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THE ARRIVAL OF JIMPSON

BY RALPH HENRY BARBOUR.

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[Illustration: The captain was holding his head.]

                                  THE
                          ARRIVAL OF JIMPSON

                           And Other Stories
                          for Boys about Boys

                                  BY

                          RALPH HENRY BARBOUR

            AUTHOR OF BEHIND THE LINE, WEATHERBY’S INNING,
                          ON YOUR MARK! ETC.

                             _ILLUSTRATED_

                               New York
                        D. Appleton and Company
                                 1904

                          Copyright, 1904, by
                        D. APPLETON AND COMPANY

_Published, September, 1904_

                                  TO
                               H. D. R.

                           IN MEMORY OF THE
                           WINTER OF ’98-’99

The following stories first appeared in St. Nicholas, The Youth’s
Companion, Pearson’s Magazine, and The Brown Book. To the editors
of these periodicals the author’s thanks are due for permission to
republish the tales.

CONTENTS

                                 PAGE
  THE ARRIVAL OF JIMPSON            1
  BARCLAY’S BONFIRE                30
  MARTY BROWN--MASCOT              42
  PARMELEE’S “SPREAD”              75
  “NO HOLDING”                     96
  CLASS SPIRIT                    117
  THE FATHER OF A HERO            136
  THE HAZING OF SATTERLEE 2D      161
  A PAIR OF POACHERS              185
  BREWSTER’S DÉBUT                209
  “MITTENS”                       234

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

                                                                  FACING
                                                                   PAGE
  The captain was holding his head.           _Frontispiece_
  Jimpson felt like an outcast, and looked like an Indian.             9
  There was one kind of ball that Marty knew all about.               71
  “Duty!” frothed Morris.                                            130
  Tom moved the net toward the prey.                                 198
  Ned trotted over the plate into the arms of “Big Jim” Milford.     232

THE ARRIVAL OF JIMPSON

Copyright, 1898, by THE CENTURY CO. All rights reserved.

THE DEPARTURE

The rain fell in a steady, remorseless drizzle upon the rain-coats
and umbrellas of the throng that blocked the sidewalks and overflowed
on to the car-tracks; but the fires of patriotism were unquenchable,
and a thousand voices arose to the leaden sky in a fierce clamor of
intense enthusiasm. It had rained all night. The streets ran water,
and the spouts emptied their tides between the feet of the cheerers.
The lumbering cars, their crimson sides glistening, clanged their way
carefully through the crowds, and lent a dash of color to the scene.
The back of Grays loomed cheerless and bleak through the drizzle, and
beyond, the college yard lay deserted. In store windows the placards
were hidden behind the blurred and misty panes, and farther up the
avenue, the tattered red flag above Foster’s hung limp and dripping.

Under the leafless elm, the barge, filled to overflowing with departing
heroes, stood ready for its start to Boston. On the steps, bareheaded
and umbrellaless, stood Benham, ’95, who, with outstretched and waving
arms, was tempting the throng into ever greater vocal excesses.

“Now, then, fellows! Three times three for Meredith.”

“’Rah, ’rah, ’rah! ’rah, ’rah, ’rah! ’rah, ’rah, ’rah! Meredith!” A
thousand throats raised the cry; umbrellas clashed wildly in mid-air;
the crowd surged to and fro; horses curveted nervously; and the rain
poured down impartially upon the reverend senior and the clamorous
freshman.

“Fellows, you’re not _half_ cheering!” cried the relentless Benham.
“Now, three long Harvards, three times three and three long Harvards
for the team.”

“Har-vard, Har-vard, Har-vard! ’Rah, ’rah, ’rah! ’rah, ’rah, ’rah!
’rah, ’rah, ’rah! Har-vard, Har-vard, Har-vard! Team!”

Inside the coach there was a babel of voices. Members of the eleven
leaned out and conversed jerkily with friends on the sidewalk. Valises
and suit-cases were piled high in the aisle and held in the owners’
laps. The manager was checking off his list.

“Cowper?”

“Here.”

“Turner?”

“All right.”

“Truesdale?”

“Hey? Oh, yes; I’m here.” The manager folded the list. Then a penciled
line on the margin caught his eye.

“Who’s Jameson? Jameson here?”

“Should be Jimpson,” corrected the man next to him; and a low voice
called from the far end of the barge:

“Here, sir.” It sounded so much like the response of a schoolboy
to the teacher that the hearers laughed with the mirth begot of
tight-stretched nerves. A youth wearing a faded brown ulster, who
was between Gates, the big center, and the corner of the coach, grew
painfully red in the face, and went into retirement behind the big
man’s shoulder.

“Who is this fellow Jimpson?” queried a man in a yellow mackintosh.

“Jimpson? He’s a freshie. Trying for right half-back all fall. I
suppose Brattle took him along, now that Ward’s given up, to substitute
Sills. They say he’s an A 1 runner, and plucky. He’s played some on the
second eleven. Taunton told me, the other day, that he played great
ball at Exeter, last year.”

The strident strains of the Washington Post burst out on the air,
urging the cheerers to even greater efforts. They were cheering
indiscriminately now. Trainer, rubbers, and coaches had received their
shares of the ovation. But Benham, ’95, with his coat soaked through,
was still unsatisfied, and sought for further tests. Two professors,
half hidden under umbrellas, had emerged from the yard, and were
standing at a little distance, watching the scene.

“Three times three for Professor Dablee!” The cheers that followed were
mixed with laughter, and the two professors moved off, but not until
the identity of the second had been revealed, and the air had filled
with the refrain of “’Rah, ’rah, ’rah! Pollock!”

“They look as though they ought to win; don’t you think so?” asked one
of them.

The other professor frowned.

“Yes, they look like that; every eleven does. You’d think, to see them
before a game, that nothing short of a pile-driver or dynamite could
drive them an inch. And a few days later they return, heartbroken and
defeated.”

Across the square floated a husky bellow:

“Now, then, fellows! Once more! All together! Three times three for
Harvard!”

The band played wildly, frenziedly, out of time and tune; the crowd
strained its tired throats for one last farewell slogan; the men in the
barge waved their hands; the horses jumped forward; a belated riser in
Holyoke threw open a front window, and drowsily yelled, “_Shut up_”;
and the Harvard eleven sped on its way up the avenue, and soon became a
blur in the gray vista.

“Say, Bob, you forgot to cheer Jimpson.”

The wearied youth faced his accuser, struck an attitude indicative of
intense despair, and then joyfully seized the opportunity.

“Fellows! Fellows! Hold on! Three times three for Jim--Jim--who’d you
say?”

“Jimpson,” prompted the friend.

“Three times three for Jimpson! Now, then, all together!”

“Say--who _is_ Jimpson?” shouted a dozen voices at once.

“Don’t know. Don’t care. Three times three for Jimpson!”

And so that youth, had he but known it, received a cheer, after all.
But he didn’t know it--at least, not until long afterward, when cheers
meant so much less to him.

II

A LETTER

    NEW HAVEN, CONN., November 19.

    DEAR MOTHER: I can imagine your surprise upon receiving a
    letter from this place, when your dutiful son is supposed to be
    “grinding” in No. 30 College House, Cambridge. And the truth is
    that the dutiful son is surprised himself. Here am I, with some
    thirty-five other chaps, making ready for the big football game
    with Yale to-morrow. Here is how it happened:

    Yesterday morning, Brattle--he’s our captain--came to my room,
    routed me out of bed, and told me to report to the coaches for
    morning practise. You know, I’ve been trying for substitute
    right half-back. Ward, the regular, sprained his knee in the
    Dartmouth game, and a few days ago it went lame again. So now
    Sills has Ward’s place, and I’m to substitute Sills. And if he
    gets laid out--and maybe I ought to hope he won’t--I go in and
    play. What do you think of that? Of course Sills may last the
    entire game; but they say he has a weak back, only he won’t own
    up to it, and may have to give up after the first half. Gates
    told me this on the train. Gates is the big center, and weighs
    196. He is very kind, and we chummed all the way from Boston.
    I didn’t know any of the fellows, except a few by sight--just
    enough to nod to, you know.

    We left Cambridge in a driving rain, and a big crowd stood out
    in it all, and cheered the eleven, and the captain, and the
    college, and everything they could think of. Every fellow on
    the first and second elevens, and every “sub” was cheered--all
    except Mr. Jimpson. They didn’t know of his existence! But
    I didn’t feel bad--not very, anyhow. I hope the rest of the
    fellows didn’t notice the omission, however. But I made up my
    mind that if I get half a show, I’ll make ’em cheer Jimpson,
    too. Just let me get on the field. I feel to-night as though
    I could go through the whole Yale team. Perhaps if I get out
    there, facing a big Yale man, I’ll not feel so strong.

    You know, you’ve always thought I was big. Well, to-day I
    overheard a fellow asking one of the men, “Who is that little
    chap with the red cheeks?” I’m a midget beside most of the
    other fellows. If I play to-morrow, I’ll be the lightest man on
    the team, with the exception of Turner, our quarter-back, who
    weighs 158. I beat him by three pounds.

    Such a hubbub as there is in this town to-night! Everybody
    seems crazy with excitement. Of course I haven’t the slightest
    idea who is going to win, but to look at our fellows, you’d
    think they would have things their own way. I haven’t seen
    any of the Yale players. We practised on their field for an
    hour or so this afternoon, but they didn’t show up. There
    was a big crowd of Yale students looking on. Of course every
    fellow of us did his very worst; but the spectators didn’t say
    anything--just looked wise.

    Most of the fellows are terribly nervous to-night. They go
    around as though they were looking for something, and would cry
    if they didn’t find it soon. And the trainer is the worst of
    all. Brattle, the captain, is fine, though. He isn’t any more
    nervous than an alligator, and has been sitting _still all the
    evening_, talking with a lot of the old graduates about the
    game. Once he came in the writing-room, where I’m sitting, and
    asked what I was doing. When I told him, he smiled, and said to
    tell you that if anything happened he’d look after my _remains_
    himself! Maybe he thought I was nervous. But if I am, I’m not
    the only one. Gates is writing to his mother, too, at the other
    table.

    Give my love to Will and Bess. Tell Will to send my old skates
    to me. I shall want them. There is fine skating on Fresh Pond,
    which, by the way, is a lake.

    We’re ordered off to bed. I guess some of us won’t sleep very
    well. I’m rather excited myself, but I guess I’m tired enough
    to sleep. I’ll write again when I get back to college. With
    bushels of love to all,

    Yours affectionately,

    TOM.

THE “ARRIVAL”

Jimpson sat on the ground, and watched with breathless interest two
charging, tattered, writhing lines of men. Jimpson felt a good deal
like an outcast, and looked like a North American Indian. Only legs
and face were visible; the rest of Jimpson was enveloped in a big gray
blanket with barbaric red borders. Some two dozen counterparts of
Jimpson sat or lay near by, stretching along the side-line in front
of the Harvard section of the grand stand. Behind them a thousand
enthusiastic mortals were shouting pæans to the goddess of victory,
and, unless that lady was deaf, she must have heard the pæans, however
little she approved of them. The most popular one was sung to a
well-known tune:

[Illustration: Jimpson felt like an outcast, and looked like an Indian.]

    “As we’re strolling through Fifth Avenue
     With an independent air,
     The ladies turn and stare,
     The chappies shout, ‘Ah, there!’
     And the population cries aloud,
    ‘Now, aren’t they just the swellest crowd,
     The men that broke Old Eli at New Haven!’”

And a mighty response swept across the field from where a bank of blue
rose from the green of the field to the lighter blue of the sky. It was
a martial air, with a prophecy of victory:

    “Shout aloud the battle-cry
       Of Yale, Yale, Yale!
     Wave her standard far and high
       For Yale, Yale, Yale!
     See the foe retreat before us,
     Sons of Eli, shout the chorus,
       Yale, Yale, Yale, Yale, Yale!”

Harvard and Yale were doing battle once more, and twenty thousand
people were looking on. The score-board announced: Harvard, 4; Yale, 0.
Yale’s ball. 15 minutes to play.

The story of twenty minutes of the first half is soon told. It had been
Yale’s kick-off. Haag had sent the ball down the field to Harvard’s
20-yard line, and Van Brandt had gathered it in his long arms, and,
with Meredith ahead, had landed it back in the middle of the field. But
the fourth down gave it to their opponents after a loss of two yards,
and the pigskin went down again to Harvard’s territory, coming to a
stop at the white line that marked thirty-five yards. Here Harvard’s
new half-back kick had been tried, and the ball went high in air, and
the field went after it; and when the Yale full-back got his hands on
it, he was content with a bare five yards, and it was Yale’s ball on
her 40-yard line. Then happened a piece of ill luck for the wearers of
the blue. On the second down, Kurtz fumbled the pass, the ball rolled
toward Yale’s goal, and Brattle broke through the opposing left tackle
and fell on it.

