CHAPTER XIII

THE BOY WITH THE FUNNY CHIN

On Wednesday Lemuel John turned up for the chess game in spite of certain infirmities consequent on two days of unfamiliar and rather strenuous exercise. And once more he won from Loring with comparative ease. He seemed more at ease on this occasion and didn’t sit as though he was expecting an alarm of fire and might have to rush for the nearest exit at an instant’s notice. And he was decidedly amusing when, subsequent to the chess encounter, he confided the tale of his experiences on the football field. He was so big and capable looking that, when he told in a plaintive drawl of the indignities put on him by the remorseless “Cocky,” Tom doubled up and fairly gurgled. On the whole, Lemuel John was a distinct hit that evening, and when he departed he left the Triumvirate sensible of several excellent qualities, not the least of which was his unfailing good humor. Tom came out flat-footed for Lemuel John.

“He’s a fine old coot,” declared Tom, “and I’ll bet you anything you like that next year he will be a pretty warm baby on the football team. I haven’t seen him in action, and from what he says he must be fairly awful, but he’s got something that’s going to get him where he wants to go, no matter where that is. If he says to himself ‘I want to play good football,’ he’s going to play good football. On the whole, fellows, I’m glad I thought of persuading him to go out for the Scrub.”

“You’re glad _you_ thought of it!” exclaimed Clif. “Well, of all the colossal nerve!”

“That’s it,” Tom complained. “Refuse me credit for everything! Perhaps I didn’t actually make the first suggestion, but if I hadn’t――er――nurtured the plan it would have fallen flat. I suppose next thing you’ll deny I didn’t think of that slog――I mean battle cry!”

“No, we give you credit for ‘No Defeats,’” laughed Loring. “And, by the way, those buttons ought to be along to-morrow, Clif, oughtn’t they?”

They came Friday. Tom voiced disappointment because they were only the size of a nickel, but Clif and Loring pointed out to him that fellows would wear a small button where they would disdain a larger one. “You know, Tom,” Clif reminded him sweetly, “this isn’t a banquet of the Kiwanis Club.” The buttons were of white, with a narrow rim of blue and the words “No Defeats” in the same color. The blue was not exactly the correct Wyndham blue, for the latter was decidedly dark; but that was a detail.

Distribution was effected with little effort. Each of the sponsors in the campaign filled a pocket with them and then pinned one to a lapel. After that all that was necessary was to keep dipping a hand into the pocket until the supply was exhausted and then drop around to Loring’s room for more. By bedtime that night every student wore a button.

The idea of holding a meeting to aid in putting the thing over had already been abandoned. The deed was already accomplished. Wyndham was “sold” on the idea solidly. “No Defeats” took its place in the language of the school, stared down from the walls of dormitory rooms, challenged the visiting opponent from the front of the grand stand and, when the next number of _The Lantern_ appeared the following Tuesday, headed the editorial page in bold face type. What pleased Loring especially was that the school adopted the motto seriously. It might have made a joke of it or taken it up as an amusing diversion, in which case it would have lasted a week, perhaps, and then been forgotten. But Wyndham was really in earnest about an unbeaten team, and, while the expression “No Defeats” was used frequently in a laughing way, it found no vogue as flippant slang. The idea had captured the imagination of the school and the school earnestly meant to see that the defiant prediction came true.

As a result of the enthusiasm almost three-fourths of the fellows accompanied the team on Saturday when it went down state to play Cupples Institute. That was something that had possibly never happened in the history of the school save when the opponent had been Wolcott. Wyndham went with banners and arm bands and little white-and-blue buttons and much vocal demonstration, and it would have been a most ungrateful football eleven that would not have won with such encouragement. Cupples was never a very formidable enemy, although it is true of football that the best team doesn’t always win. Last year, at Freeburg, Wyndham had won by 20 to 0, and there was no expectation of a very different result to-day. The Dark Blue had developed considerably during the past week, and the attack, more or less latent hitherto, was at last visible. Coach Otis started off with first-string players in all positions save left guard and full back. Smythe had been acting rather temperamental since the Jordan game, and Breeze was at guard on the left side. Captain Ogden had hurt an ankle two days before in practice, and, while the injury was slight, Dan Farrell, the trainer, thought it best to keep him quiet for a few days longer. That put “Swede” Hanbury at full back.

