Read Ebook: For the good of the team by Barbour Ralph Henry

Font size: 10 px 15 px 20 px 25 px 30 px 35 px

Background color: BlackWhiteGrayLight GrayDark GrayDim Gray

Text color: BlackWhiteGrayLight GrayDark GrayDim Gray

Apply/Save settings

Ebook has 930 lines and 60940 words, and 19 pages

FOR THE GOOD OF THE TEAM

A HERO RETURNS

Two boys met in the Grand Central Station in New York one warm afternoon in late September and, greeting each other, passed hurriedly toward the gate beyond which the Hartford Express waited. Each was good-looking, well-built, alert and self-possessed. But a few months separated their ages, although Jack Brewton had seen his eighteenth birthday and Stuart Harven had not. In the train, their bags at their feet, they plunged into conversation. While they had been close friends at Manning School, they had not met during vacation, nor had they corresponded. At seventeen and eighteen one is far too busy for letter writing, and, fortunately, friendship doesn't demand it. There was, consequently, much to be said, and the journey to Safford was half over before the subject of summer adventures had been exhausted. Then Stuart gave the talk a new turn with the careless announcement:

"I had a letter from the new coach about a month ago."

"Haynes?" asked Jack interestedly. "What did he have to say?"

"Oh, nothing much. Said he thought he ought to get in touch with me and hoped I was having a pleasant vacation and all that. Suggested my meeting him in New York and talking things over, but I couldn't make it. The date he set was just the time we were starting off on the cruise."

"Too bad," murmured Jack.

"Oh, I don't know. What's the good of talk? There wasn't anything to be done until we got the team together. I hope to goodness he isn't going to be one of the talky kind: his letter looked that way: he wrote about four pages, I guess. Said he hoped I was keeping in good condition and wasn't neglecting kicking." Stuart chuckled. "I haven't touched a football but once since spring practice. Then we had a sort of a game up at the camp one day. A lot of the college chaps were football men: Means of Cornell, and Davis of Dartmouth, and five or six others. We had quite a scrappy little game. Played two twenty-minute periods. Of course the counselors won, but they had to work for it. I played quarter and got off two dandy runs, one for nearly seventy yards."

"You ought to have put in some practice, just the same, Stuart," said Jack disapprovingly. "It wouldn't have done any harm."

"Did you?"

"Yes, I've been at it pretty steadily for the last month."

"Faithful old Fido!" laughed Stuart. "Well, I don't believe in it. A fellow comes back much fitter and more ready for work if he doesn't wear himself out during the summer. I don't think it hurts you any, for you're a shark for work, and always were, but I get stale if I overdo it. Bet you I'll show more pep to-morrow than the fellows who have been summer training."

"Maybe," answered Jack, smiling but unconvinced. "Still, pep isn't everything. I'll bet you can't kick five goals out of ten tries from the thirty-yard line to-morrow."

"What of it?" laughed Stuart. "I'll be able to next week. Look here, what's the good of bringing the team back five days before term opens if they're going to know it all before they come? That's what the early session's for, to get us back in shape."

"We ought to be in shape when we get back," answered Jack. "We can't afford to give Pearsall even one day's start of us, Stuart."

"Don't you worry about Pearsall this year," replied the other, smiling and confident. "We're going to do her up brown."

"Hope so."

"Sure to! At least, we will if Haynes turns out all right. I'm still wishing, though, we'd gone after Corcoran."

"What's the use of wishing it?" asked Jack, with a shrug. "You know we couldn't have paid his price. Take my advice, old son: forget Corcoran and make the best of 'Hop' Haynes. Anyhow, Stuart, don't start out with a prejudice toward him."

"Oh, I've got nothing against the man. I dare say he will do well enough. Still, you know yourself, Jack, he's just a 'small town' coach: never did anything big."

"If he had Manning wouldn't have got him," replied Jack. "He put in three successful years at Fisherville, though, and was assistant at Erskine a year before that."

"Fisherville doesn't play a team unless she knows she can beat it. Any one could coach Fisherville to win. Bet you I could myself!"