And while a thunderous roar of joy floated across the field from the
followers of the Crimson, the teams lined up on Yale’s thirty yards.
Twice Meredith tried to go through between center and left guard, and a
bare yard was the reward. Then Van Brandt had run back as for a kick;
the ball was snapped, passed to Sills, Harvard’s right half-back, and,
with it safely under his arm, he had skirted the Yale left, and fallen
and wriggled and squirmed across the goal-line for the first touch-down.

Then ensued five minutes of bedlam, and after the victorious seats had
settled into excited complacency, Van Brandt had tried for goal. But
success was too much to hope for, and the two teams trotted back to
the middle of the field, with the score 4 to 0. Then had the sons of
Eli shown of what they were made, and in the next ten minutes the ball
had progressed with fatal steadiness from the center of the field to
the region of the Crimson’s twenty yards. And now it was Yale’s ball
on the second down, and the silence was so intense that the signal was
heard as plainly by the watchers at the far end of the field as by the
twenty-two stern-faced warriors who faced each other almost under the
shadow of the goal-posts.

“_Twelve, six, twelve, fifty-two!_”

And the backs, led by the guards, hurled their weight against Harvard’s
right tackle; and when the ball was found, Baker held it within a few
inches of the 10-yard line.

The cheers of Yale had now grown continuous; section after section
passed the slogan along. The stand across the field looked to Jimpson
like a field of waving blue gentians. On the Harvard seats the uproar
was less intense, and seemed a trifle forced; and the men near by were
breathing heavily, and restively creeping down the line.

Again the lines were formed. Jimpson could see the tall form of the
gallant Gates settle down into a hunchback, toad-like position to
receive the coming onslaught. Billings, the right tackle, was evidently
expecting another experience like the last. He looked nervous, and
Gates turned his head and spoke to him under cover of the first numbers
of the signal.

The guards were back of the line again, and their elbows almost brushed
as they stood between the half-backs. Silence reigned. The referee
skipped nimbly out of the way.

“_Seven, seventeen, eighty-one, thirty!_”

Again the weakening tackle was thrust aside, and although the Crimson
line held better, the ball was three yards nearer home when the
whistle blew, and Billings, somewhat dazed, had to call for a short
delay.

“First down again,” muttered a brawny sub at Jimpson’s elbow. “Why
doesn’t he take Billings out?”

Again the signal came. Again a jumbled mass of arms and legs for a
moment hid the result. Then the men on the stand overlooking the
goal-line arose _en masse_, and a mighty cheer traveled up the field,
growing in volume until Jimpson could not hear his own groans nor the
loud groans of a big sub. Back of the line, and almost equidistant of
the posts, lay the Yale full-back; and the ball was held tightly to
earth between outstretched hands. The prostrate players were slowly
gaining their feet; but Billings and Sills lay where they had fallen.
Then Brattle stepped toward the side line, holding up his hand. With a
leap Jimpson was on his feet. But the big chap beside him had already
pulled off his sweater, and now, tossing it into Jimpson’s face, he
sped gleefully toward the captain.

Jimpson sat down again in deep disappointment; and a moment later,
Billings, supported on either side, limped from the gridiron, amid the
cheers of the Harvard supporters. Sills was on his feet again, and the
trainer was talking to him. Jimpson could see the plucky fellow shaking
his head. Then, after a moment of indecision, the trainer left him, the
whistle sounded, the Crimson team lined up back of the line, and Kurtz
was poising the ball for a try at goal. The result was scarcely in
doubt, and the ball sailed cleanly between the posts, a good two feet
above the cross-bar; and the score-board said, “Harvard, 4; Yale, 6”;
and there were three minutes more of the half.

Back went the ball to the 55-yard line, and loud arose the cheers of
the triumphant friends of Yale. Gates kicked off, and Warner sent the
ball back again, with a gain of ten yards. Sills caught it and ran, but
was downed well inside Harvard territory, and the half ended with the
ball in Yale’s hands. Jimpson seized his blanket, and trotted after the
eleven to the quarters. He found Gates stripping for a rub-down.

“Well, my lad,” panted the latter, “could you discern from where you
were just what kind of a cyclone struck us?” But Jimpson was too much
interested for such levity.

“Do you think I’ll get in this half, Gates?”

“Can’t say. Take a look at Sills, and judge for yourself.”

That gentleman was having his lame back rubbed by a trainer, but he
appeared to Jimpson good for at least another quarter of an hour.

It seemed but a moment after they had reached the rooms that the word
of “Time’s up, fellows,” was passed, and renewed cheering from without
indorsed the fact. But a moment or two still remained, and that moment
belonged to Brattle. He stood on a bench and addressed the hearers very
quietly:

“We’re going to kick, this half, fellows. I want every man to get down
the field on the instant, without stopping to hold. I don’t think they
can keep us from scoring at least once more; but every man has got to
_work_. When the time comes to put the ball over the line, I expect it
to go over with a rush. Let every man play the best game he knows, but
_play together_. Remember that lack of teamwork has often defeated us.
And now, fellows, three times three for Harvard!”

And what a yell that was! Jimpson went purple in the face, and the head
coach cheered his spectacles off. And then out they all went on a trot,
big Gates doing a coltish handspring in mid-field, to the great delight
of the Crimson’s wearers. The college band played; thirty thousand
people said something all together; and then the great quadrangle was
silent, the whistle piped merrily, and the ball soared into air again.

Jimpson took up his position on the side-line once more, and watched
with envious heart the lucky players. For the great, overwhelming
desire of Jimpson’s soul was to be out there on the torn turf, doing
great deeds, and being trampled under foot. He watched the redoubtable
Sills as a cat watches a mouse. Every falter of that player brought
fresh hope to Jimpson. He would have liked to rise and make an
impassioned speech in the interests of humanity, protesting against
allowing a man in Sills’s condition to remain in the game. Jimpson’s
heart revolted at the cruelty of it.

Some such idea as this he had expressed to Gates, that morning; and the
big center had giggled in deep amusement; in fact, he had refused to
recognize the disinterested character of Jimpson’s protest.

“Don’t you think,” Jimpson had pleaded, “that I might ask Brattle to
give me a show in the second half?”

“No, I don’t,” Gates had answered bluntly. “You’re an unknown quantity,
my boy; as the Frenchies say, you haven’t ‘arrived.’ For a player who
hasn’t ‘arrived’ to try to give the captain points would be shocking
bad taste. That’s how it is. Sills is a good player. As long as he can
hold his head up, he’ll be allowed to play. When he’s laid out, Brattle
will give you a show. He can’t help himself; you’re the only chap that
he can trust in the position. And look here; when that time comes, just
you remember the signals, and _keep your eyes on the ball_. That’s all
you’ll have to do. Don’t take your eyes off the leather, even if the
sky falls!”

Jimpson remembered the conversation, and thought ruefully that it was
easy enough for a fellow who has everything that heart can desire
to spout good advice to chaps on the side-lines. Perhaps if Gates
were in his (Jimpson’s) place he’d not be any too patient himself.
The score-board said fifteen minutes to play. Sills still held up his
stubborn head, and Jimpson’s chances grew dimmer and dimmer as moments
sped.

Harvard’s kicking tactics had netted her long gains time and again, and
twice had she reached Yale’s 10-yard line, only to be grimly held and
hurled back. Yale, on the other hand, had only once reached scoring
distance of their opponent’s goal, and had been successfully held for
downs. Veterans of the game declared enthusiastically, between bets,
that it was “the snappiest game of the decade!” and supporters of
Harvard said among themselves that it was beautifully conducive to
heart-disease. Perhaps never had the two colleges turned out teams so
evenly balanced in both offense and defense. The bets had become “one
to two that Harvard doesn’t score again.”

Harvard’s quarter had given place to a substitute, and her left guard
had retired injured. Yale had fared no better, possibly worse, since
her crack full-back had been forced to yield to a somewhat inferior
sub. And now the hands on the score-board turned again, and only ten
minutes remained.

The ball was down near Harvard’s 40-yard line, and when it was snapped
back, Sills took it for a “round-the-end run.” But Yale’s big left
half-back was waiting for him, and the two went to earth together near
the side-line and almost at Jimpson’s feet. And then it was that that
youth’s heart did queer feats inside him, and seemed trying to get out.
For Sills lay a while where he had fallen, and when he could walk the
doctor had sent him from the field. Brattle beckoned to Jimpson. With
trembling fingers Jimpson struggled with his sweater; but had not a
neighbor come to his assistance, he would never have wriggled out of it
before the game was called.

Brattle met him, and, laying an arm over his shoulder, walked him a few
paces apart. Jimpson’s heart, which had become more normal in action,
threatened another invasion of his throat, and he wondered if everybody
was looking on. Then he stopped speculating, and listened to what the
captain was saying.

“We’ve only eight minutes to play. The ball has _got_ to go over,
Jimpson. I’ve seen you run, and I believe you can make it if you try.
The ball is yours on the second down. Try the right end; don’t be
afraid of swinging out into the field. Whatever you do, don’t let go of
the ball. If Turner puts you through the line, keep your head down, but
jump high. Now, go in, and let’s see what you can do.” He gave Jimpson
an encouraging slap on the back that almost precipitated that youth
into the quarter, and Jimpson saw the broad backs before him settling
down, and heard the labored breathing of the men.

“_Ninety-one, twenty-eight, seventy-three, sixty-four--six!_”

Jimpson suddenly found himself pushing the left half-back against a
surging wall of tattered blue. Then some one seized him about the
waist, and he picked himself up from the ground eight feet away from
the scene of battle.

“That’s what comes of being so small and light,” he growled to himself,
as he trotted back. But the thirst of battle was in Jimpson’s soul,
and he marked the Yale end who had treated him so contemptuously.

The try between right tackle and end had netted a bare yard, and
Jimpson tried to look self-possessed while his back was running with
little chills and his throat was dry as dust. The next chance was his,
and he waited the signal anxiously, to learn whether the pass was
direct or double. The other half-back imperceptibly dropped back a
foot. The quarter looked around. The lines swayed and heaved.

“_Twenty-seven, sixty-three, forty-five, seventy-two--five!_”

Jimpson leaped forward; the left half-back darted across him, the
quarter passed neatly, and, with the Harvard left end beside him, he
was sweeping down to the right and into the field. The Yale end went
down before the mighty Cowper; and Jimpson, sighting a clear space,
sped through. He could feel the field trailing after him, and could
hear the sounds of the falling men. Before him in the distance, a
little to the left, came the Yale full-back. Almost upon him was the
Yale left half, looking big and ugly. But, with a final spurt, Van
Brandt ran even, and gave the shoulder to the enemy; and as they went
down together, Jimpson leaped free, and, running on, knew that at last
he was left to shift for himself. Of the foes behind he had no fear; of
the full-back running cautiously down on him he feared everything. But
he clutched the ball tighter, and raced on straight as an arrow toward
the only player between him and the goal that loomed so far down the
field.

He heard now the mighty sound of voices cheering him on, saw without
looking the crowded stands to the right; and then something whispered
of danger from behind, and, scarcely daring to do so, lest he trip and
fall, glanced hurriedly over his shoulder into the staring eyes of a
runner. And now he could hear the other’s short, labored gasps. Before
him but a scant ten yards was the full-back. Jimpson’s mind was made
up on the instant. Easing his pace the least bit, he swung abruptly to
the left. He well knew the risk he ran, but he judged himself capable
of making up the lost ground. As he had thought, the pursuer was
little expecting such a deliberate divergence from the course, and,
as a result, he overran, and then turned clumsily, striking for a
point between Jimpson and the left goal-post. The full-back had noted
the change, of course, on the instant, and was now running for about
the same intersecting point as the other. The three runners formed a
triangle. For the moment the pursuer was out of reckoning, and Jimpson
could give all his skill to eluding the full-back, who faced him, ready
for a tackle.

And here Jimpson’s lighter weight stood him in good stead. Clutching
the ball tightly, he made a feint to the left, and then flung himself
quickly to the right. As he did so he spun around. The full-back’s hand
reached his canvas jacket, slipped, and found a slight hold upon his
trousers; and Jimpson, scarcely recovered from his turn, fell on one
knee, the full-back also falling in his effort to hold. At that moment
the pursuer reached the spot, and sprang toward Jimpson.

The shouts had ceased, and thirty thousand persons were holding their
breath. The next moment a shout of triumph went up, and Jimpson was
speeding on toward the Yale goal. For as the last man had thrown
himself forward, Jimpson had struggled to his feet, the full-back
following, and the two Yale men had crashed together with a shock that
left the full-back prostrate upon the turf. The other had regained
himself quickly, and taken up the pursuit; but Jimpson was already
almost ten yards to the good, and, although his breath was coming in
short, painful gasps, and the white lines seemed rods apart, the goal
became nearer and nearer. But the blue-stockinged runner was not done,
and the cries of the Crimson well-wishers were stilled as the little
space between the two runners grew perceptibly less.

