Left End Edwards Part 30

Steve's gaze met Tom's troubledly, then shifted. "Oh, if you say so, I suppose I'll have to. But if you didn't bring the book up here----"

"That means you don't believe me," said Tom quietly. "Very well. Now, one more thing, Steve." Tom's eyes were blazing now, though his face was white. "Don't you speak to me unless you have to from now on, until you come to me and tell me that you believe what I've told you!"

"But, Tom, you can see yourself that it's mighty queer! If you----"

"You heard what I said! Perhaps you think I owe you something for trying to shield me from Mr. Daley. I don't, though. When you set me down for a cheat you more than squared that account. That's all. After this I don't want you to speak to me."

Steve shrugged his shoulders angrily. "That goes," he said. "When you want me to speak to you, you'll ask me, Tom! And don't you forget it!"

Both boys went back to their letters in silence. After a while Steve put on a raincoat and tramped down the stairs and over to Hensey. He meant to call on Andy Miller, but Andy was out and only the saturnine Williams was in the room. Although Steve had grown to like Williams very well, yet, in his present mood, the right tackle was not the sort of company Steve craved, and after a few minutes of desultory football talk he went on. He would have called on Roy and Harry, but now that he and Tom had quarrelled they would, he thought, side with Tom. In the end he found himself in the gymnasium. Several fellows were splashing about in the tank and Steve joined them. For an hour he forgot his troubles in performing stunts to the envious appreciation of the others in the pool.

Applause was grateful to him that afternoon, and when he had dressed himself again and, avoiding the room, had gone across to Wendell to wait for the doors to open for supper, he felt better. Perhaps, he told himself, Tom really didn't know anything about that plaguey book, but even so he needn't get so c.o.c.ky about it! Besides, someone must have put the book on their table and--well, the evidence was certainly against Tom!

It wasn't much fun eating supper with Tom at his elbow as grim and stiff as a plaster statue. Fortunately, Steve was well into his meal before Tom came in, and meanwhile there were others of the second team to talk to if he wanted. With no Tom to converse with he found it difficult to persist in his role of haughty indifference toward the others.

Besides--and it came to him with rather a shock--what they thought of him was no more than he had been thinking of Tom! Hang it, it was all pretty rotten! He'd like to choke Eric Sawyer!

It didn't take the rest of the fellows at the training table long to make the discovery that the two friends were at outs. Trow, a pale-faced, shock-haired chap, took delight in trying to engage them both in conversation at the same time, thereby increasing the embarra.s.sment. Steve was heartily glad when he had finished his supper and could leave the table. Returning to his room under the circ.u.mstances was not appealing, but there seemed nowhere else to go. There was the library, of course, but it was a dismal place on a Sunday evening, and he didn't want to read. But, as it proved, he needn't have considered avoiding the room, for Tom didn't return after supper, and Steve finished his letter home in solitude. At eight he went over to Al Brownell's room in Torrence, not because he was especially interested in the project to be discussed, but because he had agreed to attend the gathering and was glad, besides, to get away from Number 12 Billings.

Life in Number 12 didn't promise to be very delightful for awhile, he thought dolefully.

In Brownell's room Steve carefully took a position as far distant from Tom as was possible. There was a lot of talk and a good deal of fun, and in the end Steve found himself chosen one of a committee of five to call on the princ.i.p.al and request the permission they desired. At a little after nine he walked back to Billings alone. Tom didn't return until ten and then, with never a word between them, they undressed and went to bed. Steve didn't get to sleep very easily that night. More than once he was sorely tempted to speak across the darkness and tell Tom that he did believe him and that he was sorry. And I think he would have done it, too, in the end if Tom had not fallen asleep just then and announced the fact in the usual melodic manner. Whereupon Steve frowned, punched his pillow and flopped over.

"It isn't bothering him any," he thought. "If he wants me to speak to him, he'll have to say so. Cranky chump!"

CHAPTER XXII

STEVE GETS A SURPRISE

Mr. Fernald was surprisingly complaisant on Monday when the committee from the second team waited on him at the Cottage. He gave them permission to hold their banquet in the village and even said several nice things to them about their share in the development of the 'varsity. He warned them against rowdyism, told them they must be back promptly at nine o'clock and said he hoped they'd have a good time!

