CHAPTER VIII

SLOGANS

Sunday evening the Triumvirate gathered as usual in Loring’s room. Tom looked rather disreputable with his left cheekbone a queer mixture of purple and yellow. Clif declared he could also discern tinges of green and pink there, too; but Tom didn’t act very elated at the announcement. Instead he fingered the discolored surface gingerly, frowned and remarked with apparent irrelevance: “Wig!”

“Won’t do,” said Loring. “Middle letter’s _E_, I told you.”

“_E?_ I thought you said _A_.”

“Well, you don’t spell ‘wig’ with an _A_, do you?”

“Sure he does,” said Clif. “Or an _O_! You don’t know Tom’s abilities in the spelling line. Why――”

“Shut up,” remarked Tom, concentrating frowningly on the problem. “Three letters, you said. Middle one’s _A_.”

“Oh, give me patience!” sighed Loring. “Here, look for yourself, imbecile! _E! E! E!_”

Tom accepted the book and looked. “Yes, that’s right,” he announced calmly. “Middle letter’s _E_.” Clif howled and Loring shook his head sadly. “Might be――‘kepi’! Bet you that’s it! ‘Kepi’! _K, e, p_―― Gee, there’s too many letters!”

“Tom, as a cross-word puzzle solver you’re a perfectly wonderful half back,” laughed Loring. “Give me the book, moron.”

“Well, it says, ‘Head covering,’” muttered Tom, “and if it isn’t ‘hat’ or ‘cap’ or ‘wig’ what the dickens is it?”

“That’s what we’re supposed to find out,” replied Loring dryly. “What’s the matter with your brains, Clif?”

“I never could wrestle with those crazy things,” answered Clif. “They give me a headache. Or they would if I’d let them.”

“Middle letter’s _E_,” murmured Tom, a far-away look in his eyes.

“Never mind,” consoled Loring. “We’ll get some of the others first. Wattles is the humdinger at this game, fellows. We did this other one yesterday afternoon and Wattles spent most of his time trotting back and forth to the library. ‘Wattles,’ I’d say, ‘what are “dried insects” in six letters, beginning with _K_ and ending in _S_?’ ‘I’ll find out, sir,’ Wattles would say, and off he’d go. At first he used to get as far as Middle and forget what he was going to look up and have to come all the way back again, but after he’d done that a few times he put it down on a slip of paper. And he always got what he went for, too. No cross-word contraption can bite Wattles and live!”

“What _was_ the six-letter word meaning fried insects?” inquired Tom interestedly.

“Dried, Tom, not fried. It was――here it is. ‘Kermes.’ I don’t just know how you pronounce it, but――”

“Pshaw,” said Tom, “that’s not a dried insect, that’s a sort of a dance. No, it isn’t, either. It’s some sort of milk folks drink when they’re sick, or something.”

“You’re thinking of ‘kumiss,’ Tom. This particular word means an insect that’s used to make cochineal of.”

“What’s cochineal?” asked Tom.

“For Pete’s sake,” laughed Loring, “don’t you know anything at all? Cochineal’s a red dye that’s used to color things with; like ice cream and candy and――”

“_What!_ Mean to say I’m eating dried insects when I have red candy?”

“Well――”

“_Fez!_” exclaimed Clif explosively.

“Huh?” asked Loring. “What did you say?”

“_Fez!_” repeated Clif triumphantly, pointing at the book.

“Fez? By Jove, that’s it! Clif, you’re a wiz!” Loring seized his pencil. “How did you happen to think of it?”

“I don’t know. You said ‘red’ and it――it just popped into my head.” Clif looked as self-conscious and proud as if he had won the Boynton Prize in English! “That’s it, eh?”

“Yes. Funny we couldn’t think of it!”

“What’s it mean?” asked Tom.

“That makes this word ‘Mizpah,’” continued Loring unheedingly. “Let’s see. Yes, that’s right! And this one――”

“What’s a mizpah?” asked Tom doggedly.

Clif placed a pillow firmly against Tom’s face and kept it there in spite of protests until the latter had promised smotheredly to ask no more questions!

Later, peace having been restored and the puzzle book laid aside, Loring said: “I’ve been thinking about something that was discussed in your room the other night, fellows.”

“Proud to know,” remarked Tom, “that the conversation in our _salon_ was worthy a second thought, Mr. Deane.”

“You remember some one――wasn’t it you, Clif?――said he’d like to see the football team end the season without a beating.”

Clif nodded. “Yes, I said it, and got sat on by the crowd.”

“Well, I’d like to see it, too,” resumed Loring earnestly. “Wouldn’t it be possible?”

“You heard what ‘Swede’ said.”

“Yes, but I didn’t think so much of it, Clif. No one was suggesting that we make any changes in the――the conduct of affairs. As I understood it, the question was simply whether it couldn’t be done under present conditions. I was looking over the scores of last year’s games yesterday. We won every one except the Horner game, and usually by a good margin. Highland crowded us a bit, and, of course, the Wolcott game was no cinch.”

“Well, eight to three wasn’t so worse,” protested Tom.

