CHAPTER VIII
ON THE TOBOGGAN
"MISFORTUNES never come singly," groaned Tom.
"It never rains but it pours," added Dick gloomily.
"O, cut out the croaking, you fellows," admonished Bert. "Or, if you'redead set on proverbs, remember that 'it's no use crying over spiltmilk.' We're up against it good and plenty, but that's all the morereason to get together and try to kill the 'jinx.'"
There certainly was room for disquietude, if not despair, in the presentcondition of the football team. The "Blues" were in the throes of a"slump." And that misfortune, dreaded like the plague by all coaches andtrainers, had come on them suddenly, like "a bolt from the blue." Fromthe heights of confidence they had fallen to the depths of hopelessness.The superb machine, evolved and developed with infinite pains, nowseemed headed straight for the scrap-heap.
Only the Saturday preceding they had been lined up againstDartmouth--always a fierce proposition--and to the delight of Hendrickshad "run rings around them." They had played with a dash and fire thatmade them seem simply unbeatable. The ball had been in the enemy'sterritory three-fourths of the time and, after the first quarter, it wassimply a question as to the size of the score. When at last the game wasover, they had run up thirty-two points, and the ball had never oncebeen within twenty yards of their own goal. The criticisms on the gamein the Sunday papers had dwelt upon the impregnable defense and slashingattack of the "Blues." On the same Saturday the "Greys" and "Maroons"had also met redoubtable antagonists, and although they won, the scoreswere small and the playing by no means impressive. The general consensuswas that on the form already shown, the "dope" favored the Blues in thegreat games yet to come. While admitting the wonderful work of some ofthe men who had starred in their positions, special stress was laid uponthe smoothness and accuracy of the team work as a whole.
This of course was balm to the coach, all whose efforts had beendirected toward making individual work subordinate to the development ofa coherent system of team play, and he began to see the reward of theuntiring labors that he had given without stint for the six weekspreceding. Reddy went about his work with a complacent smile, and theboys themselves were jubilant at the way they were rounding into form.
Then suddenly the blow fell, to be succeeded by others no lessparalyzing.
"Have you heard the news?" exclaimed Drake, as he burst in upon Bert andDick on Monday evening, as they were preparing their lessons for thefollowing day.
"What is it?" they cried in chorus.
"Axtell and Hodge have been conditioned and forbidden to play until theyget up with the rest of the class," was the answer.
"No," said Bert incredulously.
"Sure thing," affirmed Drake. "I had it straight from the boysthemselves not five minutes ago. They sure are in the doleful dumps."
The three friends looked at each other in a perplexity and anxiety thatthey made no effort to conceal.
"But it will break up the team," cried Dick. "They're two of our verybest men."
"You're right there," gloomed Drake. "There isn't a fiercer tackler thanAxtell on the eleven, and Hodge is the heaviest man in the line. Wehaven't any too much beef at best, and man for man, the 'Greys' averagefive pounds heavier."
"Just when we were getting into such dandy shape, too," groaned Dick.
"Why in thunder didn't they keep up in their work," demanded Drakefiercely. "They must have known they were falling behind, and there'stoo much at stake for them to take any risk."
"There, there," soothed Bert. "Don't you suppose they're feeling worseabout it than any one else?"
Just then there was a knock at the door and Axtell and Hodge themselvesstalked in.
"I see you've heard about it," said Hodge, falling heavily into a chair."I wish you fellows would take me out and kick me around the campus."
"Same here," echoed Axtell despondently. "I'll pay for all the shoeleather you wear out doing it."
"O, brace up, fellows," said Bert cheerily. "Things will come out allright yet. How bad is it anyway?"
"It isn't so bad with Axtell," replied Hodge. "He's only got a conditionin Latin, and he can probably work that off in a week. But I'm stuck onmathematics and Greek both, and I've got about as much chance as asnowfall in June of making them up before the big games."
