CHAPTER IV

THE FIRST GAME

“I’m sorry,” said Clif, “that I missed seeing your folks, Loring.”

“I know. I tried to get them to stay up for supper, but dad’s got some sort of a meeting on for this evening, and so they beat it right back. They’re coming up again in a couple of weeks or so.”

“That shover will have to do some driving to get back to New York in time for a meeting to-night,” observed Tom.

“Oh, it’s only about a hundred miles. Of course, Edouard will have to take it slow through some of the towns, but he will make it by eight. There are plenty of stretches where he can do forty-five.”

“_Mon cher Edouard_,” murmured Tom. “Say, your father doesn’t drive the car himself, does he?”

“No, he says it makes him nervous, but the real reason is that he can’t smoke comfortably.”

“I wish mine didn’t,” said Clif. “He’s a perfectly awful driver, but he doesn’t know it. He thinks he’s a regular wonder at it, but he’s forever getting into jams and busting something. I don’t mind a crumpled fender now and then, but I’m always afraid he’ll get hurt.”

“I don’t see anything wrong with his driving,” Tom objected. “I felt a heap safer last year when he had the wheel than when you had it, old timer.”

“Oh, he isn’t so bad when he has some one with him,” replied Clif, “but let him get in the car alone and all rules are off. He drives like the wind, takes blind corners at thirty and on the left of the road and thinks side streets aren’t used. Once I asked him why he didn’t sound the horn and he had to look all around for it! If he has a puncture he just sits in the car and waits for some one to come along and take a message to a garage. He hasn’t the slightest idea what’s under the hood of the car or why the thing goes when he puts his foot down on the starter.” Clif shook his head gloomily. “We had a chauffeur one year for a couple of months. Then dad fired him because he wouldn’t go down Waterman Street, in Providence, fast enough to suit him. Dad was late for the office and the chauffeur shifted to second and there were words!”

“I’ve reached the conclusion,” observed Tom, “that the French are the only folks who really know how to drive a car. Look at those chaps in Paris. Why, heck, it’s an art the way they fly around and don’t get killed!”

“I believe you’re right,” said Loring. “A Frenchman seems to have a genius for driving automobiles. They’re born artists at it. To watch Edouard take the car down Fifth Avenue is a liberal education. I’ve never seen him flustered in my life. How about it, Wattles? Have you ever known Edouard to get rattled?”

Wattles straightened and looked thoughtfully at a handful of Loring’s cravats. “Well, sir, there was one occasion. I fancy it was about a year ago. You were not present at the time.” Wattles coughed delicately. “In fact, Mr. Loring, it happened to be my afternoon off and Edouard gave me a lift. We were proceeding downtown on Park Avenue, sir, at rather a lively gait when a taxicab drew away from the curb in front of us without warning. Oh, quite unexpectedly! There wasn’t room to swing past it on the left, and as the street was treacherous, sir, from a recent shower, it would have been impossible to apply the brakes with the desired result.”

“Great stuff, Wattles!” Tom applauded. “Wonderful suspense! But what _did_ he do? Don’t tell me you woke up just then!”

“No, sir.” Wattles smiled reminiscently. “The fact is, Mister Tom, I was most fearfully alarmed. I was sitting beside Edouard, sir, and――”

“Wattles, for the love of Mike, get on!” exhorted Loring.

“Yes, sir. I was about to do so. Edouard turned the wheel very suddenly and we shot up on the pavement――that is, the sidewalk――and went around the taxi, sir. Fortunately, the sidewalk was empty.”

“I’ll say so!” exclaimed Tom. “How fast were you going, do you suppose, Wattles?”

“About twenty-five, sir, I fancy. Possibly a bit more. I considered at the time that it was very skillful driving, Mr. Loring, for he had to pass between a hydrant and a light post on one side and a building on the other. Doubtless it required rather delicate calculation also, sir, to attain the correct angle between wheels and curb in order that the car should surmount the――ah――obstacle.”

“You’re blamed right it did,” agreed Tom. “I’ll vociferate that, at twenty-five an hour, that was some stunt!”

“And you say that Edouard was a trifle flustered on that occasion?” asked Loring with a chuckle.

“Well, sir, perhaps I shouldn’t go that far,” replied Wattles cautiously. “He didn’t conduct himself in a manner suggesting it, but I did hear him say ‘_Sacre bleu!_’ as he went up on the pave――sidewalk!”

“Imagine a New York taxi driver confining himself to ‘_Sacre bleu_’ in Edouard’s place,” laughed Clif. “Evidently he’s a man of few words and considerable self-restraint.”

“Funny,” remarked Loring, with a wink at Clif, “that I never heard of that piquant adventure, Wattles.”

