CHAPTER XIX

DEFEAT BY TELEPHONE

Wyndham departed early Saturday morning, valiantly shouting “No Defeats!” Team and supporters left the school together, and not for a long while had the staid old village of Freeburg listened to such a matutinal disturbance. It would be permissible to say that all Wyndham went to the game, although, if I am to be tied to facts, some two score fellows, mostly juniors, remained behind. There were no classes to-day, and after seeing the crowd off, Clif wondered what on earth he was to do with himself. He didn’t feel very happy, anyway, and the prospect of an interminable morning was not cheering. Of course there was Loring, but even Loring didn’t make up for what he had lost.

Until Friday noon he had clung to the hope of making the journey to Horner. The doctor had “pooh-poohed” the idea, but he hadn’t actually said no to it. It was “Homer” who had settled the matter. Mr. Frost had been very brief. “Not to be considered, Bingham.” Perhaps, Clif thought, “Homer” was doing a bit of disciplining. He had not penalized Clif for making that trip to Cotterville, possibly because he considered a broken clavicle sufficient punishment, possibly because no printed regulation had been infringed. It might just be that he was regretting previous leniency. However, Clif was fair enough to own to himself that Mr. Frost had a good case, for fellows with broken bones weren’t in very good shape for long and jarring railway journeys and the pushing and scrambling incident to football contests.

Being allowed to come and go as he liked about the school and village helped somewhat to-day. Of course he felt uncomfortable and awkward and was sure that he must look rather silly, and in consequence he didn’t venture beyond the gates. He parted from Loring with the plea that he meant to do an hour or so of studying, and after some delay he actually did bury his nose in his books for almost that long. But his thoughts didn’t take kindly to the subjects imposed on them and it was hard going. Outside, on the nearer gridiron, a handful of youngsters were kicking a football about, and their cries and the sound of the impact of shoe against pigskin came in through a half-opened window. It was such wonderful weather for football, too! A cloudy day with no wind and just a touch of frost in the still air. Clif thought his fate pretty hard.

About eleven, sheer loneliness sent him over to Loring’s and from that time on he was glad indeed of the other’s companionship. Dinner was rather a makeshift meal, with only some half-hundred students and faculty dotted about the big hall. At least a third of the instructors had gone to Horner, it seemed. About two o’clock Loring opened his room door and they began to listen for the telephone bell. Wattles departed for the school laundry with an armful of Loring’s clothes to be pressed. A dozen juniors held forth in the recreation room across the corridor, and at intervals one or another came to the door and looked inquiringly toward the telephone booths. Of course there were false alarms at first. Thrice Clif hurried forth, snatched a receiver from a hook and, after inquiries, returned the information that the person sought would be there in a minute or couldn’t come at all by reason of having gone to Horner. But finally, at about twenty-five minutes after two, a voice asked for Loring Deane. Clif relayed the summons and Loring came rolling out in his chair and took the telephone. Clif bent beside him so that he, too, could hear. At the door of the recreation room a group formed hurriedly.

“This is Sanford,” came a distant but clear voice. “The first quarter is just over, Deane, and there’s no score. We won the toss and Horner kicked off, but neither side was able to score. Can you hear me all right?”

“Yes,” answered Loring. “How does it look, Charley? Who’s going to win?”

“I don’t know, really. You see, both teams played sort of ragged. We made a couple of fumbles and got penalized twice and Horner wasn’t much better. It has just started to rain here; not hard, though; and they’re saying that if the field gets wet Horner will have an advantage. She’s got a whale of a team for size! I’ll call up again after this quarter.”

“All right, Charley. Thanks.” Loring hung up, glanced a question at Clif and received a shrug for reply. Then he gave out the news to the juniors, and Clif pushed him back to the room. They talked over the scant information received, but there was so little to go on that discussion soon petered out. After that they waited, glances continually seeking the little clock on Loring’s chiffonier and conversation becoming more desultory as three o’clock approached. It was three minutes of the hour when Clif again crossed to the nearer booth. This time Loring didn’t wait to be called, but was on hand when Clif held out the phone.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” said Sanford apologetically at the other end; “but I’m telephoning from the field house and half a dozen fellows got ahead of me. Half’s over, Deane, and it’s two to nothing. Horner threw Sproule for a safety.”

