CHAPTER XXI

LORING TAKES A WALK

Clif got rid of some of his splints and bandages on Tuesday, although he still had to carry his arm in a sling. That afternoon Dan Farrell, the trainer, stopped to inquire about the injury and remained to talk for a few minutes with Clif and Loring. Presently Loring asked: “You’re going to let Clif in for a while next Saturday, aren’t you, Dan?”

“Me? Sure, I won’t stop him. It’s up to the coach, my boy. He’ll run him in for a bit, likely. But, listen, Bingham, keep that shoulder down if you play.”

“Would it get broken again?” asked Clif.

“No, it’s as good as ever it was, or it will be Saturday. But there’d be no sense in taking chances. If I was you I’d find me a harness and wear it; that is, if you think you’ll be playing any.”

“A harness? Where would I get one, Dan? Say, look here, if I had a good heavy pad on this shoulder why couldn’t I play all right?”

“For a time you might, but you’d need to be very careful. Tell you what I’ll do, seeing it’s you――” Dan winked at Loring――“I’ll fix you up a pad that’ll work fine. I’ve got part of an old one in there and all I need is some felt and a bit of leather and――” Dan stopped and closed his eyes. When he opened them again he slapped Clif on the knee. “There’s a fellow in the village who runs a bit of a harness shop, and I’ll take the thing over to him and have him do it. Sure, ’twon’t be any job at all!”

“Why, that’ll be fine,” said Clif. “If there’s any expense, Dan, you must let me――”

“Expense! Where would there be? The little man won’t be asking me money for a few stitches. If he does I’ll beat him up with his own hammer! Stop over after practice and let me study the build of you, my boy.”

Clif had been attending the evening football sessions in the gymnasium and no one had said him nay. Even if he couldn’t play again until next season, he was still a member of the team and under team rules. But that Tuesday night he absented himself from “skull-drill” and went to the mass meeting in assembly hall and sang and cheered with the others. Over the back of the platform hung a long banner that bore the legend in big blue letters “NO DEFEATS” and on the platform sat the musical clubs――the mandolin and guitar and the orchestra――and the evening’s speakers. It was all very inspiring and Clif thrilled many times. Todd Darlington, first class president, was in charge, and toward the end made a speech that carried the already excited throng fairly off their feet. It was so good, indeed, that Clif wondered how he had ever gained the impression that Todd was a bit of a four flusher. Even the two faculty members looked impressed by its eloquence! There was a parade afterwards, with more singing, much more singing, and more cheering. The thing wasn’t over until just before ten, and Clif returned to Number 40 rather hoarse and limp to find Tom already in bed.

“Wind the cat and put the clock out,” murmured Tom sleepily. “And call me early, mother dear, for I’m to be――to be――”

Then came a gentle snore.

Meetings of the Triumvirate were few that week. Once, on Wednesday, Clif and Tom stopped at Loring’s room, after supper, on their way to the gymnasium. Usually the door was ajar, but now it was tightly closed, and when, after a brief knock, Tom tried to open it it was found to be also locked. From beyond it came the voices of Loring and Wattles.

“Just a minute, fellows!”

“One moment, please!”

Tom looked at Clif, slightly puzzled. “What’s the idea?” he muttered. From inside came various sounds suggesting haste. Then the door was opened by Wattles. “Yes, sir, come in, please, Mr. Tom. Good evening, Mr. Clifton.” Wattles sounded a trifle breathless, Clif thought. Loring had a paper on his knees and the room looked as usual.

“What’s going on in here?” demanded Tom suspiciously.

“Going on?” repeated Loring. “What do you mean?”

“Oh, well, locked door.” Tom waved toward the portal. “Mysterious sounds. Wattles looking foxy. Yes, you are, Wattles; decidedly foxy! Come clean, Loring. Where’s the body hidden?”

But Loring declared that no murder had been committed, and, since their time was short, the visitors didn’t pursue the inquiry further. In fact, they didn’t think of it again until Friday night.

