CHAPTER V
A CLASH
Ragged work, necessarily, marked the opening of the practice. The ballwas dropped, fumbled, fallen upon, lost, regained, tossed and kicked.But it all served a purpose, and the coach and captain, with keen eyes,watched the different candidates. Now and then they gave a word ofadvice, cautioning some player about wrong movements, or suggesting adifferent method.
Phil had been put in as quarter-back on one scrub team, and Tom, asleft-end, on the same. Phil found his opponent on the opposing eleven tobe none other than Langridge's friend, Gerhart. It did not need much ofan eye to see that Gerhart did not know the game. He would have donewell enough on a small eleven, but he had neither the ability nor thestrength to last through a college contest.
Several times, when it was his rival's turn to pass back the ball, Philsaw the inefficient work of Gerhart, but he said nothing. He felt thathe was sure of his place on the 'varsity eleven, yet he called to mindhow Langridge had used his influence to keep Tom Parsons from pitchingin the spring.
There was no denying that Langridge had influence with the sportingcrowd, and it was possible that he might exert it in favor of his newchum and against Phil. But there was one comfort: Langridge was not asprominent in sports as he had been during the spring term, when he wasmanager of the baseball team. He had lost that position because of hisfailure to train and play properly, and, too, his uncle, who was hisguardian, had insisted that he pay more attention to studies.
"After all, I don't believe I have much to fear from him," thought Phil.Then came a scrimmage, and he threw himself into the mass play toprevent the opposing eleven from gaining.
The practice lasted half an hour, and at the close Coach Lighton andCaptain Cross walked off the field, talking earnestly.
"I wish I knew what they were saying," spoke Phil, as he and Tomstrolled toward the dressing-room.
"Oh, they're saying you're the best ever, Phil."
"Nonsense! They're probably discussing how they can induce you to play."
"Well, how goes it?" called a voice, and they looked back to seeBricktop Molloy. He was perspiring freely from the hard practice he hadbeen through at tackle.
"Fine!" cried Tom. "We were just wondering if we would make the'varsity."
"Sure you will," answered the genial Irish student, who was nothing ifnot encouraging. Perhaps it was because he was sure himself of playingon the first team that he was so confident.
"What did you think of Gerhart at quarter?" asked Tom, for the benefitof his chum.
"I didn't notice him much," answered Bricktop, as he ruffled his redhair. "Seemed to me to be a bit sloppy, though; and that won't do."
Phil did not say anything, but he looked relieved.
"Too bad you're not going to play, Sid, old chap," remarked Tom in theroom that night, when the three chums were together. "You don't knowwhat you miss."
"Oh, yes, I do," was the answer, and Sid looked up from the depths ofthe chair, closing his Greek book. "The day has gone by when I want tohave twenty-one husky lads trying to shove my backbone through mystomach. I don't mind baseball, but I draw the line at posing as acandidate for a broken neck or a dislocated shoulder. Not any in mine,thank you."
"You're a namby-pamby milksop!" exclaimed Phil with a laugh and a pat onthe back, that took all the sting from the words. "Worse than that,you're a----"
"Well, I don't stick girls' pictures, and banners worked in silk by theaforesaid damsels, all over the room," and Sid looked with disapprovalon an emblem which Tom had placed on the wall that day. It was a silkflag of Randall colors, which Madge Tyler had given to him.
"You're a misguided, crusty, hard-shelled troglodytic specimen of amisogynist!" exclaimed Tom.
"Thanks, fair sir, for the compliment," and Sid arose to bowelaborately.
Phil and Tom talked football until Sid begged them to cease, as hewanted to study, and, though it was hard work, they managed to do so.Soon they were poring over their books, and all that was heard in theroom was the occasional rattle of paper, mingling with the ticking ofthe clock.
"Well, I'm done for to-night," announced Sid, after an hour's silence."I'm going to get up early and bone away. Hand me that alarm clock, Tom,and I'll set it for five."
"Don't!" begged Phil.
"Why not?"
"Because if you do it will go off about one o'clock in the morning. Setit at eleven, and by the law of averages it ought to go off at five. Tryit and see. I never saw such a clock as that. It's a most perversespecimen."
Phil's prediction proved, on trial, to be correct, so Sid set the clockat eleven, and went to bed, where, a little later, Tom and Philfollowed.
