Arrival of Jimpson, and Other Stories for Boys about Boys

by Ralph Henry Barbour

  "NO HOLDING"

  The captain, the head coach and the trainer of the Hillton Academyfootball team sat about the table in the head coach's room. It was theevening of November 27th, and on the morrow, Thanksgiving day, thewearers of the crimson were to meet on the gridiron their old-timerivals of St. Eustace Academy, in the final and most important contestof the year.

  The drop-light illumined three thoughtful faces. Bob Syddington,captain, a broad-shouldered and fine-looking lad of eighteen, tracedfigures on the green-leather table-covering and scowled intently.Gardiner, the head coach, a man of thirty, wrote on a sheet ofpaper with a scratching pen. The trainer and the school's physicaldirector, Mr. Beck, leaned back in his chair, his eyes from behindthe gold-rimmed glasses fixed speculatively upon Syddington. Gardinerlooked up.

  "Cantrell at left half, of course?"

  Syddington nodded.

  "He won't last the game," said the trainer, "but he's good for thefirst half."

  The coach's pen scratched again. Syddington scowled more darkly and hishand trembled a little over the leather.

  "How about right half?" Gardiner glanced fleetingly at the captain andthen, questioningly, at the trainer. The latter spoke after a moment:

  "Well, Lane's first choice, isn't he?"

  "To my mind, yes," answered Gardiner, "but Syddington thinks Servisshould start the game; that while he's not so brilliant as Lane, he'smore steady. I don't share Syddington's distrust of Lane, but if hethinks he's going to feel that he has better support behind him, I'mwilling to hold Lane out until he's needed."

  "Then there's Lane's knee," said Syddington, without looking up.

  "The knee's all right," said Beck, decisively. "Physically Lane's in asgood shape as he was before the injury."

  "Ye-es, but Servis has never been hurt," answered Syddington. "Seems tome that makes him less liable to injury now."

  His face was pale and there were little stubborn creases about themouth. The trainer opened his lips as if to reply, but closed themagain. Gardiner examined his pen and waited. Restraint was in the air.

  "I think we'd better start with Servis," said Syddington, after amoment. He heaved a sigh of relief and shot a glance at Beck.

  The latter's face wore an expression of disappointment, whichdisappeared under the lad's scrutiny, but which, nevertheless, causedSyddington to transfer his gaze to the table and sent a flush to hischeeks.

  Gardiner wrote for a moment. "That leaves only full-back, and Hale'sour man there. And that finishes the line-up. I'll read it over."

  Then he and Beck discussed once more the plan of the battle.

  Bob Syddington heard nothing. He was fighting a battle of his own,and his thoughts were far from pleasant. To do a dishonorable actknowingly, deliberately, is in itself disagreeable enough to a boy whohas all his life hated mean actions. But to know that two persons inwhose eyes one particularly wants to appear clean and honorable areaware of the act adds greater bitterness.

  Syddington entertained no illusions. He knew that when he had causedServis's name to be placed in the line-up instead of Lane's he had donea dishonorable thing. And he knew that both the head coach and thetrainer were equally aware of the fact, and that he had fallen far intheir estimation; that henceforth they must hold him, at the best, inpitying contempt. A monstrous price, he told himself bitterly, to payfor next year's captaincy!

  And he was not only injuring himself, but by deposing Lane he wasplacing in jeopardy the team's success in the "big game." There wasnever a doubt but that Lane was the man for the position of righthalf-back. Without exception he was the most brilliant player atHillton. He had won the game with Shrewsburg by a sixty-yard run for atouch-down. More than once in minor games he had brought the spectatorsto their feet by his daring running or hurdling. It was almost acertainty that if he went into the St. Eustace game he would do justwhat the school expected, and by brilliant playing become the hero ofthe year. And there lay the rub.

  Only the day before, Carter, the right tackle, had warned him: "Ifthere was an election now, Bob, we'd make you captain again by amajority of one or two. But if Lane goes in and does his usualspectacular stunt, he'll be the next captain as sure as fate. Takemy advice and keep him out somehow. You've got Servis and Jackson,and--well, don't be an ass!" And Syddington had shaken his head andanswered righteously, "I can't do that, Tom."

  And now he had done it!

  He clenched his hands under the table and hated himself with anintensity that hurt. Gardiner and the trainer talked on. The clock onthe mantel ticked monotonously.

  It was not as if Lane would make a poor captain. On the contrary,Syddington knew that he would prove a good one. That the captain didnot altogether like him, Lane knew. He had said a few days before--ithad never been meant for Syddington's ears, but nevertheless hadreached them--"I'll never get into the St. Eustace game untilevery other back is in the hospital. Syddington's no fool!" And nowSyddington hated Lane more than ever because he had rightly judged himcapable of dishonesty.