"I wonder if there's no chance of getting the faculty to let you put offmaking them up until after the games," pondered Bert thoughtfully.
"Such a chance," said Drake sardonically. "That stony-hearted crewhasn't any sporting blood. They'll insist that every t must be crossedand every i dotted before they'll take off the conditions."
"I'm not so sure of that," replied Bert. "There's Benton. He used to bea star at left end, and I don't think he's forgotten how he used to feelabout such things. I can't any more than fail anyway, and I'm going totake a hack at it. You fellows stay right here and I'll run over and seehim."
He found the professor at home, and received a cordial greeting.
"I see you boys trounced Dartmouth last week," he said genially. "I'veseldom seen a better game."
This gave Bert his opening.
"We hope that isn't a circumstance to what we'll do to the 'Greys' and'Maroons,'" he replied. "That is, we did hope so up to this afternoon."
The professor looked at him sharply.
"Why not now?" he asked.
And then Bert told him of the conditions of Hodge and Axtell, and thehope he entertained that some way might be found to make them up afterthe big games instead of before. He spoke with all the earnestness hefelt, and the professor listened sympathetically.
"It's too bad," he assented. "I'm afraid, though, there's no remedy. Therules of the college are like those of the Medes and Persians, not to bebroken, even"--and his eyes twinkled--"for so important a thing as afootball game. Those matters anyway are in the province of the Dean. Youmight see him if you like, but I fear that it is a forlorn hope."
And so it proved. The Dean had a warm corner in his heart for Bert, butin this matter was not to be shaken. The college, he reminded hiscaller, was primarily an institution of learning and not a gymnasium.The conditions would have to be made up before the men could play,although he hinted slyly that the examinations would not be over severe.
And with this one crumb of comfort, Bert was forced to be content. Hebowed himself out and returned to report the non-success of his mission.
"What did I tell you?" said Drake.
"You're a brick anyway, Bert, for trying," acknowledged Axtell, "andperhaps it will make them go a little easier with us when we try againto show them how little we know. And now, old man," addressing Hodge,"it's up to us to make a quick sneak and get busy with those confoundedconditions. Plenty of hard work and a towel dipped in ice water roundour heads, with a pot of hot coffee to keep us awake, will help make upfor our lack of brains. Come along, fellow-boob," and with a grin thatthey tried to make cheerful, the two culprits took their departure.
The next morning the campus was buzzing with the news. It jarred thecollege out of the self-complacency they had begun to feel over theprospects of the team. Many were the imprecations heaped upon the headsof the hard-hearted faculty, and one of the malcontents slipped up tothe cupola without detection and put the college flag at half-mast. Thesmile on Reddy's face was conspicuous by its absence and Hendrickschewed furiously at his cigar instead of smoking it. But when it came tothe daily talk in the training quarters, he was careful not to betrayany despondency. There was enough of that abroad anyway without hisadding to it. Like the thoroughbred he was, he faced the situationcalmly, and sought to repair the breaches made in his ranks.
"Winston will play at right guard until further notice," he announced,"and Morley will take the place of Axtell."
The two members of the scrubs thus named trotted delightedly to theirplaces. For them it was a promotion that they hoped to make permanent.They knew they would have to fight hard to hold the positions if Hodgeand Axtell came back, but they were ben
t on showing that they could filltheir shoes.
But although they worked like Trojans, the machine that afternooncreaked badly. The new men were unfamiliar with many of the signals andmade a mess of some of the plays that the old ones whom they supplantedwould have carried out with ease. This, however, was to be expected, andtime would go a long way toward curing the defects.
The real trouble, however, lay with the other nine. They seemed to beworking as though in a nightmare. An incubus weighed them down. Theirthoughts were with their absent comrades and with the altered prospectsof the team. They played without snap or dash, and the coach ground histeeth as he noted the lifeless playing so strongly in contrast with thatof three days earlier.