The last real work of the season was held Thursday, and on Friday the school, lately barred from the gridiron, paraded in force and watched the first and second take part in a brief scrimmage that was mostly all punting. After that the second disbanded, cheering themselves and the first team and Mr. Babcock and, finally, themselves once more, and romped off the field with much dancing and horse play. The first team players disappeared by ones and twos toward the gymnasium, a squad of second substitutes ran through signal drill and then it was over save for the shouting. That lasted until every member of the squad, the coach, the assistant coaches, the managers, the trainer and the team had been cheered, and only ended outside the gymnasium entrance with one last mighty “long cheer, fellows, with nine Wyndhams!”

And so, amazingly sudden, the eve of battle arrived.

Clif and Tom came back from the gymnasium about twenty minutes to eight, after a brief session before the blackboard. There was to be another drill in the forenoon and to-night Mr. Otis had been lenient. The two had promised Loring to drop in on him if they returned before study hour and so they turned in at East Hall and Tom rapped on the closed door: one ... one, two; the Triumvirate’s particular signal. Once more Wattles’ voice came forth.

“One moment, please!”

Tom turned to Clif and shook his head. “I smell a mystery,” he muttered. “If it was Christmas Eve, now――”

But just then the door was pulled open and Tom lapsed into silence. Halfway across the room stood Loring. No, that isn’t exactly so, for he didn’t stand, but to the amazed regard of the two in the doorway he seemed to. At least, he was erect, and never before had Clif or Tom seen him so. Under each armpit was a crutch, and the toe of one foot rested on the floor. The other foot was held poised, as if to aid in the difficult feat of balancing. Having opened the door, Wattles swiftly returned to Loring, hovering about him anxiously. Any one well acquainted with Tom could have foretold his next words.

“_My sainted Aunt Jerusha!_” exclaimed Tom slowly, awedly, incredulously.

Loring chuckled, and, chuckling, swayed precariously. Wattles sprang forward, but Loring recovered his equilibrium. The visitors came slowly in, as though expecting the spectacle to vanish into thin air if they moved precipitately, and Clif closed the door gently behind him and leaned on it.

“My first public appearance,” said Loring somewhat excitedly. “Semipublic, that is. I’m going to use these things to-morrow, and I wanted you chaps to see them first. I’m not very expert yet. Wattles has heart failure, almost, whenever I try them!”

“You do very well indeed, sir,” said Wattles, watching anxiously.

“Do you mean, Loring,” Clif asked, “that you can use them? That you won’t have to get around in the chair any more?”

“So the doctor says. Of course, I’m supposed to start off pretty slowly, Clif. A few minutes a day at first.”

“Sacred Ibis of the River Nile!” murmured Tom, all eyes. It was his second-choice invocation, and its use proved that he was gradually recovering. “Crutches, by gum! What ... do ... I ... know?”

“All ready for the great exhibition, Wattles?” asked Loring.

“Yes, sir,” answered Wattles nervously.

“Let’s go then!” Loring advanced one crutch, set his heel lightly to the floor, advanced the other. It was a slow and halting progress he made, a series of hitching maneuvers that looked painfully difficult, but he finally reached the other end of the room, Wattles close behind him, and his arms half advanced.

“Great!” said Clif.

“I’ll be dingfoozled!” breathed Tom.

Turning was something Loring couldn’t accomplish without aid as yet, and Wattles had to steady him while he prepared for the return trip. “You see,” Loring explained as he came hitching back, “I’m supposed to let a little of my weight on my feet, but――” he smiled apologetically――“I’m so blamed scared yet that I don’t do it――much. It’s awfully new stuff to me, fellows, but I guess I’ll get the hang of it in time. These things are adjustable, you see. After a while they’ll be shortened a fraction of an inch, and, if I don’t bust something meanwhile, some day I’ll be putting my whole foot down flat. At least, that’s what Wattles says. He and the doctor worked this business up between them.”

“It was the crutches Wattles brought back that day I was here,” said Clif. “That long bundle. Loring, it’s just wonderful!”

“Well, if you think so,” answered Loring, “how about me? All right, Wattles. We’ll call it a day. No encores to-night. Gosh, the old chair feels pretty good again! I wonder if I’ll really ever put this away in the attic.” He patted the arms of the wheel chair as he spoke. “It’s been a pretty good pal!” He looked whimsically at the crutches of which Wattles had relieved him and shook his head. “Clever contraptions, Wattles old chap, but I don’t feel at home with them yet!”

