Left End Edwards Part 12

"Glad to know you," said the coach. "What's your position, Edwards?"

"I've been playing end, sir."

"End, eh? You look fast, too. We'll see what you can do, my boy. And you,--er----"

"Jim Hall," supplied Danny. "Another close friend o' me boyhood, sir, an' a fine lad, too, be-dad!"

"Tackle, sir, mostly," replied Tom.

"It's a relief to find a couple who aren't bent on being backs," said the coach with a smile to Miller. "All right, fellows. We'll give you all the chance in the world. Report to Sawyer now."

Steve and Tom, with the parting benediction of a portentious wink from Danny Moore, joined the thirty-odd candidates of many ages and sizes who, formed in two rings, were pa.s.sing footb.a.l.l.s under the stern and frowning regard of Eric Sawyer. They edged their way into one of the circles and were soon earnestly catching and tossing with the rest. If Sawyer recognised them as the boys who had aroused his ire in the rubbing room the day before, he showed no sign of it. It is probable, though, that their football attire served as a sufficient disguise.

Sawyer apparently took his temporary position as a.s.sistant coach very seriously and bore himself with frowning dignity. But it was not at all beneath his dignity to call erring candidates to order or to indulge in a good deal of heavy satire at the expense of those whose inexperience made them awkward. Neither Steve nor Tom, however, fell under the ban of his displeasure.

Falling on the ball followed the pa.s.sing, and, in turn, gave place to starting and sprinting. For this they were formed in line and Sawyer, leaning over a ball at one end of the line, snapped it away as a signal for them to leap forward. By that time the warmth of the day and the exertion had tuckered a good many of them out and Sawyer found much fault with the performances.

"Oh, get moving, you chap in the black shirt there! Watch the ball and dig when I snap it! That's it! Go it! _Hard!_ All right for you, but about a dozen of you other chaps got left entirely. Now get down there and throw your weight forward. Haven't any of you ever practised starts before? Anyone would think your feet were glued down! Get in line again.

Ready now! Go, you flock of ice-wagons!"

Fortunately for the softer members of the awkward squad, practice was soon over to-day, and Steve and Tom somewhat wearily tramped back with the rest across to the gymnasium, determined to have the luxury of a shower-bath even if they would have to get back into their togs again after it.

"We'd better see about getting lockers," said Steve. "I wonder where you go."

"They cost a dollar a year," answered Tom, who knew the contents of the school catalogue by heart, "and if we don't make the team we won't need the lockers."

"Sure we will. If we use the swimming pool we'll need a place to keep our clothes. And even if we don't make the big teams we'll play with the Hall, probably. Wish we had them now and didn't have to go back to the room to change. I'm tired, if you care to know it!"

"So am I," panted Tom. "Sawyer worked us hard for a warm day."

"Yes, and did you notice that fat fellow? There he is ahead there, with the striped stockings. He was just about all in and puffing like a locomotive."

"He was probably tender," said Tom.

"Yes, he--Tender! That'll do for you!" said Steve indignantly, aiming a blow at Tom's ribs which was skilfully evaded. "Let's stop at the office in here and see if we can get lockers."

They could. Moreover, Mr. Conklin, the physical director, informed them, to their deep satisfaction, that the charge of one dollar each would be placed on their term bill if they wished. They wished with instant enthusiasm and departed, keys in hand, to find their lockers. They found the room thronged with fellows in various stages of undressing, while from the baths came deep groans and shrill shrieks and the hiss and splash of water. Their lockers were side by side at the farther end of the last aisle; and, after making certain that the keys fitted them, they began to get out of their clothes, only to make the discovery when partly disrobed that they had no towels.

"I'm going to ask someone to lend me one," said Steve. "You can use an end of it if I get it. I'm going to have that shower or bust."

A cheerful-faced youth draped in a frayed bathrobe came up at that moment and Steve sought counsel of him.

"Towel? I'd lend you one in a minute, but mine are all soiled. You can see for yourself." He nodded toward the open door of his locker on the floor of which lay a pile of what were evidently bath towels. "I forgot to send them to the wash before I went away in the spring. If you ask Danny he might let you have one. I guess he's around somewhere."

Steve found the trainer leaning against the doorway of the rubbing room.

"'Tis Sam Edwards!" greeted Danny. "An' how did it go to-day, me boy?"

