CHAPTER VI

THE “HOUSEWARMING”

Tom was almost irritable when Clif confessed that he had asked Parks to the party, and Clif’s description of the chap didn’t seem to reassure him. “Sort of a queer specimen,” detailed Clif as he hurriedly prepared for supper. “About two sizes larger than ‘Big Bill’ Fargo was last year. Has a lot of hair that stands up on top and makes him look taller. Slow moving, like an elephant, and just about as――as ponderous. Not bad looking. Broad across the forehead, an indication of brains unfortunately lacking with you, Tommy. What sort of got me, though, was his――well, kind of helplessness. He’s a bit uncouth――no, that isn’t just it, either. He reminds you of a piece of homemade furniture; strong and dependable, you know, and not bad to look at, but lacking finish. Rough around the corners. And the grain showing――”

“Oh, shut up,” said Tom. “Who cares? What I want to know is――”

“Nice eyes and a big mouth that――”

“――is why we have to be saddled with him? He doesn’t know any of the others, does he?”

“Don’t believe so,” answered Clif cheerfully. “Don’t believe he’s――what were his words now?――‘horned in’ yet. That’s one reason I asked him. He’s going to be quite a hit when he gets known, and you and I, old son, will get the credit for introducing him to society.”

“You’re plumb crazy,” said Tom in plaintive disgust. “Oh, all right, only don’t expect me to hold his little hand. He’s your guest, remember.”

“Fair enough! You’ll like him, though, when you get to know him. All set? Let’s go, then.”

Clif didn’t have to return to Number 17 that evening to extend an invitation to Walter Treat, for, as luck had it, Walter was in the corridor when Clif and Tom came out from supper and joined them.

“Hello, Tom,” he greeted. “How are you?”

“First rate, thanks,” replied Tom, shaking hands and viewing the other appraisingly. “How’s yourself?”

“Fine, I think. Fact is, I’ve been on the go so much since I got back that I haven’t had time to consider that important question. My roommate said you called, Clif, and left word you wanted to see me. Saw you coming out and thought I’d wait.”

“Why, yes.” Walt’s manner was so cordial that Clif felt vastly relieved and even grateful, and the fact induced an enthusiasm that may have surprised the other. “Tom and I are having a kind of blow-out Friday night in our room, Walt, and we want you to be sure and come. Just a sort of housewarming, as Tom calls it, with six or seven fellows and some eats. How about it?”

“Glad to,” answered Walt. “By the way, what’s the number?”

“Forty. On the corner, just around from where Tom was last year. About nine o’clock. And, by the way, I asked Parks to come.”

Walt smiled. “Did he accept?”

“Well, sort of. Conditionally, as you might say. If you came, he seemed to think he would.”

“Really? Well, that’s odd. You must have charmed him, Clif. He’s the shyest chap for his size and age I ever ran onto. I’ve tried to pull him about, but he won’t stir for me. Did he happen to tell you his name?”

“Yes, Parks.”

“I mean his first name. It’s Lemueljohn.”

“It’s _what_?” demanded Clif.

“Lemueljohn,” chuckled Walt. “At least that’s the way it sounds. Of course, it’s really two words.”

“Sounds like a breakfast food,” commented Tom boredly.

“He explained that he’s named after his father and that in order to differentiate, so to speak, he has always been called Lemuel John. But as he says it, you’d swear it was all one name! Well, I’ll bring him along if he will come, fellows. Thanks. See you again.”

“Lemuel John,” muttered Tom, as Walt went on toward the recreation room. “He must be a prize!”

Football grew strenuous by Thursday of that second week of school. The Highland game was due on Saturday, and in Highland would be found an opponent vastly different from the local high school. Coach Otis more than half expected a defeat, although he didn’t say so, unless to Captain Ogden or Quarter Back Houston. But he didn’t intend to accept defeat without struggling against it, and so on Thursday a hastily organized scrub team made its bow and offered some fair opposition. The scrub was coached by Mr. Babcock, the Physical Director, familiarly known as “Cocky.” So far, however, “Cocky” hadn’t had time to impart much wisdom to his charges, and if the first team hadn’t been as ragged as it was the scrub wouldn’t have provided very good practice. As it happened, though, Mr. Babcock’s aggregation did very well for themselves, especially on Friday when, during a single fifteen-minute scrimmage, Mr. Otis loaned the enemy a center and a left tackle in the persons of Pat Tyson and “Wink” Coles. Clif played opposite “Wink” that afternoon and, although they were extremely good friends, was used quite brutally. Afterwards “Wink” seated himself by Clif in the locker room and imparted advice.