Wyndham started off with a rush after receiving the kick-off and pushed Tom Kemble over for the first score six minutes later. Sproule missed the try-for-point. The dark blue scored again before the quarter was over when a long forward pass from Hanbury to Drayton covered thirty-four yards, with Drayton’s run, and left the pigskin on Cupples’ seventeen. There the home team stiffened and when Wyndham had gained but four yards on three attempts, “Swede” retired to the twenty and lifted the ball over from a drop.

Cupples had a brief moment of supremacy toward the last of the second period. Houston and Tom between them managed to mess a pass and the fumbled ball was recovered by Cupples on Wyndham’s thirty-seven. From there a short heave over the left of the line took it to the thirty-one and the attack gained first down on three tries at Breeze, in the last of which he was considerably messed up. Howlett took his place, and on the next slam Cupples shot a back past Howlett to the nineteen yards, at least three of the visitors missing their tackles. With two yards to go, Cupples tried a fake forward pass, the ball going to right half for a wide run. Couch nailed the runner for a four-yard loss and Cupples shot the pigskin overhead on the next try. Tom spoiled the pass and the ball grounded. Cupples’ placement kick from the thirty-one went short of the goal.

Clif started the third period at left tackle and won momentary fame on the third play after Wyndham had possession of the ball. The shift took Drayton to the other end of the line, leaving Clif eligible to take a pass, and Clif took it very nicely, well off to the left of the scrimmage, and sped it down the field for twelve yards and a total of twenty-six. A penalty set the Dark Blue back, however, and in the end Clif’s feat went for naught. It wasn’t until the last quarter had started that another score was made, and then it was Cupples who made it. Cupples got a back away on a nice around-the-end run, outside Williams, substituting Couch, and the fleet-footed youth reeled off fifty-three yards before he was pulled down from behind. Unable to advance from Wyndham’s twelve by attacks at the enemy line, Cupples again tried a placement kick and this time succeeded, leaving the score 9 to 3.

A little later a Cupples punt was short and Jackson, at quarter, made a fair catch on Cupples’ forty-seven yards. McMurtry and Whitemill made good gains off tackle and advanced the pigskin to the thirty-six. Then “G. G.” mended his line with three first-string players who had retired late in the first half and Wyndham went steadily forward to her third score. Just at the last the going grew heavy and the gains short, but Stiles, who had taken Sproule’s place at right half, solved the final problem by slipping around the Cupples left end behind a well-built wall of interference and carrying the ball over the remaining eight yards for a touchdown. This time Sim Jackson officiated at the try-for-point and had no difficulty in securing the last score of the contest.

Wyndham went home with a 16-to-3 game dangling at her belt, more than ever convinced that “No Defeats” meant just what it said!

There were, however, some who reflected that 16 to 3 didn’t sound quite so pretty as 20 to 0, and who remembered that Wolcott had defeated Cupples two weeks ago by 18 to 0. And when Monday came there were evidences of dissatisfaction on the part of Coach Otis. He tried Craigie at left guard that afternoon and Jeff Adams at left end, and he made brief experiments at other places on the team. And he was decidedly brusque all during practice. In short, the signs indicated that any fellow who cared much for his job had best settle his nose closer to the grindstone and keep his eyes ahead! Those who had played a full two periods on Saturday were exempted from the scrimmage to-day, and the second rode rough shod over the second- and third-string subs, a fact which pleased “G. G.” not at all and which led to expressions of opinion not at all flattering to the subs. Tom and Clif, pausing on their way to the showers to hearken, grinned sympathetically and exchanged meaning glances as they went on again.

