CHAPTER XIV

WATTLES ON THE TRAIL

On Wednesday Loring didn’t attend practice. This was not because of inclement weather, but because a certain very distinguished physician motored up from New York in an impressive car of foreign make, driven by a liveried chauffeur, and spent some thirty minutes with the boy in his professional capacity and something over an hour in unprofessional conversation. When he took his departure at last Wattles accompanied him to the automobile and the two conferred for several minutes more. Perhaps the eminent doctor was kind enough to compliment Wattles on his care of the patient, for Wattles’ eyes were shining when he went back up the steps of East Hall. All this is just to explain why it was that when Clif and Tom came into Loring’s room after supper that evening Loring was quite unprepared for Clif’s appearance.

“Why, what――what――” stammered Loring in evident concern.

There was a distinct but apparently reconsidered snigger from Tom that ended in a fit of choking. Clif turned and gazed at him reproachfully. Then the reproach turned to amusement and Clif chuckled, too. “Lemuel John,” said Clif, sinking into a chair, with a sigh.

“Lemuel John?” echoed Loring. “What about him?”

Clif pointed to a left eye which had the ensanguined appearance of a piece of raw beef. “This,” he replied briefly.

“You mean you had a scrap?” exclaimed Loring.

Tom broke in with a chuckle. “I’ll say they did,” he answered for his chum. “‘Cocky’ put Lemuel John in at right guard on the second when we started scrimmage. Lemuel John used up Smythe and Weldon in about seven and one-eleventh minutes. Then ‘G. G.’ called on his reserves. Breeze and Bingham, you know. Great pair, Breeze and Bingham. Lemuel John looked them over and said ‘Howdy’ and then proceeded to smear ’em.”

“Not really!” ejaculated Loring almost joyfully. Clif once more registered reproach. Tom nodded and waved a hand toward Clif.

“See for yourself. Exhibit one. The other exhibit doesn’t show his wounds on the surface so much but, believe me, he’s got hurt feelings!”

“But――but Lemuel John didn’t――didn’t _hit_ you, Clif!”

“Not with malice aforethought,” Clif acknowledged; “but my eye doesn’t know that. Oh, it was in a sort of a ruckus we had. It wasn’t his fault. Second worked down to our fifteen, about. Ogden gave her all the decisions, hang him! ‘G. G.’ threatened us with boiling oil if we let her cross the line, and ‘Cocky’ as good as told his team that he’d have them shot at sunrise if they didn’t score. Resultantly there was a sort of a Donnybrook Fair staged on that fifteen-yard line and the fur flewed――flew, I mean. They tried to push that Converse guy, their full back, you know, through Breeze, and I happened to be passing by and saw what was going on――”

“Passing by!” jeered Tom. “You were just aching for trouble, and you sure got it!”

“I think it was Lemuel John’s knee that hit me,” said Clif. “I remember that he towered above me some nineteen or twenty feet for a moment, and I’m sure it couldn’t have been his elbow.”

“You mean that you were down?” asked Loring interestedly.

“Down? By no means. I was standing on my feet. Anyway, some one’s feet. Then the cyclone passed.”

“Did you hold them?” Loring’s voice was eager.

“Hold who?” inquired Clif.

“Why, the second!”

“Oh! Yes, we held the second. Most of them, that is. The one we didn’t hold was Lemuel John. Fact is, we didn’t hold Converse, either; but that wasn’t our fault. We might have stopped him only he got right behind Lemuel John and no one could see him, of course. Not until he was on top of the goal line, anyway. You know there ought to be a rule against a player hiding himself like that. It isn’t sporting.”

Loring was laughing enjoyably by now, and Clif grinned, too, sending exploring fingers to his left cheek bone. Tom said: “Loring, when you wished that wild hyena on the Scrub you sure played a dirty trick on your friends.”

“Good, was he?” asked Loring eagerly.

“Good? No, as a player he was rotten. He broke all the commandments. He got out of position, he charged standing up, he――he――”

“But he got through,” chuckled Loring.

“Oh, yes, he got through. He’s a rotten football player, but he’s a whale of a battering-ram. Boy, let me tell you something. When Lemuel John learns what a football is for and what the white lines that they paint on the grass mean and a few little things like that, and when he remembers to play low and start with the ball, he’s going to be some warm baby! I had a hunch right along that he had the stuff in him. You fellows wouldn’t believe me, but――”

A howl went up from the others. “Yes, you did!” scoffed Clif. “You were the one who couldn’t see him with a spyglass!”

“What do you mean, spyglass?” asked Tom, grinning. “No one offered me any spyglass. I just had a feeling――”

“Is Lemuel John really as bad as Tom says, Clif?” Loring interrupted.

“Oh, pretty nearly. Why not? He hasn’t been with the Scrub more than a week, has he? He’s sort of roughhewn just now, but I know ‘Cocky’ well enough to feel pretty certain that Lemuel John will have the corners all chipped off neatly before the season’s over.”