After which, much surprised and not a little embarra.s.sed, the committee backed out of the room and returned joyfully to spread the tidings. A second committee, headed by Saunders, had already been appointed to arrange for the banquet in case permission was secured and by Tuesday everything was complete. I may say here that the event duly came off on Thursday evening and was a big success. But as neither Steve nor Tom was present, our interest in the banquet is slight.

On Monday the _Review_ came out. The school paper was published on the twentieth of the month, and the December issue contained, among other features, a rather interesting resume of the football season by Mr.

Robey and a list of the games played to date. The coach's article was too long to reproduce, but the summary of the season's contests was brief enough to be set down here:

Sept. 30--Brimfield 10; Thacher 3

Oct. 4--Brimfield 10; Canterbury 7

Oct. 7--Brimfield 26; Miter Hill 0

Oct. 14--Brimfield 3; Larchville 17

Oct. 21--Brimfield 0; Benton 0

Oct. 28--Brimfield 27; Cherry Valley 6

Nov. 4--Brimfield 12; Phillips 0

Nov. 11--Brimfield 9; Chambers 30

Nov. 18--Brimfield 39; Southby 7

Brimfield had played nine games, of which she had won six, lost two and tied one, not a bad record, as the _Review_ rather complacently pointed out, for a school whose football history dated back but a few years. But Brimfield didn't waste much time contemplating past performances. Had the team won every game in its schedule by an overwhelming score, the season would still be a dismal failure if it lost to Claflin, just as, if it finally won its big game, the school would rise up and call it blessed even had it lost every other contest of the season. In other words, Claflin was the only foe that really counted, and the Claflin game was the final test by which the Brimfield Football Team stood or fell.

Claflin School, at Westplains, New York, some twelve miles distant from Brimfield, was a larger school in point of enrolment, a very much older school and far more "select." I don't intend to imply by that term that the Claflin students were a finer set of fellows than those at Brimfield. Doubtless they would have averaged up about the same. But Claflin liked to be considered "select" and so I might as well accord her the distinction. Claflin had been educating the youth of New York and surrounding states for almost a hundred years, and nowadays fathers applied for admission for their boys about as soon as the boys were born. The school was in that respect like a club with a long waiting list. If a boy wasn't "entered" by the time he was five or six years old at the latest, he stood small chance of getting in when the time came.

Claflin had won from Brimfield three years on end, or ever since they had been playing together. She had started out by according Brimfield a mid-season date. The following year she had placed the game a week later and last year she had put it last on her schedule, Brimfield having by then proved herself an adversary of real merit. Oddly enough, Claflin had for some time been without a special rival and had gladly bestowed the honour on the Maroon-and-Grey as soon as the latter had shown herself worthy. This fall Claflin had had an unusually successful season, having played seven games and won all but the last, that with Larchville. Larchville, who had defeated Brimfield 17 to 3, had also taken the measure of Claflin to the tune of 12 to 6. Brimfield read of it in the Sunday papers and took comfort. After all, Claflin was not unbeatable it seemed. Her defeat by Larchville, coupled with Brimfield's overwhelming victory over Southby, lent next Sat.u.r.day's game a roseate glow, viewed from a Brimfield view-point. In fact, by Monday Brimfield was almost confident of at last winning from the Blue, and the question of a proper celebration of the victory was up for discussion. Of course it should be a whopping big bonfire, with a parade and speeches and singing and plenty of music! But Brimfield had never yet celebrated such a stupendous event and consequently there were no precedents to guide them. Neither was it known what att.i.tude faculty would take in regard to such an affair. But a few choice spirits in the upper forms made tentative arrangements to the extent of picking out a likely spot in a corner of the athletic field for the fire and locating such loose material as might come in handy as fuel.

Monday's practice was short and easy. Even the second had an off-day.

