Читать книгу Fourth Down! - Ralph Henry Barbour - Страница 7

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Of recent years the custom of having separate organizations for the First and Second Teams from the very outset of the season had obtained at Yardley. In the old days the Second was made up, perhaps a fortnight after the school year had started, of players who were not needed on the First and those who, for one reason or another, were ineligible for it. As a result, the Second as an adversary for the First, or School, Team, never amounted to much until the season was half gone. Under the new system the Second came into being two or three days after the start of the fall term, with a coaching staff, small but sufficient, of its own, a captain elected the preceding year and a general organization similar to that of the First save as to size. The coach was inevitably some enthusiastic and patriotic fellow who had recently graduated and who gave his services free. At times—whenever possible, in fact—he summoned other graduates to his assistance. If he was a wise coach, he never had more than one assistant at a time. If he was unwise, he had—and chaos reigned.

This year the coach was Mr. Burtis. Burtis had, in his time, been a remarkable half-back and an equally remarkable kicker, both in preparatory school and college. He had left college last spring and was, consequently, but twenty-one or twenty-two years of age. Because Yardley Hall history accorded him much fame as a player and leader, a great deal was expected of him. Toby’s first look at Kendall Burtis produced more surprise than anything else. He found himself wondering how any man could be as utterly homely as the coach and yet look as attractive, how any one could have so many angles in his body and yet be so free from awkwardness! Burtis was rather large, ruggedly built, square of frame. His mouth was broad, his nose somewhat pug, his hair nondescript in hue. Yet in spite of these things the face was pleasing and attractive. Perhaps the very dark gray eyes, clear and steady and honest, were accountable. Or it may be that the mouth expressed kindliness. At all events, after that first instant of surprise and confusion, Toby liked the new coach immensely. Whether the new coach liked Toby I can’t say. It is quite probable that he didn’t see him, for Toby was only one of some forty-eight fellows drawn up in a group on the edge of the second diamond that Saturday afternoon.

Toby wondered what words of wisdom would fall from that generously-proportioned mouth, and he craned his head over Sid Creel’s shoulder that he might hear them all. What he did hear and see were hardly worth the exertion. Coach Burtis, a new football snuggled in his left elbow and his right hand thrust into a pocket of an old pair of gray trousers, looked pleasantly over the little throng for a moment. Then: “Well,” he said genially. “It looks like we had material for a good team here. Let’s get busy!”

That was all. Toby felt a trifle neglected and disappointed. But he had to acknowledge that perhaps getting busy was as important as listening to a speech. After that, for more than an hour and a half, he had very little opportunity for feeling neglected. There were moments when he wished he might. Coach and captain were both believers in hard work, and both buckled down resolutely to the task ahead of them. More than half the material was inexperienced, much of what remained was useless, and only some twelve or fourteen candidates combined experience with ability. To-day’s work was the veriest drudgery, and, although occasional halts were called, yet the September sun did unkind things to many. Toby, rather to his surprise, discovered that he was not nearly so hard and fit as he had thought. After ten minutes of passing and falling, he perspired from every pore, and ere the afternoon’s practice was finished, he felt very much like a wet rag. Also, he had somehow managed to develop a painful crick in his left shoulder, close to his neck. And the muscles in the backs of his legs felt as if some one had pounded them with a board. On the whole, he was far less enthusiastic than he had been at three o’clock, and even the shower failed of much reaction. Dragging a tired body from the gymnasium across the yard to Whitson, he wondered by just what mental process he had the day before arrived at the decision to play football!

As a matter of fact, there had been, so far as he could recall, no mental process at all. Arnold had threatened him with the First Team draft and almost without reflection he had announced that he was going out for the Second! Ten minutes before, or even three, he had had no more idea of a football career than he had had of jumping from the window. Well, reflected Toby ruefully, it just showed that you couldn’t be too careful of impulses!

He supposed that Sid Creel was mainly responsible for these aching muscles. He had resolutely refused to be persuaded by Sid’s arguments, and yet, apparently, he had been! Or else he had done it just to surprise Arnold. Maybe that was it. If it was, it was a mighty poor reason! Any amount of surprise on the part of Arnold wasn’t worth the soreness of those leg muscles! He groaned as he started up the stairs, but nearing the door of Number 12, he assumed a carefree and nonchalant air designed to deceive Arnold in case that youth was within.

He wasn’t, though, and Toby was thankful. It gave him a chance to lie down on the window seat, groaning as much as he pleased while doing it, without arousing curiosity. He dropped his cap—he had put by the straw hat—on the nearest object and divested himself of an unnecessary coat. It was while he was getting rid of the latter article of apparel that his eyes fell on an envelope propped against the base of the droplight on his side of the table. It bore his name in funny up-and-down characters, like the writing of a boy of ten, and the postmark showed that it was mailed in Wissining that morning. Of course, it might be only an invitation to deal at one of the few local stores, but there was evidence against that premise; such as the lack of any address in the corner, the queer writing and a brownish smudge along the flap suggesting that unclean hands had sealed the envelope. He bore it to the window seat, settled himself cautiously against the pile of cushions, stretched his aching legs out and tore open the letter. A single sheet of blue-ruled paper emerged. Toby read it frowningly.

Dear Tucker: I’m sorry for what I said this afternoon. I didn’t mean it because you are the only fellow at this place who has been decent towards me since I came here. I got mad and I wish I hadn’t and I’m sorry. I wish you’d forgive me, please, Tucker. I guess what you said was true about the Navy, I mean, and maybe I’ll do like I said. Every one here shows plain that I am not wanted at this school and I guess the sooner I beat it the better. If more fellows were like you maybe I could stick it out. I am not afraid of the studies. It is not that, but the fellows here are not my kind I suppose. You are not either, but you acted like you did not think much about that. I am just writing this because you were decent to me in the train that day, more than any other fellow has been, and I do not want you to think I am no good at all, with no gratitude. If I do not see you again, good-by and good luck, from Yours Truly, Geo. W. Tubb.