Again Wattles coughed delicately. “I believe, sir,” he replied without turning from his task of arranging the cravats in a drawer, “that the incident was not mentioned.”

“Well, all this is mighty interesting,” observed Tom, “but something tells me――” and he laid a hand on his belt buckle――“that the supper hour approacheth. What about a game of chess this evening, Loring? I haven’t seen a chessboard since last spring.”

“All right, Tom,” Loring replied. “I’ll be ready for you.”

Clif groaned. “I was hoping you chaps had forgotten that beastly game,” he said. “Got any new books? I’ll have to read, because I always fall asleep when I watch you play. I don’t know anything more――what’s the word?――sedative than waiting for Tom to move!”

“Yes, I’ve got several new ones, Clif,” answered Loring. “One of them’s on football, too.”

“That reading’s forbidden us,” said Clif virtuously. “Who wrote it?”

“Come on,” commanded Tom. “I’m starving. Let’s make the most of our opportunities, Clif, before training table starts. See you after supper, Loring. ‘All for one and one for all!’”

“‘All for one and one for all!’” echoed Loring.

Fortunately for all concerned in the development of the football team, the hot weather disappeared by Thursday. After two sessions of extremely languid practice Mr. Otis hailed the chance to get some real work done, and on that afternoon the dummy was hitched into place and a pleasant half hour was spent in tackling and blocking. Pleasant, that is, from the point of view of the coach. And possibly the stuffed effigy enjoyed it. Those who launched themselves across the freshly spaded pit and clasped the swaying canvas legs soon tired of the entertainment. The weather was seasonable, but it still required but little exertion to bring a copious perspiration, and the soil in the pit tasted no whit better than it had a year ago!

New candidates were unusually scarce this fall, and the summons posted on the bulletin boards in the gymnasium and halls had failed to produce an outpouring of eager and ambitious recruits. Guy Owens said it was the weather, but events proved him wrong, for the crop of neophytes that season never did approach the usual number. However, there was a bright side to that, for with fewer beginners to handle more time was left for the instruction of the old hands. Still, Mr. Otis wasn’t pleased, and during the first week of school the dormitories were carefully combed in the search for material. A coach has next year to think of as well as the present season, and a lack of beginners this fall indicates a want of veterans later. A handful of none too willing youths were added to the squad by twos and threes over a space of several days and then the supply ran out. However, the squad totaled more than fifty by that time, and while that was a smaller number than usual, it was still many more than would survive the final weeding. Mr. Hilliard, who taught modern languages to the upper classes and junior English to the lower school, and who was known as “Pinky,” was assistant coach. “Pinky,” however, wasn’t always available in early season, and the task of teaching kindergarten football was taken over by Captain Ogden and Joe Weldon during the first few days of practice. Jeff Ogden played full back, while Joe was a tackle, and both were beginning their third year of football at Wyndham.

By Friday Clif was working with the tackles and making rather heavy going. Perhaps, oddly, he had never really considered a tackle’s duties before, and now he made the illuminating discovery that a tackle was, to fall back on metaphor, “soldier and sailor, too!” That is, while he was at times essentially a linesman, at other times he held the roving commission of an end. Fully as much speed was required of Clif as last year, and, or so he began to think, his duties in the new position were more numerous. He became discouraged with himself frequently during the first fortnight of the season and wouldn’t have been surprised at any moment if Coach Otis had relegated him to his former job. But “G. G.” appeared to have faith and Clif toiled on.

The first game, that with the local high school team, was no more than a brisk practice, since high school had been at work only a day longer than Wyndham. Mr. Otis used nearly three elevens in the course of forty minutes of actual playing and some weird performances were seen. Possibly Clif’s performance during the fifteen minutes or so that he occupied the position of left tackle was as weird as any. His efforts to reach the rear of the opponent’s line and pick off interference on defense were not exactly crowned with success. Of course, he had his lucky moments, but, on the whole, an intelligent observer wouldn’t have picked him as an ideal tackle. Wyndham appeared, during the last two periods, to be doing all in her power to present the adversary with the game, and would probably have succeeded but for two things. One was that she had accumulated twenty-three points to a mere six for the opponent, and the other was that you can’t give a thing away unless some one is willing to accept it, and Freeburg High resisted nobly! As a football contest, even as a first one of a season, that game was a good deal of a joke, and the audience knew it. However, it was interesting if only for its humor.

