Full-Back Foster

CHAPTER XIX

DOCTOR LANE INTERVENES

Chas Cummins proved a good prophet. On the following day Myron slipped into a niche in the first team, one of many hopeful, hard-working youths known as “first team subs.” For a few days, indeed, until after the Phillipsburg game, he was dazed by the sudden leap from obscurity to conspicuity, from what he termed neglect to what was extremely like solicitude. Not that his arrival at the field for practice was the occasion for shouts of acclaim and a fanfare of trumpets, for those at the helm did not show their interest in promising candidates in any such manner, but at last he was quite certain that coach and captain, managers and trainer, were aware of his existence. There were times when he heartily wished that they knew less of it. Some one was forever at his elbow, criticising, explaining, exhorting. Coach Driscoll and Ned Garrison oversaw his punting practice, Snow lugged him to remote corners of the playfield to make him catch passes, Katie drilled him in signals, every one, it seemed to Myron, was having a finger in his pie. And when he was not being privately coached, as it were, he was legging it around the gridiron with the substitutes or tumbling about the dummy pit with a bundle of stuffed and dirty canvas clasped to his bosom. Those were busy, confusing days. And yet no one outside the football “inner ring” appeared to be aware of the fact that a new light had arisen in the Parkinson firmament. Not unnaturally, perhaps, Myron looked for signs of interest, even of awe, from his acquaintances, but he found none. At table in dining hall Eldredge still glowered at him, Rogers cringed and the pestiferous Tinkham poked sly fun. Only Joe and Andrew and Chas, among his friends, showed him honour; and Joe as a strewer of blossoms in his path was not an overwhelming success. Joe seemed to think that his chum’s leap to incipient fame was pleasing but not remarkable, while Myron was absolutely certain that it was stupendous and unparalleled in the annals of preparatory school football. When you are watched and guided as Myron was by those in command you are likely to think that. He wondered whether Joe was not just a little bit envious. Of course, Joe’s position was quite as assured as his own, but Joe had not engaged the time and attention and solicitude of the entire coaching force. He hoped Joe wasn’t going to be disagreeable about it.

Phillipsburg came and went, defeated easily enough, 12 points to 3, and Warne High School followed a week later. High School always put up a good fight against Parkinson, and she made no exception this year. Coach Driscoll used many substitutes that afternoon and so High School found her work easier. Myron had his baptism by fire in the second period and lasted until the end of the third. He was taken out then because High School had tied the score and it was necessary to add another touchdown or field-goal to the home team’s side of the ledger. So Kearns, who was still the most dependable full-back in sight, took Myron’s place. Kearns gained and lost in his usual way, and had no great part in the securing of the third Parkinson score. Katie was mainly responsible for that, for he sneaked away from the opponent’s thirty-two yards and landed the ball on her eight, from whence it was carried over on the fourth down by Brounker. That made the figures 20 to 14, and there they remained for the rest of the contest.

Myron was huffy about being removed and every one who spoke to him discovered the fact. Of course, he was huffy in a perfectly gentlemanly way. He didn’t scold and he didn’t sneer, but he indulged in irony and intimated that if football affairs continued to be managed as they had been that afternoon he would refuse to be held responsible if the season ended in defeat. Oddly enough, no one appeared panic-stricken at the veiled threat. Joe grinned, until Myron looked haughty and insulted, and then became grave and spoke his mind. He had an annoying way of doing that, to Myron’s way of thinking.

“Kiddo,” said Joe, on this occasion, “if I was you I’d let Driscoll and Mellen run things their own way. Maybe their way don’t always look good to you, but you aren’t in possession of all the – the facts, so to speak. When they put in Kearns today they had a reason, believe me, Brother. You attend to your knitting and let theirs alone. If they drop a stitch, it’s their funeral, not yours. You’ve got just about all you can do to beat Kearns and Williams for full-back’s position – ”

“I’m ahead of Williams right now,” said Myron with asperity.

“All right, kiddo; you stay there. Don’t get highfaluting and swell-headed. Just as soon as you do you’ll quit playing your best and Williams’ll slip past you. Take an old man’s advice, Brother.”

“I wish you’d stop that ‘Brother,’” said Myron pettishly. “I’m not your brother. And I’m not swell-headed, either. And I don’t try to tell Driscoll how to run the team. Only, when I know my own – my own capabilities I naturally think something’s sort of funny when things happen like what happened today!”