Loring attended football practice very regularly. Rain was about the only thing that kept him away. And, of course, Wattles went, too, wheeling Loring’s chair from East Hall across the field to a corner of the bench and then occupying a few inches of space at the extreme end of the seat. The boy in the wheel chair and the eminently dignified attendant were so much a part of the scene that their infrequent absences were invariably noted and commented on. Wyndham School was proud of Loring Deane, proud for various reasons. In the first place, it was something of a feather in the Wyndham cap to have for a student the son of a man internationally famous as a financier and immensely wealthy. There were, to be sure, a few who tried to dislike Loring because of Sanford Deane’s wealth, but they were few. What accounted for most of the school’s pride, however, was Loring’s patience and pluck and cheerfulness in misfortune. There were some who observed cynically that they’d be willing to have their walking done for them if they could be Sanford Deane’s sons. But they were either thoughtless or untruthful, for no amount of wealth can make up for physical disability. Loring not only smiled in the face of adversity, but laughed at it! If he couldn’t use his feet, at least he had an otherwise sound body and he made the most of it. All that he could do he did well. He was a brilliant student, and last winter he had won the Seymour Scholarship, the principal prize open to third class fellows. The fact that he had declined the money accompanying the honor didn’t lessen his popularity any. Popularity, though, isn’t quite the word to use concerning Loring, for popularity suggests a sort of easy familiarity lacking in his relations with the school _in toto_. Loring’s close friends were few, his acquaintances many. Back of his apparent approachability was a reserve born, doubtless, of his misfortune and compounded largely of shyness. It was necessary to negotiate that inner defense before one could win to the citadel of Loring’s friendship, and not very many succeeded. Yet those who remained without were almost invariably as loyal as those who entered, and Tom once said that Loring had more bosom friends who didn’t even know him than any fellow he had ever met!

During practice Loring was seldom dependent on Wattles for conversation, for some one was usually visiting with him down there at the end of the bench: one of the players, or one of the managers, or not infrequently Dan Farrell, the trainer. One of Dan’s favorite remarks was that just as soon as Loring got to using crutches he was going to train him for the track. “And, by gorry,” Dan would add, “you’ll be winning races, too, Mr. Deane, for it’s you has the pluck that can’t be beat!” Last year the trainer’s optimism had been reprimanded smilingly by Loring. “I guess I’ll never get to crutches,” he had said. But this fall he didn’t challenge the hopeful statement. The possibility was not quite as remote as it had been.

Now and then Mr. Otis paused for a word, but the coach was usually too busy to do more than exchange greetings. On Tuesday afternoon, though, Loring’s chair was wheeled into place a few minutes earlier than customary, and by chance Mr. Otis came directly from the inn to the gridiron without stopping at the gymnasium. Only a small handful of players were about and the stand was practically deserted. Loring sat fairly imbedded in a raccoon coat, for the day was cloudy and cold, and even Wattles, whose soul abhorred the undignified drapery of such loose apparel, wore a pepper-and-salt overcoat which, being of no more than medium weight and stopping short slightly below his knees, looked far from sufficient. However, Wattles had further fortified himself against the weather by encasing his rather large feet in a pair of rubbers. He called them galoshes, which was just another indication of how difficult it was for Wattles to become wholly Americanized. As always, he wore a bowler――that is, begging his pardon, a derby. It was a black derby, irreproachably lustrous of nap, of a distinctly square tendency. Wattles’ derby had become a Wyndham feature; like “Old Brad’s” one cream-colored necktie or the battered football in the glass case in the gymnasium, which bore the barely decipherable inscription: “Wyndham 28, Wolcott 0.” In Wattles’ philosophy a man might conceivably murder his grandmother under stress of strong emotion, or default with the funds of widows and orphans, but a gentleman could not wear a soft hat. At least, not without the permitting accompaniment of homespun. And he had his doubts as to that!

Wattles arose with a murmur of respectful greeting and Mr. Otis said: “No, no, Wattles, keep your seat. I’ll sit over here for a minute. Well, Deane, I haven’t had a real word with you this fall. How are you?”

“Oh, fine, thanks, sir.”

“Well, you look it; what I can see of you! How are those legs coming along, my boy? Any improvement?”

Loring shook his head, still smiling. “Not much, I’m afraid. Wattles thinks he sees an improvement, or says he does; but he’s a confounded optimist about other folks’ troubles!”

“Well, I hope he’s right. What do you say, Wattles?”

Wattles coughed delicately. “There is an improvement, sir. The doctor admits it, too, sir. Mr. Loring is naturally not so capable of appreciating it, Mr. Otis. It is――very gradual; oh, very, sir.”

“I’ll say it is,” laughed Loring. “If you’re thinking of holding the quarter back job open for me next season, sir, you’d best not bother.”

“Hm. I’d like mighty well to see you in it, Deane.” Mr. Otis was plainly sincere, and Loring’s cheeks flushed with pleasure behind the barrier of the big fur collar. “What do you think of our outfit this fall, by the way?”

“It looks mighty good to me, Mr. Otis. I guess we’ve been sort of slow in getting started, but it looks now as if we were headed about right. Don’t you think so, sir?”

