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

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Ebook has 930 lines and 60940 words, and 19 pages

"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.

Stuart laughed. "Don't you worry, sir. You'll soon be in form again and making things hard for us as usual."

Mr. Moffit smiled and shook his head. "I trust that you are right, but to-day there's no iron in my make-up. I'm absolutely out of character and the sorriest theme ever handed in by a junior couldn't move me to wrath! Well, you've come back to a pretty stiff task, my boy, haven't you? Do you know, I'm not certain that I wouldn't rather have my own job than yours. If I make mistakes I can remedy them or I can gloss them over, but if you make them they'll stand out on the football season like so many sore thumbs, and you won't have time to remedy them. A bit awed by the responsibility, are you?"

Stuart shook his head smilingly. "No, sir, I don't think so. Of course, it's going to take some work, but we've got a good crowd to start with. If Mr. Haynes knows football as he's supposed to, things will run along all right, I guess."

"The confidence of youth is a beautiful thing," murmured the other. "Well, I sincerely hope that things will run along all right and I wish you the best luck in the world. And that means a successful season crowned by a glorious victory over Pearsall. I'll be watching with a great deal of interest how the youngest captain ever elected here performs his task, my boy. I hope, though, you won't start out overconfident. I've been here twelve years and overconfidence at one stage or another of the season has lost more games for us than any other one factor. Heed the words of age and experience, Harven, and don't write the answer until you've worked out the proposition."

"Amenability?" repeated the instructor. "It means several things. For one, it means the quality of being open-minded, of willingness to be governed. We speak of a person as being amenable to reason, which usually means that the person has taken our advice, or, at least, listened to it."

"Sounds as though he was calling me pigheaded," said Stuart.

"Hardly as bad as that," laughed the other; "he was probably trying to convey the idea, and convey it as politely as possible, that you are likely to rely too implicitly on your own judgment and are slightly contemptuous of others'. Isn't that more likely to be it?"

"Then it means cocksure," grunted Stuart. "I don't think I am. Do you, sir?"

Mr. Moffit smiled, his blue eyes twinkling. "You and I have been pretty good friends for two years, Harven," he answered, "and we'll probably remain so as long as we don't ask each other questions like that."

Stuart grinned. "But seriously, Mr. Moffit, am I like he says? I don't mean to be."

"I'm sure you don't, my boy. To be frank, there's something in Brewton's indictment, I fancy, but not enough to trouble about. I'd prefer to call it self-dependence, which, up to a point, is an admirable attribute of youth."

"Well, he's always getting off something like that," said Stuart. "I don't mind him."

"I wouldn't. I'd just make certain that his charge is incorrect, Harven."

"Yes, sir." Then: "Gosh, I was almost forgetting what I came to see you about! You know Neil Orr, Mr. Moffit. He's eligible for a society this year, and I'd like mightily to get him into Lyceum. I'm pretty sure he can make Manning if he wants to, but I'd rather have him with us, and I guess he'd rather, too."

"Orr is a splendid fellow in my judgment," answered Mr. Moffit, "and I'd be glad to have him in Lyceum, but you know, Harven, I'm only the faculty director and have no vote."

"Yes, sir, I know that, but I thought you might speak a good word for him when the time comes. I'm going to put him up right off."

"Gladly, if my opinion is asked, but I can't promise more than that, my boy. You wouldn't want me to, I'm sure."

"No, sir, of course not." Stuart agreed, but not very fervently. After a moment he added, "I think some of the fellows won't want him on account of his being like he is, and I don't think that's fair."

"I doubt that," answered the instructor. "I can't imagine any of our fellows objecting to Orr on account of physical--ah--disabilities, Harven. I'd dislike to think it was so."

"Maybe I'm wrong," said Stuart. "Only, something was said last spring that made me think that way. Well, I must be off to supper. Jack is probably as mad as a hornet by this time. Good-by, sir."

"Good-by, Harven. Very glad to have seen you again. Drop in some evening before term starts, and bring Brewton along, won't you?"