Jack smiled and shook his head. "You're a great little quarterback, Stuart, and you're the youngest captain Manning has ever had, and all that, but don't ever try coaching, old son. You couldn't do it."

"How do you make that out?" demanded Stuart. "You don't have to be a wonder to coach a football team."

"No, but you have to have one quality that you haven't, Stuart," answered the other in good-humored raillery.

"What's that?" asked Stuart suspiciously.

"Amenability," replied Jack gravely.

"What's amenability? You mean good nature? Rot!"

"Look it up when you get a chance," laughed Jack. "Anyhow, you stick to captaining."

"I believe I've been insulted, but no matter. Say, I ran across a couple of nice-looking plays this summer. They're not new, of course, but we've never used them and they might be good medicine for Pearsall. Got a piece of paper? An old letter will do. That's the ticket!" Stuart produced a pencil and the two boys leaned their heads close while it traced strange lines on the back of an envelope.

Half an hour later the friends parted, Stuart carrying his bag to Lacey Hall and Jack taking his to Meigs. They were to meet later for supper in the village; meals for the football candidates were to begin with breakfast in Lyceum House to-morrow; and meanwhile there were trunks to be unpacked. Stuart's room, on the second floor of Lacey, had been prepared for his occupancy. One of the two small beds was made up and the accumulated dust of the summer had been removed. Stuart set his bag on the table and looked about him. The room, with its gray papered walls, its brown craftsman furniture, its two-tone blue rug and its pictures and trophies, was surprisingly like home, and he gave a sigh of satisfaction as he threw aside his coat and went to the end window. The sun had traveled past, and when he raised the shade and the lower sash a cool breeze entered, bringing with it a few dried ivy leaves from the stone sill. Below him lay a narrow strip of grass between the building and School Lane. The young maples that lined both sides of the way--the lane had been cut through but four years ago--were still green, but the leaves looked dry and tired, as though the hot summer had been almost too much for them. Across the graveled thoroughfare, seen from the window between the upper branches of the trees, was Memorial Building, the dining hall, its buff sandstone front, with its four tall columns, hot in the afternoon sunlight. Further to Stuart's left stood the library; beyond it, the tennis courts. Straight ahead, the school grounds ended at an iron fence half hidden by shrubbery and vines, and then came an open field that descended to the placid, winding river. The new steel bridge over which High Street led was just visible past the corner of Memorial. Beyond it, nestling 'neath tall elms, spread the town. Two church spires, one slenderly conical and one square and dignifiedly squatty, pierced the greenery with their white forms, and now and then a weathered gray roof or a red-brown chimney peeked forth.

Safford was like half a hundred other Connecticut towns, quiet, as placid as the river that flowed around it and unvexed by the problems that beset larger communities. Twice a day the express paused for a moment at the little station and at four other times local trains tarried on their way up and down the valley. There were no street cars and, speaking comparatively, even automobiles were scarce. Safford's only claim to renown was Manning School; and there had been occasions--perhaps there still are--when Safford's inhabitants would have been willing to worry along without such fame. The celebrations of athletic victories occur only infrequently, however, and for the most part the townsfolk had no cause for complaint, and were doubtless glad enough of the presence of the big school across the river. I know the storekeepers were, anyway.

Stuart's trunk arrived before he had quite finished washing off the dust of travel, and for nearly an hour after that he busied himself unpacking, stowing his things methodically away in drawers or hanging them neatly in the closet, in the latter process carefully taking up no more than his half of the hooks. The occupant of the other bed and proprietor of the second chiffonier would be along in a few days, and there must be space for his belongings. Neil Orr came from Stuart's home city and represented the reason why Stuart was remaining in Lacey through his upper middle year instead of moving to Meigs as was the privilege, almost invariably taken advantage of, of the third-year students. Neil was a lower middle class fellow, and since he must remain in Lacey, Stuart had elected to remain with him. To his own belief at least, Stuart had acted as guide and protector to Neil during the previous year and he couldn't conceive of Neil's getting along without him. Perhaps he exaggerated his usefulness to Neil somewhat, but the motives that prompted him to forego life in the upper class dormitory were wholly creditable.