“Oh, we’re better than we were. If we had a few more pounds in the line we’d pass for a fair team.”

“Especially on the left side, I guess,” said Loring.

The coach looked at him quickly and then nodded. “You’ve got good eyes,” he commented dryly. “Yes, we need something better there, but we haven’t got it. Well, I never saw a team yet that had an evenly balanced line.”

“I’ve got a fellow coming along,” said Loring carelessly, “who may be useful on that side later, Mr. Otis.”

“You’ve――what?” asked the coach, puzzled.

“I said I had a fellow coming along who might work in there, sir. He’s just started on the second, but he’s promising and I wouldn’t be surprised to see him make pretty good. He’s built for a guard. Or he might be used at tackle if he could be speeded up a little.”

“Who are you talking about?” asked “G. G.,” frowning.

“Fellow named Parks. I guess you haven’t noticed him. He’s still on the bench over there.” Loring nodded toward the next gridiron. “He’s absolutely green, but he’s learning fast, I understand.”

Mr. Otis laughed. “Deane, you’re a funny chap. You don’t expect a man starting in now to play guard on the first team in a fortnight, do you?”

“Well, it is sort of improbable, isn’t it?” laughed Loring. “And maybe I’m being a bit optimistic. Just the same I wouldn’t be awfully surprised to see Parks get into the Wolcott game. You see, Mr. Otis, he’s got just about everything but the know-how, and I’m looking to Mr. Babcock to supply that deficiency.”

“Well, I’ll give him a welcome when he arrives,” said the coach, with a chuckle. “And I’ve known Babcock to knock the corners off in mighty short time, Deane. But I guess I’d better not count too strongly on this prodigy of yours, eh?”

“No, sir, don’t do that,” replied Loring. “Better wait another week or so before you begin to build any plays around him. I’ll report on him later, sir.”

“Just how does he happen to be your discovery?” asked “G. G.”

“Oh, he isn’t that, exactly. Owens went after him long ago and didn’t have any luck. I happened to meet him one night and liked his looks. So we――that is, Tom Kemble and Clif Bingham and I――”

“The Triumvirate?” smiled Mr. Otis.

“Gee, have you heard about that?” Loring asked laughingly. “Well, we got hold of him and persuaded him to join Mr. Babcock’s outfit. He didn’t want to at first. At least, he did want to, I guess, but he didn’t have the nerve. Some one had told him he couldn’t learn the game, you see. However, he forgot it and went out, and I hear that he’s made a hit with the second team fellows.”

“If he turns out to be any good,” said Mr. Otis quietly, “I’ll have something to say to Owens for missing him!” After a moment of silence he said: “Deane, didn’t I hear that you were going to manage the baseball team next spring?”

“Yes, sir, I’m supposed to, but I’m awfully doubtful about being able to――to make good, and if I don’t I’ll――I’ll jump out a window, I guess, because Mr. Clendennin and some of the others simply boosted me into it, right over the heads of some fellows who deserved it more. Gee, if I turned out to be a blah I’d feel pretty sick.”

“Well, I don’t think you need worry. I believe you’ll be a long way from a ‘blah,’ as you call it. Fact is, I was just thinking that it would be rather fortunate for me――and the team――if you were football manager!”

“Gosh, Mr. Otis!”

“I mean it.” Mr. Otis cast a side glance at Wattles, seemed reassured by that gentleman’s apparent concentration on an arching ball, and added with a trace of asperity: “You see, Deane, the difference between you and the average chap who acts as football manager here is that you have everything except the ability to walk and the others have the ability to walk and not much else! Well, I must start things up.”

“Mr. Otis, what do you think our chance is of getting through without a licking, sir?” asked Loring quickly.

“What? Oh, that business. Well, frankly, Deane, I think our chance is about one in three.”

“Gee,” murmured Loring dejectedly. “But we’ve got through half the schedule, sir.”

“Yes, and I’ll change that. I’ll say one in two. You see, Deane, it’s a safe bet that either Horner or Wolcott will get us, if not both of them. This is just between us, old chap, and not for publication.”

“You don’t really mean that you think Wolcott’s going to win this year, sir!”