“Funny Mr. Babcock let him play so soon,” mused Loring.

“Not so very funny,” answered Tom. “Their regular right guard had a cut to-day and the next best bet got a bum knee yesterday. It was Lemuel John or a third sub, I guess, and ‘Cocky’ chose Lemuel.”

Loring smiled in a thoroughly pleased fashion. “Only yesterday,” he said, “I told Mr. Otis about him. Of course I was kind of joshing, but I said I had a guard coming along who might fit in nicely before the season was over.”

“_You_ had! Where do you get that ‘you’ stuff?” Tom demanded. “Who was it thought of Lemuel John as a football player in the first place?”

“Well, it wasn’t you,” laughed Loring. “However, I don’t claim all the credit. I didn’t yesterday. I told ‘G. G.’ that we’d all been working on Lemuel John. Gosh, but wouldn’t it be corking if he really did make the team?”

“The first, you mean?” Clif asked. “Not likely, I guess. Just the same, I wish he would, and I wish ‘G. G.’ would play him at left guard. I’d sure like to rub elbows with Lemuel John!”

“I should think you’d done enough of it,” chuckled Tom.

“I told you it wasn’t his elbow,” replied Clif with dignity. “It was his knee. Or maybe he just kicked me. Anyway, he was terribly concerned afterwards and said, ‘I guess I’ll have to be careful and not play so rough, Bingham!’ I said, ‘You play as rough as you like. It won’t be anything in my life, Parks, because the next time I see you making up your mind to come my way I’m not going to be there!’”

Wyndham had no difficulty with Minster High School on the following Saturday, meeting the opponent on Wyndham Field and administering a neat drubbing. The final score of 24 to 3 practically duplicated last year’s victory. The home team did not, perhaps, deserve all the glory the figures indicated, for Minster was not a strong team. Still, the Dark Blue showed an improvement over last Saturday and put up a firm defense against any attack the visitors showed; and they tried about every ruse known to the game. Wyndham played through without the services of “Punk” Drayton, left end, and Captain Ogden, full back. Drayton had developed a mild case of tonsilitis and Jeff’s ankle was still weak. However, Adams, who took “Punk’s” place, and “Swede” Hanbury, who substituted for Ogden, were well able to look after their jobs. On the whole, Wyndham was fairly well satisfied with herself that Saturday evening and those who, while flaunting “No Defeats!” buttons, had secretly doubted the ability of the team to come through with a whole skin, now took heart. What Coach Otis thought about the game or the prospects of the team was not known. The coach didn’t confide his opinions very often.

November came in the day of the Minster contest. November in the vicinity of Freeburg may be anything so far as weather is concerned. Tradition tells of one Wolcott game fought on an afternoon in late November so warm that the spectators gasped and perspired and the players almost collapsed before the final whistle. Indian summer is a season not to be depended on, however. Sometimes it comes early and sometimes late, and sometimes it doesn’t come at all. This year it hadn’t shown itself yet; or, if it had, no one had recognized it. The Sunday after the Minster game was cloudy and cold, with a whistling breeze blowing down from the higher hills to the north. Steam pipes rattled and radiators whistled that morning, and the slogan of the day was “Shut that door!” Sunday papers were read very thoroughly, for no one was appreciably drawn toward the great open spaces. There was much football talk and discussion, and much to discuss if one was in the mood. For instance, there was the Yale-Army game which had resulted in another tie, contrary to the expectations, warranted or not, of many Wyndham followers of the game. And there was, too, the Princeton-Swarthmore contest, and the Harvard-Boston University fracas and the Dartmouth-Brown affair, all of momentous interest to youths who in anticipation were students of one or another of those institutions of learning and who surreptitiously scribbled “Smith, Princeton ’29,” or some similar inscription, on the backs of their blue books and hastily erased the words the next moment. Then, too, there was the Wolcott-Hoskins encounter to mull over. As usual, the game had been bitterly contested and the final score close. But this time Wolcott had come off victor, one touchdown and a field goal to two field goals. There was much comparing of scores, much argument seeking to prove, on the one hand, that Wolcott was a “lucky stiff” to win, on the other hand that only the breaks of the game had given Hoskins those field goals. It all depended on the end sought. Comparative scores and the story of the game could be made to favor either team. However, when all was said, it was still necessary to acknowledge that Wolcott’s team this year had the appearance of something that got what it went for. If Wyndham held up a clean slate, so too did Wolcott. And Wolcott’s victories had been, on the whole, rather more impressive.

Two afternoons later Loring once more drew Wattles’ attention to the youth with the funny chin. “There’s the Camel again,” he said. “I do wish you’d go up there in the stand and ask him what he’s doing. He’s got conspirator written all over that trick countenance of his, Wattles.”

Wattles looked. “Yes, sir,” he answered, “but I hardly think, if you’ll pardon me, Mr. Loring, that I would be――er――justified in asking the young man such a question.”

