Читать книгу Dick Merriwell's Fighting Chance; Or, The Split in the Varsity - Burt L. Standish - Страница 8

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In the bedroom Bob Hollister stood silent, a rush of bitter anger and regret overwhelming him. Merriwell and Hildebrand and old Jim had all been right. What a blind fool he had been not to have seen through Blake before! What a perfect idiot they must think him!

Presently he came back into the sitting room, and, turning on the light, stood hesitating in the middle of the room. It was up to him to get busy and do something pretty quick. He must not let Blake triumph.

The sudden shock had made him realize his precarious position more clearly than a dozen arguments would have done, and there was now an added incentive to work. He was determined that Blake should not accomplish the purpose for which he had schemed. His blood was aroused to a boiling point. He would not be dropped!

But, first of all, he must see Blair. He had behaved shamefully that afternoon to the fellow who had done a distasteful thing purely for his own good, and Bob felt that he could not rest until he had apologized.

Slipping into his coat, he hurried out of Vanderbilt and made his way swiftly across to Lawrence. It must be confessed that his heart rather failed him as he mounted the stairs and stood before Hildebrand’s door, but without hesitation he raised his hand and knocked.

“Come in,” called a voice.

Hollister opened the door and stood hesitating on the threshold.

Hildebrand sat alone by the table, and, as he glanced up and saw who his caller was, his face darkened.

“Well?” he said curtly.

Hollister flushed and took a step forward.

“I—I’ve been—a fool, Blair,” he stammered. “I beg your pardon for what I said this afternoon.”

“Oh, you’ve found that out, have you?” Hildebrand inquired sarcastically.

He was still sore over the result of his attempt that afternoon to open Hollister’s eyes as to the real character of Blake. It had not been a pleasant nor an easy thing to do, and Bob’s reception of it had cut him to the quick, besides making him furiously angry.

“Yes; he’s all you said of him and more,” Hollister returned in a low tone. “I just found out, and I couldn’t rest until I had told you how sorry I am about the way I talked to you.”

His manner was so dejected, and the look of penitence in his eyes was so very real as he turned toward the door again, that Hildebrand could not help but relent.

“Come back here, you old idiot!” he exclaimed, springing to his feet. “You certainly did made me hot this afternoon, but what’s the use of keeping mad? Give us your fist, and the next time don’t be so infernally set in your way.”

Hollister’s eyes brightened as he gripped the proffered hand.

“You’re all to the good, Blair,” he said quickly. “Most fellows would have felt like kicking me downstairs.”

“I felt worse than that this afternoon,” the big guard grinned. “But nobody can stay mad with you very long, Bobby. Sit down and let’s hear about it.”

Hollister told the story briefly, and then, in spite of his friend’s urging, he departed to put in the rest of the evening in hard studying. Since it was the first time he had really applied himself to his books in weeks, he naturally did not make much progress, but at least it was a beginning.

The blow came the next morning, when the first mail brought him a letter from the dean’s office. He opened it with trembling fingers and glanced through the brief contents. The typewritten communication was short, terse, very much to the point, and bore the scrawly signature of the dean himself.

“Dear Sir: Since you have seen fit utterly to disregard my advice of a week ago, I am forced to tell you that unless you attain a grade of at least sixty in every recitation from now until the beginning of the winter vacation your name will be dropped from the rolls of the senior class.”

In perfect silence, jaws set and face a little pale, Hollister read the short note through the second time.

“Holy cats!” he muttered. “That’s the end of yours truly, all right! Sixty per cent.! Why don’t he say a hundred and be done with it? I stand about as much show of getting it.”

Now that it was too late, he saw with vivid clearness the extent of his amazing folly. Merriwell had done his utmost to make him realize the seriousness of his position a week ago. Jim had been trying his best to help him for a longer time than that. Even the dean had strained a point of college discipline in his favor. And in spite of all this he had gone his way blithely and blindly, living only in the present, with a perfectly suicidal disregard for the future.

What could he do? What was there possible for him to do? He was in despair. He had no more than a glimmering of the work for that day. It would need nothing less than a miracle for him to get the required percentage.

The more he thought over the matter, the more despondent he became. At length, as a last resort, he resolved to go to Dick with his troubles. He did not hope for any happy solution of the difficulty, but there is always a little comfort in talking over one’s miseries with somebody; and Bob knew that Dick would never say, “I told you so.”

Happily, the first recitation was scheduled for eleven o’clock, and Hollister found Dick alone in his rooms working over some math problems. He looked up smiling as the dismayed fellow entered.

“Hello, Bobby,” he greeted. “What’s the matter? You look as if life held no further joys for you.”

Without a word, Hollister thrust the dean’s letter into Merriwell’s hand. Dick read it through with knitted brows, and, having finished, folded it methodically and handed it back.

“Wouldn’t that kill you dead!” he exclaimed. “Sixty per cent.! Let’s see how we can dope that out.”

Hollister looked at him blankly.

“Dope it out!” he exclaimed. “What is there to dope out? I’m done!”