There was more football practice the next afternoon, and also thefollowing day. Tom was doing better than he expected, but his speed wasnot yet equal to the work that would be required of him.
"We need quick ends," said the coach in talking to the candidates duringa lull in practice. "You ends must get down the field like lightning onkicks, and we're going to do a good deal of kicking this year."
Tom felt that he would have to spend some extra time running, both onthe gymnasium track and across country. His wind needed a littleattention, and he was not a lad to favor himself. He wanted to be thebest end on the team. He spoke to the coach about it, and was advised torun every chance he got.
"If you do, I can practically promise you a place on the eleven," saidMr. Lighton.
"Who's going to be quarter-back?" Tom could not help asking.
"I don't know," was the frank answer. "A few days ago I would have saidPhil Clinton; but Gerhart, the new man, has been doing some excellentwork recently. I'll be able to tell in a few days."
Somehow Tom felt a little apprehensive for Phil. He fancied he could seethe hand of Langridge at work in favor of his freshman chum.
The matter was unexpectedly settled a few days later. There were twoscrub teams lined up, Tom and Phil being on one, and Gerhart playing atquarter on the other. There had been some sharp practice, and a halt wascalled while the coach gave the men some instructions. As a signal wasabout to be given Phil went over to the coach, and, in a spirit of theutmost fairness, complained that the opposing center was continuallyoffending in the matter of playing off side. Phil suggested that Mr.Lighton warn him quietly.
The coach nodded comprehendingly, and started to speak a word ofcaution. As he passed over to the opposing side, he saw Gerhart stoopingto receive the ball.
"Gerhart," he said, "I think you would improve if you would hold yourarms a little closer to your body. Then the ball will come in contactwith your hands and body at the same time, and there is less chance fora fumble. Here, I'll show you."
Now, when Mr. Lighton started he had no idea whatever of speaking toGerhart. It was the center he had in mind, but he never missed a chanceto coach a player. He came quite close to the quarter-back, and wasindicating the position he meant him to assume, when the coach suddenlystarted back.
"Gerhart, you've been smoking!" he exclaimed, and he sniffed the airsuspiciously.
"I have not!" was the indignant answer.
"Don't deny it," was the retort of the coach. "I know the smell ofcigarettes too well. You may go to the side lines. Shipman, you come inat quarter," and he motioned to another player.
"Mr. Lighton," began Gerhart, "I promise----"
"It's too late to promise now," was the answer the coach made. "At thebeginning of practice I warned you all that if you broke training rulesyou couldn't play. If you do it now, what will you do later on?"
"I assure you, I--er--I only took a few----"
"Shipman," was all Mr. Lighton said, and then he spoke to the center.
Gerhart withdrew from the practice, and walked slowly from the gridiron.As he left the field he cast a black look at Phil, who, all unconsciousof it, was waiting for the play to be resumed. But Tom saw it.
Fifteen minutes more marked the close of work for the day. As Tom andPhil were hurrying to the dressing-rooms, they w
ere met by Langridge andGerhart. The latter still had his football togs on.
"Clinton, why did you tell Lighton I had been smoking?" asked Gerhart insharp tones.
"Tell him you had been smoking? Why, I didn't know you had been."
"Yes, you did. I saw you whispering to him, and then he came over andcalled me down."
"You're mistaken."
"I am not! I saw you!"
Phil recollected that he had whispered to the coach. But he could not,in decency, tell what it was about.
"I never mentioned your name to the coach," he said. "Nor did I speak ofsmoking."
"I know better!" snapped Gerhart. "I saw you."
"I can only repeat that I did not."
"I say you did! You're a----"
Phil's face reddened. This insult, and from a freshman, was more than hecould bear. He sprang at Gerhart with clenched fists, and would haveknocked him down, only Tom clasped his friend's arm.
"Not here! Not here!" he pleaded. "You can't fight here, Phil!"
"Somewhere else, then!" exclaimed Phil. "He shan't insult me like that!"
"Of course not," spoke Tom soothingly, for he, too, resented the wordsand manner of the freshman. "Langridge, I'll see you about this laterif you're agreeable," he added significantly, "and will act for yourfriend."
"Of course," said Tom's former rival easily. "I guess my friend iswilling," and then the two cronies strolled off.
A Quarter-Back's Pluck: A Story of College Football Page 5