“Listen, Clif,” said “Wink,” chastely attired in a large but rather soiled bath towel, “you’ve got to use your hands more, son. I got to you lots of times to-day. You don’t want to let the other guy into you on defense, see? Keep him off with your hands. Like this, see? Shoulder――head――this way――swing him aside――pull him down!” “Wink” illustrated with quick gestures. “You’ve got to be shifty, too. Don’t let the other fellow find you flat-footed. Keep moving. Keep him guessing. Another thing, too. On attack, now. Don’t charge the same way twice running. You use your shoulder too much. Lots of times you can do better by slipping around your man. If you can’t, give him a straight arm for a change, or bust square into him and go on over. If a guy’s looking for a shoulder and gets set for it he can’t stop a straight charge so easy. See what I mean? Don’t get stuck on any one style, old son. Variety, eh? Spice of life, Clif!”

“I’ve got a heap to learn about playing tackle,” answered Clif ruefully. “Much obliged, ‘Wink.’”

“That’s all right. Glad you aren’t peeved at me trying to give you tips. Tackle’s new to you, and there’s little things you don’t catch onto right off, see? Thought I’d just mention it, you know.”

“Mighty decent of you,” answered Clif. “Especially as we’re both after the same job!”

“Wink” shrugged. “I don’t expect to make it this year, Clif. You and Weldon have both got the call on me. Still and all, I’ll give you a dinged good run for your money!”

“Come a-bustin’, old chap! By the way, don’t forget the blow-out to-night.”

“Not so’s you’d notice it! I’ll be on hand. As the fellow with the hare lip said: ‘Iyawyawyawfluller!’”

“What’s it in English?” laughed Clif as the other hurried toward the showers.

“‘I’m all of a flutter!’” translated “Wink.”

The “housewarming” went off very well that evening, although not much in the way of entertainment was provided by the hosts aside from a free and untrammeled opportunity for indulgence in conversation. Seven guests attended, all that had been invited, filling Number 40 from side to side and end to end. Football was well represented by Billy Desmond, “Wink” Coles, “Swede” Hanbury, Jeff Adams and, of course, the hosts. Literature attended in the person of Walter Treat, this year an assistant editor of the school monthly, _The Lantern_. With Walt was Lemuel John, looking a bit bigger than Clif remembered him. Lemuel John had donned an intensely purple shirt for the occasion. Loring Deane completed the list, his wheel chair backed up alongside Tom’s bed so that, in case the party got a trifle rough, he would be out of danger.

Lemuel John was not the only sizable youth present, for both Desmond and Hanbury approached six feet. Billy was in the first class this year and was certain of the right guard position on the eleven. “Swede” Hanbury――his real name was Joe――would have been the logical first choice for full back if Captain Jeff Ogden hadn’t changed from half to full last year. It’s a fairly difficult feat to beat the captain out, and Joe was resigned to being a second-string player this season. But, as large as Billy and Joe were, Lemuel John still had it over them for size. He was possibly a half inch taller than Billy, a full inch broader than “Swede” and many pounds heavier than either.

Jeff Adams was an end candidate and at the present time was giving Drayton a hard fight for the left wing position. Jeff and “Wink” had served with Clif and Tom last season on the second team, the “Fighting Scrub,” as it had been called, and were consequently more than mere friends. As Tom put it, the four had “fit, bled and died together!” Jeff’s appearance was misleading. He looked stodgy and sleepy and moved and talked as he looked――until the whistle blew. Then Jeff was quite another person. “Wink” was a snapping-eyed youth with red cheeks and a general air of “go-get-it.”

Conversation didn’t really flow well until the “eats” had been set out, and, since they had but an hour and twenty-odd minutes at the most for the party, Clif and Tom didn’t keep their guests waiting long. Of course the original menu had been painfully cut down. There were no hot dogs, no bananas, no “zippy” cheese. As valuable an article of diet as cheese may be, it doesn’t sit on the stomach very quietly when partaken of at around ten o’clock at night. The same may be said of bananas, while as for “wiennies”――well, a certain amount of physical exercise is necessary to subdue those delectable viands. However, if such things were taboo, football training, so far as the diet was concerned, was fairly lenient, and sandwiches of chicken and of minced ham, plenty of ice cream, vanilla wafers and unlimited ginger ale answered very well indeed. The hosts made up in quantity what was lacking in variety, and the guests did full justice to the repast.

It was during a comparative lull in the conversation that Billy Desmond, who had been regarding Lemuel John furtively for some time, inquired: “I haven’t seen you out on the field, have I, Parks?”

“I’ve been there three, four times,” answered Lemuel John.