“Rot!” Dick returned emphatically. “You’re not going to give up without an effort, are you? We’ll get you through somehow. But you’ll have to buckle down and work like a terror.”

“I’ll work, all right,” Hollister returned, in a dispirited voice; “but I can’t make that average. Why, I’ve got to start in and make it this very day, man, and I haven’t the haziest notion of what the Latin lesson is, though I did grind some on chemistry last night.”

“Never know what you can do till you try, Bobby,” Dick said cheerily. “Why, we can’t let you be dropped, old fellow. Rather than that, I’ll turn tutor and drag you through by the hair of your head.”

He paused and his face grew serious.

“There’s one thing sure, though,” he went on, his eyes fixed on Hollister’s face; “you’ll have to give up football, and drop it like a hot cake this very day.”

For an instant Hollister looked at him blankly as if he did not comprehend what the other had said. Then he understood, and a look of utter despair came into his eyes.

“Give it up!” he cried. “Oh, Dick, I can’t!”

“You’ve got to,” Merriwell retorted firmly. “Can’t you see that if you don’t you’ll be dropped sure as fate? You can’t play football and study at the same time. You’re not made that way. It’s a question of giving it up voluntarily or of being dropped from the class and, consequently, from the varsity.”

Hollister groaned. How could he give up the thing he loved better than anything else in the world! What would college life be without it? He almost felt as if he’d rather be dropped than voluntarily give it up, except that such a course would mean the same thing in the end.

He looked at Merriwell pleadingly.

“But I could still play in the games, even if I didn’t show up for practice, couldn’t I?” he urged.

Dick shook his head.

“You couldn’t,” he said decidedly. “You’ve got to the point when you have to give every atom of your mind to your work. The minute you begin to think about playing in a game your attention will be distracted. You won’t be able to study. It can’t be done, Bob. You don’t suppose I’m anxious to see you leave the team, do you? Great Scott, man! I don’t know what we’ll do without you. But it’s your only chance. Don’t you see that?”

Hollister saw it only too clearly. He realized perfectly the truth of Merriwell’s words. He knew quite well that if he were going to play in a game he would be thinking for days beforehand about it. Unconsciously his mind would wander and he would cease giving the proper attention to his books. Bitterly he regretted the moment when he first began to let things slide. If he had only not let his enthusiasm for the game get the better of him he would be all right now.

And suddenly into his mind came the thought of Jarvis Blake and his treachery. The fellow would triumph now and would very likely get his place on the varsity. He could not bear the idea.

“If I quit the team Blake will be put on,” he said aloud. “I couldn’t stand that, Dick. It’s what he’s been after right along. Last night—I heard——”

A gleam of combat came into Merriwell’s eyes and his chin squared.

“I thought so,” he said emphatically. “I had a notion that was his game. But it won’t work if I can put a spoke in his wheel. There are a couple of other subs who are as good as he is. I rather think one of them will take your place.”

“If you could only work it, Dick!” Hollister said eagerly. “Of course, I’m not trying to blame him for what’s happened. That’s all up to me. But I do know that he did his best to have me dropped, and if he got my place in the line I couldn’t stand it.”

“Don’t worry,” Merriwell said quickly. “I don’t think he will.”

He paused and looked Hollister keenly in the eyes.

“Well,” he said slowly, “have you made up your mind?”

Still Bob wavered, unwilling to take the step which, deep down in his heart, he knew would have to come.

Merriwell showed no signs of impatience. With rare sympathy, he realized what a struggle must be going on in the man’s mind. The thought of all it would mean to him if, for any reason, he were forced to give up football was appalling, and he knew that Hollister was even more devoted to the game.

“I know how hard it is, Bobby,” he said quietly. “But after a little you’ll come to see that it’s the only thing for you to do. Football—any game, in fact—is a splendid thing when it keeps its proper proportions as something incidental to the college course. But the minute it begins to dominate a man, as it has done you to the exclusion of everything else, it’s time to cut it out. You didn’t come to Yale to play football, but to get your degree and the other benefits which a college course gives a man. Think how you’d feel if you were dropped at the very beginning of your senior year. Think of the humiliation of being thrown out with such a record as you have made this fall.”

“I can’t even play in the Yale-Princeton game on Saturday?” Hollister questioned sadly.

Dick shook his head firmly.

“No, sir,” he returned with emphasis. “You give me your promise never to play football again while you’re in college, and I’ll do my very best to pull you through in your studies. How about it?”

“All right,” Hollister said, in a low voice. “I promise.”

“Good,” Dick smiled. “That’s the stuff. Now let’s get down to business.”

He glanced swiftly at the clock.

“An hour and a half before Latin,” he murmured. “We’ve got to get busy.”

Before Hollister knew what he was doing, Dick had him sitting at the table, the open book before him, and together they proceeded to go through the day’s allotment of Horace.

Merriwell did his work thoroughly, translating slowly and stopping to explain the derivation of every word about which Bob had the least doubt. He had a natural gift of making things plain, and in an hour’s time Hollister had acquired a pretty good notion of what it was all about. Then, after a hurried review of the chemistry lesson, they sallied forth to the lecture room.

