Читать книгу Danforth Plays the Game: Stories for Boys Little and Big - Ralph Henry Barbour - Страница 5

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A week later the awkward squad ceased to exist. Some few of the members, discouraged by the sheer irksomeness of the labor, voluntarily resigned; others, who showed no football possibilities, were dismissed, and the rest, perhaps ten in all, went to Squad C. Among the latter was Harry. Hugh Barrett, the big left guard, who had reigned over the awkward ones, had taken a sort of professional interest in Harry, an interest evinced by muttered words or grunts of commendation at first and by sharp criticisms later. Once he asked the younger boy:

“You fellow in the red shirt! Where’d you learn to catch a ball that way?”

“At home. I played on my high school team three years,” answered Harry. Barrett grunted.

“Three years, eh? How old are you now?”

“Fifteen.”

“Must have started young,” muttered Barrett. “What’s your name?”

“Danforth.”

“Well, take charge here, Danforth, till I get back. Keep ’em passing.”

Meanwhile Harry had settled down into his groove at school. Lessons were proving a bit harder than expected, but, thanks to a summer of coaching at the hands of one of the high school instructors, he was keeping up his end. Tracey Colgan, with whom Harry roomed in Number 16 Temple Hall, was turning out to be a much more companionable and likable fellow than Harry had at first hoped for. Tracey came from some small town in the vicinity of Boston and possessed all the frigidity of manner popularly associated with New Englanders. But underneath the icy coating was a warm heart and a liveliness of temperament quite unsuspected. After Harry got to know him better—and you can’t room with a chap very long without getting to know him—he liked him very much. He was rather tall and thin, good-looking in a way—nice-looking would be a better word for it—and excruciatingly clean and neat. It seemed to Harry that Tracey was forever bathing or scrubbing, while as for his attire a badly tied scarf made him positively wretched and he consumed more time in dressing than Harry took for his entire morning preparations! Tracey was rather a grind, which, perhaps, was fortunate, since just at this time Harry needed some one to set him an example in studiousness. Not that Harry didn’t want to study, for he did. He had no mistaken notions of what he was at Barnstead for. But football is a hard taskmaster, he was an enthusiastic lover of it, and previous success had made him ambitious to win further honors. In short, during those first two months of school he was inclined to spend a little too much time and energy on football and not enough on his lessons.

Perry Vose, for Tracey had easily supplied the name of the boy when Harry had recounted his adventure, had so far not troubled Harry again. Once or twice, on the field or in School Hall, they had passed, but there had been no display of hostility other than a scowl. After he had cooled off Harry had been a little ashamed and regretful of his loss of temper. As Tracey had pointed out, a new fellow was liable to a good deal of kidding and even some roughing-up at the hands of the older boys. It was all a part of getting settled down. Tracey thought his chum had escaped rather easily, and to prove it narrated some fairly hair-raising hazing exploits that he knew of. As for the chap who had befriended him that day, Harry had only glimpsed him once or twice from a distance, not a surprising fact when it is considered that Barnstead Academy boasted of some two hundred and forty pupils.

Of course life wasn’t quite all football for Harry. Recitations averaged four hours a day for the Lower Middle Class, of which he was a member, and the evenings were largely given over to study. And several times he and Tracey met on the tennis court in the morning after a hurried breakfast and played a set or more before the bell summoned them to first recitation. And Sundays were in the nature of holidays. There was church in the forenoon in the school chapel, but after that the rest of the day was theirs for whatever orderly recreation they chose. Tracey was fond of walking and he and Harry and Joe Phillips, the football manager, often took long, wandering trips about the autumn country. The discovery of chestnut trees was one of their delights. The burs had not yet begun to open, but the boys set down the location of the trees in their minds and bided their time. As the days went by Harry’s circle of acquaintances increased in a haphazard and natural way. You sat next to a fellow in class and spoke to him about some trivial matter. Then you nodded to him when you passed him on the campus. And finally you dropped into his room by invitation, or he dropped into yours. And in dining-hall, of course, it took but one or two days to get on speaking terms, at least, with the fellows at your table. At the end of his first fortnight Harry was surprised to discover how large a circle of speaking acquaintances he had. Of real friends he had so far but one, Tracey. Friendships aren’t made in a day even at preparatory school. Next to Tracey, Joe Phillips was the fellow he knew best. Joe, however, was several years older than Harry and, while he was a fine chap in every way, Harry experienced no affection for him. Perhaps Harry made acquaintances more easily than the average boy. He was eminently attractive to look at, had a winning smile, could listen as well as talk, and was, in short, thoroughly companionable.