“Well, perhaps I don’t quite think it, but――oh, hang it, Deane, look at the left side of that line! You know what any fairly strong offense will do to it, and if your line won’t hold together what good’s the best attack in the world? As for Horner――well, I dare say we may weather that game if Horner’s no better than she looks now. But I wouldn’t wager a peanut shell that we’ll win both those games!”

“Gee,” Loring muttered. “‘No Defeats!’”

“Well, it’s a noble ambition, anyway,” replied “G. G.,” smiling down reassuredly, “and it’s no disgrace to strive for perfection, Deane.”

“No, sir,” agreed Loring mournfully, “not even if you stub your toe going after it.”

Mr. Otis chuckled, nodded and hurried off. Loring looked after him a moment and then said, half to himself, half to Wattles: “Just the same, he may not be right. I still believe we’ve got a show.”

“Oh, absolutely, sir,” said Wattles gravely!

A little later Loring said: “Wattles, there’s the fellow with the funny chin again. Halfway up the stand, alongside the post.”

Wattles looked and assented. “Quite so, Mr. Loring,” he answered. “I don’t think he’s one of our crowd, sir.”

“I’m plumb sure he isn’t,” returned Loring, “and I can’t make myself believe that he’s one of the town fellows, either. This is about the fourth or fifth time I’ve seen him, and he looks just as much like something the tide washed in as ever.”

Wattles again turned his head and appraised the subject of Loring’s disparagement. “Well, sir, he’s not such an unpresentable young――er――person,” he protested fairly.

“Oh, I’m not talking about his clothes or his manners,” said Loring. “But study that face, Wattles. Don’t you see that his eyes are too blamed close together and that that funny chin makes him look like a――a camel or something?”

Wattles allowed himself a smile. “I do see the resemblance, Mr. Loring, and that’s a fact. A camel, yes, sir. Oh, undoubtedly.”

“Yes, and――well, I suppose it’s a perfectly asinine idea, Wattles, but the silly coot acts to me as if he were up to something and was afraid some one would get onto him. I tried to catch his eyes the other day and he wouldn’t look at me for a half second. If I was a bit better at climbing steps I’d go up there and ask him what he’s up to.”

“I’d say, sir, that he’s just looking on a bit, like the rest of us.”

“Hm, yes,” said Loring dubiously, “but he watches mighty closely. I’ve seen him staring so hard you’d think he’d have strabismus. Do I mean strabismus, Wattles?”

“Quite possibly, Mr. Loring. I――er――the word is not――”

“It means cross-eyed or something, and I dare say it doesn’t occur in Blackstone.”

“No, sir, I don’t think it does.”

“Of course the silly ass may be trying to learn how to play,” went on Loring. “Although if I were he I’d keep out of football. I’d be awfully afraid some chap would land on that chin. I know a chin like that, a chin that wiggles like a rabbit’s nose, would be a great temptation to me if I was opposite it!”

Wattles chuckled politely. “It would be a temptation, sir, and no mistake,” he agreed.

“In fact, Wattles, it not only would be, it is! Gee, it must be wonderful to be able to walk up to a guy and punch his face! I sure envy you that, Wattles!”

Wattles coughed deprecatingly, “I’m not sure, Mr. Loring, I hope that if――when you are better you will not attempt anything of that sort,” he said earnestly.

“Won’t I! Well, no, I won’t, Wattles, for the simple and sufficient reason that I’ll never get the chance. But if I could――why, listen, old chap. If I could do it I’d walk up there right now and say to that fellow with the trick chin: ‘I don’t know who you are or what you’re up to, but I don’t like your looks and so you’d better beat it.’ And then, if he didn’t beat it, and mighty quick, too, I’d――” Loring smiled down pleasurably at a capable brown fist―― “I’d let him have it, Wattles.”

Wattles shook his head disapprovingly, but at the same time he turned it toward the stand as though contemplating in fancy a pleasant proceeding. Then he coughed again, rather severely this time, and said: “The young man is scarcely the sort, sir, that one would wish to――er――engage in a bout with, begging your pardon, Mr. Loring.”

“Oh, I say, Wattles,” laughed the other, “a fellow can’t stop to exchange cards, you know, in such an event!”

“N-no, sir, but――er――one wouldn’t, I fancy, engage in a difference of opinion with a person one wouldn’t have to dinner!”

“Wattles,” chuckled Loring affectionately, “you’re a delight!”

“Thank you, sir,” replied Wattles.