“No, sir; very likely, sir,” said Wattles. “I fancy it will require some time, Mr. Loring, to become fully accustomed to them, but I predict, sir, that you’ll have no use for the chair by spring.”

“Spring?” mused Loring. He shook his head. “Wattles, you’re an optimist!”

Tom, fully recovered from his surprise, spouted questions now. When had Loring known first about the crutches? How long had he had them? Would he be able to go up and downstairs on them? Didn’t it make his legs feel funny to hang ’em down like that? Was he really going to use them to-morrow when he went out?

The doctor had spoken of crutches nearly a year ago, Loring answered, but only since he had returned from abroad had the matter been talked of seriously. He had had them two weeks. Wattles had brought them from the express office the day of the Horner game, and Clif had fussed him by asking what they were. As for going up and downstairs, why, Loring had his doubts about that, but Wattles declared that there’d be no difficulty once he had become proficient in the use of the things. And yes, he was going to make a public appearance to-morrow if his courage didn’t fail him. The gong clanged its warning and the visitors made for the door. Not, though, before Tom had gravely shaken Loring’s hand.

“I’m so glad, Loring,” he declared earnestly, “I can’t say it. I――I―― Come on, Clif!”

Outside, hurrying toward the staircase, Tom blew his nose, startlingly loud. Well, for that matter, Clif felt a trifle sniffly himself.

Saturday dawned brightly. The morning was cold, but by noon the sun had toned down the nip of the northerly breeze that blew almost straight down the gridiron. Overhead, the sky was very blue, with here and there a scurrying cloud. Freeburg was very blue, too, for the old village had brought out the flags that once a year swung over porches or hung in windows. Going to the inn at half-past eleven, Clif found that vine-draped edifice colorfully patriotic, with a huge blue banner flapping over the entrance. Mr. Bingham had arrived a few minutes before in the renovated car and there was just time for a few minutes of conversation on the porch before Clif had to hurry back for the early luncheon. The inn was well tinged with brown by the time he left, for Wolcott arrived in numbers just before noon and the team and many of its followers invaded the hostelry for lunch.

At half-past one Clif and Tom went across to the gymnasium and changed into togs, some of the last to arrive there. Clif sought Dan and had the shoulder protector strapped and laced into place. He had had the use of his arm for several days now and, although Mr. Otis had not been consulted, Clif hoped that the formidable appearing contrivance of brown leather and gray felt would suggest to the coach that he was able to take more than a merely incidental part in the day’s proceedings.

The stand filled early, and long before two o’clock the settees and chairs provided for the visitors were exhausted. Scurrying youths invaded the nearer rooms in East Hall and replenished the supply with anything they could lay hands on. Wyndham’s cheering section was well into its stride by the time the dark blue squad trotted across the field from the gymnasium, and the noise that broke forth then was surprising. Blue megaphones and pennants gyrated and, on the staff, the big Wyndham flag snapped briskly in the breeze, while beneath it a long white banner bearing the blue-lettered legend “No Defeats” wrapped itself artistically about the pole. While both teams were occupying the field a shrill-voiced junior in the stand proclaimed excitedly and pointed beyond the fringe of automobiles that encircled the track. A murmur of surprise arose and grew to a shout of acclaim. Coming from the front of East Hall was a figure on crutches. Very slowly he came, and with obvious effort, pausing frequently in the course of that hundred-yard journey between the hall and the big limousine which held two anxious faces. Close behind him strode the thin, black-clad form of Wattles.

“It’s Loring Deane!” some one shouted. “On crutches!”

The cheer that went up was not evoked by the white-sweatered cheer leaders. It was a wholly spontaneous roar that grew in volume as Loring came hitching onward over the turf. Not even the cheer which had greeted the team had been louder. Megaphones, flags, caps waved. The stand was on its feet, incredulous but delighted, shouting congratulations, encouragement.

“Good boy, Deane!” “Keep a-coming!” “A-a-a-ay, Deane!” “Attaboy!” “Deane! Deane! Deane!”