  And Lane would know, and Gardiner and Beck and Carter; and the fellowswould suspect. But--and that was the worst of all--he himself couldnever forget. The clock struck the half-hour, and Gardiner looked up.

  "Half after nine! This won't do. We must get to bed. Don't bother aboutto-morrow, Syddington. Get your mind off the game and go to sleep.It'll be all right."

  Syddington rose and took up his overcoat. After he had struggled slowlyinto it he faced the others as if about to speak, but instead walked tothe door in silence.

  "Good night!" said Gardiner.

  "Good night, Syddington!" echoed Beck.

  The boy thought he could already detect a different tone in theirvoices, a foretaste of that contempt with which in future they were toconsider him.

  "Good night; good night, sir!" he answered, miserably. Then, with thedoor opening under his hand, he turned, his face pale but resolute,with something that was almost a smile playing at the corners of hismouth.

  "Mr. Gardiner, I wish you'd change that line-up, please."

  "Of course, if there's anything----"

  "I'd like Lane to go in at right half instead of Servis. Thank you,sir. Good night!"

  When the door had closed coach and trainer faced each other smilingly.

  "I didn't think he could do it," said Beck.

  "Nor did I," answered Gardiner. "And he didn't."

  * * * * *

  The autumn sunlight had disappeared slowly from the field of battle,and the first shadows of evening grew and deepened along the fences.The second half of the game was well-nigh over, and the score-boardtold the story thus:

  Hillton 6 Opponents 8 Hillton's Ball 3 Down 4 Yds to Gain 7 Minutes to Play

  Over on the Hillton sections of the stand the cheering was hoarse andincessant, and crimson banners waved ceaselessly. It has ever beenHillton's way to shout loudest under the shadow of defeat.

  Hillton's one score had been secured in the first three minutes ofplay. Quick, steady tackle-back plunges had carried the ball from thecenter of the gridiron to St. Eustace's six-yard line before the latterteam had awakened to its danger. From there Cantrell had skirted theBlue's right end and Hale, the Hillton full-back, had kicked an easygoal.

  But St. Eustace had pulled herself together, and from that time on hadthings her own way, forcing her rival to abandon offense and use everyeffort to protect her constantly threatened goal. Yet it was not untilthe half was almost over that St. Eustace finally managed to score,pushing her full-back through for a touch-down and afterward kickinggoal.

  The second half had started with honors even, but on his five-yardline Hale had failed miserably at a kick, and had been borne backfor a safety. And now, with but seven minutes left, with the ball onHillton's fifty-yard line and four yards to gain on the third down,the Crimson was fighting valiantly against defeat.

  Syddington, pale and panting, measured the distance to the St. Eustaceg
oal with his eyes and groaned. If only Lane or Sanford, who had takenCantrell's place, could be got away round an end! If only they couldget within kicking distance of that cross-bar! If----

  "34--29--96--12!"

  Lane was hurdling the line at right guard. Syddington dashed into the_melee_, shoving, shouting hoarsely. The blue line gave and Lane fellthrough, squirming, kicking. The Hillton stand went wild with joy. Thescore-board proclaimed first down.

  "Get up! Get up!" called Syddington, a sudden note of hope in hisstrained voice. "That's the stuff! We can do it again! Hard, fellows,hard!"

  Aching, dizzy, but happy, nevertheless, red-faced and perspiring, CarlLane dropped the ball and trotted back to his position.

  "Signal!" cried Colton. "27--34--"

  Lane crept, crouching, back of Sanford.

  "--87--5!"

  He dashed forward in the wake of the other half, the ball thumpedagainst his stomach, was clasped firmly, and the next instant he washigh in air. Arms thrust him back, others shoved him forward. For aninstant the result was doubtful; then the St. Eustace players gave, thestraining group went back, slowly at first, then faster. Lane, kickingfriend and foe impartially in his efforts to thrust himself forward,felt himself falling head foremost. Some one's elbow crashed againsthis temple, and for a moment all was dark.

  When he came to, his face was dripping from the sponge and his headached as if it would burst; but the score-board once more proclaimedfirst down, and the crimson-decked section of the grand stand had gonesuddenly crazy. His name floated across to him at the end of a mightyvolume of cheers.

  He picked himself up, shook himself like a dog emerging from water,grinned cheerfully at Carter, and sped back of the line. Syddington,his blue eyes sparkling with newborn hope, thumped him on the shoulderas he passed.