"Pretty good, thanks. Could you lend me a couple of towels, Mister--er--Danny?"

"I doubt have I got any, but I'll look an' see," and Danny disappeared into the room behind him.

"Here you are, Sam," he said in a moment. "They're small but select.

Fetch 'em back when you're through with 'em, if you please. They're school property, d'ye mind, and it's me that's answerable for them."

Steve promised faithfully to restore them and bore them back in triumph to where Tom had paused in his undressing to await the result of the errand. A minute later they were puffing and blowing in adjoining baths, with the icy-cold water raining down on their glowing bodies. A brisk drying with the borrowed towels, a return to their uninviting togs and they were ready to be off. Steve couldn't find Danny, but he left the towels on the table in the rubbing room and he and Tom climbed the stairs again. In the hall above there was a large notice board and Tom stopped to glance at some of the announcements pinned against it.

"Here a minute, Steve," he said. "Look at this." He laid a finger on a square of paper which bore in almost illegible writing this remarkable notice: "What Will You Give? Dirt Cheap! Terms Cash! One fine oak Morris chair, good as new. Three cushions, very pretty. One pair of skates.

Eight phonograph records. Large a.s.sortment of bric-a-brac. Any fair offer takes them! Call early and avoid disappointment. Durkin, 13 Torrence."

"Is it a joke?" asked Steve doubtfully.

"No, there are lots of them, see." Sure enough, the board held fully a dozen similar announcements, although the others were not couched in such breezy language. There were chairs, cushions, tables, pictures, golf clubs, rugs and all sorts of things advertised for sale, while one chap sought a purchaser for "a stuffed white owl, mounted on a branch, slightly moth-eaten. Cash or exchange for books."

Steve laughed. "What do you know about that?" he asked. "Say, why don't we look at some of the things, Tom? Maybe we could save money. Let's call on Mr. Durkin and look at his Morris chair, eh?"

"All right. Come ahead. Anything else we want?"

"I don't suppose we could pick up a cushion that would fit our window-seat, but we might. I'll write down some of the names and rooms."

"We might buy the white owl, Steve. Ever think you'd like a white owl?"

"Not with moths in it, thanks," replied Steve. There was pen and ink on the ledge outside the window of the physical director's office and Steve secured paper by tearing a corner from one of the notices. When he had scribbled down the addresses that sounded promising they set off for Torrence Hall. Number 13 was on the second floor, and as they drew near it their ears were afflicted by most dismal sounds.

"Wha-what's that?" asked Tom in alarm.

"Fiddle," laughed Steve. "Wonder if it's Mr. Durkin."

The wailing sounds ceased as Steve knocked and a voice called "Come in!"

When they entered they saw a tall, lank youth standing in front of a music-rack close to the window. He held a violin to his chin and waved his bow in greeting.

"Hi!" he said. "Sit down and I'll be right with you. I've got one bit here that's been bothering me for an hour." He turned back to his music, waved his bow in the air, laid it across the strings and drew forth sounds that made the visitors squirm in the chairs they had taken. One excruciating wail after another came from the tortured instrument, the lank youth bending absorbedly over the notes in the failing light and apparently quite oblivious to the presence of the others. Finally, with a sigh of satisfaction, he laid his bow on the ledge of the stand, stood his violin in a corner of the window-seat and turned to the visitors.

He was an odd-looking chap, tall and thin, with a long, lean face under a mop of black hair that was badly in need of tr.i.m.m.i.n.g. His near-sighted eyes blinked from behind the round lenses of a pair of rubber-rimmed spectacles and his rather nondescript clothes seemed on the point of falling off of him.

"Sorry to keep you waiting," he said politely, "but it's getting dark and I did want to get that thing before I quit. Want to buy something?"

CHAPTER X

"CHEAP FOR CASH"

"Yes, we saw that you had a Morris chair," replied Steve. He glanced perplexedly around the room. There was no Morris chair in sight, nor were any of the other articles advertised to be seen. "That is, if you're Durkin."

"That's me. The chair is downstairs in the storeroom. It's a corking chair, all right, and you're sure to want it. I'm sorry, though, you didn't get around before it got so dark, because the light down there isn't very good."

"Well, we could come again in the morning," said Steve. "There's no hurry."