion of Rooster, Tom, and Nick, three promising players were chosen from the applicants.

Those who had not been chosen tried hard to hide their disappointment under a brave exterior while Mr. Phillips gave them a short, encouraging talk.

"Those whose names I have not called to-day need not give up hope of making the team," he said. "A number of things may happen--in fact, are bound to happen--during a strenuous football season that will result in a hurry call for recruits. So keep yourselves in readiness to fill in at a moment's notice.

"As for you boys who are to represent Lenox High on the gridiron, every single one of you will have to work his hardest to prove himself worthy of the position. There are good boys on the scrubs just waiting to jump into your shoes, and they'll do it at the least excuse you give them." Here a faint cheer went up from members of the second team.

"Now, as you all know," the coach added, his eyes traveling over the alert faces of the first-string boys, "the game with Pawling is only a short time away. We'll have to dig our toes in and work hard to get ready for it. And as the first possible moment is not too soon to start, I want you all to report for practice to-morrow afternoon."

There was another cheer at this, and then all thronged out tumultuously.

"Gee, Garry, there's luck for you, old boy!"

It was Ted who spoke, as Garry's bunch were out on the campus, books slung over shoulders, eagerly discussing the organization of the teams. Nick and Rooster were wildly elated, and Ted and Bill strove hard to hide their own chagrin and disappointment and enter heartily into the triumph of their intimates.

"Lucky, maybe--but deserved luck," Bill added to Ted's statement. "After Garry's work on the gridiron last year, he rates a place on the regulars."

"But quarter and captain! I'll tell the world that's some lofty perch," cried Nick gleefully. "With Garry leading the charge there isn't a team in the league that can stand against us."

"Easy on that stuff," laughed Garry. "Your own position isn't such a slouch, if it comes to that."

"I'll say it isn't," agreed Nick, still half incredulous of his good fortune. "When he called my name for the backfield I thought he must mean some one else and had got the names mixed."

"There's modesty for you!" jeered Rooster.

It was only on their way to school the following morning that the boys thought of Garry's triumph in relation to Sandy Podder and his cronies.

"Make believe that fellow won't be ready to bite nails when he finds out that his best enemy is captain of the Lenox team," chuckled Rooster. "I'll bet there'll be a fine old gnashing of teeth, Garry, my lad."

"As long as he only gnashes them I shan't worry," laughed Garry. "And if he tries to bite, he'll find out perhaps that I have teeth of my own."

"And what's even more important," put in Nick, "a good strong fist that knows what it's made for."

Practice started off with a bang that afternoon. If Mr. Phillips had had any doubt about the spirit of the boys, it was speedily dissipated by the way they went at their work. As a matter of fact, he had to hold them in rather than use the spurs, for he wanted to get them into shape gradually with a minimum of lameness and bruises caused by overwork so early in the season.

That day was devoted chiefly to group practice. Walker at center did some one-man blocking that won commendation from the coach. Tom Allison also justified his position in the line by his fine work at tackling. The backfield practiced punting, place kicking, and forward passing, while the ends did good work in getting down the field under punts.

The scrubs were on their mettle too, and showed such good stuff that the regulars were spurred on to still greater effort.

A tackling dummy had been rigged up in one corner of the field, and the boys assailed it in turn with so much vim and vigor that arnica was sure to be in request that night to soothe their numerous bruises.

If the first day of practice was eminently satisfactory, those that followed were no less so. Mr. Phillips led his teams on steadily, gradually increasing his driving power until the boys were working at their limit. The fights between the regulars and the scrubs had almost the fierceness of games with rival schools.

Garry had slipped easily into Ralph Wynn's old position, and was developing a quality of leadership that filled the coach with optimism. Ralph had been a great leader, but Mr. Phillips thought he saw in Garry the makings of a still greater one. Under his handling the team was being developed into a swiftly moving, formidable fighting machine that promised to maintain or exceed the best traditions of Lenox High.

"It looks like a good season for Lenox," the coach said to the boys at the end of an especially hard afternoon's practice. "That's all for to-day, boys. Go home and get some rest. You've earned it. You're on edge now, and I don't want you to go stale."

This was just three days before the first game with Pawling, which was scheduled to take place on the latter's grounds.

On the way home the boys were hilarious.

"We'll wipe up the ground with them!" cried Rooster Long exultantly. "The way we're working now they won't have a chance."

"Cock-a-doodle-doo!" jeered Nick. "Don't count your chickens before they're hatched, Rooster, my lad. In other words, don't crow till we've won."

"Your team is in good fighting condition too, Bill," said Garry. "You certainly gave us a run for our money this afternoon. And you blocked a pretty slick play of mine, too," he added, with a grin. "I was so sore I could have slugged you."

Bill chuckled.

"No favoritism, Garry, old boy," he said. "Just because you and Nick and Rooster have made the first team, you needn't expect I'm going to hold back my good right arm when it's good for a tackle. Well, here's where I leave you," he continued, turning down a side street. "I promised dad I'd stop at the hardware store and buy him a new monkey wrench for his tool kit. Some one lost his old one, and he's unreasonable enough to suspect me. So long. See you all to-morrow."

On his way to the store Bill had to pass a double garage belonging to a friend of Sandy Podder's, the doors of which opened on a side street.

Bill heard the sound of voices from the further side of the garage and stopped instinctively as he heard a familiar name.

"What do you know about Garry Grayson's getting Ralph Wynn's place on the team?" said a voice. "Getting pretty well up in the world, that young rooster is."

"Thinks he's too all-fired important," growled another voice, which Bill recognized as that of Sandy Podder. "It's up to us to take him down a peg or two."

"Yeah?" There was a faint jeer in the other voice. "I've heard that before. But who's going to do it?"

"I am, that's who!" There was a ferocity in the tone that chained Bill's attention. "I'm sick of the airs that fellow gives himself. He gives me a pain in the neck. I've got a lot of old scores to even up with him, and I'm going to get even pretty quick."

"You sound as though you had some kind of a plan." There was curiosity in the voice of Sandy's companion. "If it's the kind of stuff you've already pulled--"

"This scheme is bound to work." There was confidence in Sandy's tone. "It's a pip. Now listen and I'll tell you how you can help--"

Bill crept closer to the garage, intent on losing no detail of the plot. But just at that moment the door of the house to which the garage belonged opened and a woman stood on the threshold.

"Lent!" she called. "Come here! I want you to do something for me."