Just before the first quarter ended, Ellis, in running down under apunt, came heavily in collision with Farrar, of the scrubs, and theywent to the ground together. Farrar was up in a moment, but Ellis, afterone or two trials, desisted. His comrades ran to him and lifted him tohis feet. But his foot gave way under him, and his lips whitened as hesought to stifle a groan.
"It's that bum ankle of mine," he said, trying to smile. "I'm afraidI've sprained it again."
They carried him into the dressing room and delivered him to Reddy. Hemade a careful examination and, when at last he looked up, there was alook in his eyes that betokened calamity.
"Sprained, is it," he said with a voice that he tried to render calm."It's broken."
"What!" cried Ellis as he realized all this meant to him.
"Are you sure, Reddy?" asked Hendricks, aghast.
"I wish I wasn't," was the answer, "but I've seen too many of them notto know."
To poor Ellis the words sounded like the knell of doom. The pain wasexcruciating, but in the rush of sensations it seemed nothing. The realdisaster lay in the fact that it put him definitely off the footballteam. All his work, all his sacrifice of time and ease, all his hopes ofwinning honor and glory under the colors of the old college had vanishedutterly. Henceforth, he could be only a looker on where he had so fondlyfigured himself as a contender. His face was white as ashes, and thecoach shrank from the look of abject misery in his eyes.
"Come now, old man, buck up," he tried to comfort him. "We'll send forthe best surgeon in New York, and he'll have you on your feet againbefore you know it. You may make the big games yet." But in his heart heknew that it was impossible, and so did all the pale-faced crowd ofplayers who gathered round their injured comrade and carried him withinfinite care and gentleness to his rooms.
The rest of the practice was foregone that afternoon as, under theconditions, it would have been simply a farce, and the players madetheir way moodily off the field, chewing the bitter cud of theirreflections. Sympathy with Ellis and consternation over this new blow totheir prospects filled their minds to the exclusion of everything else.
Bert and Tom and Dick--the "Three Guardsmen," as they had been jokinglycalled, as they were always together--walked slowly toward their rooms.The jaunty swing and elastic step characteristic of them were utterlygone. Their hearts had been bound up in the hope of victory, and nowthat hope was rapidly receding and bade fair to vanish altogether.
Apart from the general loss to the team, each had his own particulargrievance. Tom, as quarterback, saw with dismay the prospect of drillingthe new men in the complicated system of signals, of which there weremore than sixty, each of which had to be grasped with lightningrapidity. The slightest failure might throw the whole team in hopelessconfusion. Dick was ruminating on the loss of Ellis, whose position inthe line had been right at his elbow, and with whom he had learned towork with flawless precision on the defense. And Bert would miss sorelythe swift and powerful cooeperation of Axtell at right half. Those two inthe back field had been an army in themselves.
"The whole team is shot to pieces," groaned Tom.
"The hoodoo is certainly working overtime," muttered Dick.
"It's a raw deal for fair," acquiesced Bert, "but we're far from beingdead ones yet. We haven't got a monopoly of the jinx. Don't think thatthe other fellows won't get theirs before the season's over. Then, too,the new men may show up better than we think. Morley's no slouch, andthere may be championship timber in Winston. Besides, Axtell and Hodgemay be back again in a week or two. It's simply up to every one of us towork like mad and remember that
The fellow worth while is the one who can smile When everything's going dead wrong.
"You're a heavenly optimist, all right," grumbled Tom. "You'd see asilver lining to any little old cloud. You remind me of the fellow thatfell from the top of a skyscraper, shouting as he passed thesecond-story window: 'I'm all right, so far.' We may be 'all right sofar,' but the dull thud's coming and don't you forget it."