Jimpson, with his eyes fixed in agony upon the last white line under
the goal-posts, struggled on. One ankle had been wrenched in his rapid
turn, and it pained frightfully as it took the ground. He could hear
the steps of the pursuing foe almost at his heels, and, try as he
might, he could not cover the ground any faster. His brain reeled, and
he thought each moment that he must fall.

But the thought of what that touch-down meant, and the recollection of
the captain’s words, nerved him afresh. The goal-line was plain before
him now; ten yards only remained. The air was filled with cheers; but
to Jimpson everything save that little white line and the sound of the
pounding steps behind him was obliterated.

Success seemed assured, when a touch on his shoulder made the landscape
reel before his eyes. It was not a clutch--just fingers grasping at his
smooth jacket, unable as yet to find a hold.

The last white line but one passed haltingly, slowly, under his feet.
The fingers traveled upward, and suddenly a firm grasp settled upon
his shoulder. He tried to swing free, faltered, stumbled, recovered
himself with a last supreme effort, and, holding the ball at arm’s
length, threw himself forward, face down. And as the enemy crashed upon
him, Jimpson tried hard to gasp “Down!” but found he couldn’t, and
then--didn’t care at all.

When he came to he found a crowd of players about him. Faces almost
strange to him were smiling, and the captain was holding his head. His
right foot pained frantically, and the doctor and rubbers were busy
over him.

“Was it--was it over?” he asked weakly.

“Easy, old chap--with an inch to spare,” replied the lips above.
“Listen!”

Jimpson tried to raise his head, but it felt so funny that he gave up
the effort. But, despite the woolen sweater bunched up for a pillow, he
heard a deep roar that sounded like the breakers on the beach at home.
Then he smiled, and fainted once more.

But the score-board had changed its figures again: Harvard, 8; Yale, 6.
Touch-down. Harvard’s ball. 3 minutes to play.

And the deep, exultant roar went on, resolving itself into “H-a-r-vard!
H-a-r-vard!”

The band was playing Washington Post. Harvard Square was bright under
a lurid glow of red fire. Cheering humanity was packed tight from the
street to the balustrade of Matthews, and from there up and across
the yard. Cannon crackers punctuated the blare of noise with sharp
detonations. The college was out in full force to welcome home the
football heroes, and staid and prim old Cambridge lent her quota to the
throng. From the back of Grays the cheering grew louder, and the crowd
surged toward the avenue. The band broke ranks and skeltered after. A
four-horse barge drew up slowly at the curb, and, one after another,
the men dropped out, tightly clutching their bags, and strove to slip
away through the throng. But each was eventually captured, his luggage
confiscated, and himself raised to the shoulders of riotous admirers.
When all were out and up, the band started the strains of Fair Harvard,
and thousands of voices joined in. The procession moved. Jimpson, proud
and happy and somewhat embarrassed, was well up in the line. When the
corner was turned and the yard reached the roar increased in volume.
Cheers for the eleven, for Harvard, for Brattle, were filling the air.
And then suddenly Jimpson’s heart leaped at the sound of his own name
from thousands of throats.

“Now, fellows, three long Harvards, and three times three for Jimpson!”
In the roar that followed Jimpson addressed his bearers.

“Won’t you please let me go now? I--I’m not feeling very well, and--and
I’m only a sub, you know.”

The plea of illness moved his captors, and Jimpson was dropped to
earth, and his valise restored. There was no notice taken of him as he
slipped stealthfully through the outskirts of the throng, and as he
reached the corner of Holden Chapel he paused and listened.

To the dark heavens arose a prolonged, impatient demand from thousands
of Harvard throats. The listener heard, and then fled toward the dark
building across the street, and, reaching his room, locked the door
behind him. But still he could hear the cries, loudly and impatiently
repeated: “We--want--Jimp-son! We--want--Jimp-son! Jimp-son!”

BARCLAY’S BONFIRE

Copyright, 1898, by THE YOUTH’S COMPANION. All rights reserved.

Cobb, 1901, assistant editor of the Daily Quarmazi, left the office,
crossed the road and entered the college yard by the simple expedient
of placing one hand on the fence and vaulting over upon the forbidden
grass. Cobb had a Latin book under one arm--for even if one labors on
a college paper to mold undergraduate opinion, he is not exempt from a
certain amount of class attendance--and carried an open letter in his
hand. His round, good-natured face wore a broad grin; and whenever he
looked at the letter the grin increased.

He entered the first entrance to Grays Hall, bounded up two flights of
narrow stairway, and pounded at a door. An invitation to enter came
faintly through two thicknesses of oak, and Cobb confronted the single
occupant of the room.

“How are you, Barclay? Thanks, no, can’t stop! Just dropped ’round
to leave this with you. Got it in this morning’s mail at the office.
Said to myself, ‘Just one man in college who’ll take interest in this;
that’s Barclay.’ So I brought it to you. Might answer it, eh? Good
idea, seems to me. Hope you’ll be able to do something about it. ’Bye!”
And Cobb, grinning like a jovial satyr, was gone.

Barclay, ’99, laid his pen aside with slow deliberateness, marked his
place in the big Greek lexicon beside him, and took up the letter. It
was addressed to the editor of the Quarmazi, and was signed “Hiram G.
Larkin, Yale, ’99.” The writer asked to be put in communication with
some student in the rival college who was interested in checkers. He
dwelt enthusiastically on the formation of a dual checker league. He
pointed out the fact that although chess, whist and other games of
skill and science were recognized and participated in each year by
teams representing the two universities, the noble game of checkers had
been hitherto wofully neglected. He suggested that teams be formed
at each university, and that a tournament be played to decide the
championship.

When Barclay laid aside the letter, his long and ascetic face held
an expression of enthusiastic delight. The one dissipation and hobby
of Barclay’s studious existence was checkers. He held a college-wide
reputation as a “grind” of the most pronounced type. Barclay did not
look down on the usual pleasures and frolics of the undergraduate;
they simply had for him no appeal. He had nothing against football or
baseball or track athletics; but he felt no enthusiasm for any of them.

Of course he was always glad when the college teams won; he was
“patriotic” to a high degree, and sometimes, when the bonfires burned
and the students cheered and sang, he acknowledged a wish, lying deep
down in his heart, that he, too, might be able to derive pleasurable
emotions from such celebrations. Barclay, in short, loved Xenophanes
and Xenophon; and next to them, checkers.

Before he went to bed that night he answered the Yale man’s letter;
indorsed the project voluminously; pledged immediate cooperation, and
remained fraternally his, Simonides P. Barclay.

I have no intention of specifying in detail the steps which resulted
in the formation of the Intercollegiate Checkers Association. Barclay
and Larkin wrote to each other at least every other day, and at the end
of three weeks the matter was settled--not, perhaps, just as they had
hoped for. Barclay had labored heroically to find a membership for the
Checkers Club, but without avail. None wanted to join. Many scoffed,
and instead of enthusiasm, he awakened only ridicule. And the Yale man
reported like results. So when the rival teams met in a private room in
Young’s Hotel one December day, they consisted of just Larkin, Yale,
’99, and Barclay.

The tournament was held behind tightly closed doors; consequently I am
unable to report the play for the reader’s benefit. Enough that deep
silence and undoubted skill held sway until dusk, at which time the
two teams passed into the dining-hall and ate a dinner, at which much
good feeling was displayed by both, and at which the day’s play was
rehearsed scientifically, from oysters to coffee. The teams then shook
hands and parted at the entrance.

Barclay boarded a car and returned to college, filled with overwhelming
triumph. He had won three out of the seven games and drawn two. The
checkers championship rested with Harvard!

Such a spirit of jubilation possessed Barclay that when he reached
his unadorned room and had changed his gold-rimmed glasses for his
reading spectacles, he found that Greek for once did not satisfy. He
tried light reading in the form of a monograph on the origin of Greek
drama, but even then his attention wandered continually. He laid down
the book, wiped his glasses thoughtfully and frowned at the green
lamp-shade. Plainly something was wrong; but what? He pondered deeply
for several minutes. Then his brow cleared, and he settled his “specs”
over his lean nose again; he had found the trouble.

“The victory,” said Barclay, soberly, to the lamp-shade, “demands a
celebration!”

The more he thought of it the more evident it appeared that the day’s
triumph over the Yale Checkers Club deserved some sort of a public
jubilee. He might, considered Barclay, put his head out of the window
and cheer. But he wasn’t sure that he knew how. Or he might shoot off a
revolver--if he had one. Or he might start a bonfire--ah, that was it;
a bonfire! The idea appealed strongly to him; and he remembered that as
a boy on a New Hampshire farm bonfires had ever moved him strangely.

He arose and thrust his feet into a pair of immense overshoes, tied
a muffler about his long neck, donned his worn ulster, turned down
the lamp, and passed out of the room. Yes, he would celebrate with a
bonfire. A victory over Yale at checkers was quite as important in
Barclay’s estimation as a triumph over the blue-stockinged football
warriors.

Fifteen minutes later a window at the upper end of the college yard was
slammed open, and a voice bawled into the frosty night:

“Heads out! All heads out!”

Then up and down the quadrangle, casements were raised and broad beams
of light glowed out into the gloom, while dozens of other voices
passed on the slogan:

“Heads out, fellows! Heads out!”

“What’s up?” cried a thin voice from an upper window of Thayer.

“Bonfire in front of University!” was the answer.

“Bonfire in the yard! All heads out!” sped the cry.

“Everybody get wood!” shouted a voice from Weld.

“Everybody get wood!” shouted half a hundred other voices.

Then windows were shut and eager youths clattered down-stairs and
into the yard, and suddenly the quiet night had become a pandemonium.
In front of University Hall a lone figure fed, with shingles and odd
bits of wood, a small bonfire, which cast its wan glow against the
white front of the sober pile, as if dismayed at its own temerity. For
bonfires in the yard are strictly forbidden, and it was many years
before that the last one had sent its sparks up in front of University.
Barclay knew this, and welcomed the danger of probation or dismissal as
adding an appropriate touch of the grand and heroic to his celebration.

“Everybody get wood!” “What’s it for?” “’Rah for the bonfire!” “Who’s
doing it?” “Wood, wood, get wood, fellows!”

One of the first to reach the scene was Cobb, 1901. A dozen others were
close behind him.

“Hello, what’s up? What we celebrating?” he asked breathlessly; then
he caught a glimpse of the thin, bespectacled visage of Barclay, and
gasped, “Why, why, it’s old Barclay!”

“’Rah for Barclay, old grind!” shouted another. “He’s the stuff!
Everybody get wood!”

At that moment a worn-out hen-coop arrived suddenly on the scene, and a
shower of sparks told that the fire was gaining courage.

“But, say, old man, what’s it all about?” asked Cobb.

“We are celebrating a victory over Yale,” answered Barclay, soberly,
as he adjusted a plank with his foot. There was no undue excitement
exhibited by this tall figure in the long ulster, but underneath
his calm the blood raced madly through his veins, and a strange and
well-nigh uncontrollable joy possessed him as the flames leaped higher
and higher. He stooped and picked a brand from the edge of the fire.
He waved it thrice about his head, sending the flaring sparks over the
ever-increasing crowd.

“Hooray!” he yelled, in queer, uncanny tones.

“’Rah, ’rah, ’rah!” answered the throng. “Everybody get wood!”

“But what’d we do to ’em?” asked Cobb, wonderingly. “What was the
victory?”

“Won the checker championship!” answered Barclay, proudly.

A roar of laughter went up; fellows fell on their neighbors’ necks and
giggled hysterically; a football man sat down in the fire and had to be
rescued by his friends; Cobb hugged Barclay and patted him on the back.

“Good old Barclay!” he gurgled. “Oh, good old Barclay! Won the checker
champ--champ--champ--oh, dear, oh, dear! Somebody hit me before
I--I----”

“More wood!” bawled some one. “’Rah for Barclay, the champion
checkerist! Everybody cheer for Barclay!”

And everybody did, many, many times. More wood leaped from out the
darkness and fell upon the flaming heap, which now rose to the fellows’
shoulders and crackled right merrily. The vicinity of the bonfire was
black with yelling, laughing students; and every moment their number
grew, as the light was seen at distant dormitories or the shouting was
heard across the avenue.

“Speech!” cried the throng. “Speech! Speech!” And Barclay was quickly
elevated to the shoulders of Cobb and another, and from there spoke
feelingly of the inception and growth of the Checkers Club; of the
tournament and of the victory. Very few heard all that speech, for it
was cheered incessantly; and those at the edge of the crowd yelled:
“Who’s the fellow that’s talking?” “What’d he do?” “It’s Dewey!” “No,
it’s----”

At that moment some one started a song, and by common impulse the
students formed in line and began the circuit of the yard, Barclay,
on the shoulders of the two riotous friends, leading the procession.
Thrice around they went, singing the college songs, cheering on every
provocation, clasping arms and swinging ecstatically from side to side
and raising such an uproar as the old college had not often heard.

“The most gorgeous bonfire since we won the boat-race!” panted a
senior, at the end of the parade. “And the biggest celebration; but I’d
like jolly well to know what it’s for!”