It was still too early for supper when he had finished his task and changed into a comfortable old suit, and, probably because Neil was still in his thoughts, he went down and crossed the old campus to Holton Hall. The northern half of the school property had become known as the old campus when School Lane had been cut through. It held five dormitories and Manning Hall, the latter accommodating the recitation rooms, the assembly hall and the offices. Of the five dormitories, Holton was the elder brother and stood back from the rest as though keeping a fraternal watch on them. Stuart was not sure that his visit would prove successful, for there still remained four days before the faculty members were required to report, but when he came within sight of the corner study which was his destination his doubts were removed. The two end windows on the lower floor were wide open and the brown silk sash curtains were pushed wide. Mr. Moffit, attired principally in a pair of discolored gray flannel trousers and a running shirt, was applying a piece of emery cloth to the head of a lofter when Stuart, accepting the invitation to enter, pushed the study door wide. A golf bag leaned against the morris chair at the instructor's elbow, but it went to the floor with a rattle and crash of its contents when Mr. Moffit jumped up.

"Hel-lo, Harven!" he exclaimed in pleased surprise. "So we're back again! My, my, and all browned up like a berry! Well, I am glad to see you, my boy!" He shook hands with a grip that made the visitor wince and pushed the latter toward a chair. "You've found me in rather an undignified moment, it seems. Suppose you take your own coat off and lend me countenance. It's been frightfully hot here to-day."

"Hot everywhere, sir. New York was like an oven."

"You came that way? Isn't there a shorter route from Springfield?"

"Yes, but you have to change, sir. And I wired Jack Brewton to meet me at the Grand Central. Been playing golf, sir?"

"Yes, quite a lot this summer. But it's over with." Mr. Moffit sighed. "Harven, I'm more than ever convinced that the Destiny that shapes our ends made a botch of it in my case. I ought to have been born with a silver spoon. I'm naturally the laziest man on earth except as to one thing. That's golf. I'll toil from sunup to pitch dark playing golf, but anything else--especially the teaching of English--comes mighty hard. And this fall it seems to me that I'm lazier than ever before. I don't want to go back into harness one earthly bit, my boy. I sigh for wealth and slothfulness, for silken shirts and shaded porches. The gods bestow their favors blunderingly."

"You'd soon get tired of silk shirts and porches," laughed Stuart. "I'm sure I would. Want some help with those, sir?"

"Thanks, but this is the last. I'm putting them to bed for a nine months' sleep. Unless--" the instructor's eyes brightened--"you play? There's a very fair links over at Harrington, and I could sneak in a couple of hours in the morning."

"I don't, sir. Besides, football begins to-morrow and I suppose we'll have two sessions a day until Wednesday."

"That's why you're back. I'd forgotten." Mr. Moffit slipped the lofter into the bag with a sigh. "That reminds me that I met your new coach this forenoon. He seems a very pleasant, affable sort, but he doesn't play golf. Have you met him yet?"

"No, sir. Do you know where he's staying?"

"He told me, but I've forgotten. I'm afraid I lost interest when I found he was not a golfer. Somewhere in the village, of course."

"I thought of looking him up this evening, but if I don't know where he's living I suppose I can't do it."

"He's probably taking his meals at the hotel. I fancy you'd get a word of him there, Harven."

"Yes, sir, but there's no hurry. I'll see him in the morning. Are there many of the team back, do you know?"

"I don't. You're the first chap I've seen. No one's come yet, except Mr. Wallace and me, so far as I know. Doctor Gurley's back, of course. I took dinner with him last evening. Vacation appears to have toned him up remarkably. So it has you, my boy. Have a pleasant summer?"

"Dandy, sir! You're looking awfully fit, too."

"I suppose so. Yes, I'm feeling fairly rugged, thanks, but--but not at all ambitious! I purposely came back a few days ahead to do some work. I've got a new course to map out, for one thing. But all I've done so far is clean five golf clubs!" And Mr. Moffit looked with humorous sadness at the bag beside him.

Share on: WhatsApp @Hash Facebook Tweet