Toward the end of the queer epistle Toby’s frown disappeared, and when he had read it once he read it again. After that he laid it down and looked out over the woods below the railroad cut, at the foot of the Prospect, and so to the blue expanse of Long Island Sound. A sail boat dipped slowly along the shore and afar out a cocky tug was leading a draggled parade of three coal barges. Presently the frown crept back again, and he lifted the letter, folded it and put it back in its envelope.

“Suppose I ought to answer it,” he thought, “only, what can I say? Tell him I don’t mind what he said, I suppose, although it happens that I do mind. At least, I ought to. He’s a very objectionable, soggy-minded, unclean fellow, and I don’t want any more to do with him. Still, that doesn’t say that he isn’t having a horribly messy time here. Of course fellows don’t take to him. He looks dirty and bad-tempered and he talks worse than he looks. He doesn’t belong here. Seems to realize it, too. Shows he has some sense, doesn’t it? Well, I didn’t say he didn’t have sense. Trouble with him is he’s been left to do as he likes too much, I guess. Bet you I know that father of his. Severe as anything when things go wrong, and the rest of the time doesn’t pay any attention to the kid. He didn’t say anything about a mother or brothers or sisters. Probably there’s just the two of them in one of those mean little towns where nothing ever happens that’s worth while. Bet you there isn’t even a movie theater there! Dad puts out the lamp at nine o’clock and goes to bed and the kid has to go, too, and the only way he can have any excitement is to sneak down the rain-spout and get into mischief! Oh, well, it’s no affair of mine. Still, I am sort of sorry for Tubb. ‘Washtub.’ Beastly nickname! Wonder who his adviser is. Probably hasn’t been near him, and would only growl and be ugly if he went. Best thing can happen to George W. Tubb is to seek pastures new.”

Toby yawned and closed his eyes. The faint breath of cool evening air that blew in through the open window beside him made him feel very sleepy. He would write a couple of lines to Tibb—no, Tubb—after supper. Tell him it’s all right, and——

Toby fell asleep.

Ten minutes later he dreamed that he was falling down innumerable flights of stairs, bounding from one to another with ever increasing momentum. He didn’t seem concerned about the process of falling, but he knew that when he reached the bottom, if he ever did, there would be an awful smash! In case there shouldn’t be enough left of him to groan then, maybe he had better do it now. So he did, quite frightfully. And opened his eyes to find Arnold and Frank tugging at him and laughing.

“Wake up, Toby! It isn’t true!”

“N-no,” agreed Toby doubtfully. “But—I’m glad you stopped me before I got to the bottom!”

“Nightmare?” asked Frank. “I have it sometimes. Get a move on. We’re going to get supper early and beat it over to Greenburg for the first house at the movies.”

“I don’t see any use in my spending good money to see movies,” demurred Toby, sitting up sleepily, “when all I’ve got to do is go to sleep and have movies of my own!”

Arnold grinned. “How did practice go?” he asked significantly.

“Fine.” Toby was quite cheerful and nonchalant. “Made me sleepy, though, I guess.”

“Hope you’re not tired or lame or anything like that? You had such a lot of fun ragging me yesterday, you know. Too bad if you—er——”

“Me? Oh, well, it was pretty warm, of course, but when you’re in good hard condition——”

“What’s the matter?” asked Arnold, grinning.

“Matter? Why?”

“I thought you made a face when you stood up. My mistake, of course!”

“I don’t know what you’re getting at,” declared Toby with great dignity. “If you think that a little football practice—ouch! Gee!” He sat down again on the window seat and rubbed his back ruefully, while the others laughed with wicked glee.

“It won’t do, old thing! There’s no use stalling. You’re as bad as I was yesterday, when you had the beautiful cheek to sit there and read me a lecture on not keeping fit! Where does it hurt worst?”

“All over,” groaned Toby. “I’ll be all right after I move around a while, though. That’s one advantage of being in fine physical condition: you may get a bit lame but you get right over it!”

“Isn’t he the wonderful bluffer?” asked Arnold admiringly to Frank. “Well, go ahead and move around, old thing. It’s five minutes of, and we want to get over there before seven.”

“Tell me one thing first,” begged Toby, squirming about from his waist up. “Do they have cushions on the seats at the movie house?”

“Oh, yes, and they’ll give you a couple of pillows at the ticket office if you ask for ’em,” answered Frank. “Hustle now!”

“What you tell me sounds perfectly beautiful,” said Toby sadly, “but I’m afraid it isn’t true.”

Thereupon Arnold thrust towel and soap into his hands, Frank held the door open and between them they pushed him, groaning and remonstrating, into the corridor and headed him toward the lavatory.

“It’s really an awful joke on him,” chuckled Arnold as Toby’s lagging footsteps receded down the hall. “He thought he was as hard as nails, and had a fine time crowing over me yesterday. Said it took more than sailing a boat to keep a fellow in shape!”

“I guess the only way to keep fit enough for football,” said Frank, feelingly, “is to chop trees all summer. I was just about all in last night. How did you manage to persuade him to take up football, anyway, Arn? I thought he was dead set against it.”

“So did I. I didn’t persuade him. I don’t know who did—or what! He sprung it on me suddenly yesterday. I’m glad, though. I think there’s a good football player in Toby, Frank.”