“Lots of funny things happen that we can’t account for in this world,” remarked Joe philosophically as he bent over his book again. “Best thing to do is let ’em happen.”

“Oh, rats!” muttered the other.

It was about this time that Myron began to have fallings-out with Old Addie. Old Addie – he wasn’t phenomenally old, by any means, but he seemed old in a faculty composed of young or youngish men – was well-liked, and kindly and just to a fault. But he had views on the importance of Greek and Latin not held by all members of his classes. He believed that Herodotus was the greatest man who ever lived and Horace the greatest poet, and held that an acquaintance with the writings of these and other departed masters was an essential part of every person’s education. Many disagreed with him. Those who disagreed and kept the fact to themselves got on very nicely. Those who were so misguided as to disagree and say so earned his pitying contempt; although contempt is perhaps too strong a word. Myron in a rash moment confessed that Latin didn’t interest him. He had to think up on the spur of the moment some plausible excuse for being illy prepared, and that excuse seemed handy. The result was unfortunate. There was a meeting in Mr. Addicks’ study in the evening, a meeting that lasted for an hour and a quarter and that included readings from the Latin poets, essayists and historians, sometimes in translation, more often in the original. Myron, bored to tears, at last capitulated. He owned that Latin was indeed a beautiful language, that Livy was a wonder, Cicero a peach and Horace a corker. He didn’t use just those terms, but that’s a detail. Mr. Addicks, suspicious of the sudden conversion, pledged him to a reformation in the matter of study and freed him.

But the conversion was not real and Old Addie soon developed a most embarrassing habit of calling on Myron in class. Myron called it “picking on me.” Whatever it was called, it usually resulted disastrously to Myron’s pretences of having studied in the manner agreed on. Old Addie waxed sarcastic, Myron assumed a haughty, contemptuous air. They became antagonistic and trouble brewed. Myron didn’t have enough time to do justice to all his courses, he declared to Joe, and since Latin was the least liked and the most troublesome it was Latin that suffered. There is no doubt that two and a half hours – often more – of football leaves a chap more inclined for bed than study. Not infrequently Myron went to sleep with his head on a book and had to be forcibly wrested from slumber by Joe at ten o’clock or thereabouts. So matters stood at the end of Myron’s first fortnight of what might be called intensive football training. So, in fact, they continued to stand, with slight changes, to the morning of the day on which Parkinson played Day and Robins School.

The team was to travel away from home for that contest and Myron was to go with it, not as a spectator, but as a useful member of the force. He did not go, however. At chapel his name was among a list of seven others recited by the Principal, and at eleven he was admitted to the inner sanctum, behind the room in which he had, a month and a half ago, held converse with Mr. Morgan. This time it was “Jud” himself who received him. The Principal’s real name was Judson, but at some earlier time in his incumbency of the office he had been dubbed Jud, and in spite of the possible likelihood of getting him confused with the captain of the football team, he was still so called. Doctor Lane taught English, but his courses were advanced and Myron had not reached them. In consequence he knew very little of Jud; much less than Jud knew of him; and he felt a certain amount of awe as he took the indicated chair at the left of the big mahogany desk. The Doctor didn’t beat about the bush any to speak of. He advanced at once to the matter in hand, which appeared to be: Why wasn’t Myron keeping up in Latin?

Myron said he thought it must be because he didn’t have time enough to study it. He said it was his firm belief that he was taking too many courses. He thought that it would be better if he was allowed to drop one course, preferably Latin, until the next term. Doctor Lane smiled wanly and wanted to know if Myron was quite sure that he was making the most of what time he had. Myron said he thought he was. He didn’t say it very convincedly, however. Doctor Lane inquired how much time each day was devoted to Latin. Myron didn’t seem to have a very clear impression; perhaps, though, an hour. Jud delved into the boy’s daily life and elicited the fact that something like two and a half hours were devoted to learning to play full-back and something less than three to learning his lessons. Presented as Jud presented it, the fact didn’t look attractive even to Myron. He felt dimly that something was wrong. He attempted to better his statement by explaining that very often he studied between hours – a little. Doctor Lane was not impressed. He twiddled a card that appeared to hold a record of Myron’s scholastic career for a moment and then pronounced a verdict.

“Foster, as I diagnose your case, you are too much interested in football and not sufficiently in your studies. Also, football is claiming too much of your time. Football is a splendid game and a beneficent form of exercise, but it is not the – what I may call the chief industry here, Foster. We try to do other things besides play football. Perhaps you have lost sight of that fact.”