“Join hands!” was the cry, and soon three great rings of dancing,
striding youths were circling the fire, their fantastic shadows leaping
grotesquely across the front of the buildings. And just when the frolic
was at its height, and the fire was crackling more joyously than ever;
just when the quiet winter stars were hearkening for the fiftieth time
to the hoarse cheers in honor of Barclay, the dean and three professors
walked into the circle of radiance, and the throng melted as if by
magic, until Barclay, spectacleless, hatless, but exultant, was left
standing alone by his bonfire.

“Ah, Mr. Barclay,” said the dean, pleasantly, “will you kindly call on
me to-morrow?”

“I think we will let the matter drop,” said the dean next day, hiding
a smile under an affected frown, “if you will promise, Mr. Barclay, to
indulge yourself in no more--ah--” the dean’s voice failed him, and
he swallowed spasmodically twice before he found it again--“no more
celebrations of victory.”

And Barclay, very remorseful and chastened this morning, promised, and
hurried off to his beloved Greek.

Both Barclay and the Yale Checkers Club graduated from their respective
universities the following spring, and consequently the Intercollegiate
Checkers Association died. But although gone, it is not forgotten; and
“Barclay’s bonfire” is still spoken of as “the most gorgeous thing that
ever happened.”

MARTY BROWN--MASCOT

Copyright, 1898, by THE CENTURY CO. All rights reserved.

Martin--more familiarly “Marty”--Brown’s connection with the Summerville
Baseball Club had begun the previous spring, when, during a hotly
contested game with the High School nine, Bob Ayer, Summerville’s
captain, watching his men go down like nine-pins before the puzzling
curves of the rival pitcher, found himself addressed by a small
snub-nosed, freckle-faced youth with very bright blue eyes and very
dusty bare feet:

“Want me ter look after yer bats?”

“No.”

“All right,” was the cheerful response.

The umpire called two strikes on the batsman, and Bob muttered his
anger.

“I don’t want nothin’ fer it,” announced the boy beside him,
insinuatingly, digging a hole in the turf with one bare toe.

Bob turned, glad of something to vent his wrath upon. “No! Get out of
here!” he snarled.

“All right,” was the imperturbable answer.

Then the side was out, and Bob trotted to first base. That half inning,
the last of the seventh, was a tragedy for the town nine, for the High
School piled three runs more on their already respectable lead, and
when Bob came in he had well-defined visions of defeat. It was his turn
at the bat. When he went to select his stick he was surprised to find
the barefooted, freckle-faced youth in calm possession.

“What--?” he began angrily.

Marty leaped up and held out a bat. Bob took it, astonished to find
that it was his own pet “wagon-tongue,” and strode off to the plate,
too surprised for words. Two minutes later, he was streaking toward
first base on a safe hit to center field. An error gave him second, and
the dwindling hopes of Summerville began to rise again. The fellows
found the High School pitcher and fairly batted him off his feet, and
when the side went out it had added six runs to its tally, and lacked
but one of being even with its opponent. Meanwhile Marty rescued
the bats thrown aside, and arranged them neatly, presiding over them
gravely, and showing a marvelous knowledge of each batsman’s wants.

Summerville won that game by two runs, and Bob Ayer was the first to
declare, with conviction, that it was all owing to Marty. The luck had
changed, he said, as soon as the snub-nosed boy had taken charge of the
club’s property.

Every one saw the reasonableness of the assertion, and Marty was
thereupon adopted as the official mascot and general factotum of the
Summerville Baseball Club. Since then none had disputed Marty’s right
to that position, and he had served tirelessly, proudly, mourning the
defeats and glorying in the victories as sincerely as Bob Ayer himself.

Marty went to the grammar-school “when it kept,” and in the summer
became a wage-earner to the best of his ability, holding insecure
positions with several grocery and butcher stores as messenger and
“special delivery.” But always on Saturday afternoons he was to be
found squatting over the bats at the ball-ground; he never allowed
the desire for money to interfere with his sacred duty as mascot and
custodian of club property. Every one liked Marty, and he was as
much a part of the Summerville Baseball Club as if one of the nine.
His rewards consisted chiefly of discarded bats and balls; but he
was well satisfied: it was a labor of love with him, and it is quite
probable that, had he been offered a salary in payment of the services
he rendered, he would have indignantly refused it. For the rest, he
was fifteen years old, was not particularly large for his age, still
retained the big brown freckles and the snub nose, had lively and
honest blue eyes, and, despite the fact that his mother eked out a
scanty living by washing clothes for the well-to-do of the town, had
a fair idea of his own importance, without, however, risking his
popularity by becoming too familiar. The bare feet were covered now by
a pair of run-down and very dusty shoes, and his blue calico shirt and
well-patched trousers were always clean and neat. On his brown hair
rested, far back, a blue-and-white baseball cap adorned with a big S,
the gift of Bob Ayer, and Marty’s only badge of office.

To-day Marty had a grievance. He sat on a big packing-box in front of
Castor’s Cash Grocery and kicked his heels softly against its side.
Around him the air was heavy with the odor of burning paper and punk,
and every instant the sharp sputter of fire-crackers broke upon his
reverie. It was the Fourth of July and almost noon. It was very hot,
too. But it was not that which was troubling Marty. His grief sprung
from the fact that, in just twenty minutes by the town-hall clock up
there, the Summerville Baseball Club, supported by a large part of the
town’s younger population, would take the noon train for Vulcan to play
its annual game with the nine of that city; and it would go, Marty
bitterly reflected, without its mascot.

Vulcan was a good way off--as Marty viewed distance--and the fare for
the round trip was $1.40, just $1.28 more than Marty possessed. He had
hinted to Bob Ayer and to “Herb” Webster, the club’s manager, the real
need of taking him along--had even been gloomy and foretold a harrowing
defeat for their nine in the event of his absence from the scene. But
Summerville’s finances were at low ebb, and, owing to the sickness of
one good player and the absence of another, her hopes of capturing the
one-hundred-dollar purse which was yearly put up by the citizens of the
rival towns were but slight. So Marty was to be left behind. And that
was why Marty sat on the packing-case and grieved, refusing to join in
the lively sport of his friends who, farther up the street, were firing
off a small brass cannon in front of Hurlbert’s hardware store.

Already, by ones and twos, the Vulcan-bound citizens were toiling
through the hot sun toward the station. Marty watched them, and scowled
darkly. For the time he was a radical socialist, and railed silently at
the unjust manner in which riches are distributed. Presently a group
of five fellows, whose ages varied from seventeen to twenty-one, came
into sight upon the main street. They wore gray uniforms, with blue and
white stockings and caps of the same hues, and on their breasts were
big blue S’s. Two of them carried, swung between them, a long leather
bag containing Marty’s charge, the club’s bats. The players spied the
boy on the box, and hailed him from across the street. Marty’s reply
was low-toned and despondent. But after they had turned the corner
toward the station, he settled his cap firmly on his head and, sliding
off the box, hurried after them.

The station platform was well filled when he gained it. Bob Ayer was
talking excitedly to Joe Sleeper, and Marty, listening from a distance,
gathered that Magee, the Summerville center-fielder, had not put in his
appearance.

“If he fails us,” Bob was saying anxiously, “it’s all up before we
start. We’re crippled already. Has any one seen him?”

None had, and Bob, looking more worried than before, strode off through
the crowd to seek for news. Of course, Marty told himself, he didn’t
want Summerville to lose, but, just the same, if they did, it would
serve them right for not taking him along. A long whistle in the
distance sounded, and Bob came back, shaking his head in despair.

“Not here,” he said.

A murmur of dismay went up from the group, and Marty slid off the
baggage-truck and approached the captain.

“Say, let me go along, won’t yer, Bob?”

Bob turned, and, seeing Marty’s eager face, forgot his worry for the
moment, and asked kindly: “Can you buy your ticket?”

“No.” Marty clenched his hands and looked desperately from one to
another of the group. The train was thundering down the track beside
the platform. “But you fellows might buy me one. And I’d pay yer back,
honest!”

“Say, Bob, let’s take him,” said Hamilton. “Goodness knows, if we ever
needed a mascot, we need one to-day! Here, I’ll chip in a quarter.”

“So’ll I,” said Sleeper. “Marty ought to go along; that’s a fact.”

“Here’s another.” “You pay for me, Dick, and I’ll settle with you when
we get back.” “I’ll give a quarter, too.”

“All aboard!” shouted the conductor.

“All right, Marty; jump on,” cried Bob. “We’ll find the money--though I
don’t know where your dinner’s coming from!”

Marty was up the car-steps before Bob had finished speaking, and was
hauling the long bag from Wolcott with eager hands. Then they trooped
into the smoking-car, since the day-coaches were already full, and
Marty sat down on the stiff leather seat and stood the bag beside him.
The train pulled out of the little station, and Marty’s gloom gave
place to radiant joy.

The journey to Vulcan occupied three-quarters of an hour, during
which time Bob and the other eight groaned over the absence of Magee
and Curtis and Goodman, predicted defeat in one breath and hoped
for victory in the next, and rearranged the batting list in eleven
different ways before they were at last satisfied. Marty meanwhile,
with his scuffed shoes resting on the opposite seat, one brown hand
laid importantly upon the leather bag and his face wreathed in smiles,
kept his blue eyes fixedly upon the summer landscape that slid by the
open window. It was his first railway trip of any length, and it was
very wonderful and exciting. Even the knowledge that defeat was the
probable fate ahead of the expedition failed to more than tinge his
pleasure with regret.

At Vulcan the train ran under a long iron-roofed structure, noisy
with the puffing of engines, the voices of the many that thronged the
platforms, and the clanging of a brazen gong announcing dinner in the
station restaurant. Marty was awed but delighted. He carried one end
of the big bag across the street to the hotel, his eager eyes staring
hither and thither in wide amaze. Vulcan boasted of a big bridge-works
and steel-mills, and put on many of the airs of a larger city. Bob told
Marty that they had arranged for his dinner in the hotel dining-room,
but the latter demurred on the score of expense.

“Yer see, I want ter pay yer back, Bob, and so I guess I don’t want ter
go seventy-five cents fer dinner. Why, that’s more’n what three dinners
costs us at home. I’ll just go out and get a bit of lunch, I guess.
Would yer lend me ten cents?”

Marty enjoyed himself thoroughly during the succeeding half-hour:
He bought a five-cent bag of peanuts and three bananas, and aided
digestion by strolling about the streets while he consumed them, at
last finding his way to the first of the wonderful steel-mills and
wandering about freely among the bewildering cranes, rollers, and other
ponderous machines. He wished it was not the Fourth of July; he would
like to have seen things at work. Finally, red-faced and perspiring, he
hurried back to the hotel and entered a coach with the others, and was
driven through the city to the ball-ground. This had a high board fence
about it, and long tiers of seats half encircling the field. There
were lots of persons there, and others were arriving every minute.
Marty followed the nine into a little dressing-room built under the
grand stand, and presently followed them out again to a bench in the
shade just to the left of the home plate. Here he unstrapped his bag
and arranged the bats on the ground, examining them carefully, greatly
impressed with his own importance.

The Vulcans, who had been practising on the diamond, trotted in, and
Bob and the others took their places. The home team wore gray costumes
with maroon stockings and caps, and the big V that adorned the shirts
was also maroon. Many of them were workers in the steel-mills, and to
Marty they seemed rather older than the Summervilles. Then the umpire,
a very small man in a snuff-colored alpaca coat and cap, made his
appearance, and the men at practise came in. The umpire tossed a coin
between Bob and the Vulcans’ captain, and Bob won with “heads!” and led
his players into the field. A lot of men just back of Marty began to
cheer for the home team as Vulcan’s first man went to bat.

It were sorry work to write in detail of the disastrous first
seven innings of that game. Summerville’s hope of taking the
one-hundred-dollar purse home with them languished and dwindled, and
finally faded quite away when, in the first half of the seventh inning,
Vulcan found Warner’s delivery and batted the ball into every quarter
of the field, and ran their score up to twelve. Summerville went to bat
in the last half plainly discouraged. Oliver struck out. Hamilton hit
to second base and was thrown out. Pickering got first on balls, but
“died” there on a well-fielded fly of Warner’s.

Vulcan’s citizens yelled delightedly from grand stand and bleachers.
Summerville had given a stinging defeat to their nine the year before
at the rival town, and this revenge was glorious. They shouted gibes
that made Marty’s cheeks flush and caused him to double his fists
wrathfully and wish that he were big enough to “lick somebody”; and
they groaned dismally as one after another of the blue-and-white
players went down before Baker’s superb pitching. Summerville’s little
band of supporters worked valiantly against overwhelming odds to make
their voices heard, but their applause was but a drop in that sea of
noise.