CAPTAIN AND COACH

Stuart didn't look for Mr. Haynes that evening. Instead, after supper in Safford's only restaurant, he and Jack, together with three other early arrivals, went to the moving picture theater, which, like the Old Elm Caf?, was the sole representative of its kind in Safford. Stuart expected to meet the coach the next morning at breakfast, but the latter failed to show up. Pending the opening of Memorial, meals were served to the football players in the Lyceum House. This was a small cottage situated across the Principal's Walk at the rear of Holton. In early days it had been used as a dormitory, as had a similar structure in the corner of the new campus. Later, the rooming facilities had been increased by the building of Sawyer and Byers Halls, the two cottages had been given over to the school societies, the Lyceum and Manning. The Lyceum House had four bedrooms on the upper floor, and living room, dining room and kitchen below. This morning the dining room was crowded when Stuart arrived. Nineteen fellows had answered the summons to pre-season practice, while the table seated but twelve. Fortunately, all of them did not come at the same time. As it was, Stuart made the fourth in the waiting line. His appearance was the signal for loud and hearty greetings, and there was much hand-shaking. Jack Brewton was already there and promised Stuart his place at table as soon as he "got outside a couple more eggs."

Most of the returning players on last year's first team were on hand: burly, red-haired Joe Cutts, the center; Leo Burns, square-headed and sandy-complexioned, as hard-fisted as he was soft-hearted, one of the best halfbacks in recent years; "Howdy" Tasker, big and gray-eyed and handsome, almost certain of the fullback position; Millard Wheaton, short but sturdy, pink-cheeked and blue-eyed, who meant to give Stuart a hard battle for quarterback supremacy; and others besides. Tom Muirgart, commonly known as "Mudguard," yielded his chair to Stuart while Jack was still toying with his second helping of poached eggs, and Stuart deluged his oatmeal with milk and sprinkled it with sugar, and pitched in. "Whitey," general factotum of the establishment, and as black a darkey as ever toiled in a southern cotton field, hurried back and forth in the seemingly hopeless endeavor to supply the wants of the eaters. Oatmeal, bacon, eggs, stewed peaches, toast, coffee, milk disappeared as if by magic, and pathetic plaints filled the air constantly: "Oh, Whitey! Got any more bacon?" "Whitey, bring some more milk, will you?" "Coffee, Whitey; and fill her up this time!" "Bring me two, three eggs, Whitey; and some toast!" "A-a-ay, Whitey! I'm starving! Get a move on, will you?"

At Stuart's left a pleasant-faced, brown-eyed youth asked: "Have you seen the coach? He was asking for you last night."

"No, what's he like, Billy? I thought he'd be here this morning."

"Rather a nice sort. Rather smallish. Looks keen, though."

"Who's that?" asked Joe Cutts from across the board. "Mr. Haynes? Quite a peppy boy, I'll bet! He isn't big, but he's got a bad eye, son. He'll have us jumping for fair!"

"If he can make you jump he'll be going some," laughed Billy Littlefield. Joe smiled tolerantly and landed a piece of toast on Billy's nose. Wallace Towne, slipping into a vacated chair and absent-mindedly annexing Howdy Tasker's glass of milk, joined in with:

"I hear there isn't going to be any training table this year."

"Where do you get that stuff?" asked Stuart pityingly.

"Coach. He doesn't believe in 'em. He told me so yesterday. Came down on the train with him. Says all we need is plenty of plain food and no coddling. Told him I didn't care how plain it was if it was plenty."

Stuart frowned. "That's nonsense," he declared. "We've always had training tables here, and I guess we'll continue to."

"All right. You tell 'em. Whitey, for the love of Mike, feed me! All I've had's a glass of milk."

"Yes, and it was mine," observed Howdy. "Feed the brute, Whitey."

"You would," said Jack scathingly. "You'd agree with any one, you old sycophant."

"What's that?" asked Wallace untroubledly. "An elephant's little boy? I deny it. You're thinking of Joe."

"I've seen his sort before," said Stuart. "They start out with the idea of changing everything, but they soon get over it." He smiled patiently. "That straight football guff's mighty old stuff. It won't win games to-day. He'll get over it. Got any more eggs, Whitey?"