On Squad C Harry performed creditably for a week. Work at the dummy had begun and a provisional eleven had been made up. The first game was but a few days away. Harry had been placed with the halfbacks, a position for which his experience recommended him. Squad C began to thin out as the first contest drew near. Some of the fellows went to the first team as third substitutes, others went to Squad B, which had now developed into the second team, in like capacities, and a few fell out of the race. Just before the Belton game Harry was taken on to the second and a few days later Squad C, like Squad Z, ceased to exist. By that time the number of candidates had dwindled from sixty-odd to about forty, and most of those who remained were certain to last the season out either on the school team or the second, barring accidents. Harry was glad to get into the second team fold, but he had no intention of remaining there.

The Belton game, looked on beforehand as not much more than a good practice, proved a tough contest and Barnstead won out eventually by the slim margin of a kicked goal, the final score being 7–6. That was on a Saturday, the last Saturday but one in September, and on the following Monday Coach Worden made a number of changes in the line-up of the first team. Several substitutes were given opportunities to show what they could do, while Jones, who had exhibited remarkably poor generalship as quarter in Saturday’s game, gave place to Bob Peel, a small, freckle-faced youth with red hair and any amount of vim. Unfortunately, however, Peel, while a good director, was only a mediocre player in the backfield, and that Monday afternoon a fumble by him of a long punt paved the way for a touchdown by the second and a subsequent victory. Harry got in that day at left halfback for a full ten-minute period, and after the scrimmage was over the school was relishing the knowledge of a discovery. For in ten minutes Harry, using every bit of the daring, reckless courage that had brought him fame at Hillston, and all the knowledge he had gained since, dashed through the first team’s defense or around its drawn-in ends for long gains time after time and opened Coach Worden’s eyes to the fact that here was a youngster worth watching and cultivating. Hugh Barrett, even when a play with Harry hugging the ball went through his position, grunted commendation and nodded his head knowingly. He had, he told himself, seen from the first that Danforth had something in him. So Barnstead Academy took a sensation with it up the hill and back to the dormitories, and the sensation was the sudden appearance on the football horizon of a new star whose name was Danforth!

Barnstead met Cruger’s School and Thurston Polytechnic on succeeding Saturdays—there were no mid-week games—and scored one victory and met one defeat. The victory was overwhelming and the defeat, at the hands of Thurston, a heavier and far more experienced team, was honorable. Barnstead reached the middle of the season hopeful and determined. Harry was still on the second team and was still making good. Of course he had much to learn, but he was learning it fast. And the school at large, having enjoyed its sensation, settled down to a hearty admiration of “the kid halfback,” as they called him and looked for great things from him. Some criticism was aired because Worden did not at once move Harry from the second to the first. There were plenty of critics who declared that “young Danforth could play rings around Norman.” Norman was the present first choice for left half, a hard-working but not especially brilliant youth who had already had two seasons on the team. But Worden, if he heard the criticisms, paid them no heed. Harry needed training and experience in fast company before he was ready for the School Team, and the coach meant that he should have it. The second eleven worked prodigiously those days and the first had all it could do to register anything like a decisive victory. To be sure, the second had its slumps, as when, the Tuesday after the Thurston game, it allowed the first to tally four touchdowns and only saved itself from a shut-out by lifting the ball over the cross-bar for a field goal. To even matters, however, the first team itself was only human and sometimes let down in its play and allowed the second to tie or, infrequently, to win.