Jud let that sink in for a moment and returned the card to its place in an indexed cabinet, closing the drawer with a decisive bang that made Myron jump.

“So,” continued the Principal drily, “I think it will be best if you detach yourself from football interests for – for awhile, Foster.”

Silence ensued. Myron gulped. Then he asked in a small voice: “How long, sir?”

“Oh, we won’t decide that now.” Jud’s voice and manner struck Myron as being far too bright and flippant. “We’ll see how it works out. I’ve known it to work very nicely in many cases. I shall expect to hear better – much better – accounts of you from Mr. Addicks, Foster. Good morning.”

And that is why Myron didn’t go bowling off to the station with the rest of the team, and why Kearns and Houghton played the full-back position that afternoon, and why, after a miserable six hours spent in mooning about a deserted campus and a lonely room, Myron packed a suit-case with a few of his yellow-hued shirts and similar necessities and unobtrusively made his way to Maple Street in the early gloom of the October evening.

CHAPTER XX

ANDY TAKES A JOURNEY

At a few minutes past eight that evening Joe clattered hurriedly up the stairs of the house in Mill Street and thumped imperatively at Andrew’s door. Just why he thumped didn’t appear, since he threw the door open without waiting for permission. Andrew looked up inquiringly from his book in the yellow radius of light around the table.

“Hello,” he greeted. “Slide under the bed and maybe they won’t find you.”

“It’s that idiot, Myron,” announced Joe breathlessly, and sank into a chair.

“What’s he done now?” asked Andrew interestedly.

“Bolted!”

“Bolted?”

“Beat it – vamoosed – lit out – gone!”

“Where? What for?”

“I don’t know where, but he’s gone. I suppose he’s headed home. He’s in wrong at the Office over Latin, and this morning Doc Lane told him to quit football. He was to have gone along with us to play Day and Robins, you know, and was all keyed up about it. I didn’t get many of the details: only saw him for about three minutes just before we left: but he was talking then about firing himself and hiring out to Kenwood for the rest of the year.”

Andrew frowned. “A sweet thought,” he murmured sarcastically.

“Oh, he wouldn’t do it,” said Joe. “He likes to talk like that, but he’s all right behind his mouth.”

“I hope so. Where – when did he go?”

“Search me. I know he was gone when I got back at six, or a little before. I thought, of course, that he was around somewhere; probably at Alumni. But he wasn’t at dinner and he didn’t show up afterwards, and I remembered his line of talk this morning and got to snooping around and found his suit-case gone and some of his things; brushes and sponge and the like of those.”

“Maybe he got leave to go home over Sunday.”

“I thought of that and found out from Mr. Hoyt. Had to be careful so he wouldn’t get suspicious, but I got away with it, I guess. He hasn’t asked for leave; and wouldn’t have got it anyway, I guess. No, he’s just plain beat it.”

Andrew whistled softly and expressively.

“That fixes him,” he said regretfully. “On top of probation – ”

“That’s the point,” urged Joe. “He’s dished for fair if faculty gets wind of it. That’s why I came. I can’t go. I asked Driscoll and he said nothing doing. So it’s up to you, Andy.”

“Up to me? Go? Where?”

“Go after him and bring him back,” answered Joe. “I looked up trains. He probably waited until after dark, because he wouldn’t have risked being seen with a suit-case, and if he did he must have taken the six-eighteen for New York. There’s no train for Port Foster out of Philadelphia until seven-twelve tomorrow morning. He might stay in New York overnight or go on to Philadelphia, so the best way’ll be to go right through to Philadelphia and watch the Port Foster trains.”

Andrew stared amazedly. “Look here, Joe,” he said, “are you suggesting that I go to Philadelphia after Myron?”

“Sure,” answered Joe impatiently. “What did you suppose? And you’ll have to get a hustle on, too: it’s about eight-fifteen now and your train goes at nine-five. I’d go in a minute, but I’m in training and the rule’s strict, and if I got caught – fare thee well!”

To Joe’s surprise, Andrew began to laugh. “Well, you’re a wonder, Joe,” he gasped. “Why, man alive, I can’t go traipsing all over the United States like that! I’m beastly sorry for Myron, but – ”

“Why can’t you?” demanded Joe, scowling. “Some one’s got to, and that’s flat. If he’s caught away from school without permission they’ll chuck him as sure as shooting. Why do you say you can’t go, Andy?”

