Читать книгу Change Signals - Ralph Henry Barbour - Страница 6

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Tom Roeder had taken himself away to Dudley, pretending alarm at the reception awaiting him at the hands of Wallace Hammel, his roommate, and the two occupants of Number 28 were left alone. Dan Vinton, having discarded coat and vest, stretched himself on his bed, pillowed his head on his clasped hands and smiled across at his chum. Dan was seventeen years old, and a trifle large for his age. Long of limb, tall, lithe, with a sun-browned skin and not a flabby muscle in his whole body, he looked, as he lay there, just what he was; a healthy, wide-awake American boy, kind-hearted, good-tempered, honest and fearless, a born leader of his fellows. He had steady brown eyes, a straight nose that was a little too short for beauty, brown hair and a good mouth. He was a member of the First Class and captain of the Football Team, an honor well deserved.

The boy who smiled back at him from the depths of the Morris chair was a year beneath him in age and class. Gerald Pennimore was a vivid contrast to his roommate in physical appearance. Several inches shorter than Dan, he lacked the latter’s even development of body. Rather slender, with hair that was almost yellow, the bluest of blue eyes and a skin much too fair to take kindly to sunburn, he looked, in contrast to Dan, almost delicate. But his appearance belied him to some extent, for Gerald had proved himself a good distance runner, and while it was not likely that he would ever grow into the rugged sort, it was probable that a year or two would find him a very well set-up youth. He was a good-looking youngster, with an eager, alert face that was irresistibly attractive when it smiled.

Gerald’s home was right here in Wissining, only a short distance from the school, but since his father, whom rumor credited with being a millionaire several times over, was more often away from his home than in it, Gerald had lived here in Number 28 Clarke during his two years at Yardley. There was, too, a town house in New York, but save at the Christmas recesses Gerald had seen little of that of late; while Gerald’s father when in this part of the world was far more likely to open up Sound View for a week or so than occupy the Fifth Avenue residence. Gerald had found at first that being the son of the Steamship King, as Mr. Pennimore was called, was something of a handicap. There had been those who called Gerald a “money-snob,” and for the first month or two he had had a rather hard time. But that sort of thing was long since over now, for Gerald had proved that one can be at the same time a gentleman and the heir to millions. Gerald’s mother was dead and he had neither brothers nor sisters, and under those circumstances it was almost a miracle that he hadn’t been utterly spoiled. Dan firmly believed that only coming to Yardley Hall had saved him from that fate.

“Back again in the old diggings,” murmured Dan, stretching himself luxuriously on the bed. “And for the last year,” he added with a note of wonder in his voice. “I can hardly believe that, Gerald. Seems now as though I’d always be here; at least, for years and years yet. I wonder how Alf and Tom feel. I’ll bet they miss this place. I suppose we’ll get a line from them some day soon.”

“They said they’d come over and see us,” answered Gerald.

“I know.” Dan nodded wisely. “But I guess they’ll be too busy to do that for awhile. I hope Alf makes the freshman team.”

“Oh, he will make it all right. I wouldn’t wonder if he got the captaincy.”

“Maybe. I don’t envy him it, though. Gerald, sometimes I feel as though I’d give a hundred dollars—if I had it—to wake up and find I wasn’t captain after all! I get scared stiff whenever I stop and think what’s ahead of me the next two months. Just suppose we get beaten!”

“Suppose we do. It’s happened before, hasn’t it?”

“Not when I was captain! That’s where the trouble is. When you’re captain and responsible for the success of the team it’s a lot different, I tell you, Gerald. Why, if Broadwood beats us this fall I’ll feel like tying a dumb-bell to each foot and jumping into the Sound!”

“Don’t be an idiot, Dan! You can’t do any more than your best. If we get beaten after that it won’t be any more your fault than—than mine. You get that notion out of your head or I’ll have to put you in a sanitarium before the season’s over.”

“And maybe I’d be mighty glad to go,” sighed Dan.

“I don’t see what you’re so pessimistic about,” said Gerald. “We’ve got a good start for a new team, and all that sort of thing.”