Loring kept a-coming and Wattles followed a stride behind, his long arms ready to go to the rescue if his charge stumbled. It is doubtful if Wattles even heard that cheering and shouting, so intent was he. And then, at last, Loring reached the big car, Wattles took the crutches and the long journey was over. Settling down between his father and his mother, Loring smiled proudly but tiredly. “I did it,” he said rather faintly. He looked at his father. “The fellows seemed――pleased, I thought, dad,” he said.

Mr. Sanford Deane nodded. “Sounded that way,” he answered huskily. Then he, too, blew his nose quite startlingly.

Wolcott won the toss and, choosing the north goal, at exactly three minutes past two o’clock kicked the ball away. From that moment until seven minutes before three the shouting was never utterly stilled, the excitement never on the wane. When the rivalry is as intense as it was on Wyndham field that twenty-second day of November it is not necessary that great deeds be performed by the opponents. Excitement remains at fever heat even if neither team so much as threatens the adversary’s goal. Cheers are given for no more startling an event than a one-yard gain or an incompleted forward pass. Even when Couch broke the chin strap of his head harness and had to be supplied with a new one by Trainer Farrell the Wyndham section cheered as one man!

An outsider, a person not sympathetically interested in either the Dark Blue or the Brown, would doubtless have found those fifty minutes tame and uninteresting. He might even have said, and without fear of successful contradiction, that the contending teams played at times no better than mediocre football. There were three fumbles in the half, of which two were accredited――or discredited――to Wyndham, and each team lost twenty yards through penalties. Several opportunities were wasted, by Wyndham and Wolcott both, and more than once signals were muddled by the quarter backs. But this was preparatory school football and not a college game, and the supposititious outsider would doubtless have recalled the fact and been lenient in his criticisms. I can be no less.

Both teams played raggedly at times, more from overeagerness than from any other cause, and, as was not unusual, seemed too awed by the opponent to press any advantage that might come to it. As when, in the second quarter, Wolcott, having advanced to Wyndham’s twenty-eight yards, switched from the attack on the Wyndham left, an attack which had carried her slowly but surely from the middle of the field, and sent her backs at the other side of the enemy line. Two downs were thrown away against an impregnable defense, and Wolcott, seemingly at a loss, tried Couch’s end and only succeeded in gaining two yards. As a last resort, the ball was tossed over the center and Captain Ogden pulled it down.

For her part, Wyndham got as far as the Brown’s thirty-two just before the end of the half, wasted two tries at the center, with Ogden carrying, and then lost ground when Houston, attempting a quarter-back sneak, was thrown behind his line and was forced to punt. Wyndham had started with her strongest line-up: Drayton and Couch, ends; Weldon and Cotter, tackles; Smythe and Desmond, guards; Carlson, center; Houston, Kemble, Sproule and Ogden, backs. But before the second period was at an end three changes had been made. Drayton, hurt in a tackle, had given way to Jeff Adams, Smythe had been replaced by Breeze and Tom had been succeeded by Stiles. The opportunity to try a field goal came to neither side, unless Wolcott could be said to have had such an opportunity when, with one down left and eight yards to go, she had stood on Wyndham’s twenty-six. But the breeze was still fresh and Wolcott had chosen to forward pass instead. The first half ended with the ball in Wolcott’s possession on her forty-one, ended with Wyndham and Wolcott still cheering loudly and defiantly and with the issue no nearer decided than it had been an hour before.

In the gymnasium five coaches talked earnestly amidst the confusion of sounds, and just before the intermission was over Mr. Otis had his say to the whole team. He didn’t say much and he didn’t scold once. He scarcely uttered a word of criticism now. The first half had contained some mistakes, he said, but that was what a first half was for; to get the bad football out of the system! Now all they had to do was go back there and, profiting by former errors, win the game! Wolcott, he declared, was an overrated team. If she wasn’t she would have had the game tucked safely away before this. They must get rid of the idea that Wolcott couldn’t be knocked down and trampled on, for she could. It would take a better team to do it, but the team was right here.

“I want a score in each of these periods, Wyndham. Give me two scores and I’ll promise you a victory. Keep your eyes open and your heads up. When you tackle, tackle for keeps. Charge low and keep on going, you linemen. And all of you――” Mr. Otis’ fist shot out――“_fight_!”