Four games remained on the schedule when October was half gone: Carver Academy, Pleasanton High, Norwich Academy and St. Matthew’s. St. Matthew’s was Barnstead’s dearly hated rival in every sport and the victor in most. The Blue triumphed almost yearly on the track and won more than her share of the baseball contests. It was only in hockey and football that the records of the two schools came anywhere near balancing. At hockey Barnstead, aided by better ice facilities, was the master, while at football the Brown had almost, if not quite, as many wins to her credit as the Blue. This year, having met defeat last November, the Brown considered it her turn to triumph and meant to do so. And to this end the school worked as one.

And yet there was an exception after all, and that exception was Perry Vose. Perry was eighteen years of age, strongly built, good-looking in a dark and somewhat surly way and what the fellows who had seen him perform called a corking player. But in spite of his ability Perry was not on the team this year. Why this was so Harry learned from Tracey.

“He played in the line two years,” said Tracey. “Left guard, I think. Maybe he was right. Anyhow, he has a beast of a temper and can’t hold on to it. In almost every game he was cautioned for slugging or rough work of some sort, and several times he was put off. Worden stood a lot from him because he was such a dandy player. But last year in the Pleasanton game he mixed it up with the chap who played opposite him, the umpire or the referee caught him, the other chap got a cut lip and Perry was put off. After the game Worden told him he needn’t report again until he could play decently and like a gentleman. Perry ‘sassed’ him for fair, they say; I didn’t hear it; and Worden told him then that he needn’t report again for football as long as he was coaching because he wouldn’t have him. Faculty heard about it and Perry came mighty near being expelled. He had to apologize to Worden and went on probation for two months. That didn’t make him care any more for the coach, and he still hates him like anything. Mention Worden to Perry and he will foam at the mouth!”

And Tracey smiled reminiscently.

“He seems to have a good many friends, though,” said Harry.

“Oh, he isn’t such a bad sort when he behaves. Lots of fellows like him, or pretend to, because his folks are pretty well fixed and Perry always has a lot of money to spend. And he spends it. Still, maybe it isn’t only that. I dare say lots of fellows like him just for—for himself. He can be very decent if he wants to. It’s his old temper that plays hob with him. You and he had any more trouble?”

“No, he’s let me alone and I’ve let him alone.”

“Good scheme, chum. He’s a bad man in a mix-up.”

“I’m not afraid of him,” replied Harry stoutly. “But I don’t see that there’s any use in having a fuss. I said I’d get even with him some day, and I intend to, but I don’t want to lose my place on the second on his account. And it might come to that if we had a row and faculty heard of it.”

“You’re wise. Keep away from him. And if he tries to start anything, run. It would be like him to get you into a rumpus just so faculty would hear of it and, maybe, put you on pro. He’d like that because it would lose Worden a good player.”

“You don’t mean Vose would want to see us beaten just because he dislikes Mr. Worden!”

“Hm; not exactly, perhaps. Still, I wouldn’t wager much on it! If he could get even with Worden I dare say he wouldn’t care a continental whether we won or lost at football!”

“He’s a dandy!” said Harry indignantly. “If that’s the way it is you can bet I’ll keep away from him. I’ll even run if necessary! But if ever I do run from him I’ll run back again when the football’s over! And then he will learn something!”

“Easy!” laughed Tracey. “Perry Vose is three inches taller than you are and three years older—almost.”

“He’s a bully, and I never saw a bully yet who wasn’t a coward at heart.”

“I wouldn’t count too much on that, Harry. He may be a bully, but you’ll find he’s no coward. And he’s a mean chap in a fight. Take my advice and let him alone.”

“I mean to—at present,” replied Harry. “I can’t afford to take any chances. I want to make the first before the season’s over. Think I will, Tracey?”