  They were past the middle of the field now, and once more Lanestruck the blue-stockinged right guard for a gain. St. Eustace wasyielding. Hillton was again on the offensive. From the fifty yards tothe thirty-two went the conquering Crimson, Lane, Sanford and Halehurdling, plunging, squirming between tackle and tackle. St. Eustace'scenter trio were weak, battered, almost helpless.

  Syddington gazed longingly at the farthest white line, now well inview. If only Lane could skirt the end! There was no longer any thoughtof rivalry in his heart. If Lane could make a touch-down and save themfrom defeat, he might have the captaincy and welcome.

  The St. Eustace quarter called for time. The battered center andright guard were taken out and their places filled with new men. Thetimekeeper approached, watch in hand.

  "Two minutes more," he announced.

  Syddington's heart sank; the panting players reeled before his eyes,and he grasped Carter's shoulder to steady himself. Only two minutes!And success almost within grasp! He turned swiftly to Colton.

  "Two minutes, Dan! Did you hear? There isn't time to work it down. Trythe ends; give it to Lane! We've got to score, Dan!" He thumped hisclenched hands against his padded thighs and stared miserably abouthim. Colton patted him on the back.

  "Cheer up, Bob," he whispered--his voice was now such that he couldonly whisper or shout--"cheer up! We'll make it. Two minutes is timeenough to win in!" The whistle sounded again.

  "Right tackle--back!" cried the quarter. Carter dropped out of the line.

  "Signal! 16--34--58--5!"

  A tandem play on left guard netted two yards; the new center was a goodman. Syddington's heart was leaping into his throat and thumping backagain painfully. He clenched his hands, watched his man with everynerve and muscle tense, and awaited the next signal. Would it nevercome? What was the matter with Colton? Did he not know he was losing----

  "Sig--" began the quarter; then his voice gave out in a husky whisper."Signal!" he repeated, hoarsely.

  "Block hard!" shouted Syddington.

  "Watch out for fake!" shrieked the St. Eustace captain.

  "44--22----"

  The Blue's right half ran back to join the quarter up the field.Hale, the Crimson's full-back, stood with outstretched hands on thethirty-six-yard line, with Lane and Sanford guarding him. Syddingtonswung his arms and crouched as if on edge to get down under the punt,yet out of the corners of his eyes he was watching the St. Eustace lefttackle as a cat watches a mouse.

  "44--22--11--6!" gasped Colton.

  Center passed the ball back straight and clean to Hale, and the lattersped it on at a short side pass to Lane, who had dropped back; Sanforddashed at the right end of the line, and Lane, the pigskin huggedclose and his right arm rigid before him, fell in behind. Sanford sentthe St. Eustace end reeling backward, and Syddington put the Blue'sfull-back out of the play and went crashing to the ground with him.Sanford and Lane swept through outside of tackle and sped toward thegoal.

  Crimson banners waved and danced. The game was lost or won in thenext few seconds. Victory for Hillton, defeat for her rival, lay inthe crossing of those eight trampled white lines by the lad who, withstraining limbs and heaving chest, sped on behind his interference.

  Sanford, lithe and fleet, held a straight course for the right-handgoal-post. Ahead, with staring eyes and desperate faces, the St.Eustace quarter and right half advanced menacingly. Behind, poundingfootsteps told of stern pursuit.

  Then the quarter-back was upon them, face pale and set, armsoutstretched, and Lane swung to the right. Sanford's shoulder metthe foe, and the two went to earth together, Sanford on top. He wasup again in the instant, and, unharmed, once more running fleetly.But Lane was ahead now, and before him, near the ten-yard line, theblue-clad half-back was waiting. The man ahead stood for defeat, forLane doubted his ability to get round him. Even running was agony,and dodging seemed out of the question. But just as hope deserted himSanford came into sight beside him.

  "Faster!" he panted. "To the right."

  Lane had no time to make his lagging limbs obey ere Sanford and the foewere piled together at his feet. He plunged blindly over the writhingheap, stumbled, fell on one knee, staggered up again, saw the yellowishturf rising and sinking before him, felt his knees doubling up beneathhim, fell, rolled over twice, crawled and wriggled on knees and elbowsfrom force of habit, and then closed his eyes, laid his head on his armand was supremely content.

  Syddington sped down the field with the roar of three thousand voicesin his ears, and a great, almost sickening happiness at his heart.

  Hillton had won!

  For the moment thought refused to go beyond that wonderful fact. Histeam, the boys whom he had threatened, coaxed, driven, struggled withfor months, had beaten St. Eustace!

  He thrust his way through the little group and dropped to his knees.Lane opened his eyes and for an instant stared blankly into his face.Then recollection returned and he raised his head. Above him rose thegoal-posts. He grinned happily.