“Oh, the dickens! How did it happen, Charley?”

“They’ve been going through our left side pretty hard, and just before the end of the half they tried a forward pass from our thirty, about; and Kemble got it and then it went to Sproule for a punt. Horner broke through and nailed him before he could kick.”

“Well, we must be playing pretty rotten,” said Loring dejectedly.

“We aren’t playing so badly, really,” answered the distant voice. “Horner’s had all the breaks, Deane. Say, we thought we had the game once. Kemble ran from their forty-two for a touchdown. At least, we all thought it was a touchdown and nearly went crazy. Then the referee brought the ball back and we were penalized for off-side!”

“Gee!” said Loring. “Well, we can’t win against that sort of luck, I guess! Must have been a corking run, though.”

“It was! And you never heard such yelling, Deane! Gosh, the crowd was sore when――Deane, there’s a fellow waiting to phone and I’ll have to hang up. I’ll give you the final score, if I can get to a phone. So――”

“What about the field, Charley. Has it stopped raining?”

“No, but it’s just sort of a Scotch mist, you know. I don’t believe it’ll make much difference. Well, good-by.”

“Two to nothing at the end of the half,” announced Loring. “Horner blocked a kick and Sproule was thrown for a safety.”

The group in the hall broke into excited discussion and Loring and Clif retired once more to the room. “He said Horner was gaining through our left,” reflected Loring. “That means Smythe, I suppose. Weldon, too, probably. I guess you’d have been useful over there this afternoon, Clif.”

Clif sighed. “Oh, well, it isn’t over yet. Even a field goal will beat two points. Gee, I’ll bet Tom was fit to be tied when he found he hadn’t scored that touchdown!”

“Wasn’t that perfectly beastly luck? I wonder who the dumb-bell was that was off-side. Anyhow, Clif, he showed ‘G. G.’ that he doesn’t varnish his hair!”

But Loring’s humor fell rather flat. Clif wandered around the room, stared from the windows, took up a magazine and dropped it again and showed pretty conclusively that he was suffering from nerves. The return of Wattles was a relief to both boys. “Horner’s ahead, Wattles,” said Loring. “She scored a safety. Or we did. How is that, anyway, Clif?”

“We scored it and she gets it,” he answered despondently.

“A safety is two points, isn’t it?” inquired Wattles as he disposed of the suits on their hangers. “At what stage of the game, Mr. Loring?”

“End of the half.”

“Oh, then, we’ve still a chance, haven’t we?” Wattles brightened perceptibly. “I fancy Mr. Tom will be heard from, sir.”

“He’s been heard from,” said Clif flatly. “He went forty-two yards for a touchdown, Wattles, but some idiot was off-side and it was no good.”

“Forty-two yards! My word, sir, but that was extraordinary. I’d like to have seen it.”

“I’m glad I didn’t,” growled Clif. “It must have been awful when they called him back.”

It was almost four when the telephone rang again. Clif shook his head. “That can’t be he. It isn’t time for the game to be over, not by five minutes. You see what it is, Wattles.”

Wattles returned in a minute. “Mr. Sanford, sir, on the wire.”

“Already? It can’t be over!” But Loring, with Wattles as chauffeur, made the width of the corridor in record time. “Hello, Charley! Yes? This is――”

“I came out ahead of the mob, Deane.” Sanford sounded a bit breathless. “Knew I couldn’t get to the phone if I didn’t. There’s about a minute yet, but we’re beaten. Two to nothing. Isn’t that rotten? We made a mighty good fight in the third quarter and got to Horner’s twenty-five once and Houston tried a field goal and missed it badly. Horner tried one, too; from our twenty-three, I think it was; but she kicked short. Anyway, they didn’t cross our goal line, Deane.”