The eighth inning began with the score 12 to 5, and Stevens, captain
and third-baseman of the Vulcans, went to bat with a smile of easy
confidence upon his face. He led off with a neat base-hit past
short-stop. The next man, Storrs, their clever catcher, found Warner’s
first ball, and sent it twirling skyward in the direction of left
field. Webster was under it, but threw it in badly, and Stevens got
to third. The next batsman waited coolly and took his base on balls.
Warner was badly rattled, and had there been any one to put in his
place he would have been taken out. But Curtis, the substitute
pitcher, was ill in bed at Summerville, and helpless Bob Ayer ground
his teeth and watched defeat overwhelm him. With a man on third,
another on first, and but one out, things again looked desperate.

Warner, pale of face, wrapped his long fingers about the ball and faced
the next batsman. The coaches kept up a volley of disconcerting advice
to the runners, most of it intended for the pitcher’s ear, however.
On Warner’s first delivery the man on first went leisurely to second,
well aware that the Summerville catcher would not dare to throw lest
the runner on third should score. With one strike against him and three
balls, the man at bat struck at a rather deceptive drop and started for
first. The ball shot straight at Warner, hot off the bat. The pitcher
found it, but fumbled. Regaining it quickly, he threw to the home
plate, and the Vulcan captain speedily retraced his steps to third. But
the batsman was safe at first, and so the three bases were full.

“Home run! Home run, O’Brien!” shrieked the throng as the next man, a
red-haired little youth, gripped his stick firmly. O’Brien was quite
evidently a favorite as well as a good player. Warner and Oliver,
Summerville’s catcher, met and held a whispered consultation to the
accompaniment of loud ridicule from the audience. Then the battery took
their places.

“Play for the plate,” cried Bob at first base.

Warner’s first delivery was a wide throw that almost passed the
catcher. “Ball!” droned the umpire. The men on bases were playing
far off, and intense excitement reigned. On the next delivery Warner
steadied himself and got a strike over the plate. A shout of applause
from the plucky Summerville spectators shattered the silence. Another
strike; again the applause. O’Brien gripped his bat anew and looked
surprised and a little uneasy.

“He can’t do it again, O’Brien!” shrieked an excited admirer in the
grand stand.

But O’Brien didn’t wait to see. He found the next delivery and sent
it whizzing, a red-hot liner, toward second. Pandemonium broke loose.
Sleeper, Summerville’s second-baseman, ran forward and got the ball
head high, glanced quickly aside, saw the runner from first speeding
by, lunged forward, tagged him, and then threw fiercely, desperately
home. The sphere shot like a cannonball into Oliver’s outstretched
hands, there was a cloud of yellow dust as Stevens slid for the home
plate, and then the umpire’s voice droned: “Out, here!”

Summerville, grinning to a man, trotted in, and the little handful of
supporters yelled themselves hoarse and danced ecstatically about. Even
the Vulcan enthusiasts must applaud the play, though a bit grudgingly.
For the first time in many innings, Marty, squatting beside the bats,
drew a big scrawling 0 in the tally which he was keeping on the ground,
with the aid of a splinter.

It was the last half of the eighth inning, and Bob Ayer’s turn at the
bat. Marty found his especial stick, and uttered an incantation beneath
his breath as he held it out.

“We’re going to win, Bob,” he whispered.

Bob took the bat, shaking his head.

“I’m afraid you don’t work as a mascot to-day, Marty,” he answered
smilingly. But Marty noticed that there was a look of resolution in the
captain’s face as he walked toward the box, and took heart.

Summerville’s admirers greeted Bob’s appearance with a burst of
applause, and Vulcan’s captain motioned the field to play farther out.
Vulcan’s pitcher tossed his arms above his head, lifted his right foot
into the air, and shot the ball forward. There was a sharp _crack_,
and the sphere was sailing straight and low toward center field. Bob
touched first and sped on to second. Center field and left field, each
intent upon the ball, discovered each other’s presence only when they
were a scant four yards apart. Both paused--and the ball fell to earth!
Bob, watching, flew toward third. It was a close shave, but he reached
it ahead of the ball in a cloud of dust, and, rising, shook himself
in the manner of a dog after a bath. Summerville’s supporters were
again on their feet, and their shouts were extraordinary in volume,
considering their numbers. Vulcan’s citizens, after a first burst of
anger and dismay, had fallen into chilling silence. Marty hugged
himself, and nervously picked out Howe’s bat.

The latter, Summerville’s short-stop and a mere boy of seventeen, was
only an ordinary batsman, and Marty looked to see him strike out. But
instead, after waiting with admirable nerve while ball after ball
shot by him, he tossed aside his stick and trotted to first base on
balls, amid the howls of the visitors. Summerville’s first run for four
innings was scored a moment later when Bob stole home on a passed ball.

Summerville’s star seemed once more in the ascendant. Howe was now
sitting contentedly on second base. “Herb” Webster gripped his bat
firmly and faced the pitcher. The latter, for the first time during the
game, was rattled. Bob, standing back of third, coached Howe with an
incessant roar:

“On your toes! Get off! Get off! Come on, now! Come on! He won’t throw!
Come on, come on! That’s right! That’s the way! _Now! Wh-o-o-a!_ Easy!
Look out! Try it again, now!”

Baker received the ball back from second, and again faced the batsman.
But he was worried, and proved it by his first delivery. The ball went
far to the right of the catcher, and Howe reached third base without
hurrying. When Baker again had the ball, he scowled angrily, made a
feint of throwing to third, and, turning rapidly, pitched. The ball
was a swift one and wild, and Webster drew back, then ducked. The next
instant he was lying on the ground, and a cry of dismay arose. The
sphere had hit him just under the ear. He lay there unconscious, his
left hand still clutching his bat, his face white under its coat of
tan. Willing hands quickly lifted him into the dressing-room, and a
doctor hurried from the grand stand. Bob, who had helped carry him off
the field, came out after a few minutes and went to the bench.

“He’s all right now,” he announced. “That is, he’s not dangerously
hurt, you know. But he won’t be able to play again to-day. Doctor says
he’d better go to the hotel, and we’ve sent for a carriage. I wish to
goodness I knew where to find a fellow to take his place! Think of our
coming here without a blessed substitute to our name! I wish I had
Magee for a minute; if I wouldn’t show him a thing or two! Warner,
you’d better take poor Webster’s place as runner; I’ll tell the umpire.”

In another moment the game had begun again, Warner having taken the
place of the injured left-fielder at first base, and Sleeper having
gone to bat. Vulcan’s pitcher was pale and his hands shook as he once
more began his work; the injury to Webster had totally unnerved him.
The immediate result was that Sleeper knocked a two-bagger that brought
Howe home, placed Warner on third and himself on second; and the
ultimate result was that five minutes later, when Oliver fouled out to
Vulcan’s third-baseman, Sleeper and Wolcott had also scored, and the
game stood 12 to 9.

Bob Ayer meanwhile had searched unsuccessfully for a player to take the
injured Webster’s place, and had just concluded to apply to Vulcan’s
captain for one of his substitutes, when he turned to find Marty at his
side.

“Are yer lookin’ fer a feller to play left field?”

“Yes,” answered Bob, eagerly. “Do you know of any one?”

Marty nodded.

“Who?”

“Me.”

Bob stared in surprise, but Marty looked back without flinching. “I
can play, Bob; not like you, of course, but pretty well. And, besides,
there ain’t no one else, is there? Give me a show, will yer?”

Bob’s surprise had given place to deep thought. “Why not?” he asked
himself. Of course Marty could play ball; what Summerville boy
couldn’t, to some extent? And, besides, as Marty said, there was no one
else. Bob had seen Marty play a little while the nine was practising,
and, so far as he knew, Marty was a better player than any of the
Summerville boys who had come with the nine and now sat on the grand
stand. The other alternative did not appeal to him: his pride revolted
at begging a player from the rival club. He turned and strode to the
bench, and Marty eagerly watched him conferring with the others. In a
moment he turned and nodded.

A ripple of laughter and ironic applause crept over the stands as
Marty, attired in his blue shirt and unshapen trousers, trotted out
to his position in left field. The boy heard it, but didn’t care. His
nerves were tingling with excitement. It was the proudest moment of his
short life. He was playing with the Summerville Baseball Club! And deep
down in his heart Marty Brown pledged his last breath to the struggle
for victory.

Vulcan started in on their last inning with a determination to add
more runs to their score. The first man at bat reached first base on
a safe hit to mid-field. The second, Vulcan’s center-fielder and a
poor batsman, struck out ingloriously. When the next man strode to the
plate, Bob motioned the fielders to spread out. Marty had scarcely run
back a half dozen yards when the sharp sound of ball on bat broke upon
the air, and high up against the blue sky soared the little globe,
sailing toward left field. Marty’s heart was in his mouth, and for the
moment he wished himself back by the bench, with no greater duty than
the care of the bats. It was one thing to play ball in a vacant lot
with boys of his own age, and another to display his powers in a big
game, with half a thousand excited persons watching him. At first base
the runner was poised ready to leap away as soon as the ball fell into
the fielder’s hands--or to the ground! The latter possibility brought
a haze before Marty’s eyes, and for an instant he saw at least a dozen
balls coming toward him; he wondered, in a chill of terror, which was
the real one! Then the mist faded, he stepped back and to the right
three paces, telling himself doggedly that he _had_ to catch it, put up
his hands----

A shout of applause arose from the stands, and the ball was darting
back over the field to second base. Marty, with a swelling heart,
put his hands in his trousers pockets and whistled to prove his
indifference to applause.

The batsman was out, but the first runner stood safely on third base.
And then, with two men gone, Vulcan set bravely to work and filled
the remaining bases. A safe hit meant two more runs added to Vulcan’s
score. The fielders, in obedience to Bob’s command, crept in. The grand
stand and the bleachers were noisy with the cheers of the spectators.
Warner glanced around from base to base, slowly settled himself into
position, and clutched the ball. The noise was deafening, but his
nerves were again steady, and he only smiled carelessly at the efforts
of the coaches to rattle him. His arms shot up, and a straight delivery
sent the sphere waist high over the plate.

“Strike!” crooned the umpire. Applause from the Summerville deputation
was drowned in renewed shouts and gibes from the rest of the audience.
Warner received the ball, and again, very deliberately, settled his
toe into the depression in the trampled earth. Up shot his arms again,
again he lunged forward, and again the umpire called:

“Strike two!”

The batter stooped and rubbed his hands in the dust, and then gripped
the stick resolutely. The ball went back to Warner, and he stepped once
more into the box. For a moment he studied the batsman deliberately, a
proceeding which seemed to worry that youth, since he lifted first one
foot and then the other off the ground and waved his bat impatiently.

“Play ball!” shrieked the grand stand.

Warner smiled, rubbed his right hand reflectively upon his thigh,
glanced casually about the bases, lifted one spiked shoe from the
ground, tossed his arms up, and shot the ball away swiftly. Straight
for the batsman’s head it went, then settled down, down, and to the
left as though attracted by Oliver’s big gloves held a foot above the
earth just back of the square of white marble. The man at bat, his
eyes glued to the speeding sphere, put his stick far around, and then,
with a sudden gasp, whirled it fiercely. There was a thud as the ball
settled cozily into Oliver’s leather gloves, a roar from the onlookers,
and above it all the umpire’s fatal:

“Striker--out!”

Marty, watching breathless and wide-eyed from the field, threw a
handspring and uttered a whoop of joy. The nines changed places, and
the last half of the last inning began with the score still 12 to 9 in
favor of Vulcan.

“Play carefully, fellows,” shouted Vulcan’s captain as Hamilton went to
bat. “We’ve got to shut them out.”

“If youse can,” muttered Marty, seated on the bench between Bob and
Wolcott.

It looked as though they could. Bob groaned as Hamilton popped a short
fly into second-baseman’s hands, and the rest of the fellows echoed the
mournful sound.

“Lift it, Will, lift it!” implored Bob as Pickering strode to the
plate. And lift it he did. Unfortunately, however, when it descended
it went plump into the hands of right field. In the stand half the
throng was on its feet. Bob looked hopelessly at Warner as the pitcher
selected a bat.

“Cheer up, Bob,” said the latter, grinning. “I’m going to crack that
ball or know the reason why!”

The Vulcan pitcher was slow and careful. They had taken the wearied
Baker out and put in a new twirler. Warner let his first effort pass
unnoticed, and looked surprised when the umpire called it a strike. But
he received the next one with a hearty welcome, and sent it speeding
away for a safe hit, taking first base amid the wild cheers of the
little group of blue-and-white-decked watchers. Hamilton hurried across
to coach the runner, and Bob stepped to the plate. His contribution
was a swift liner that was too hot for the pitcher, one that placed
Warner on second and himself on first. Then, with Hamilton and Sleeper
both coaching at the top of their lungs, the Vulcan catcher fumbled
a ball at which Howe had struck, and the two runners moved up. The
restive audience had overflowed on to the field now, and excitement
reigned supreme. Another strike was called on Howe, and for a moment
Summerville’s chances appeared to be hopeless. But a minute later the
batter was limping to first, having been struck with the ball, and the
pitcher was angrily grinding his heel into the ground.

“Webster at bat!” called the scorer.