“I know, but—well, I’ll tell you, chum. We’ve won from Broadwood two years running, and I’ve got an idea that the other fellow is about due for a victory. We never have won three times in succession, and it doesn’t seem likely that we will now. I wish we’d lost last year’s game, or the one before that. It’s fighting against the Law of Averages, whatever that may be!”

“Pshaw! We said the same thing last year, I remember. Yardley had won the year before and so it was Broadwood’s turn. Maybe it was, but Broadwood missed her turn. She will miss it again. Why, look here, Dan, there isn’t any good reason why we shouldn’t win every year for the next century!”

“Oh, well, there’s no use worrying about it now, I suppose. As you say, Mr. Pennimore, a fellow can only do his best. I’ll do my best and the Law of Averages can take care of itself. I hope, though, there will be a nice big bunch of candidates on the field to-morrow. You know, Gerald, I’ve always believed that many a good football player has been lost for lack of a chance to show his hand. I’ll give every fellow a fair try-out. And if any of the last year men think that they’re certain of their places they’re fooled. For they’re not. Everyone of them has got to work hard or go to the bench.”

“I’m coming out, you know, Dan.”

“All right, chum, but don’t hope too much. You’re pretty light for the Varsity. It won’t do you any harm to try, though.”

“You’re not very encouraging,” Gerald laughed. “You might at least pretend to think I have a chance, Dan. And, after all, I guess there have been lighter fellows on the team before this.”

“I wasn’t thinking so much of your actual weight,” replied Dan. “A lot depends on the way a chap uses his weight. I may be all wrong, chum, and I hope I am, but it just doesn’t seem to me that you’re a ‘football man.’ But I want you to come out and try, just the same. Perhaps you can make the Second Team.”

“No, thank you! No Second for me; First Team or none.”

“You’re a modest little blossom,” laughed Dan. “But, I say, what about your cross-country work?”

“Oh, that’s all right. I spoke to Goodyear about it, and he said Payson would let me off football practice now and then. Besides, they’ve got a dandy lot of cross-country fellows this year and don’t need me very much.”

“I think you’re making a mistake, chum. You’re a first-rate distance runner, with a chance of finishing first or second in the cross-country run, and you want to sacrifice your real talent for a bare chance of making good in football. That’s silly, Gerald.”

“No, it isn’t, Dan. I’ve always wanted to play football; you know that; and now Muscles has given me permission to play for the first time. And I’m going to have a whack at it. Besides, I don’t see why trying for the Football Team won’t keep me in condition for cross-country work.”

“You don’t? Well, I do. And look here; suppose you should make the team, and suppose you were wanted to play against Broadwood. What would you do in that case? Run a four mile cross-country race in the morning and then play in a gruelling football game in the afternoon?”

Gerald’s face fell, but he answered stoutly: “I don’t see why not.”

“You don’t?” Dan laughed. “You would, though, before the game was very old. Besides, Gerald, you know very well that Muscles won’t let you go in for both.”

“He told me I might.”

“Cross-country and football both?”

“He told me I might play football, and he knows very well that I’m on the Cross-Country Team.”

“He may know it, but he’s forgotten it. And it won’t take him long to remember it, Gerald. Anyhow, it’s a sure thing that he isn’t going to let you do both.”

“Then I’ll give up cross-country work,” said Gerald.

Dan shook his head smilingly. “I don’t believe it. It wouldn’t be fair to the school, Gerald. A fellow’s got to do what he can do best; that’s a duty. Suppose I gave up baseball in the spring and said I wanted to try for the Tennis Team!”

Gerald had to smile at that. “The Tennis Team would beg you to keep on with baseball, Dan!”

“Probably, but the idea’s the same. I wouldn’t have any right to cut out baseball just because I wanted to do something else more. And you haven’t any right to give up cross-country running, Gerald.”

“Then I can’t play football after all?” questioned Gerald disconsolately.

“Not if you’re going to do the square thing.”