“I see. Well, thanks awfully for phoning, Charley. Drop in soon and let me hear all about it.”

“All right, Deane. Very glad to have――”

The other’s voice ended abruptly and after waiting a moment Loring jiggled the phone. “Guess some one cut me off,” he muttered. “Doesn’t matter, though.” He waited a moment longer and handed the instrument back to Clif. “Hard luck, eh?”

“They defeated us, sir?” asked Wattles anxiously.

Loring nodded. “Final score, fellows,” he announced to the small audience. “Horner won, two to nothing.”

Well, that was that. Clif shut the door on the sounds of disappointment that came from the recreation room, thrust his hands in his pockets and went to the window. It was already twilight outside, for the clouds had been thickening during the afternoon. Rather a dismal-looking world out there, he thought.

“‘No Defeats!’” murmured Loring.

“At that,” growled Clif defiantly, “I’ll bet we played as well as they did! They had a lot of luck, that’s all. You can’t win when the other fellow’s hung with horseshoes!”

“And some one’s got to lose,” said Loring reflectively. “They say an occasional defeat is good for a team’s morale.”

“They say a lot of things,” muttered Clif. “Hang it, don’t start talking philosophical, Loring. I don’t feel that way. Look here, where’s that cross-word book of yours? Let’s try one of those puzzles, will you? I don’t want to think any more about that rotten game.”

“Good scheme, Clif. Neither do I, I guess. I say, Wattles, find that cross-word book, will you?”

“Here it is, Mr. Loring. If you’ll not be requiring me here, sir, for about a half-hour, I’d like to walk into the village before the shops close.”

“Go to it, old chap. And, say, Wattles, stop at the Greek’s and tell him to be sure and save us the New York papers to-morrow. We didn’t get the _Times_ last week.”

“Chasing the emu,” which was Tom’s term for working out cross-word puzzles, proved absorbing enough presently to take the boys’ minds off the football defeat. With Clif officiating at an abridged and sometimes inadequate dictionary, not only the emu but the roc and the moa were discovered, there was an exciting adventure with an asp and they were hot on the trail of a skink when Wattles came back. Wattles brought with him a long, unwieldy parcel from which depended an express tag, and Clif, glancing up in the very act of impaling the skink on his pencil point, voiced curiosity.

“For the love of lemons, Wattles, what have you got there?” he asked.

Wattles smiled deprecatingly, glanced at Loring and deposited the elongated package in the closet. Clif thought he acted decidedly surreptitious and was going to comment on the fact when Loring asked hurriedly: “How do you spell it, Clif?”

“Skink? How would you spell skink, for Pete’s sake? _S, k, i, n, k_, skink. The _T_ is silent as in ‘Oolong.’”

“Well, but――”

“Beg pardon, Mr. Loring,” said Wattles, withdrawing his head from the closet; “but there appears to have been a mistake about the score.”

“Score?” Loring looked up a trifle blankly. “What score?”

“The score of the football game, sir. I fancy Mr. Sanford was in error.”

“Huh? How come?” Clif swung about eagerly. “What did you hear, Wattles?”

“Why, sir, in the village they had it three to two, in our favor.”

“Gosh!” Clif looked questioningly at Loring. Loring shook his head.

“They’ve probably got it wrong, Clif. Sanford would know best, I guess.”

“Yes, but it wasn’t over when he phoned! Look here, I’m going to call up and find out!”

“There’s no necessity, Mr. Clifton.” Wattles fumbled in a waistcoat pocket and brought forth a slip of yellow paper. “I thought I’d better make certain, and so I dropped in at the telegraph office and asked. I got the operator to write it down, Mr. Loring, so you’d know it was correct.”

“Well, what was it? Hang it, Wattles, if you know anything――”

But Wattles was not to be hurried. He unfolded the slip, identified it and then laid it on the open cross-word book. Loring and Clif bent over it eagerly.

“Final,” they read. “Wyndham 3, Horner 2. Carlson, Wyndham, kicked placement from forty yards just before whistle. Congratulations!”