Reaching the field at half-past ten--a few minutes beyond that time, as a matter of fact, but if the captain can't be late, who can?--Stuart concluded at first glance that Mr. Haynes had again failed to put in an appearance, and he wasn't altogether displeased. This new coach seemed to be acting rather cocky, Stuart thought, and being late to practice might tone down some of his assurance. But a second look showed a stranger there. The fact that he was in togs quite as disreputable as any being worn there had disguised him. He was talking to Miles Whittier, the assistant manager, when Stuart made himself known. Mr. Haynes shook hands cordially, but, Stuart thought, without as much empressement as the situation called for. While they talked Stuart studied the other and was conscious of a slight feeling of disappointment. Perhaps the description he had heard was to blame. At all events, the coach was much more of a "regular fellow" than Stuart had unconsciously pictured him. He was small, perhaps, but the fact didn't impress you greatly because he was remarkably well built. He was younger than Stuart had suspected, too; surely not more than twenty-six. He was good looking, but the good looks were more a matter of expression than of features, for the latter were irregular. There was a short nose and a rather long upper lip, a firm mouth and a square jaw, keen dark-brown eyes and a wide forehead under hair that appeared to have a suspicion of red in it. He had a pleasant smile and an agreeable voice, and yet Stuart somehow felt a trifle uncomfortable while they conversed. Perhaps it was the penetrative quality of the straight, unwavering regard of the coach that was responsible.

For Alan Haynes was doing a little studying, too. He wanted very much to learn what sort of a youth this was with whom he was to work. What conclusions he reached I do not know. He saw, however, a straight, well-made boy of a trifle more than normal height and weight for his years, with the good looks of regular features and perfect health. I doubt if he read any antagonism, for I don't think that Stuart was conscious of any, but I think he surmised that behind the blue-gray eyes there lay a touch of arrogance, and perhaps the corners of the pleasantly-smiling mouth hinted that its owner was self-willed. Maybe because of such surmises, the coach paid the most respectful deference to Stuart's words, and the latter mentally concluded that Wallace Towne's characterization of the new coach had been overdrawn. Probably, he thought, the other had talked sort of big to impress Wallace. There was no harm in that just so long as he didn't try it on him!

"We'd better get together this evening, Harven," the coach was saying, "and talk things over. Suppose I drop in at your room? I haven't found quarters yet, and my room at the hotel is just a box."

"Suits me, Mr. Haynes. I'm in Lacey, the second dormitory on the Lane; Number 12; one flight. How about eight o'clock?"

"Perfect. Well, shall we get them started?"

After practice the coach had company on the way back to the village. "The Laird" was taking a dozen or so pairs of football shoes to the repair shop. He had them tied together by the lacings and slung over his shoulder as the coach fell into step beside him. His real name was Angus McCranie and he looked as Scotch as his name sounded. It was always somewhat of a disappointment, though, to hear The Laird speak, for it was only in moments of excitement that his native burr was used. He had been trainer at Manning for nearly a dozen years and had become as much a part of the institution as Manning Hall or Old Jarratt, the Greek and Latin professor, or even Doctor Gurley himself. He was short and leanly muscular, with grizzled hair and pale blue eyes that shone startlingly bright from under thick tufts of brows and from a seamed face that, summer or winter, was always the color of a well-worn saddle. In age, The Laird was, by his own confession, "upwards of thirty." The register in the little town of his birth would have proved him well over forty. But age was of small importance in his case. He was still as spry, to all appearances, as he had been a dozen years since; and another score of years would make little difference.

"And what did you think of the lads, sir?" asked The Laird, as they took the turn of High Street near Manning Society House.

"Excellent," answered the coach promptly and emphatically. "A fine looking lot, I call them. What is your opinion of this year's material, Mr. McCranie?"

The Laird produced a briar pipe and began to fill it. "About average, sir. Mr. Haynes, the more I see of the lads, sir, the more settled I become as to one conviction, which is that you can't ever tell what's in a pudding till you open the bag."

"Meaning," responded the other, "that good-looking bodies don't always land first over the hurdles."

"Exactly, sir. I've seen fine, upstanding lads licked by runts in my time, and I've seen promising teams just fairly fall to pieces during a season. Man, it's not the shape of a lad's body, or the muscles that play under his skin that counts. It's what's on the inside. It's the spirit of him!"

"True," assented Mr. Haynes.

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