“I think you’ll do in the Horace, old fellow,” Dick assured him. “Just keep your head and take it slowly, and you’ll come out all right.”

Such proved to be the case. About halfway through the hour, Professor Goodhue called Hollister’s name in a rather weary tone of voice, fully expecting a repetition of the absolute failures for which the fellow had become noted.

To his amazement, Hollister arose slowly and gave a very good rendering of the passage, even to construing accurately the few words the dazed professor asked him.

“That will do, Mr. Hollister,” the latter managed to say when Bob had finished. “Very good indeed. I should—er—like to congratulate you on the extraordinary improvement in your work.”

“Thank you, sir,” Bob murmured, his face a bit red.

On the campus outside, Dick slapped him on the back.

“Well done!” he exclaimed. “That was more than sixty, all right. You’ll do. Now for the lab. That’s going to be harder, for we didn’t give any time to it.”

As they mounted the steps to the chemical laboratory, Bob happened to catch a glimpse of Blake’s face, and the look of ill-tempered annoyance he saw there was an added incentive to renewed endeavor. The big, blond fellow was evidently not at all pleased with the surprising turn things had taken.

By some fortunate chance, Hollister was not called upon at all in chemistry. Perhaps the professor had grown weary of his constant failures and did not think it worth while. At all events, it gave Bob a little respite. There were no other recitations that day, and by to-morrow, he hoped, with Dick’s assistance, to have made up a little of the lost time.

Merriwell realized perfectly that what he had undertaken was not going to be any easy task. There was no fun at all in coaching a fellow who had done absolutely no work for almost six weeks, and was, consequently, totally ignorant of what had been gone over so far that term. But this fact did not deter him in the least. He knew that it was the only way by which Hollister could be saved, and, though it meant that every spare moment must be devoted to tutoring Bob for a few weeks at least, he was fond enough of the fellow to go to that extreme.

Hollister’s announcement at the training table that he had to leave the team was one of the hardest things he had ever done. It had the effect of a bombshell on the assembled players.

Instantly the room was in an uproar. The fellows all crowded around him, unable to believe their ears.

“You can’t leave, Bobby!”

“Cut it out, old man, and have another think.”

“Stop your kidding!”

“Thunderation! What’ll we do without you?”

These and a dozen other incredulous exclamations were hurled at the wretched fellow, but Bob persisted in his resolve; and when the men saw that he was really in earnest, they were in despair.

All, that is, save Jarvis Blake. Dick, his eye on the fellow, noticed the sudden expression of amazed incredulity which flashed into his face, to be followed instantly by a look of joy and unmistakable triumph. Evidently he had not expected this turn of affairs, but he was none the less more than satisfied with it.

“I’ll put a spoke in your wheel, my bucko,” Dick muttered fiercely. “All your dirty scheming won’t do you a bit of good.”

He put in an hour’s work with Hollister after dinner, and, laying out enough to keep the man busy that afternoon, he got out the car and drove down to the field.

His first move was to seek out Tempest and Bill Fullerton, and for ten minutes the three men remained in close confab. When they separated there was a look of extreme satisfaction on Dick’s face. He hurried into the athletic house to get into his togs.

A little later, when the men were all assembled on the field, Don Tempest held up his hand for silence.

“You fellows all know that Hollister has been obliged to leave the team,” he said quietly. “You also know why. It’s something which can’t be helped, but I’m sure you will agree with me that it hits us pretty hard and will make a big hole in the line. I’m sorry it couldn’t have been postponed until after the game on Saturday, but since that was impossible we’ll just have to make the best of it. In regard to filling his place——”

He hesitated and his eyes wandered over the eager, expectant faces of the subs. Many of them knew that there was no possible chance of their being picked for the important position, but there were three or four who evidently had hopes.

Jarvis Blake had more than hopes, if one could judge from the look of assurance on his face. There was plainly small doubt in his mind that he would be the lucky man, and Dick watched him with a distinct feeling of satisfaction.

“In talking it over,” Tempest continued, “we have decided that Keran had better try out for end until further notice.”

Blake gave a gasp of dismay. The blow was so sudden and so absolutely unexpected that, for an instant, he could not believe his ears.

Then his face turned scarlet, his eyes flashed, and he took a quick step forward. Dick was watching him quietly.

“I think——” began the big, blond fellow, speaking with evident difficulty.

Tempest eyed him coldly.

“I said Keran,” he remarked significantly; “Phil Keran.”

There was an undercurrent of contempt in his voice which cut Blake like the lash of a whip and made him step back involuntarily. Before he could recover his customary poise, the fellows spread out in the regular formation, Keran, grinning from ear to ear, in the coveted place at right end.

Blake had never been so furious in his life. He could not understand how it had all come about. For a moment he was tempted to leave the field. He had even turned and was about to stride off without a word, when he realized that such a move would be folly. He would gain nothing by it, and his chances for ever accomplishing his end would be totally ruined.

With a sullen scowl on his face, he walked over to his place on the scrub. After all, Keran was only in the varsity on sufferance. He might not make good, and then Blake’s chance would come.