And during the days that followed it seemed as though Tom were a truerprophet than Bert. Storm clouds hovered in the sky, and the barometerfell steadily. On Wednesday they were scheduled to play a smallcollege--one of the "tidewater" teams that ordinarily they would haveswallowed at a mouthful. No serious resistance was looked for, and itwas regarded simply as a "practice" game. But the game hadn't beenplayed five minutes before the visitors realized that something waswrong with the "big fellows," and taking heart of hope, the pluckylittle team put up a game that gave the Blues all they wanted to do towin. Win they did, at the very end, but by a margin that set the coachto frothing at the mouth with rage and indignation. After the game theyhad a dressing down that was a gem in its way, and which for luridrhetoric and fierce denunciation left nothing to be desired.
But despite all his efforts, the lethargy persisted. It was not that theboys did not try. They had never tried harder. But a spell seemed tohave fallen upon them. They were like a lion whose spine has beengrazed by a hunter's bullet so that it can barely drag its deadened bodyalong. In vain the coach fumed and stormed, and figuratively beat hisbreast and tore his hair. They winced under the whip, they strained inthe harness, but they couldn't pull the load. And at length "Bull"Hendricks realized that what he had been dreading all season had come.
The team had "slumped."
There are over three hundred thousand words in the English language, andmany of them are full of malignant meaning. Fever, pestilence, battle,blood, murder, death have an awful significance, but in the lexicon ofthe coach and trainer of a college team the most baleful word is"slump."
This plague had struck the Blues and struck them hard. It was a silentpanic, a brooding fear, an inability of mind and muscle to worktogether. There was but one remedy, and "Bull" Hendricks knew it.
The next day a dozen telegrams whizzed over the wires. They went toevery quarter of the continent, from Maine to Texas, from the Lakes tothe Gulf. And the burden of all was the same:
"Team gone to pieces. Drop everything. Come."
If one had looked over the shoulder of the telegraph operator, he wouldhave seen that every address was that of some man who in his time hadbeen famous the country over for his prowess on the gridiron, and who onmany a glorious field had worn the colors of the Blues.
One of them was delivered in the private office of a great businessconcern in Chicago. Mr. Thomas Ames, the president--better known inearlier and less dignified days as "Butch"--turned from the mass ofpapers on his desk and opened it. His eyes lighted up as he read it andsaw the signature. Then the light faded.
"Swell chance," he muttered, "with this big deal on."
He turned reluctantly to his desk. Then he read the telegram again. Thenhe sighed and bit viciously at the end of his cigar.
"Nonsense," he growled. "There's no use being a fool. I simply can't,and that's all there is to it."
He crushed the telegram in his hand and threw it into the waste basket.
Ten minutes later he fished it out. He smoothed out the wrinkles andsmiled as he noted the imperious form of the message. He was moreaccustomed to giving orders than obeying them, and the change had in itsomething piquant.
"Just like 'Bull,'" he grinned. "Arrogant old rascal. Doesn't eve
n askme. Just says 'come.'"
"Off his trolley this time though," he frowned. "Nothing doing."
The pile of letters on his desk remained unanswered. His stenographerwaited silently. He waved her away, and she went out, closing the doorbehind her. He lay back in his chair, toying idly with the telegram.
The memory of the old days at college was strong upon him. A few minutesago, engrossed in the details of a large and exacting business, nothinghad been farther from his thoughts. Now it all came back to him with arush, evoked by that crumpled bit of paper.
Days when the wine of life had filled his cup to the brim, when "theworld lay all before him where to choose," when the blood ran riot inhis veins, when all the future was full of promise and enchantment. Dayswhen laughter lay so near his lips that the merest trifle called itforth, when fun and frolic held high carnival, when his unjaded sensestasted to the full the mere joy of living. Days, too, of earnest effort,of eager ambition, of brilliant achievement, of glowing hope, as heprepared himself to play his part in the great drama of the world'slife. Glorious old days they had been, and although he had had more thanhis share of prosperity and success in the years since then, he knewthat they were the happiest days of his life.
In his reverie his cigar had gone out, and he lighted it againmechanically.