“What I’m getting at,” went on Loring, “is this. If we got through last year with only one defeat, why isn’t it possible to keep the slate clean this year, especially as it seems to be generally agreed that we’re starting off with a better gang?”

“Why, if that’s all you want to know,” replied Tom, “I’ll answer you, old son. Ever try to say ‘Nebuchadnezzar’ twenty times?”

“No, and I don’t propose to. Talk seriously a minute, Tom.”

“I am serious. You asked a question and I’m trying to answer it so you’ll understand it.”

“What’s ‘Nebuchadnezzar’ got to do with it?”

“Say it twenty times and you’ll see.”

“Meaning that I can’t do it?”

“Meaning that it’s extremely unlikely. Go ahead and I’ll count.”

“Nebuchadnezzar,” began Loring.

“One,” murmured Tom.

“Nebuchadnezzar, Nebuchadnezzar――” At the fourteenth repetition Loring paused to take a long breath.

“Fourteen,” said Tom. “Don’t stop!”

“Nebuchadnezzar, Nebuchadnezzar, Nebuchadneber――”

“Whoa! Seventeen, old son. That’s not so bad, either.”

“He was getting his ‘nezzar’ a good deal like ‘nazzer’ along about the twelfth time,” chuckled Clif. “Well, what’s the moral, Tom?”

“The moral is that it’s easy enough to do a thing right ten times, or fifteen times, we’ll say; but after that you’re going to slip up. I don’t know why, but I suppose the well-known law of averages gets in its dirty work.”

“Probably,” said Loring; “either because you grow careless or because you try so hard not to grow careless that you take your mind off the job. But I see what you mean, Tom. You think that it isn’t possible for the team to say ‘Nebuchadnezzar’ eight times!”

Tom shrugged. “Oh, well, nothing’s strictly impossible, they say. I suppose I mean that the chances are all against it.”

Loring nodded thoughtfully. “Just the same, it would be worth trying, wouldn’t it?”

“Sure! I’d be tickled to death to tell my grandchildren that I played on the famous unbeaten Wyndham Team. _But_――”

“Forget the ‘buts’ a minute. Just to prove that it isn’t impossible, there’s Notre Dame.”

“Oh, a college! That’s different. We were talking about this team. I’ll bet you Wyndham never got through a season without a drubbing.”

“I’ll take the bet,” said Loring, his eyes twinkling.

“Huh? Well, when was it?”

“Some time ago, to be sure. Twelve years, to be exact.”

“What? Twelve years ago? Heck, were they playing football here as long ago as that?”

“Our young friend is evidently laboring under the delusion that the game was not known here until he joined the team,” said Clif.

“I looked it up yesterday,” said Loring. “Twelve years ago this fall the Wyndham Football Team, led by one Jacob Glidden, later known to fame as ‘Porky’ Glidden――”

“_What?_ Do you mean that that guy played _here_? Well, what do I know?”

“He was All-American two years,” murmured Clif, impressed.

“Well, he took his team through a seven-game schedule and not only wasn’t defeated,” said Loring, “but played no ties. If that was done twelve years ago, why can’t it be done to-day?”

“Football was different then,” hazarded Tom.

“What of it? It wasn’t any easier for Wyndham, presumably, than for the teams we played. Now see here, Tom. We’ve started out all right. I mean, we’ve played two games and won both. We’ve got six more. As far as we know only one of them’s likely to prove dangerous. Only one besides Wolcott, of course. That one’s Horner. Horner beat us last year, 14 to 3, and maybe she can do it again. But then maybe she can’t. If we make up our minds she can’t, it’s mighty likely she won’t. Suppose we win the first five games of the schedule, fellows, and suppose it’s got to be a――an ambition with us to finish without a beating. Don’t you believe that every one of you, from Coach Otis down to the greenest sub on the squad, is going to work like the mischief for that game? Don’t you think that every fellow in school is going to make the trip over there with the team and pull like the very dickens for a victory?”

“You bet!” said Clif, and Tom nodded.

“Well, then!” said Loring triumphantly.

“Well, what?” asked Tom. “Heck, no one’s said the team isn’t willing to work for a clean slate, nor that the school isn’t ready to stand by ’em. But if Horner is better than we are, or if any other team is better, we’re going to get our noses rubbed in the good old earth, no matter how hard we fight or how hard the crowd cheers!”

“Fair enough,” agreed Clif. “But here’s the idea, Tom, which you seem to miss――”

“I don’t miss it at all,” said Tom doggedly. “I know what he’s getting at――”

“Shut up, you poor fish, and listen. The idea is that if we make up our minds; all of us, players and others, the whole blamed school, to go through this season without getting beaten we’ve got a lot better chance of doing it than if we weren’t――weren’t animated by that resolution. And you know that it’s the guy who has the most at stake who works hardest. I’ve said right along――”

“And there’s still another thing,” interrupted Loring eagerly. “There’s the habit of success, Tom. If I succeed to-day in something I’ve attempted I stand a better chance of success to-morrow. I increase my faith in my ability to do what I set out to do. And every time I succeed that faith gets stronger. Success――”

“Yeah, and then you get a swelled head and blow up!”