“Eh? Oh, I was only spoofing, old chap. Just the same――” But Loring didn’t complete the remark. Instead he returned to his observation of the scrimmage going on between the first and the scrub teams. Ever since last Thursday Loring had eagerly waited to see Lemuel John officiate as guard on the second once more. But his waiting had been vain. Lemuel John, after that one notable and much discussed appearance in the line-up, had remained on the bench. Loring made up his mind that to-morrow he would go over to the other gridiron and watch Lemuel John in practice there. Meanwhile, however, he felt a bit resentful toward Mr. Babcock for not giving the big fellow an opportunity to repeat his performance. This in spite of the fact that Clif’s face still showed the marks of Lemuel John’s enthusiasm!

Clif was generally believed to have deposed Weldon at left tackle now. At all events, he was being used much more than Weldon in that position and was gradually shaping into a brilliant performer on offense. In defense he was not quite so good, but neither Smythe nor Breeze, alternate incumbents of the next position toward center, was showing up well, and a weak guard may easily bring discredit on his tackle. Tom was going finely of late. Indeed, with the exception of Captain Jeff himself――and Jeff’s style was too different to invite comparison――Tom was showing up as the cleverest back on the squad. He had developed a speed in starting that he had lacked last season, a speed that was adding a yard or more to every effort. And he was winning praise, too, as a unit of the secondary defense, making his tackles hard and seldom missing his man. Loring was glad that the other members of the Triumvirate were doing so well. Next to playing himself, the thing that gave him the most pleasure was witnessing the success of Clif and Tom.

A few minutes before the end of the scrimmage Loring turned to Wattles and said: “I’d like to go over to the village and get a book at Leeson’s, Wattles. There’s time enough, I guess.”

They were two blocks from school――Loring had requested Wattles to pause so that he might inspect the contents of the window of the hardware store――when the boy with the funny chin passed. Although Loring’s back was turned he had no difficulty in seeing his approach, for the street was excellently mirrored in the window pane. When the boy had gone by Loring said: “All right, Wattles. Let’s go on down the street.”

“Leeson’s is just across, sir,” said Wattles.

“I know, but I feel like taking some exercise.” That was, of course, Loring’s joke, since the exercise fell to Wattles. “Isn’t that the Camel ahead there, Wattles?”

“Yes, sir, he just passed.”

“You might sort of keep him in sight then. I’m rather curious to know where he’s going.”

Wattles had a soul for intrigue and adventure, although the fact would not have been suspected, and he perked up at once. “Very good, Mr. Loring,” he replied with relish. “He seems to be in a bit of a hurry.”

“Yes, doesn’t he? Well, carry on.”

So Wattles carried on for two blocks further. Then the boy with the funny chin turned abruptly to the left down a side street that, as Loring knew, was lamentably ill-paved. “Leave me here, Wattles,” he said, “and beat it! See where he goes to. Don’t lose him, Old Sleuth!”

Wattles abandoned the wheel chair beside a hitching post and used his long legs to advantage. In a moment he, too, had disappeared, and Loring set himself to wait. He knew Wattles well enough to be sure that if the quarry resided within a reasonable distance――say anything under two miles――Wattles would see the project through. But his waiting was over in less than five minutes. Wattles returned looking triumphant in a repressed fashion. “He went off in a car, sir,” reported the amateur detective. “A small car. In fact, sir, a flivver.”

“A car, eh? Which way did he go? Was he alone?”

“Alone, sir, yes. He went east.” Wattles waved a hand.

“East? Where was the car?”

“About halfway along the block, in front of a sort of shed, Mr. Loring. A stable, perhaps. There’s a carpenter’s sign on it. He got in and went right on down Pierson Street.”

“But Pierson Street doesn’t lead anywhere,” Loring protested. “We were on the other end of it last spring.”

“It goes as far as the road where the stone machine is, sir.”

“Stone machine? What―― Oh, the rock crusher! Of course! And that leads over that way to Stoddard――no, Elm Street.”

“To Stoddard, too, sir. I believe it crosses Elm.”

“And Stoddard Street goes over to the old turnpike!”

“Yes, sir.”

“And the old turnpike―― Gee, I wish I had a map!”

“They have them at Leeson’s, Mr. Loring.”

“Right you are, Wattles! On to Leeson’s.”

A few minutes later, a road map spread across his knees, Loring exclaimed in triumph. “Just as I thought, Wattles! That road hits the state road about four miles north of town!”

“Indeed, sir?” Wattles commented.

“Yes! And don’t you see what that means?”

Wattles’ cough was deprecatory. “I’m afraid I don’t, sir.”

“Why, think, man! Where does the state road go from here?”

“I believe it goes to Canaan, sir, and then――”

“Canaan, my eye! Before Canaan, I mean?”

“Before Canaan? Why, to be sure, sir! Cotterville!”

“Cotterville, Wattles! And I’ll bet you that chap is on his way back to Wolcott right this minute!”