It appeared that others had been curious on the subject, for there was almost a complete cessation of voices in the room as Lemuel John answered. The answer was followed by an exchange of inquiring looks. Then Billy said, puzzled: “Three or four times? Why don’t you come out every day? What are you trying for?”

It was Walt who explained. “He thought you were asking if he watched practice, Billy. He doesn’t play.”

“He doesn’t!” Billy stared at Lemuel John in unconcealed amazement. “He looks like he ought to. Haven’t you ever played, Parks?”

“No, I never saw much of football until this fall. I saw a game at Cheyenne once, but I didn’t understand it very well. It’s sort of interesting, ain’t it? I guess I saw you playing it one day, didn’t I?”

“You might have,” replied Billy soberly. “Wink,” however, chuckled audibly, and Lemuel John, whose shyness had somewhat diminished with the arrival of food, looked embarrassed and twisted one foot around the leg of his chair until the wood creaked alarmingly. Tom went to his rescue. “Mean to say, Parks, that they haven’t been after you?”

“Who’s that?” asked the other.

“Well, Guy Owens or some of the football fellows.”

“Oh, asking me to learn the game? Yes, a fellow named――named New, I guess, was around bedeviling me the other day. He said he was the manager. He said he’d like for me to play――”

“He’s assistant manager,” corrected Walt rather unnecessarily.

“Still, he might have called himself manager, at that,” laughed Clif. “Steve’s feeling his oats a bit this year.”

“What did you tell him?” demanded Tom.

“Oh, I said I didn’t know anything about the game. He said it wouldn’t take me long to learn. Said the coach could teach me quick enough. But, shucks, I knew better. I don’t learn that easy. Why, I was all one winter learning how to play chess!”

“Keno!” exclaimed Loring. “You’re mine, Parks!”

“Huh?” Lemuel John faced this new distraction with a blank expression on his big countenance. “What did you say, stranger?”

“I said you were mine,” laughed Loring. “If you play chess you’re the man I’m looking for. You see, Parks, most of these dubs don’t know the game. All they can master is football or baseball or one of those low-brow sports. I suppose they lack the mentality for chess.”

Lemuel John’s gaze passed leisurely over Loring and came to rest on the rug that covered him from the waist down. “You a crip?” he asked rather gently.

There was the sound of a gasp from some one, and an uncomfortable silence endured for a brief instant. Then Loring answered, smiling: “Yes, something of the sort. I can’t use my legs. That’s why chess is the most strenuous sport I go in for.”

Lemuel John nodded. “Yeah, I see. Well, I’ll be glad to play with you any time. I ain’t much good at it yet, but I’m learning. I guess it’s pretty tough not to be able to walk around.” He continued to gaze at Loring, his rather light blue eyes puckered in thought. Then: “You don’t look very heavy,” he added. “Guess I could tote you easy if there was some place you wanted to go any time.”

“Thanks,” answered Loring gratefully. “I’ll remember that.”

“Yeah, I’d be glad to,” said Lemuel John.

“Big boob!” murmured Walt in Clif’s ear. Clif looked over at Tom, expecting to find that youth signaling “What did I tell you about asking that guy up here?” Instead, though, Tom was regarding Lemuel John rather kindly, and “I’ll fetch him over some evening, Loring,” he announced. “And I sure hope he licks the stuffing out of you!”

Jeff Adams swung the conversation to football the next moment. “Who’s taking the trip to-morrow, Billy?” he asked lazily.

“To Highland? I haven’t heard, Jeff. Guy said there’d be about twenty-five of us, though. That lets us all in, I suppose.”

“Well, it lets you in,” said “Wink,” “but it’s a dollar to a bean that I don’t get there.”

“Sure you will,” said Tom. “Who’s going to keep the water bucket filled?”

“Sit on a tack,” responded “Wink” graciously. “And toss me a couple of cookies, while you’re up.”

“I’m not up,” said Tom; “but when hospitality calls I respond with alacrity. Clif, attend to the gentleman’s wants.”

Clif passed a box of cookies and then busied himself with ginger ale. “Mighty few of the fellows going along, I guess,” said “Swede,” who, stretched at full length of Clif’s bed, accepted a new bottle and tilted it over his mouth. “Too far, probably.”

“Too expensive,” said Walt. “It’s all right for you fellows, making the trip in nice, comfortable automobiles, but the rest of us――”

“Say, we’ve got the new buses, haven’t we?” exclaimed “Wink.” “Gee, I hope I get to go!”

“You wouldn’t go to a game if it was in the next village, Walt,” said Clif. “You’ve no more patriotism than a worm.”

“Patriotism,” began Walt indignantly.