The old place hadn't changed much, he supposed. That was one of itscharms. World-weary men could go back to it and renew the dreams oftheir youth in the same old surroundings. A new dormitory, perhaps,added to the others, a larger building for the library, but, apart fromthese, substantially unchanged. The old gray towers covered with ivy,the green velvet of the campus, the long avenue of stately elms--thesewere the same as ever. He thought of the initials he had carved on thetree nearest the gate, and wondered if the bark had grown over them. Andthe old fence where the boys had gathered in the soft twilight of springevenings and sung the songs that had been handed down through collegegenerations. How the melody from hundreds of voices had swelled out intothe night!
There was the old "owl wagon," where the fellows late at night, comingback from a lark in town, had stopped for a bite before going to bed.There never were such delicious waffles as that fellow turned out. Andthere was Pietro at the chestnut stand, always good natured under theteasing of the boys, and old John, the doughnut man----
O, what was the use? He must get back to those letters.
There was the "sugar eat" in the spring. That usually came in the latterpart of March. The soft wind would come up out of the south, the snowwould begin to vanish and the sap stir in the trees. That was the signalfor the "Hike." A scouting party would be sent out to make arrangementsat some sugar camp five or six miles away. Then the next morning thefellows would "cut" recitations, and the startled professors would findtheir rooms deserted, while the hilarious culprits were footing it outto the camp. The farmer's wife, forewarned in advance, would have thelong rough tables under the trees prepared for the hungry crew. Out fromher capacious ovens would come great pans of hot puffy biscuits, whilefrom the boiling caldrons the boys drew huge cans of bubbling maplesyrup. And that sugar on those biscuits! Ambrosia, nectar, food for thegods! He had dined since then in the finest restaurants in the world,and never tasted anything to be compared to it.
What mattered the sarcastic and cutting remarks of the Profs. on thefollowing day? They had had their fling and were willing to pay theprice.
He came back to reality and the telegram that he was automaticallyfolding and unfolding.
"Team gone to pieces." He stirred uneasily.
That was certainly tough luck. It must be serious when "Bull" talkedlike that. It had usually been the good fortune of Blue teams to makethe other fellows go "to pieces." Now it really seemed as though thegood old colors were in danger of being dimmed, if not disgraced.
They hadn't been disgraced when he wore them, he remembered. How theyhad wound up the season in a blaze of glory the last year he had playedon the team! He saw even now, the crowded stands, the riot of colors,the frenzied roars of the Blues, when he had squirmed out of the masspiled on him, and grabbing the ball, had rushed down the field for atouchdown, with the enemy thundering at his heels. He felt still thethrill of that supreme moment when the fellows had hoisted him on theirshoulders and carried him in triumph off the field.
He half rose from his chair, but sank back.
"If it wasn't for that confounded deal," he groaned.
He had been so used to Blue victories that their failure for the lasttwo years had made him "sore." In his business associations and at hisclub he came in contact with many graduates from different colleges. Hehad usually been able to "josh" them good naturedly over the way theBlues had "done them up." But lately the shoe had been on the other footand they had delighted in getting even.
He was not too thin skinned, and took their jibes smilingly, even thoughthe smile was a trifle forced. They were entitled to their revenge.Sometimes, however, he winced when they flicked him "on the raw." Therewas Evans, for instance, an old Princeton tackle. Good fellow,Evans--corking good fellow--but after the Blues lost last fall, he hadgloated a little too much. He had met him on the street and clapped himhilariously on the shoulder.
"Ha, ha, Ames," he shouted, "how about it? We tied the can on thebulldog's tail, and we'll do the same next year."
That had stung. His face flushed now as he recalled it:
"We tied the can on the bulldog's tail, and we'll do the same nextyear."
"They will, will they?" he roared, jumping to his feet.
He pressed a button on his desk, and his confidential man came in.
"Thompson," said Ames hurriedly, "I've been called East on importantbusiness. Keep in touch with me by wire. I've just got time to catch theTwentieth Century Express."
Bert Wilson on the Gridiron Page 8