“That’s all right,” said Gerald mutinously, “but it seems to me that a fellow has some right to do what he likes best.”

“Perhaps. The question is, though, how much right? You know,” continued Dan with a twinkle in his eye, “we have a motto here at Yardley, Gerald. I wonder if you’ve ever heard it.”

“What?” Gerald demanded suspiciously.

“‘The School first,’” replied Dan quietly.

Gerald’s eyes fell and he was silent a moment. Then, “Just the same,” he muttered, “it’s hard lines after wanting to play so long. And I won’t be able to play baseball in the spring because I’ll have to train with the Track Team!”

“You’re too ambitious,” laughed Dan. “Why not be satisfied with the glory you have? You’re a good cross-country runner, you’ve won your letter in hockey and track; isn’t that enough?”

“But I’m not thinking of glory,” argued Gerald. “I want to play football because I like it.”

“Then join your class team.”

“That isn’t—isn’t the same thing.”

“Why not? It’s football. And you say you don’t want the glory.”

“I don’t, but—”

Gerald’s explanation was cut short by a knock on the door. He frowned at the interruption, glanced inquiringly at Dan and cried “Come in!” The order was obeyed and a boy of about Gerald’s own age, but taller, larger and sturdier, entered and stood embarrassedly in the doorway.

“Is—is Mr. Vinton in?” he asked.

Dan sat up on the bed and nodded, looking inquiringly at the visitor. The latter wasn’t by any means a handsome youth. His hair was of a nondescript shade of light brown, a sort of ashy-brown, his eyes were gray, his nose just escaped being a pug nose and his mouth was decidedly large. But there was something about the face, which was most liberally sprinkled with brown freckles, that made you like it; perhaps the eyes with their straightforward way of looking at you, perhaps the nose with its humorous disregard for classic outline, perhaps the good-natured mouth that seemed always on the point of breaking into a smile, perhaps the combination of all the features together. But whatever the cause, the result was undeniable; the face was pleasing in spite, or perhaps because, of its homeliness.

The boy came from the country; there was no manner of doubt about that. His hair, worn too long according to city standards, told you so; the freckles told you so; the poorly cut, pepper-and-salt suit of clothes fairly cried it at you. And a certain awkwardness of carriage affirmed it. Seeing the boy’s embarrassment, Dan went to his rescue.

“Hello!” he said. “Come in and sit down. I’m Vinton. What can I do for you?”

“Why—why—my name’s Burtis,” stammered the other. “I just got here to-day, and I was at the meeting to-night and heard you say you wanted fellows to play football, and I thought I’d come and see if you had an application blank you—you don’t want.”

“A—a what?” asked Dan politely.

“An application blank; to fill out.”

“Oh, an application blank,” responded Dan, trying to disguise his puzzlement. “I see. Now what kind of an application blank? What is it you want to apply for?”

“Why, I—I want to play football,” explained Kendall.

“I’ve got you now,” said Dan gravely, fearing to glance at Gerald, who had turned his face away from the boy at the door. “Sit down, won’t you?”

Kendall closed the door behind him carefully and took the nearest chair. “I don’t know as you want any more players?” he observed questioningly.

“We surely do,” replied Dan heartily. “We want all the players we can get. By the way, let me introduce you to my roommate, Mr. Pennimore.”

“Glad to meet you,” said Gerald after a supreme struggle with his voice. “We—er—we were talking football when you came.”

“You’ve played before?” asked Dan.

Kendall shook his head. “No, sir, but I thought I’d like to learn how.”

“Of course. Well, you come out to the field to-morrow afternoon at four o’clock and report to Mr. Payson. He’s our coach. Have you any togs?”

“Togs?”

“Yes, football clothes; canvas pants and jacket, you know; and shoes.”

“No, sir, but I guess I can get some if they don’t cost too much.”

“Well, they aren’t very expensive. Still, if I were you, I’d just put on an old suit of everyday things to-morrow. Maybe you won’t like the game after you’ve tried it. In that case you’ll have saved yourself the price of your football togs.”