In the first period, and well into the second, with what might have been called her regular line-up on duty, Wyndham played fair football. All positions save two were looked after by veterans of last year’s team who, either as first- or second-string players, had won their W’s. Drayton at left end was an experienced hand, Weldon and Cotter at tackle, Desmond at right guard, Carlson at center, Houston at quarter, Kemble and Sproule at half and Ogden at full had all played against Wolcott for longer or shorter periods. There was plenty of ragged work, to be sure, but the power was there and even if it was frequently wrongly applied it bored the high school line and whittled off the high school ends for two touchdowns and a field goal. The real comedy of errors began when Coach Otis started to use his substitutes. The second period was half gone then. Pat Tyson, relieving Carlson at center, signalized his appearance by passing the ball at least four feet over the head of “Swede” Hanbury, who had taken Jeff Ogden’s job at full back. Followed a frenzied race for the runaway oval in which some twenty-two youths participated. That was greatly appreciated by the audience, which howled and applauded gleefully as, time and again, the ball eluded the pursuers. By the time Jeff Adams, Wyndham end, had at last captured the pigskin it was a good twenty-eight yards nearer the dark blue’s goal than when it had begun its adventures. There was no more scoring in the half, for by the time Hanbury had booted the ball away from such dangerous proximity to the Wyndham goal line there was only time for high school to run off a few plays before the horn sounded.

High school made her lone score a few minutes after the third period had begun. An intercepted forward pass gave her a good start, and when, a minute or two later, Couch was neatly boxed, a fleet-footed half skirted Wyndham’s right end and went over for a touchdown at the corner of the field. But high school’s try-for-point was spoiled by Greene, the blue-stockinged right guard. Just how Greene got through high school’s line as speedily as he did was a mystery, but there he was, looming large and forbidding, fairly on the heels of the ball, and the high school kicker hadn’t a chance to even swing his leg!

Following that incident, Wyndham, greatly assisted by penalties, went down the gridiron to the enemy’s thirty-two and there heaved a surprisingly finished forward pass, Hanbury to Whitemill, that was caught on the eight yards and carried over. Wyndham added another point by kicking goal. That ended all scoring for the day. Subsequently, with the home team composed almost exclusively of second and third substitutes and the visiting eleven freshened――and apparently weakened――by new men, the game became farce pure and simple. High school, unable to puncture the line, essayed the end with scarcely better luck and then resorted to desperate passing. The pigskin shot hither and thither and frantic defenders rushed wildly about in pursuit of it. Once or twice high school completed a pass, but almost always it either dropped harmlessly to earth, well out of range of friend and foe alike, or went to Wyndham. It didn’t go to Wyndham often, though, for Wyndham had a bad attack of butter fingers. High school worked as far as the home team’s twenty-two yard line on one occasion, only to lose yardage on a penalty first and then possession of the ball on a fumble. McMurtry, playing his first game at full back in the final quarter, stood on his nineteen yards and attempted to punt. High school broke through and McMurtry thought better of punting and ran. He ran straight across the gridiron and might not have stopped his crablike progress then if he hadn’t tripped on the edge of the cinder track and allowed an opponent to grab him. A facetious youth in the stand offered the explanation that McMurtry had thought he heard the horn and was taking the ball back to the gymnasium.

The task of punting was next assigned to Treader, and Treader made a somewhat better job of it. At least he got the ball away, even if it didn’t go more than twenty yards! High school tried a fair catch, missed it and chased the ball to the side line. Then, or soon after, it occurred to some one to stop the game.

Not a very satisfactory start for a successful season you’d have thought, but “G. G.” didn’t seem at all perturbed. Indeed, he even found a word or two of commendation for several of the players who had taken part in the comedy which had ended the entertainment. Clif was one of the commended. Just for a dreadful instant he suspected “G. G.” of sarcasm, but apparently the coach spoke in good faith. What he said was: “Not bad, Bingham. When you learn to use your hands more you’ll be useful.” Perhaps that doesn’t sound like praise, but for “G. G.” it was almost fulsome!

By the first of the following week Number 40 West Hall was more to Tom’s liking. The north window seat was almost hidden by four fat, frilled pillows purchased in the local stores. One was covered with brown leather on which was painted a blue canoe floating on yellow water. A lady of surpassing beauty reposed in the bow, one hand trailing in the vivid stream. A handsome youth occupied the stern, a paddle across his knees and a large W on his white sweater. At one side was a very green tree and above was a purple moon. At least Tom said it was a moon while Clif held out for having it a toy balloon. Then there were two red pillows, one undeniably crimson, the other verging on the magenta. The magenta one was adorned with an Old English W. The fourth and last artistic effort was Tom’s special joy. It was formed, as to one side, of cigar ribbons of various hues of yellow and red. The other side was less beautiful, being merely a square of pink sateen. Tom had obtained that pillow at a real bargain in the village stationery store conducted by an American citizen named Poppidalopous. “Poppy” as, for evident reasons, he was known, informed Tom that the elegant article had been made by Mrs. Poppidalopous’ own fair hands and that the task had required several months. Tom, who was aware that “Poppy” was the proud father of some six round-faced Greek-American children, could easily believe that “Mrs. Poppy” would find it difficult to attain such a noble result in less than several months without boarding the children out! He paid the modest sum of two dollars and eighty cents for the prize, inducing “Poppy” to knock off twenty cents because he had failed to receive two Sunday papers last term.