“Don’t see how you can help it. I’m not much of a football fan, but I hear what the fellows say, and they all seem to think that you are some wonder. Guess I’ll have to wander down to the field and see you in action some day.”

“It’s quite a sight,” laughed Harry.

“I suppose so.” Tracey was silent a moment. Then, with a smile, “Funny how my stock’s gone up lately,” he added.

“How do you mean?”

“Why, since the fellows discovered that you were a star football player I am treated with much more respect. You see, I happen to be your roommate. Case of reflected glory.”

“Oh, shut up,” said Harry.

“Fact, though. Wouldn’t be surprised if I went down to posterity as the fellow who roomed with Harry Danforth at prep school! Say, don’t turn me out next year, will you? Think how I’d feel!”

“You make me sick,” grumbled Harry. “You’re twice as popular and—and important as I am.”

“I used to be,” sighed Tracey, “but now I’m just Danforth’s roommate. Still, fame is fame, and——”

But just there Harry shied a book at him, and in the scuffle that followed fame was forgotten.

In the Carver game Harry had his first try on the School Eleven. Worden put him in at the beginning of the third quarter at left half, displacing Norman. Harry did good work against a team that averaged several pounds lighter and established himself more firmly than ever in the affection and admiration of his fellows. And yet when the fourth period began it was Norman who went in at the left of quarter and Harry retired to a blanket and the bench. Just why this was he couldn’t see, since he was conscious of having played well, better, he honestly believed, than Norman. But facts were facts, and he saw the last ten minutes of a rather listless combat from the substitutes’ bench. Barnstead had no trouble rolling up twenty-seven points and was only scored on when Jones, who took Bob Peel’s place in the last period, fumbled the ball on Barnstead’s thirty yards and a quick-witted and long-legged Carver forward got it and tumbled through a broken field for a touchdown. Poor Jones, whose fortunes were trembling in the balance before, was a sad-faced youth as the players trotted back to the gymnasium after the game, and Harry pitied him. From thence on Jones was frankly a second-string quarter and Bob Peel ruled the roost. Football, like life, is a case of the survival of the fittest, and the boy who makes good in the first more often than not makes good in the latter. And the lessons learned on the gridiron, lessons of obedience to authority, confidence, unselfishness and self-control, are lessons that stand one in good stead in the bigger game to follow. Harry, with some dim notion of this in his mind, mentally compared Jones’ conduct under discipline to Perry Vose’s. Jones probably had a bad hour or two with himself, but the next Monday he turned up smiling and cheerful, and all the rest of the season he worked hard when work was given him, served patiently with the waiters on the bench and never once gave voice to a disgruntled expression. Jones was a good loser, which is scarcer than a good winner. And Harry, looking on, learned a lesson from Jones.

The team had its troubles that week. Plaisted, the best guard the school had, and, with the possible exception of Captain Ted Corson, at fullback, the best player of all, wrenched his knee in practice on Tuesday and went off for what the doctor predicted would be a full week. Parrett, first substitute, took his place at the right of center and filled it fairly satisfactorily, but Plaisted was missed. I think that if ever Worden was tempted to retract his words and offer Perry Vose his old position it was then. But he didn’t. Nor did he show any sign of yielding when, a week later, Plaisted returned to work, hobbled around rather uselessly and was finally retired for good with a bad case of water on the knee. By that time Pleasanton High had come and gone with trailing banners and Barnstead had scored another victory. But the Pleasanton game, although it had been won decisively, 15 to 3, proved to Coach Worden that Parrett was not another Plaisted and that the right of the line was now its weak place. Several experiments were tried during the first of the week, but it was not until Captain Corson was changed from fullback to right guard that the difficulty seemed to be solved. Ted Corson had played guard two years before and so was no novice in the line. To fill Corson’s place, Carstairs, right half, was pulled back to full, and Harry Danforth at last became a member of the School Team. Norman was moved across to the other side and Harry went in at left half. And the school applauded.