“Why – why, for one reason, I can’t afford it, you idiot! How much do you think it’ll cost to go to Philadelphia and back? I’m no millionaire! Why – ”

“I thought of that.” Joe pulled a roll of bills from his trousers pocket and flung it on the table. “There’s twenty-five, all I have right now. It’s enough, I guess.”

Andrew stared at the money in surprise. “Well – but – look here, I’ve got an engagement in the morning. And how do you know I can get leave?”

“Take it! No one’ll know you’re away,” said Joe. “Gosh, we’ve got to risk something!”

“We have? You mean I have, don’t you?”

“Oh, what’s the difference? Myron’s a friend, ain’t he, and we can’t let him go and kill himself off like this without making a try, can we? Besides, the team needs him bad. If he’d hung on a bit longer he’d have been full-back and – and everything! I – I’d like to wring his silly neck!”

Andrew smiled. Then he stared thoughtfully at the table. At last he seized the roll of money, thrust it in his pocket and pushed back his chair. “Guess you’re right, Joe,” he said. “What time did you say the train goes?”

“Nine-five.” Joe jerked out his watch. “You’ve got forty minutes. Better pack a toothbrush and a night-shirt, kiddo.”

“Pack nothing,” replied Andrew. “A toothbrush and a comb will see me through, and those go in my pocket. I want that brown book, though, and some sheets of paper. Better have my fountain pen, too. You’ll have to take a message to Wynant, 29 Williams, for me, Joe. Better do it tonight. Tell him I’m called away and can’t be around in the morning. I’ll see him when I get back. Now, what about the dogs? Mind coming around in the morning and letting them out and feeding them? Good! We’re off, then.”

Andrew turned out the light and they fumbled their way to the door. Outside, Andrew gave the key to Joe. “Don’t forget the dogs, Joe,” he reminded. “Now, then, tell me again about these trains. It’s Philadelphia I’m going to, is it?”

Joe explained carefully as they hurried through the illy-lighted streets toward the station. “Better get to Philadelphia by the first train you can make, Andy. You can sleep on the way, some. The first Sunday train for Port Foster leaves Philadelphia at twelve minutes past seven. There isn’t another until ten-something. He may wait for that. You’ll have to watch for him on the platform. For the love of mud, Andy, don’t miss him!”

“I won’t!” answered the other grimly as they entered the station. “Wait here a minute. I’m going to call up the Office.”

“The Office!” exclaimed Joe aghast. “What for?”

“To get permission.”

“But – ”

“I know. I won’t. Here, you buy the ticket. Get it to Philadelphia and return if you can. I’ll be right with you.”

Andrew was as good as his word. Joe viewed him anxiously. “Did you get it?” he asked.

Andrew nodded. “Yes. I told Mr. Hoyt I had to be away overnight on important matters. He hemmed a bit at first, but finally came around. So that’s all right. I feel rather better for having faculty’s blessing, Joe.” Ten minutes later the long train rolled in and Andrew climbed aboard. He was going into a day coach, but Joe pulled him back and hurried him down the platform, past a hundred lighted windows and hustled him into a parlour-car. “Might as well be as comfortable as you can,” he explained. “You can get a pretty fair nap in one of those chairs if you don’t mind waking up with a broken neck! Good-bye and good luck, Andy!”

“Good-bye. See you tomorrow afternoon or evening. Don’t forget Tess and the puppies!”

Then the train pulled out and Joe heaved a sigh of relief and made his way back to the campus and Williams Hall and the indignant Mr. Wynant.

About the same time Coach Driscoll and Captain Mellen were talking things over in the former’s lodgings. Parkinson had played smooth, hard football that afternoon, bringing encouragement to both, and their countenances still reflected satisfaction. “Looks as though we had struck our gait at last, Cap,” said Mr. Driscoll, puffing comfortably at his pipe.

“It does look so,” agreed Jud. “It’s time, too, with only two more games before Kenwood.”

“Well, I’d rather see a team come slowly and not reach the peak too early in the season. I’m more afraid of slumps than the smallpox, Mellen. Remember year before last’s experience?”

Jud nodded. “If we can hold it where it is, Coach, we’ll be all right, I guess. Some of the fellows certainly played themselves proud today: Keith and Meldrum and Norris – ”

“And Mellen,” suggested Mr. Driscoll, smiling through the smoke.

“I guess I didn’t do so badly,” Jud allowed. “But that Dobbins was the corker, when you come right down to brass tacks, don’t you think so?”