The 'varsity players were given a blackboard lecture in the meeting-room in the gymnasium after supper and were put through an examination on plays and signals. On Tuesday the practice was as stiff as ever. Coach Robey was not altogether satisfied with the defence, and there were forty-five minutes of the hardest sort of scrimmage in which the second was given the ball at various distances from the 'varsity goal and told to put it over. The field was closed to spectators that day and it was hard hammer-and-tongs football all the way. "Boots" drove the second with whip and spurs and the second responded n.o.bly. But the best it could do was to drop a field-goal over the bar in the third period of the scrimmage, after having been held a half-dozen times by a desperate adversary. Steve played about as well that afternoon as he had ever played in his life. For once he had no worries on his mind. To be sure, there was still his falling-out with Tom and his quarrel with the school at large, but those things seemed rather to lend him a new strength than to bother him. He played with a dash and a reckless disregard for life and limb that made Coach Robey observe him with a new interest. Tom performed with his customary steadiness and more than once put it over on Fowler and on Churchill, who subst.i.tuted him. They were some three dozen very tired youths who finally straggled back to the gymnasium when the work was over.

On Wednesday the last real practice of the season was to be held, since the Thursday performance was more in the nature of an exhibition for the school than real work, and on Friday afternoon the team was to journey over to Oakdale, on the Sound, and remain there until Sat.u.r.day forenoon.

But the weather proved unkind on Wednesday. In the middle of the forenoon the wind veered around to the south and a drizzle of rain set in. By three o'clock the drizzle had grown into a very respectable downpour and the gridiron was slow and slippery. But Mr. Robey was not to be deterred and, with Danny Moore anxiously hovering about like a hen with a batch of ducklings, the 'varsity was put through a half-hour of signal work, punting and catching. Then the second, wet and muddy, came across to the first team gridiron and the two elevens leaped at each other again. Danny followed close behind, cautioning and scolding, and more than one player was dragged out of the melee and sent off to the gym in spite of the coach's pleas and protestations.

"I'll not have them hurted," reiterated Danny stubbornly. "'Tis no sort of a day for hard work, Coach. I've got 'em through this far an' I'll not be havin' them breakin' their legs an' arms for the sake of a bit of practice, sir."

"Hang their arms and their legs!" fumed Mr. Robey. "They might as well not have any as start the game Sat.u.r.day half-baked! Give me a chance, Danny!"

"'Tis takin' big chances, sir, playin' 'em on this sort of a field."

"Then we'll take chances!" growled the coach. "Now get in there, first, and rip it up! Show what you can do! You've got six to go on third down; put it over! Wait a minute! Thursby! Get in there for Innes and hold that centre of the line steady."

"Trot all the way in, my boy, and get a good rubbin'," directed Danny to the discomforted Innes. "Hi! Put your blanket on! Are you crazy?"

"Play lower there, Hall! Throw them back, second!" entreated "Boots."

"Don't let them have an inch!"

Then the first piled through Brownell for three yards, slipping in the mud, panting, grunting to the accompaniment of thudding feet and the _swish_ of wet canvas. Above the players a cloud of steam hovered as they disentangled themselves. Danny darted into the confusion. Benson was on his back, thrashing his arms.

"Water!" bawled Danny.

A helper raced on with a slopping pail. Danny's fingers went exploring.

"Ankle," groaned Benson, and Danny shot a triumphantly accusing look at Coach Robey. In a minute Benson was being helped off and the game was on again, but Mr. Robey showed a distinct aversion to meeting the trainer's glance. Later, in the gymnasium, it was known that Benson had hurt the bad ankle again and would not be able to play the game through on Sat.u.r.day, even if he was allowed to get into it at all. Coach Robey accepted the tidings with a shrug and a scowl.

"Fine!" he said sarcastically. "Claflin's left end is the best player they've got. Roberts will stand a fine chance against him! Look here, Danny, I thought you said Benson's ankle was all right?"

"So I did! And so it was all right!" sputtered Danny. "But I didn't say he could go out an' play on a field like that to-day, did I?"

"All right. It can't be helped now. Where's Captain Miller?"

Danny bent his head backward toward the rubbing room. "In there," he answered shortly.

"Heard about Benson?" asked the coach.

Andy, looking a trifle pale and tired, nodded silently as the rubber kneaded his back. Mr. Robey frowned a moment.