“Success breeds success, Tom. Let the team win five straight games this fall and it will believe in itself so thoroughly that you just can’t beat it!”

“I won’t have to,” growled Tom. “It’ll beat itself by being overconfident!”

“There’s that danger, yes. But it can be guarded against. Now, honestly, isn’t it worth trying?”

“Trying? Sure! I’ll try! Only, as good as I am, Loring, I can’t win all those six games alone.”

“No, and that brings me to what I’ve been waiting to get at, fellows. Why can’t we three――the jolly old Triumvirate――start this thing off? Popularize the idea of an undefeated team, I mean. Get the whole school behind the thing. Work up a――a sentiment――”

“Society for Maintaining the Inviolability of the Football Schedule,” offered Tom, grinning.

“No, no society, Tom,” said Loring earnestly. “It wants to be――to be universal. It must have every fellow in it. It’s got to be a great big, enthusiastic determination on the part of the school as a whole. See what I mean? We declare that the team must not be beaten. We keep on declaring it, louder and louder as the season goes on. We――we _believe_ in it! We _fight_ for it!”

“I see,” said Tom, nodding. “‘They shall not pass.’”

“That’s it!” agreed Loring eagerly. “‘They shall not pass!’ By Jove, fellows, what a slogan!”

Clif shook his head. “We couldn’t use it, Loring. It wouldn’t be――wouldn’t be decent. What I mean is――”

“I know what you mean. You’re right, Clif. It would be sort of like using the start of the Lord’s Prayer for a baker’s advertisement!”

“I didn’t suggest it for a slogan,” said Tom defensively. “And I wouldn’t let you use it if you wanted to! Besides, I’m sick to death of slogans, and if we have to have one let’s call it something else. Heck, in another year or two this country will be known as the Land of Slogans, I suppose. Probably we’ll be putting billboards all over Europe. ‘Uncle Sam Wants You!’, or ‘Come and Hear the Eagle Scream!’ Yah, slogans make me ill! ‘Yours on the home stretch――McGuffy’s Suspenders.’ ‘Nearest the Heart――Gilligan’s Rock-Ribbed Undershirts!’ ‘Good All the Way――’”

“Shut up, Tom, you’re out of order,” commanded Clif sternly.

“Wait a minute,” laughed Loring. “What’s good all the way, Tom?”

“Biffam’s No-Spring Counter Scales,” answered Tom, grinning.

“Not so good,” said Loring. “But Tom’s right about slogans, Clif. They are getting sickening. We ought to have one, but we’ll call it something else, as he suggests. We’ll call it a rallying cry, or――”

“Don’t call it anything,” grunted Tom. “What’s it going to be?”

“‘Win, Wyndham!’” suggested Clif.

“Not bad,” said Loring, “only――well, I don’t believe we had better attempt too much. I mean we’d better allow for a tie game, you know. Nowadays ties are like the tin can in the well-known conundrum, bound to occur. We’re setting out, not to win every game, but to avoid defeat. Got any suggestions, Tom?”

“Sure. ‘Don’t Give Up the Ship!’ ‘The Bigger They Are the Harder They Fall!’ ‘Knock ’Em Down and Throw ’Em Out!’”

“That’ll do from you,” said Loring. “We’ll let the slo――the motto go for awhile. We’ll think of something. The question now is, how are we going to start the ball a-rolling?”

“Propaganda,” said Tom.

“Exactly, but how shall we prop? I wonder if the best thing wouldn’t be to get two or three――more if possible――of the influential fellows with us.”

“Here am I,” murmured Tom.

“The word was influential, Tom, not inconsequential,” said Clif sweetly.

“Ouch! Well, such as which, Loring?”

“Well, Todd Darlington, for one. Seems as if you’d ought to have the first class sponsor the scheme, and Todd’s president. And then there’s Sam Erlingby, representing the baseball crowd.”

“What about Jeff Ogden?” asked Tom.

“I thought of him, and of Owens, too, but don’t you think the thing ought to look more as if it was started by the fellows who don’t play football? If you see what I mean,” added Loring doubtfully.

“Huh, I get you,” said Tom. “Want to make it look spontaneous, as it were.”

“Not exactly, but rather as if it wasn’t a scheme of the football players to work up support.”

“How about Walt Treat?” asked Clif. “Walt’s on _The Lantern_, you know, and we really ought to have a corking good editorial――”

“Not yet.” Loring shook his head. “Later, yes. Anyway, Walt’s only an assistant editor, isn’t he? Lovell would be the right fellow to go after. But that can wait. Let’s get the thing well started first. I’ll go after Darlington to-morrow and if he approves――”

“Who cares whether he does or not?” demanded Tom. “We can put it over without that high hat! Say, why not have a meeting and make speeches and――”

“We’ll do that, too, Tom,” said Loring, “but not just yet. As I see it, we want to be――be insidious――”

“What’s insidious?” asked Tom.

“He’s at it again!” said Clif indignantly. “Where’s the pillow?” At that juncture Wattles appeared, however, a signal that study hour was imminent, and Clif and Tom sped back to West Hall for their books.