“I guess that would be best, but I’m pretty sure I’ll like football. That’s why I came to see you to-night. I was afraid if I waited until morning all the places might be taken.”

Gerald had a bad attack of coughing just then, and Dan became very busy looking for something on the table which he didn’t find.

“Oh, no fear of that,” he replied finally. “You see, Curtis—”

“My name’s Burtis,” corrected Kendall gravely.

“I beg your pardon, Burtis. You see, we award places on the team by competition. That is, we give every fellow a chance to show what he can do and then we take the best of them for the team. Every fellow who wants to can come out and try. Of course, you’ll understand that those who have played the game before have rather the better chance of being retained.”

“I see.” Kendall nodded thoughtfully. “Maybe I won’t be good enough, then.”

“You can’t tell,” said Dan kindly. “I’ve known inexperienced fellows to make good the first year. Some fellows are natural-born football players.”

“Yes,” Kendall agreed. “I guess that’s the way with me.” He was recalling Mr. Dana’s prophecy. “Anyway, I’d like to try it, and I’ll be on hand surely. And I’m much obliged to you.”

“Not at all. And come around again in a day or two and let me know how you’re getting on, will you?”

“Thanks. And the—the application blank. Where could I find one to-morrow? And what do I do with it when it’s filled out?”

There was a brief silence in the room. Then Dan said gently:

“I guess someone has been having a joke on you. We don’t have application blanks to fill out. If you want to try for the team you just come out and report on the field.”

“Oh!” Kendall flushed. “He said—”

“Who told you that?” asked Gerald sharply.

“Why, the fellow I room with. His name is Towne.”

Dan looked inquiringly at Gerald. “Know him?” he asked.

Gerald nodded. “Yes; Harold Towne; ‘Whitey,’ they call him. He rooms down the hall. You know him by sight, Dan; thin, light-haired, pasty-faced chap.”

Dan remembered him. “Oh, yes, I’ve seen him,” he said. “So he told you to come to me and ask for an application blank?”

“Yes, he said I must fill out a blank and put down my name and age and what position on the team I wanted to play. He said I’d better do it right away or I might be too late. That’s why I came to-night. I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

“Pshaw! that’s all right. No harm done. I’m glad you came, and I hope you’ll get on finely, Burtis. Come and see me again and tell me about it. Good night.”

“Good night,” replied Kendall. Then he fixed his straight level eyes on Gerald. “Good night,” he repeated.

“Good night,” responded Gerald gravely.

The door closed behind the visitor. Dan smiled at Gerald.

“His friend Towne is a bit of a joker,” he observed.

“He ought to have his head punched,” declared Gerald hotly. “Playing a joke on a chap as green as that fellow is like—like stealing pennies from a blind man!”

“He doesn’t seem to have much doubt as to his ability to play football,” said Dan with a laugh. “Said he guessed he was a natural-born player.”

Gerald grinned. “Yes, that was funny. Still, I like the chap’s looks just the same. And who knows, Dan? He may turn out a star!”

“I’m afraid it will take some turning, though,” laughed Dan. “However, he’s got my best wishes. Goodness knows I can use all the stars I can find this year!”

When Kendall returned to his room Harold Towne was ready for bed. He faced Kendall with one foot between the sheets and a broad grin on his thin face.

“Well, did you fill out your blank?” he asked with a chuckle. But the chuckle died away in his throat, for Kendall advanced across the room with an unsmiling countenance.

“I’ve got a good mind,” he said in a low voice, “to punch you in the face.”

Harold drew back and threw up one arm. “Can’t you take a joke?” he stammered.

“Oh, that was a joke, was it?” growled Kendall. “I call it a dirty lie. And I’d like to lick you for it,” he added longingly. Harold backed off toward the window, alarm written large on his white face.

“You—you’d better not!” he cried.

“I’m not going to,” said Kendall, turning away. “But don’t you ever get fresh with me again, Towne, or I’ll just naturally whale you! I’m sorry, but I don’t guess I’m going to like you.”