“He’s going to-morrow,” announced Lemuel John calmly. “I told him I’d pay the fares if he would.”

There was a gleeful howl at that, through which Walt declared defiantly: “Sure, why not? Think I’ve got enough coin to go traipsing all over the country? Do you know how much it costs to get to Highland and back?”

“You should worry,” chuckled “Swede.” “At that, I dare say you’ll turn in the expense to _The Lantern_!”

“A fat chance!” said Walt. “Gosh, I even have to buy my own typewriter ribbons!”

“Who’s going to win, Billy?” asked Loring.

“Wyndham,” replied the right guard.

“I’ll bet we don’t,” said “Wink.” “Highland’s laying for us this time, Billy.”

“Let her lay,” retorted Billy untroubledly. “She’s beaten already. Know why? Because she’s scared of us, ‘Wink.’ Got so she thinks she always has to lose to us. Psychology, kid.”

“Psychology my eye!” said “Wink.” “What about last year?”

“We won. Nine to nothing, wasn’t it?”

“Sure, we won! I didn’t say we didn’t. But we had one gosh-awful time doing it, didn’t we? Got a lucky field goal in the first half and then couldn’t do a thing until the game was nearly over. If Highland had had any sort of an offense――”

“If,” said Billy dryly. “She didn’t have. She won’t have to-morrow. Or, if she does, then she’ll be weak on defense. We’ll win, kid. Something like twenty to nothing. Well, allow Highland a field goal, if you like.”

“‘G. G.’” said Clif, “was pretty doubtful about to-morrow’s game a week or so back.”

“He has a right to be,” declared “Wink.” “Billy can talk like that if it gives him any pleasure, but I’m telling you we haven’t got the steam to run up any twenty points against Highland. Our back field’s as slow as cold molasses!”

“That’s right, blame it on the back field,” said Tom. “What about a line that can’t open a hole for you to squeeze through because they’re dead on their feet? That doesn’t make any difference, eh?”

“Oh, I’m not saying much for the line, either,” answered “Wink.” “The truth is that the whole team is just about a week behind. And Highland’s been practicing for nearly a month, I’ll bet. Maybe we’ll beat ’em, but you guys won’t be on the long end of any twenty-nothing score!”

“Just so we win,” said Clif. “That’s all I’m hoping. What I’d like to see is the old team come through the season with a clean slate, fellows.”

“Some one kill him while he’s happy,” suggested Tom. “We’ve got as much chance of doing that as――as I have to get through left guard to-morrow!”

“You’ll get through left guard all right, Tom, if you don’t fall over your feet,” said Billy comfortably. “But I can’t keep the hole open for you more than five or six minutes.”

“I don’t see that it’s impossible,” said Clif earnestly. “Our schedule’s no harder than usual and we’re well fixed for players this year. I’ll bet that if we really set out to do it we could.”

“Maybe so, Clif,” said “Swede,” disposing of his empty bottle by tucking it under the pillow. “Maybe so if Otis would let us. But he won’t.”

“How do you mean? Why won’t he? I said the same thing to him and he talked like he thought it would be fine!”

“Sure enough, but here’s the point, young feller, me lad. ‘G. G.’ won’t point for any game but the last one. If we set out to win every contest we might do it. I mean if ‘G. G.’ set out to do it. But he won’t. He will use every game as a step toward Wolcott, not caring much whether we win or lose as long as we’re a bit further along. See what I mean, Clif? Take to-morrow’s game. If we were to get through the season without a licking we’d have to take the Highland game, of course. That would mean doing a bit of preparation. Learning what Highland has and finding a way to stop it. Going up with a few ground-gaining plays instead of the rag-tag of last year’s stuff that we have. Same way with the Jordan game and the Cupples and all the rest of them right through the fall. We’d have to point for each game as it came along and not use it just as a practice stunt to put us in trim for Wolcott. Gosh, I’m dry. Any more of that ginger pop?”

“Just the same,” began Clif as he arose to find another bottle.

“Wolcott’s our meat,” said Jeff. “I don’t care how often we get nipped if we can just get our teeth in her when the time comes. What do you say, Deane?”

“I think, as Clif does, that it would be a wonderful stunt to have an undefeated team this year. Wouldn’t it look corking in the papers? ‘Wyndham School Completes Season Without Defeat!’”

“Yes, it would look mighty nice,” agreed Jeff. “But I’d hate to have the team work so hard winning the first seven games that it would lose the last one! I guess I’m with ‘G. G.’ Point for Wolcott is my motto. Say, for the love of mud, what time is it?”

“Swede” glanced at his watch and rolled off the bed, and the stampede began.