“That’s you, Marty,” said Wolcott. “If you never do another thing, my
boy, _swat that ball_!”

Marty picked out a bat and strode courageously to the plate. A roar of
laughter greeted his appearance.

“Get on to Blue Jeans!” “Give us a home run, kid!” “Say, now, sonny,
don’t fall over your pants!”

It needed just that ridicule to dispel Marty’s nervousness. He was
angry. How could he help his “pants” being long? he asked himself,
indignantly. He’d show those dudes that “pants” hadn’t anything to
do with hitting a baseball! He shut his teeth hard, gripped the bat
tightly, and faced the pitcher. The latter smiled at his adversary,
but was not willing to take any chances, with the bases full. And so,
heedless of the requests to “Toss him an easy one, Joe!” he delivered a
swift, straight drop over the plate.

“Strike!” droned the little umpire, skipping aside.

Marty frowned, but gave no other sign of the chill of disappointment
that traveled down his spine. On the bench Wolcott turned to his next
neighbor and said, as he shook his head sorrowfully:

“Hard luck! If it had only been some one else’s turn now, we might have
scored. I guess little Marty’s not up to curves.”

Marty watched the next delivery carefully--and let it pass.

“Ball!” called the umpire.

Again he held himself in, although it was all he could do to keep from
swinging at the dirty-white globe as it sped by him.

“Two balls!”

“That’s right, Marty; wait for a good one,” called Wolcott, hoping
against hope that Marty might get to first on balls. Marty made no
answer, but stood there, pale of face but cool, while the ball sped
around the bases and at last went back to the pitcher. Again the sphere
sped forward. Now was his time! With all his strength he swung his
bat--and twirled around on his heel! A roar of laughter swept across
the diamond.

“Strike two!” cried the umpire.

But Marty, surprised at his failure, yet undaunted, heard nothing save
the umpire’s unmoved voice. Forward flew the ball again, this time
unmistakably wide of the plate, and the little man in the snuff-colored
alpaca coat motioned to the right.

“Three balls!”

Bob, restlessly lifting his feet to be off and away on his dash to
third, waited with despairing heart. Victory or defeat depended
upon the next pitch. A three-bagger would tie the score, a safe hit
would bring Sleeper to the bat! But as he looked at the pale-faced,
odd-looking figure beside the plate he realized how hopeless it all
was. The pitcher, thinking much the same thoughts, prepared for his
last effort. Plainly the queer little ragamuffin was no batsman, and
a straight ball over the plate would bring the agony to an end. Up
went his hand, and straight and sure sped the globe.

Now, there was one kind of ball that Marty knew all about, and that was
a nice, clean, straight one, guiltless of curve or drop or rise, the
kind that “Whitey” Peters pitched in the vacant lot back of Keller’s
Livery Stable. And Marty knew that kind when he saw it coming. Fair
and square he caught it, just where he wanted it on the bat. All his
strength, heart, and soul were behind that swing. There was a sharp
_crack_, a sudden mighty roar from the watchers, and Marty was speeding
toward first base.

[Illustration: There was one kind of ball that Marty knew all about.]

High and far sped the ball. Center and left fielder turned as one man
and raced up the field. Obeying instructions, they had been playing
well in, and now they were to rue it. The roar of the crowd grew in
volume. Warner, Bob, and Howe were already racing home, and Marty,
running as hard as his legs would carry him, was touching second. Far
up the field the ball was coming to earth slowly, gently, yet far too
quickly for the fielders.

“A home run!” shrieked Wolcott. “_Come on--oh, come on, Marty, my
boy!_”

Warner was home, now Bob, and then Howe was crossing the plate, and
Marty was leaving second behind him. Would the fielder catch it? He
dared look no longer, but sped onward. Then a new note crept into the
shouts of the Vulcans, a note of disappointment, of despair. Up the
field the center-fielder had tipped the ball with one outstretched
hand, but had failed to catch it! At last, however, it was speeding
home toward second base.

“Come on! Come on, Marty!” shrieked Bob.

The boy’s twinkling feet spurned the third bag and he swung homeward.
The ball was settling into the second-baseman’s hands. The latter
turned quickly and threw it straight, swift, unswerving toward the
plate.

“_Slide!_” yelled Bob and Warner, in a breath.

Marty threw himself desperately forward; there was a cloud of brown
dust at the plate, a _thug_ as the ball met the catcher’s gloves. The
little man in the alpaca coat turned away with a grin, and picked up
his mask again.

“_Safe, here!_”

The score was 13 to 12 in Summerville’s favor; Marty’s home run had
saved the day!

In another minute or two it was all over. Sleeper had popped a high
fly into the hands of the discomfited center-fielder, and the crowds
swarmed inward over the diamond.

It was a tired, hungry, but joyous little group that journeyed back to
Summerville through the soft, mellow summer twilight. Marty and the
leather bat-case occupied a whole seat to themselves. Marty’s freckled
face was beaming with happiness and pride, his heart sang a pæan of
triumph in time to the _clickety-click_ of the car-wheels, and in one
hand, tightly clenched, nestled a ten-dollar gold piece.

It was his share of the hundred-dollar purse the nine had won, Bob had
explained, and it had been voted to him unanimously. And next spring he
was to join the team as substitute! And Marty, doubting the trustiness
of his pockets, held the shining prize firmly in his fist and grinned
happily over the praise and thanks of his companions.

“It wasn’t nothin’, that home run; any feller could have done that!”
And, besides, he explained, he had known all along that they were
going to win. “Why,--don’t you see?--the other fellers didn’t have no
mascot!”

PARMELEE’S “SPREAD”

The room was old-fashioned, a dark-walled parallelogram, the farthest
end of which was seldom reached by the light which crept through the
two small-paned windows. Overhead four huge rafters passed from side to
side.

The ledges beneath the windows formed wide seats, which were
upholstered in somber corduroy. The mantel above the large fireplace
was narrow, high, a mere shelf, designed a century ago to hold the twin
candlesticks and the snuffers on their silver tray.

The occupant had wisely confined the furnishings to old-style mahogany
in quaint Chippendale forms. The green-shaded student-lamp on the desk
under the heavy bronze chandelier gave almost the only modern touch.
Yet with all its gloom, the apartment was singularly homelike and
restful.

Perhaps this thought occurred to Parmelee, ’00, as he closed the door
behind him, for his gaze swept slowly over the room, and he sighed
once as he removed his cap and gown and laid them carefully aside. He
crossed to one of the windows, and sank back dispiritedly against the
cushions.

Parmelee’s face, seen in the warm light of a late June afternoon, lost
something of its usual paleness, but the serious lines about the mouth
and the pathos of the deep-set brown eyes were accentuated.

The face, on the whole, was strikingly handsome. The forehead under
the dark hair was broad and high; the nose straight and fairly large;
the mouth, despite its grave lines, seemed made for smiles; the chin
was full and firm. Yet the expression now was one of weariness and
melancholy.

Through the open windows came faintly the strains of a waltz from the
band in the college yard. Over the top of a vividly green chestnut-tree
the western sky was beginning to glow with the colors of sunset. Now
and then a student in cap and gown, or the more brilliant attire
appropriate to class-day, hurried past the house; but for the most the
little street was deserted and still.

Parmelee had done his duty. He had conscientiously taken part in
all the exercises of the day, excepting only those about the tree.
When the procession that had marched about the yard and cheered the
buildings had dissolved, he had hurried away to his room, lonesome and
downhearted.

Every one seemed so disgustingly happy! Fellows with nice mothers and
pretty sisters, cousins or sweethearts appeared to flaunt them before
Parmelee’s eyes; fellows hurrying off to somebody’s spread thrust him
unceremoniously out of the way with muttered apologies. He was so out
of it all! He had no womenfolk to take care of, no friends to greet, no
spreads to attend. He was simply a nonentity; merely “Parmelee, that
hunchbacked fellow.”

That was Parmelee’s trouble. All his life he had been a “hunchback.”
As a boy he had often taken flight before the merciless gibes of his
companions, too sick at heart to follow his first impulse to stand and
fight.

When he had entered the preparatory school he had enclosed himself
in a shell of sensitiveness, and had missed many a friendship that
might have been his. At college it had been the same. He believed
his deformity to be repellent to others, and credited them with
sentiments of distaste or pity, when, as was generally the case, the
attractiveness of his countenance made them blind to his defect of
form. Naturally fond of athletics, he believed himself barred from
them. He made few acquaintances and no friends; no friends, that is,
except one.

Philip Schuyler and he had met in their freshman year. Schuyler,
refusing to be repelled, had won his way through Parmelee’s defenses,
and the two had been inseparable until shortly before the last
Christmas recess. Then they had quarreled.

The cause had been such a tiny thing that it is doubtful if either
still remembered it. Pride had prevented the reconciliation which
should have followed, and the two friends had drifted widely apart.

Parmelee sometimes told himself bitterly that Schuyler had made the
quarrel an excuse for ending a companionship of which he was wearied.
Schuyler had quickly found new friends; Parmelee simply retired more
deeply than before into his shell. It meant more to him, that quarrel,
than to Schuyler. He had lost the only real friend of his life. The
wound was a deep one, and it refused to heal. On this day it ached more
than it had for months.

Parmelee glanced at his watch, suddenly realizing that he was hungry.
He had missed his lunch. It was yet far from the dinner-hour, he found.

Then he remembered that his boarding-house would be practically given
over that evening to a spread. He shrank from the idea of facing the
throng that would be present. The restaurants would be crowded. A
solitary dinner in town was not attractive. The only alternative was to
go dinnerless, or--yes, he could have something here in his room. He
smiled a trifle bitterly.

“It will be Parmelee’s spread,” he said.

He went out and turned his steps toward the avenue. In the store he
surprised the clerk by the magnitude of his order. The whimsical idea
of having a spread of his own grew upon him. The expense meant nothing
to him.

When he was ready to return, the bundle of his purchases was so large
that for the moment he was dismayed. Then he took it in his arms and
retraced his steps.

Back in his room, the first difficulty that confronted him was the lack
of a tablecloth, but this was presently solved by spreading two immense
white bath-towels over the study table. Then he began the distribution
of the viands.

The matter of table decoration was something of a problem, and in
the solving of it he forgot his depression, and even whistled a tune
while trying to decide whether to bank all the oranges together or to
distribute them in a sort of border about the edge of the table.

A few plates would have been an aid, but it was possible to do without
them. The olives occasioned much bother by refusing to emerge on the
point of the knife-blade from the narrow neck of their tall bottle.
This difficulty was at last obviated by pouring off the brine and
emptying the olives upon a sheet of letter-paper. The canned meats
and the glasses of jellies and the tins of crackers he arranged with
geometrical precision, forming stars, circles and diamonds in outline.
The oranges formed a pyramid in the center of the board, topped with a
bunch of vivid radishes.

Parmelee stood off and viewed the result, at first critically, then
with approval. Displacing the big armchair, he shoved the banquet-table
up to one of the windows, and set a fiddle-backed mahogany chair before
it. The effect was incongruous, and he chuckled aloud.

“You’re the loneliest-looking chair I ever saw!” he exclaimed. “Here,
this is better.”

He seized another chair and placed it at the opposite side of the table.

“There, that balances. Besides, one should always make provision for
the unexpected guest. Perchance, the president or the dean may drop in.”

He gave a final look at the repast and disappeared into the bedroom at
the back. Presently the sound of splashing water told its own story.

At that moment the house door slammed, footsteps sounded in the hall,
and there was a knock at Parmelee’s door. But Parmelee, rioting at the
basin in the back room, heard nothing. After an interval the knocking
was repeated. Then the knob turned and the door opened.

The visitor was a very erect, white-whiskered man of about fifty,
possessing a degree of stoutness that set off to the best advantage his
well-cut black coat, white waistcoat and gray trousers. His dark eyes
gleamed with kindliness and humor.

He held his shining hat and his gloves in his hand, and looked
questioningly about the room. Then the sound of Parmelee’s ablutions
caught his ear, and he took a step forward.

“Is there any one at home?” he called.

Parmelee, in his shirt-sleeves, the water dripping from the end of his
nose, came to the inner doorway, the towel clutched desperately in one
hand, and stared with amazement.

“I beg your pardon, sir, for this intrusion,” the visitor said.
“I knocked, and receiving no answer, took the liberty of entering
unbidden. We old graduates lay claim to many privileges on class-day,
you know; nothing is sacred to us.”

He paused. Parmelee grasped the towel more firmly, as if it were a
weapon of defense to be used against the invader, and nodded silently.
His gaze fell on the banquet, and amazement gave way to dismay.

“I escaped from my wife and daughter after much scheming,” continued
the visitor, “in order to slip down here and have a look at this room.
I haven’t seen it for--well, not since I graduated, and that was
twenty-nine years ago this month.”

“Ah!” Parmelee had found his tongue. “You lived here while in college?”

“Four years. After I entered the law school I roomed in town. But don’t
let me disturb you. I’ll just glance round a moment, if I may.”