Tom got a great deal of pleasure reading the inscriptions on the cigar ribbons in moments of relaxation. At such times, luxuriously imposed on the crimson and magenta cushions――one didn’t lean against the leather pillow on account of the painting――he placed the Poppidalopous masterpiece against his knees and perused it, turning it around as he proceeded. Since he generally read aloud, this was a form of entertainment enjoyed more by Tom than by Clif. Clif declared that he could stand it better if it wasn’t for the constant recurrence of the word “Aurelia.” He didn’t like “Aurelia” in the first place, he said, and it didn’t improve, in his judgment, for being reiterated. He suspected that “Aurelia” was a cheap cigar, possibly a five center, and that Mrs. Poppidalopous had cheated in putting so many “Aurelias” into the pillow cover. They had long and heated arguments on the subject. Tom was certain――or said he was――that the “Aurelia” cigar was a very excellent and high priced article and that Mrs. Poppi――well, Clif knew what he wanted to say!――had so generously included the ribbons solely to enhance the value of the pillow and, as it were, lend it class and distinction. Tom challenged Clif to produce any one who had ever purchased a genuine “Aurelia” for less than thirty-five cents!

Photographs were also liberally displayed in Number 40, and a large blue banner bearing the word “Wyndham” in white letters hung from the molding along one wall. Three pictures adorned as many sides of the room, a pair of snowshoes were crossed above Clif’s chiffonier and a pair of almost unsullied boxing gloves dangled above Tom’s. Incidentally, it may be confided that Tom could use the boxing gloves quite as scientifically as Clif could manipulate the snowshoes, and as Clif had almost suffocated in a snow bank last winter before assistance had reached him and disentangled his shoes you may fairly assume that, while Tom was always cheerfully willing to scrap, as a boxer he was no great shakes. Tom was highly pleased with the appearance of the room and gave it as his opinion that it was pure selfishness not to share its attractions with others. It would, he suggested, be a charitable act to hold a housewarming some evening and allow less fortunate fellows to see what genuine luxury was. Clif agreed to the suggestion and the following Friday evening was settled on for the event. They had some difficulty in drawing up a list of guests because Tom objected on general principles to Clif’s nominees and Clif objected to Tom’s. But they finally agreed on eight fortunate fellows and then took up the subject of refreshments. As Tom had spent nearly all his last allowance money on pillows for the window seat, he was in favor of something modest in the way of food.

“Crackers and some of that zippy cheese that Danforth carries ought to do,” he said. “And, of course, some pop; ginger ale for choice; only it costs more. You see, Clif, ostentation in the matter of refreshments is vulgar. The best people are going in for simplicity, old timer. I guess some of that sympathetic orange juice will be better than ginger ale; Orange Slush, you know, or whatever they call it.”

“The last time I drank that stuff,” replied Clif distastefully, “I nearly passed out. Only had three bottles of it, too. No, sir, no synthetic fruit juice for this affair. We’ll have ginger ale, and the best sort, too. And crackers and cheese may be the proper caper in New Jersey, Tom, but where I come from a housewarming calls for real chow.”

“Well, what do you call real chow?” asked Tom anxiously.

“Hot dogs and rolls, olives, ginger cookies, bananas and ginger ale,” replied Clif triumphantly.

“That what you get at parties in Providence?” inquired the other incredulously. “Heck, that sounds like a village picnic! No――no restraint! No taste! Why――”

“Taste? You’re crazy! That stuff’s full of taste! We’ll have plenty of mustard for the hot dogs, and――or do you prefer sauerkraut?”

“Help!” yelped Tom. “Say, who’s going to pay for this banquet? I’m mighty near broke.”

“Fifty-fifty,” answered Clif. “I’ll foot the bill and you come across next pay day with your half. We might leave out the olives, I suppose,” he added reflectively. “Lots of fellows don’t care to waste time on them.”

“That’s right. Olives are scratched. And aren’t bananas a bit heavy after hot dogs, Clif? I’ve got my digestion to think of, old timer. It isn’t what――” Tom stopped abruptly and his jaw dropped. “Why, you crazy loon,” he exclaimed, “we’ll be at training table by Friday and can’t eat that mess!”

“Gosh, that’s so! Table starts Wednesday, doesn’t it? Bananas are scratched, too, Tom!”