Читать книгу Dick Merriwell's Fighting Chance; Or, The Split in the Varsity - Burt L. Standish - Страница 5

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Bob Hollister fully expected to find a general warning awaiting him in his rooms, when he returned at noon. He had been surprised that it had not appeared in the morning, but supposed it to have been delayed in the mail.

Consequently, he was not a little dismayed to find, instead, a typewritten note signed by the dean himself, asking him kindly to call at the latter’s office at half-past two.

“What in calamity does he mean by that?” he muttered, crinkling his forehead into a dozen worried wrinkles. “I reckon I’m in for a good roast this time.”

Outwardly calm, but with considerable inward trepidation, he reached the dean’s office five minutes before the appointed time, and, on sending in his name, was at once summoned to the inner office.

The dean looked up from his desk as the senior entered.

“Sit down, Mr. Hollister,” he said, indicating a chair which stood near the desk.

Hollister dropped down in the chair and crossed his legs. There was silence for a moment while the older man reached out to take up several papers which had been pinned together, and glanced them over. Then he leaned back in his chair and surveyed Bob meditatively through his gold-rimmed glasses.

“You are aware, of course, Mr. Hollister,” he remarked presently, “that an undergraduate who has been the recipient of three separate notices warning him that his rank in as many different studies is not satisfactory, has sent to him what is called a general warning?”

“Yes, sir,” Bob returned quietly.

“You know, I suppose, the meaning of this general warning?”

“Yes, sir—er—well, not exactly,” Bob said hastily. “I haven’t had one so far myself, but I always thought that they were a pretty emphatic hint for a fellow to brace up and attend to business.”

The dean’s eyes twinkled.

“You have the right notion,” he remarked. “To deserve a general warning, a man’s record must be pretty bad. I am sorry to say that yours is more than bad. It is atrocious.”

Hollister’s face flushed and he dropped his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured.

The dean placed the tips of his fingers lightly together and surveyed the troubled face of the senior over the tops of them.

“It is in such marked contrast to your record of the past three years,” he went on quietly, “that I decided to have a talk with you and find out what was the matter. Can you tell me, Mr. Hollister, why it is that you seem to have done absolutely nothing in any class this term?”

“I’ve—been thinking—a lot about—football,” stammered Bob.

“Ah! Giving time to it away from the field, you mean?” the older man inquired.

Hollister nodded.

“Yes, sir.”

“Is that necessary to a proper performance of the game?” the dean asked quietly. “I do not seem to recall any such complaints as these about the work of other members of the eleven.”

He tapped the papers on the desk in front of him lightly.

Hollister glanced up quickly.

“It isn’t absolutely necessary,” he answered. “But the new rules have changed the game a lot and made it necessary to devise a great many different tricks and combinations to make up for those which have been barred out. I’ve been awfully interested in it, and I’ve spent a good deal of time thinking these things out, which should, no doubt, have been put to better use.”

The older man nodded.

“I understand,” he said slowly. “I have observed your excellent work on the field, and that is one of the reasons why I wished to find out what was the matter. Football, like many other athletic games, is extremely valuable, Mr. Hollister, as an aid to character development. But, like almost every other good thing, it is liable to be done to death. I’m sure you don’t wish to develop into a man with only one idea, one purpose in life.

“Such a man gets into a rut—becomes narrow, ineffective, and finally useless. It’s a common failing in the business world, and has resulted in thousands upon thousands of the merest machines and human automatons. While you’re on the field play the game for all that is in you, but don’t carry the thought of it always with you, to the exclusion of every other duty. I shall not send you the general warning just yet, Mr. Hollister, until I see whether you take this little talk to heart. Your playing on the eleven has earned you a little latitude, but it must be understood that from this moment there has to be a very marked change for the better in your class records, or I shall be obliged to let things take their regular course. I hope you understand my meaning.”

“Perfectly, sir,” Hollister answered gratefully, “and I mean to take it to heart as well. I hope that you won’t have cause for any more complaints.”

The dean smiled.

“Good,” he said quickly. “If you persist in your determination, I am sure I shall not. I think that’s all. No doubt you are eager to get down to the field. Good afternoon.”

“Good afternoon, sir,” Hollister answered, as he arose and walked toward the door.

Once outside, he dashed out of Lampson Hall, tore across to the car, and in a few minutes was on his way to the field.

“He certainly is a good sort,” he said to himself as he got a seat well forward in the car. “I expected to be handed out a cold calldown, and it was a regular fatherly talk. He’s right, though, I really ought to brace up; but how the mischief can I until the season’s over?”

Once on the gridiron, Hollister was in his element. He flung himself into the practice game with tremendous enthusiasm, playing with all the vim and go and energy which he would have exhibited in a hot contest with another college.

He was not the sort that hold back and do just enough to make a fairly good showing. He must do his best or nothing, and for that reason he was very valuable in practice. He always kept his temper, disdained hard knocks—they were all part of the game; and he was never too tired to try “just one more formation.”

He had worked out his forward pass in detail and Fullerton approved of it so highly that he tried it out with complete success that afternoon, much to Hollister’s delight.

“Great stunt of yours,” Jarvis Blake said, as they were trotting across the field toward the athletic house. “I thought you’d realize that you couldn’t leave off helping the team out just yet a while.”

Again Hollister felt that pleasant, satisfying glow of ability fitly recognized. Fullerton’s commendations had been especially emphatic, too, and they had a long discussion about a new move which the coach had not been able to plan out in detail, and which he was anxious to have Bob think over.

Even Don Tempest, the captain, usually very chary with his praise, had held him up as an example to one or two lagging members of the team; and, altogether, Hollister was feeling pretty good as he entered the house.

He joined Dick Merriwell, who was hastily dressing in front of his locker.

“Did you get that general warning you were expecting?” Dick asked.

Bob grinned.

“No; but I got a talking to from the dean,” he returned.

Dick whistled.

“Calldown?” he asked.

“Not so much of a one as I thought it was going to be,” Hollister confessed. “Told me I had to brace up and cut out football off the field. I’d like to have told him that it was just what you advised last night, but I didn’t.”

Dick laughed.

“Glad to have my judgment confirmed from so eminent a source,” he smiled. “I hope you’ll take some of this advice which is being thrown at you so plentifully.”

Hollister’s face fell.

“After to-night I will,” he said hastily. “I’ve got to think out that combination of Fullerton’s, you know; but to-morrow I really will begin to dig good and hard.”

Merriwell’s face grew a little serious.

“Think that’s wise, Bob?” he asked quietly. “I’ve noticed that the resolutions which we put off until to-morrow never materialize. They always get shoved on to another to-morrow. It’s none of my business, old fellow, but I should hate like the mischief to have anything happen so that you couldn’t keep on with the class.”

“Oh, they won’t drop me,” Hollister said confidently. “Even the dean said he’d noticed my work on the field and thought I ought to have a little latitude. I’ll make it up after the season’s over, Dick. I’ll turn into such a grind you won’t know me. Gee! I’ve got to get a hustle on or I won’t get round to supper.”

He hurried off without giving Dick a chance to reply. It almost seemed as if he were afraid of what his friend might say, but there was no fear of Merriwell’s following him up with advice which was apparently not wanted.

As he glanced after Hollister there was a look of regret in Dick’s dark eyes. He knew just about how far Bob would go with his resolutions of turning over a new leaf, and it worried him a little to think of the chances his friend was taking.

Then, with a shrug of his shoulders, he slipped into his coat, slapped a cap on his head, and, gathering in Buckhart, left the house.