Parmelee’s courtesy came to the surface again. The visitor’s designs
were plainly above suspicion. It was very awkward, but----

“Certainly, sir; just make yourself at home. If you’ll pardon me for a
moment, I’ll get my coat on.”

The visitor bowed deprecatingly, and Parmelee disappeared again. He
reentered the study a moment later, to find that the visitor had laid
aside his hat and gloves, and, with hands clasped behind him, was
looking from a window across the vista of trees and roofs at the sunset
sky. He turned as Parmelee approached, sighed, smiled apologetically,
and waved a hand toward the view.

“I have just accomplished a wonderful feat,” he said. “I have wiped out
a quarter of a century.”

Parmelee smiled politely. “I presume you find things much changed?” he
asked.

“Yes, yes; but not here. That view is almost the same as it was when I
sat in that window there, studying, reading, dreaming, just as we all
will when we’re young; just as I dare say you have done many times.”

“But I fancy, sir, your dreams came true.”

“My boy, none of our dreams ever come true just as we dream them. They
couldn’t; they are much too grand. I have nothing to complain of and
much to be happy for, but”--he shook his head, smiling wistfully--“I’m
not the hero of those dreams.”

“I suppose it’s idle work, picturing the future, dreaming of the great
things we’re going to do,” answered Parmelee, soberly; “but--it’s hard
not to.”

“No, no, don’t think that!” The visitor laid a hand for a moment on
Parmelee’s shoulder, then darted a quick look of surprise at the
place his fingers had touched. Parmelee saw it, and a wave of color
dyed his face. But the other continued after a pause that was almost
imperceptible. “Don’t think that, my boy. Life wouldn’t be half what it
is without dreams. And who knows? Perhaps yours are destined to come
true. I hope they will.”

“They never have,” said Parmelee, bitterly.

The older man smiled. “But there’s time yet.” He turned and walked
slowly about the apartment, nodding his head now and then, viewing the
dark rafters as he might have viewed old friends, and putting his head
in the bedroom door, but declining Parmelee’s invitation to enter.

Reminiscences came to his mind, and he told them lightly, entertainingly.
He stood for several moments in front of the empty fireplace, and sighed
again as he turned away.

He moved toward where he had laid his hat and gloves. “I left word with
my wife to tell my son to come here for me, but I don’t see him.” He
picked up his hat and looked out into the street. “He took part in the
tree exercises; he would have to change his clothes afterward, and that
would take some time. I dare say if I walk up the street I shall meet
him.”

Parmelee struggled in silence with his reserve; then he said:

“I--I wish you’d wait here for him, sir. You see, it’s just possible
that you might miss him if you went.”

“But you’re certain I sha’n’t be in the way? Your guests will not
arrive for a while?”

“I’m not expecting any one, sir.”

“Indeed!” The visitor glanced at the banquet and looked puzzled.
“Pardon me; I thought you were giving a small spread. I shall be very
glad to remain if I’m not in your way.”

He laid aside his hat and took a seat. Parmelee retired to the window
and frowned at the banquet. Of course he had not been asked to explain
it, but no other course seemed possible; the situation was ridiculous.
He would make a clean breast of it. Somehow it did not seem difficult
to tell things to the kind-faced stranger.

“I dare say you think I’m crazy,” he said, “with all that stuff spread
out there and--and nobody coming, but--” And then he explained things,
although not very lucidly, for he was disturbed by a realization of the
absurdity of the affair. But the visitor seemed to understand, and when
Parmelee had ended, he exclaimed, with concern:

“Why, then I’ve been keeping you from your supper! And no lunch, you
say? I’d no idea, I assure you--” He seized his hat again. Parmelee
sprang to his feet.

“No, no, I’m not in the least hungry! That is, I’m in no hurry.”

The older man hesitated.

“But if you’ve had no lunch, you must be starved! Indeed, I’m sure you
must be! I can appreciate your condition in a measure, for my own lunch
was a sorry affair, although I did get a few bites. Don’t let me keep
you a moment longer.”

“But--but--” exclaimed Parmelee. The visitor paused with his hand on
the door-knob. “Perhaps--you must be hungry yourself, and--if you
wouldn’t mind the lack of knives and forks--and plates--I’d be awfully
glad----”

“Well, really now, I’ve half a mind to accept,” laughed the other.
“The truth is, I’m as hungry as a bear. These boarding-houses on
class-day--” He shook his head expressively. “You are sure I’m not
taking some one else’s place?”

“No, indeed,” answered Parmelee. “The fact is, I set that chair there
for you half an hour ago.”

“For me?” inquired the visitor.

“Well, for the unexpected guest. You see, sir, the one chair looked so
lonely. Have you room enough? Shall I move the desk out a bit? It’s
awkward having no plates--or forks--or anything. If you will take this
penknife, sir? And--wait a moment! The very thing!”

Parmelee excitedly seized two old blue plates from over the mantel,
dusted them on a corner of the nearest bath-towel, and presented one
to the guest.

“Queer I didn’t think of these, isn’t it? I think you’ll find that
sliced chicken very fair. Do you eat olives? I’ve never tried cold
Saratoga chips myself, but they look rather good.”

He proffered one article after another in a very fever of hospitality.
In his eagerness he distributed the olives impartially over the whole
board and brought the _pièce de résistance_, the pyramid of oranges,
tumbling into ruins.

The guest laid down his pocket-knife and looked gravely across at his
host.

“Is--is anything the matter?” faltered Parmelee.

“I must refuse to go on until I see you eating something.”

“Oh!” Parmelee blushed and seized a tin of potted turkey at random.
After that the banquet progressed finely. The unexpected guest did full
justice to the repast, and the unaccustomed host remembered his own
hunger and satisfied it. More than that, he forgot his shyness and was
radiantly happy. And after a while, when the last of the strawberries
had disappeared, he suddenly found himself telling, in the most natural
way in the world, things that he had never told any one before, except,
perhaps, Philip Schuyler. He stopped short in the middle of a sentence
in sudden embarrassment.

“And so your deformity, such a little thing as it is, has worked all
this--this misery?” mused the guest. “Dear, dear, such a pity, my boy,
so unnecessary!”

“Unnecessary?” faltered Parmelee.

“Surely. You’ve been so mistaken when you have credited all kinds of
unpleasant sentiments to people. They can’t care any the less for you
because your back is not as straight as theirs. The fault has been
yours, my boy; you haven’t given people a chance to get near to you.
You’ve held them off at arm’s length all your life. Take my advice.
After this go out among them; forget your suspicions, and see for
yourself if I’m not right. When God put a hump between your shoulders
he made up for it in some other way, you may depend upon that. And
although I’ve known you but an hour, I think I know wherein the Lord
has made it up to you. But I’m not going to tell you; it might make you
vain.”

Parmelee raised his own eyes to the smiling ones across the table.

“I don’t think you need have any apprehensions on that score, sir,” he
said, a trifle unsteadily.

“Well, perhaps not. I dare say you need a little more vanity. But think
over what I’ve said, and if you can, act on it.”

“I will,” answered the other, earnestly. “And I’m--I’m very grateful. I
don’t think I ever--looked at it quite that way, you see.”

“I’m certain you never have. And another thing; I wouldn’t be too
quick to bring in a verdict in the case of that friend you’ve told me
of. I think when you learn the truth you’ll find you’ve done him an
injustice. And forgive me if I hurt you, my boy, but I think you’ve
been more to blame than he has. It seems to me that you were the one
to take the first step toward reconciliation. Well, I really must be
going to hunt up my family. They’ll think I’m lost. I don’t know what’s
happened to Philip, I’m sure.”

“Philip?” asked Parmelee, quickly.

“My son,” answered the visitor, proudly. “He graduates this spring.
Philip Schuyler. Perhaps you’ve met him?”

“I----”

There was a knock at the door. Parmelee drew himself up very straight,
perhaps to give the lie to the pallor of his face.

“Come in!” he called, and the door swung open.

The youth who confronted them looked with white, set face from one to
the other. There was an instant of awkward silence. Then, “Father!” he
exclaimed, in a low voice.

“Why, Philip, what’s the matter?” Parmelee’s guest moved quickly to the
door. “Did you think I was lost?”

The son laughed uneasily.

“I didn’t know you were coming here; I only learned it from mother a
few minutes ago.” It sounded like an apology, and the older man looked
apprehensively from his son to his host.

“But was there--any reason why I shouldn’t have come here, Phil?”

Philip Schuyler glanced from his father to Parmelee’s set face, then
dropped his eyes.

“Of course not, sir,” he replied. “It was only that I didn’t know but
I’d miss you. Such a crowd in town!” he muttered.

“That’s all right, then,” said his father. “And now I want to make you
acquainted with a friend of mine. I’ve only had the honor of calling
him such for an hour or so; but two persons can become pretty well
acquainted in that time, especially over the table,” he added, smiling.
“Phil, this is--but, dear me, I don’t know your name!”

“John Parmelee,” answered his host.

“Ah, Phil, this is Mr. Parmelee, who has been exceedingly kind and has
ministered to my wants, outward and inward. I want you to know him.
Somehow I have an idea you two youngsters will get on together. Mr.
Parmelee, this is my son, Philip.”

Philip bowed without moving from his place at the door. Parmelee gave a
gulp and strode forward, his hand outstretched.

“We--we’re not new acquaintances, Mr. Schuyler,” he said.

“Ah!” The older man watched while the two shook hands constrainedly.
“Ah!” he repeated. It was a very expressive word as he uttered it, and
Parmelee, glancing at his face, saw that he understood the situation.
The two unclasped their hands, and for a moment viewed each other
doubtfully.

“If you know each other, that makes simpler the request I was about to
make,” said Parmelee’s guest. “I want Mr. Parmelee to come and make
us a visit for a week or so, Phil. I think the North Shore sunshine
will take some of that white out of his face. Just see if you can’t
persuade him, won’t you?” He turned away toward the window. The two at
the doorway looked at each other for an instant in silence. Then Philip
Schuyler put out his hand, and Parmelee grasped it.

“You’ll come?” asked Philip, softly. Parmelee nodded.

“If you want me.”

“Of course I do! And, I say, Jack, it’s--it’s all right now, isn’t it?”

“Yes, Phil; it was never anything else,” answered Parmelee, a trifle
huskily. The two gripped hands silently, smilingly, and turned to Mr.
Schuyler.

“Are you ready, dad?”

“Eh? Oh, yes. And, Mr. Parmelee, perhaps you wouldn’t mind joining us?
I’d like you to meet Phil’s mother and sister. It--it might be a good
chance to test the value of my advice, eh?” Parmelee hesitated for a
moment, then took up his gown.

“Thank you, sir, I think it might,” he said.

“NO HOLDING”

The captain, the head coach and the trainer of the Hillton Academy
football team sat about the table in the head coach’s room. It was the
evening of November 27th, and on the morrow, Thanksgiving day, the
wearers of the crimson were to meet on the gridiron their old-time
rivals of St. Eustace Academy, in the final and most important contest
of the year.

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

“Cantrell at left half, of course?”

Syddington nodded.

“He won’t last the game,” said the trainer, “but he’s good for the
first half.”

The coach’s pen scratched again. Syddington scowled more darkly and his
hand trembled a little over the leather.

“How about right half?” Gardiner glanced fleetingly at the captain and
then, 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 Servis
should start the game; that while he’s not so brilliant as Lane, he’s
more steady. I don’t share Syddington’s distrust of Lane, but if he
thinks he’s going to feel that he has better support behind him, I’m
willing 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 as
good shape as he was before the injury.”

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

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

“I think we’d better start with Servis,” said Syddington, after a
moment. He heaved a sigh of relief and shot a glance at Beck.

The latter’s face wore an expression of disappointment, which
disappeared under the lad’s scrutiny, but which, nevertheless, caused
Syddington to transfer his gaze to the table and sent a flush to his
cheeks.

Gardiner wrote for a moment. “That leaves only full-back, and Hale’s
our 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 act
knowingly, deliberately, is in itself disagreeable enough to a boy who
has all his life hated mean actions. But to know that two persons in
whose eyes one particularly wants to appear clean and honorable are
aware of the act adds greater bitterness.

Syddington entertained no illusions. He knew that when he had caused
Servis’s name to be placed in the line-up instead of Lane’s he had done
a dishonorable thing. And he knew that both the head coach and the
trainer were equally aware of the fact, and that he had fallen far in
their estimation; that henceforth they must hold him, at the best, in
pitying contempt. A monstrous price, he told himself bitterly, to pay
for next year’s captaincy!

And he was not only injuring himself, but by deposing Lane he was
placing in jeopardy the team’s success in the “big game.” There was
never a doubt but that Lane was the man for the position of right
half-back. Without exception he was the most brilliant player at
Hillton. He had won the game with Shrewsburg by a sixty-yard run for a
touch-down. More than once in minor games he had brought the spectators
to their feet by his daring running or hurdling. It was almost a
certainty that if he went into the St. Eustace game he would do just
what the school expected, and by brilliant playing become the hero of
the year. And there lay the rub.