  "Over, eh, Syddington?" he asked, weakly.

  "Yes, Lane, over. Are you all right?"

  "Yes; a bit tuckered, that's all. Let me up, please."

  They helped him to his feet, and he stretched his aching musclescautiously. Beck handed him his head harness, and he turned and limpedoff. The cheering, which had almost subsided for want of breath, tookon new vigor, and he went up the field to the wild refrain of "Lane!Lane! Lane!"

  Hale kicked goal and the teams lined up for the kick-off once more.But when the ball had fallen into the arms of the Hillton left end thewhistle shrilled and the battle was at an end. The score-board said:

  Hillton 12. Opponents 8.

  The crowds were over the ropes on the instant, and while the weariedcrimson players were hoarsely cheering their defeated rivals, theywere seized and borne off to where the band was playing Hilltonians.Then the procession round the field began. And when it had formed,Carl Lane, left half-back, borne upon the shoulders of four stalwart,shrieking friends, was at the head. And Syddington, almost at the endof the line of swaying heroes, saw, and was more than content.

  "They'll make him captain the day after to-morrow," he said to himself,"and I'm gla
d--glad!"

  And with the band playing as it had not played for two years, withevery voice raised in song, Hillton marched triumphantly back to thecampus.

  * * * * *

  It was the evening of the day following Hillton's victory. The songsand cheering were over, and the big bonfire was only a mound of ashes.Syddington had lighted a fire in the study grate, for an east wind wassweeping across the Hudson and rattling the casements fiercely.

  It was all over! The boys had broken training, the field was left tothe pranks of the winter winds, canvas jackets and padded trousers wereput away, and the football season was at an end. Well, it had been asuccessful one, and next year----

  His hands dropped and he sat upright, staring blankly before him. Hehad forgotten. Next year meant little to him now. Lane had earned thecaptaincy twice over. If it must go to some one other than himself, hewas glad that Carl Lane was to be that person. He would nominate Lanehimself. He began to fashion a little speech in his mind; and whenhe was in the middle of it, there came a knock at the door and Laneentered. Syddington stared a moment in surprise.

  "How are you, Lane? Glad to see you," he said, finally. "I--I was justthinking about you when you knocked. Sit down, won't you?"

  "Thanks." Lane tossed his cap on the table and drew a chair toward thehearth. "Cold, isn't it?"

  "Yes." Syddington went back to the armchair and wondered what the visitmeant. Lane had not the air of a casual caller; his face was seriousand held a suggestion of embarrassment. There was a moment's silence;then Lane went on in a tone of frank sincerity:

  "Look here, Syddington. The fellows are talking about the captaincy."He was watching Syddington closely. "And I find that I can have everyvote but four."

  "I don't know who the four are," answered Syddington, bravely, "but ifI'm one of them you can count me out. I'm going to vote for you, and ifyou'll let me, I'll put your name up."

  "Thank you. I didn't expect that. I fancied you'd want it yourself."

  "So I do. So does every fellow, I guess. But you've won it, Lane, fairand square, and I don't begrudge it to you. I'll acknowledge that I didat first, but after you won the game----"

  "You mean that you knew before the game that I might get thecaptaincy?" Lane's voice was full of wonder.

  "Yes. Carter told me."

  "And you let me play?"

  "Yes, although--" he faltered--"although I came near not."

  "I see. And I owe you an apology. I didn't think you'd let me on, andI said so. I think it was a mighty plucky thing to do, mighty plucky,Syddington, and--and awfully decent. And now, look here. What I camehere to say was just this." He rose and took his cap from the table. "Ican have the captaincy to-morrow, perhaps, but of course I'm not goingto accept it."

  "Not going to--to----"

  "Would you take it if you were in my place? If I had given you thechance to win the big game, knowing that if you did you'd get thecaptaincy; if you knew I'd set my heart on keeping it; if I'd slavedall fall to turn out the finest team Hillton's had in years; if--if----"

  "But that has nothing to do with it," faltered the other.

  "Yes, it has everything to do with it," said Lane, earnestly. "It's amatter of fair play--and no holding. If I took that captaincy afterwhat you've done I'd detest myself."

  "But--but it doesn't seem right."

  "It is, though. You're a captain from head to heels, and I'm not.And--I guess that's all." He moved toward the door. Syddingtonfollowed with pale face.

  "I--I don't know how I can thank you, Lane, honestly! If you changeyour mind----"

  "I sha'n't. And as for thanks--I think we're quits. Good night!"

  "Good night!" replied Syddington. "I--" he faltered and the colorflooded into his cheeks--"I--I want to shake hands with you, Lane."