Left Guard Gilbert

by Ralph Henry Barbour

  CHAPTER X

  TIM EXULTS AND EXPLAINS

  WHEN Don told Tim the latter insisted on performing a triumphal danceabout the room to the tune of "Boola." When Don squirmed himself looseTim continued alone until the droplight was knocked to the floor at thecost of one green shade. Then he threw himself, panting but jubilant, onhis bed and hilariously kicked his feet in air. Don observed him with afaint smile.

  "You wooden Indian, you!" exclaimed Tim, sitting up and dropping hisfeet to the floor with a crash. "There you stand like a--a graven image,looking as though you'd just received an invitation to a funeral! Cheer,you idiot! Make a noise! Aren't you tickled to death?"

  "You bet I am!" replied Don.

  "Well, do something, then! You ought to have a little of my Latintemperament, Don. You'd be a heap easier to live with. If it was I whohad just been waited on humbly by the first team captain and invited tojoin the eleven I'd--I'd make a--a noise!"

  "What do you think you've been doing?" laughed Don. "You'll have Horacein here in a minute. Steve says you're to coach me on the signals."

  "Tomorrow!" Tim waved his hand. "Time enough for that, Don. Just now itbehooves us to celebrate."

  "How?" asked Don.

  Tim thought long and earnestly. Finally, "Let's borrow Larry Jones'saccordion and serenade Josh!" he said.

  "Let's not. And let's not go to a fire, either! Think of somethingbetter, Timmy."

  "Then we'll go out and bay at the moon. I've got to do something! By thetime Joe's got his busted rib mended you'll have that left guardposition nailed to the planks, Don."

  "How about Walton?" asked Don dubiously.

  "A fig for Walton! Two figs for him! A whole box of figs! All you've gotto do is speed up a bit and----"

  "Suppose I can't?"

  "Suppose nothing! You've _got_ to! If you don't you'll have me to fight,Donald. If you don't cinch that position in just one week I--I'll takeyou over my knee and spank you with a belt! Come on over to Clint'sroom. Let us disseminate the glorious tidings. Let us----"

  "I'd rather learn the signals," said Don. "There's only tonight andtomorrow, you know."

  Tim appealed despairingly to the ceiling with wide-spread hands."There's no poetry in his soul," he mourned, "no blood in his veins!" Hefaced Don scornfully. "Donald P. Gilbert is your name, my son, and the Pstands for Practical. All right, then, draw up a chair and let's have itover. To think, though, that I should have to sit indoors a night likethis and teach signals to a wooden-head! I wooden do it for anyone else.Ha! How's that! Get a pad and a pencil and try to look intelligent."

  "All right? Mark 'em down, then. Starting at the left, number your holes1, 3, 5, 7, 8, 6, 4, 2. Got that? Number your left end 1, the next man3, the next 5. Omit centre. Right guard 6, right tackle 4, right end 2.Now, your backfield. Quarter 0, left half 7, right half 8, full-back 9."

  "Gee, that's hard to remember," murmured Don.

  "And hard to guess," answered Tim. "Now, your first number, unless it'sunder thirty, is a fake. If it's under thirty it means that the nextnumber is the number of a play. Over thirty, it means nothing. Yoursecond digit of your second number is your runner. The second digit ofthe third number is the hole. The fourth number, as you doubtlesssurmise, is also a fake. Now, then, sir! 65--47--23--98! What is it?"

  "Left half between end and tackle."

  "On the left. Correct. 19--87--77--29?"

  "I don't know. Nineteen calls for a numbered play."

  "Right again, Mr. Gilbert, your performance is startling! The pity of itis, though, that about the time you get these signals pat Robey'llchange them for the Claflin game. So far we've only got eight numberedplays, and they aren't complicated. Want to go into them tonight?"

  "No, I guess not. I'd rather get these holes and players sort of fixedin my mind first. We'll go over the plays tomorrow, if you don't mind."

  "It will break my heart, but I'll do it for you. Now will you come overto Clint's?"

  "I'd rather not, Tim. You go. I want to mull over these signals."

  Presently, having exhausted his vocabulary on his room-mate, Tim went.Don settled his head in his hands and studied the numbered diagram forthe better part of an hour. Don was slow at memorising, but what wasonce forced into his mind stayed there. A little before ten o'clock heslipped the diagram under a box in a bureau drawer and went to bed witha calm mind, and when Tim returned riotously a few minutes later Don wassleeping peacefully.

  On Monday, in chapel, Don and the "heroes" of Farmer Corrigan'sconflagration had another shock, and Don, for one, wondered when he wasto hear the last of that affair. "Since last week," said Mr. Fernalddrily, "when I requested the four boys who helped to put out a fire atthe Corrigan farm to make themselves known to an admiring public, I havegained an understanding of their evident desire to conceal theiridentities. I am forced to the conclusion that it was not altogethermodesty that kept them silent. The fire, it appears, did not break outuntil nearly half-past nine. Consequently the young gentlemen wereengaged in their heroic endeavours at a time when they should have beenin their dormitories. I have not yet found out who they were, but I ammaking earnest efforts to do so. Meanwhile, if they wish to lighten theconsequences of their breach of school regulations, I'd earnestly advisethem to call and see me. I may add that, in view of the unusualcircumstances, had they made a clean breast of the affair I should havedealt very leniently with them. That is all, I think. Dismissed."

  None of the culprits dared to so much as glance at the others on the wayout of the hall, but afterward, when breakfast was over, they gatheredanxiously together in Number 6 Billings and discussed the latestdevelopment with lowered voices, like a quartette of anarchistsarranging a bomb party.

  "He's right up on his ear," said Clint gloomily. "If he gets us now hewill send us all packing, and don't you doubt it!"

  "Piffle!" This from Tim, the least impressed of the four. "Probation isall we'd get. Didn't the paper say we were heroes?"

  "No, it didn't," answered Tom shortly. "And I wish that paper was inHalifax!"

  "Might as well be fired as put on pro," said Clint. "It would mean nomore football this year for any of us. My word, wouldn't Robey be mad!"

  "Wouldn't I be!" growled Tom. "Look here, do you really suppose he'strying to find out who we were, or was that just a bluff to scare usinto 'fessing up!"

  "Josh isn't much of a bluffer," observed Don judiciously. "What he sayshe means. What I don't savvy is why he hasn't found out already. Everyhall master has a record of leaves."

  "Yes, but it was Saturday night and I'll bet half the school had leave,"said Tim. "I dare say, though, that if any fellows are suspected we'reamongst 'em, Don. Being on the first floor, Josh knows we could sneak ineasily. Still, he can't prove it on us."

  "I'm not so sure," replied Don thoughtfully. "Suppose he asked Mr.Brady?"

  A dismayed silence ensued until Tom laughed mirthlessly.

  "That's one on us," he said. "We never thought of that. Maybe he hasasked Brady already."

  "Brady doesn't know our names," said Tim. "You didn't tell him, did you,Don?"

  "No, he didn't ask. But he could easily describe us so that Josh wouldrecognise us, I guess."

  "That's the trouble with being so plaguy distinguished looking," mournedTim. "Seems to me, fellows, that there's just one thing to be did, anddid sudden."

  "You mean warn Mr. Brady?" asked Clint.

  "Exactly, my discerning young friend. Maybe the horse is stolen----"

  "What horse?" asked Tom perplexedly.

  "Merely a figure of speech, Tom. I was about to observe when so rudelyinterrupted----"

  "Oh, cut out the verbiage," growled Tom.

  "That possibly it was too late to lock the stable door," continued Tim,"but we'd better do it, just the same. Let's see if he has a telephone."

  "Of course he has," said Clint, "but I don't think it would be safe tocall him up. We'd better see him. Or write him a letter."

  "He wouldn't get a lett
er until tomorrow, maybe," objected Don. "One ofus had better beat it over to his place as soon as possible and ask himto keep mum."

  "I can't go," said Tom. "I've got four recits this morning and Robeywould never let me off practice."

  "I don't believe any of us will do much work this afternoon," said Tim."I'll go if Robey'll let me cut. I wish someone would come along,though. It's a dickens of a trip to make alone. You come, Clint."

  "I will if I can. We'll ask Robey at dinner. What shall we say to thisBrady man?"

  "Just tell him what's doing and ask him to forget what we looked like ifJosh writes to him or calls him up or anything. Brady's a good oldscout, I'll bet," added Tim with conviction. "Maybe we'd better buy asetting of eggs to get on the good side of him."

  "Don't be a chump," begged Tim. "I don't call this a comedy situation,if you do, Tim. I'd certainly hate to get on pro and have to dropfootball!"

  "Don't be a chump," begged Tom. "I don't say it's a comedy, but there'sno use weeping, is there? What's done is done, and we've got to make thebest of it, and a laugh never hurt anyone yet."

  "Well, then, let's make the best of it," answered Tom peevishly."Talking doesn't do any good."

  "Neither does grouching," said Tim sweetly. "You leave it all to Clintand me, Tom. We're a swell pair of fixers. If we can get to Brady beforeJosh does we're all right. And it's a safe wager Josh hasn't asked Bradyyet, for if he had he'd be on to us. There's the nine o'clock bell,fellows, and I've got a recit. See you later. Hope for the best, Tom,and fear the worst!"

  Tim seized his books and dashed out, followed more leisurely by Clint.Tom remained a few minutes longer and then he, too, took his departure,still filled with forebodings. Don, left to himself, drew a chair tothe table and began to study. Truth, however, compels me to state thatwhat he studied was not his German, although he had a recitation comingin forty minutes, but two sheets of buff paper torn from a scratch-padand filled with writing interspersed with numerals and adorned withstrange diagrams, in short, Tim's elucidation of the eight numberedplays which up to the present comprised Brimfield's budget of tricks. Itcan't be said that Don covered himself with glory in Mr. Daley's Germanclass that morning or that the instructor was at all satisfied, but Donhad the secret satisfaction of knowing that stored away in the back ofhis brain was a very thorough knowledge of the Brimfield football signalcode and of Mr. Robey's special plays.