Only the day before, Carter, the right tackle, had warned him: “If
there was an election now, Bob, we’d make you captain again by a
majority of one or two. But if Lane goes in and does his usual
spectacular stunt, he’ll be the next captain as sure as fate. Take
my 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 and
answered righteously, “I can’t do that, Tom.”

And now he had done it!

He clenched his hands under the table and hated himself with an
intensity that hurt. Gardiner and the trainer talked on. The clock on
the 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 did
not altogether like him, Lane knew. He had said a few days before--it
had never been meant for Syddington’s ears, but nevertheless had
reached them--“I’ll never get into the St. Eustace game until
every other back is in the hospital. Syddington’s no fool!” And now
Syddington hated Lane more than ever because he had rightly judged him
capable of dishonesty.

And Lane would know, and Gardiner and Beck and Carter; and the fellows
would suspect. But--and that was the worst of all--he himself could
never 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 about
to-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 slowly
into it he faced the others as if about to speak, but instead walked to
the door in silence.

“Good night!” said Gardiner.

“Good night, Syddington!” echoed Beck.

The boy thought he could already detect a different tone in their
voices, a foretaste of that contempt with which in future they were to
consider him.

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

“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-board
told 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 and
incessant, and crimson banners waved ceaselessly. It has ever been
Hillton’s way to shout loudest under the shadow of defeat.

Hillton’s one score had been secured in the first three minutes of
play. Quick, steady tackle-back plunges had carried the ball from the
center of the gridiron to St. Eustace’s six-yard line before the latter
team had awakened to its danger. From there Cantrell had skirted the
Blue’s right end and Hale, the Hillton full-back, had kicked an easy
goal.

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

The second half had started with honors even, but on his five-yard
line Hale had failed miserably at a kick, and had been borne back
for a safety. And now, with but seven minutes left, with the ball on
Hillton’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. Eustace
goal with his eyes and groaned. If only Lane or Sanford, who had taken
Cantrell’s place, could be got away round an end! If only they could
get within kicking distance of that cross-bar! If----

“34--29--96--12!”

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

“Get up! Get up!” called Syddington, a sudden note of hope in his
strained voice. “That’s the stuff! We can do it again! Hard, fellows,
hard!”

Aching, dizzy, but happy, nevertheless, red-faced and perspiring, Carl
Lane 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 thumped
against his stomach, was clasped firmly, and the next instant he was
high in air. Arms thrust him back, others shoved him forward. For an
instant the result was doubtful; then the St. Eustace players gave, the
straining group went back, slowly at first, then faster. Lane, kicking
friend and foe impartially in his efforts to thrust himself forward,
felt himself falling head foremost. Some one’s elbow crashed against
his temple, and for a moment all was dark.

When he came to, his face was dripping from the sponge and his head
ached as if it would burst; but the score-board once more proclaimed
first down, and the crimson-decked section of the grand stand had gone
suddenly crazy. His name floated across to him at the end of a mighty
volume 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 shoulder
as he passed.

They were past the middle of the field now, and once more Lane
struck the blue-stockinged right guard for a gain. St. Eustace was
yielding. Hillton was again on the offensive. From the fifty yards to
the thirty-two went the conquering Crimson, Lane, Sanford and Hale
hurdling, plunging, squirming between tackle and tackle. St. Eustace’s
center trio were weak, battered, almost helpless.

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

The St. Eustace quarter called for time. The battered center and
right guard were taken out and their places filled with new men. The
timekeeper 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. Try
the ends; give it to Lane! We’ve got to score, Dan!” He thumped his
clenched hands against his padded thighs and stared miserably about
him. Colton patted him on the back.

“Cheer up, Bob,” he whispered--his voice was now such that he could
only whisper or shout--“cheer up! We’ll make it. Two minutes is time
enough 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 good
man. Syddington’s heart was leaping into his throat and thumping back
again painfully. He clenched his hands, watched his man with every
nerve and muscle tense, and awaited the next signal. Would it never
come? 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 the
thirty-six-yard line, with Lane and Sanford guarding him. Syddington
swung 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 left
tackle as a cat watches a mouse.

“44--22--11--6!” gasped Colton.

Center passed the ball back straight and clean to Hale, and the latter
sped it on at a short side pass to Lane, who had dropped back; Sanford
dashed at the right end of the line, and Lane, the pigskin hugged
close and his right arm rigid before him, fell in behind. Sanford sent
the St. Eustace end reeling backward, and Syddington put the Blue’s
full-back out of the play and went crashing to the ground with him.
Sanford and Lane swept through outside of tackle and sped toward the
goal.

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

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

Then the quarter-back was upon them, face pale and set, arms
outstretched, and Lane swung to the right. Sanford’s shoulder met
the foe, and the two went to earth together, Sanford on top. He was
up again in the instant, and, unharmed, once more running fleetly.
But Lane was ahead now, and before him, near the ten-yard line, the
blue-clad half-back was waiting. The man ahead stood for defeat, for
Lane doubted his ability to get round him. Even running was agony,
and dodging seemed out of the question. But just as hope deserted him
Sanford 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 foe
were piled together at his feet. He plunged blindly over the writhing
heap, stumbled, fell on one knee, staggered up again, saw the yellowish
turf rising and sinking before him, felt his knees doubling up beneath
him, fell, rolled over twice, crawled and wriggled on knees and elbows
from force of habit, and then closed his eyes, laid his head on his arm
and was supremely content.

Syddington sped down the field with the roar of three thousand voices
in 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. His
team, the boys whom he had threatened, coaxed, driven, struggled with
for 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 the
goal-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 muscles
cautiously. Beck handed him his head harness, and he turned and limped
off. The cheering, which had almost subsided for want of breath, took
on 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 the
whistle 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 wearied
crimson players were hoarsely cheering their defeated rivals, they
were 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 end
of 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 glad--glad!”

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

It was the evening of the day following Hillton’s victory. The songs
and 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 was
sweeping across the Hudson and rattling the casements fiercely.

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

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

“How are you, Lane? Glad to see you,” he said, finally. “I--I was just
thinking about you when you knocked. Sit down, won’t you?”

“Thanks.” Lane tossed his cap on the table and drew a chair toward the
hearth. “Cold, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” Syddington went back to the armchair and wondered what the visit
meant. Lane had not the air of a casual caller; his face was serious
and 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 every
vote but four.”

“I don’t know who the four are,” answered Syddington, bravely, “but if
I’m one of them you can count me out. I’m going to vote for you, and if
you’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, fair
and square, and I don’t begrudge it to you. I’ll acknowledge that I did
at first, but after you won the game----”

“You mean that you knew before the game that I might get the
captaincy?” 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, and
I 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 came
here to say was just this.” He rose and took his cap from the table. “I
can have the captaincy to-morrow, perhaps, but of course I’m not going
to accept it.”

“Not going to--to----”

“Would you take it if you were in my place? If I had given you the
chance to win the big game, knowing that if you did you’d get the
captaincy; if you knew I’d set my heart on keeping it; if I’d slaved
all 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 a
matter of fair play--and no holding. If I took that captaincy after
what 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. Syddington
followed with pale face.

“I--I don’t know how I can thank you, Lane, honestly! If you change
your 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 color
flooded into his cheeks--“I--I want to shake hands with you, Lane.”

CLASS SPIRIT

Peter Doe descended the marble steps of the big dormitory with
discouragement written large upon his face. When he reached
the sidewalk he drew a blank book from his pocket and studied
it with frowning brows until he had crossed the avenue, and,
half-unconsciously, perched himself on the top rail of the college
fence. Then he sighed and returned the book to his coat.

Peter had been canvassing for the freshman crew for four days. Armitage
and the rest had spoken cheerfully of eight hundred dollars as the
probable result of his labors. To-day Peter shook his head ruefully.
The book in his pocket held subscriptions representing only two hundred
and sixty-four dollars, of which nearly half was “pledged,” a term
possessing doubtful significance. And Peter was discouraged.

When Ronald Armitage--popular, influential and much sought--had
requested Peter to join the squad of canvassers, Peter had been
secretly much flattered, and had acquiesced instantly, gladly. For
two whole days he had haunted the dormitories, indifferent to all
discourtesies.

Peter was glad to be of service to his class. He believed that a
man’s first duty was to his college, his second to his class, his
third--well, the third did not as yet trouble him. He stood just five
feet six and one-half inches, and had all a small man’s admiration for
brawn and athleticism. His complexion was pink and white, a fact which
worried him so much that in summer he spent precious hours lying with
his face upturned to the sun in the hope that he would tan. But he
never did; he simply got very red and the skin peeled off his nose.

Peter’s crowning glory was his hair, which was of the color of red
gold. It was very beautiful hair from an artistic point of view, but
it did not please Peter. At preparatory school it had won him the
name of “Little Goldie,” a title which still clung to him among his
acquaintances. He was good at studies, and was visibly impressed with
the seriousness of existence.

After a while Peter slipped from the fence. He was eighteen years old,
and at eighteen discouragement is a matter of a moment. Peter set his
face toward Haworth Hall and Vance Morris, resolved to play his last
card. Vance Morris was one of the richest men in college, and by far
the wealthiest in the freshman class.

Peter had gone to school with him at St. Matthew’s, but their
acquaintance was only of the nodding kind. Armitage had told Peter that
Morris was “good for a hundred at least.” Fortune had apparently played
into the collector’s hands at the very beginning of his canvassing,
for, crossing the yard in the morning he had encountered Morris, and
had, not without a struggle with his diffidence, stopped him and asked
for a subscription.

“We, that is, Armitage and the others, you know, thought that about
one hundred dollars would be--er--enough,” he had announced. Whereupon
Morris, who was plainly in a hurry to reach the square, had grinned
and replied:

“Really? That’s very modest of them, isn’t it? Don’t you think they’d
rather have a thousand?”

The tone had made Peter feel a bit uncomfortable, but he had managed
to give audible expression to the belief that a hundred would do very
nicely; upon which Morris had again grinned down upon him from his six
feet two inches, and had started away.

But Peter had trotted after him. “Then we--then I may look for one
hundred, Morris?”

“You may,” the other had answered. “Oh, yes, you may look for it.
There’s my car.”

It was a hard race to the square, but Peter sprinted desperately and
swung himself up on the rear platform a second after Morris.

“You--you promise?” gasped Peter.

“Oh, yes, confound you! Get off or you’ll break your neck!”

Peter did not break his neck, but he afforded much amusement to a group
of students by rolling riotously over the street for several yards.
To-day, as he skirted the yard toward Morris’s room, he recalled that
hard-bought promise and was comforted. Another hundred would bring his
list up to the sum of three hundred and sixty-four dollars, far removed
from the fabulous amount predicted by Armitage, but, after the ill
success of the past four days, something over which to rejoice. During
the bitterest moments of his laboring, Peter had comforted his soul
with thoughts of that one hundred dollars.

Peter found Morris alone, lying at ease in a big, hospitable armchair,
and in good humor.

“Hello!” Morris held forth a big, brown hand. “Glad to see you. Sit
down.”

Peter made known the object of his visit, and finally Morris yawned and
stretched a hand toward his desk.

“All right; toss me my check-book.”

Peter eagerly brought book and pen, ink and blotter, and the big
freshman, using the arm of the chair for support, scrawled illegible
characters. Then he tore off the little strip of pale-green paper and
handed it to Peter.

“That’s the best I can do for you.”

He yawned again and closed his eyes. Peter opened his. “But--but
this--this is for only ten dollars!”

“You’re good at figures,” muttered Morris, sleepily.

Peter stared at him in silence while the brass-dialed clock ticked
twenty times. This, then, was the realization of his magnificent hopes!

A paltry ten dollars where he had looked for a hundred! What would
Armitage and the others say? What would they think of him? Peter’s
voice trembled in shrill, indignant protest:

“This isn’t fair, Morris! It isn’t honest! It isn’t--isn’t decent! Why,
you promised a hundred, and I--we all counted on it; and now--now you
give me this measly little ten!”

Morris swung slowly round and stared in bewilderment.

“Well!” he muttered, in awestruck tones.

“You ought to do more than this for the crew!” Peter went on, waving
the check wildly in air. “You can afford to give what you promised,
and--and by jiminy, _you’ve got to_!”

“Got to!” growled the other. He drew himself from the chair until
he towered above Peter like a step-ladder above a footstool. He put
his hands in the pockets of his jacket and looked down in frowning
amusement. “_Got to!_” he repeated.

Peter’s face blanched from pale to the perfect whiteness of newly
fallen snow, but he held his ground. His voice broke, but he answered:

“Yes.”

Morris laughed and slapped Peter on the shoulder.

“Good for you! But look here, take that check and get out. It isn’t
your funeral, you know. And besides, ten dollars isn’t to be sneezed
at. If every fellow in the class gave ten dollars----”

“But you know every fellow can’t!” broke in Peter. “You know lots of
them can’t afford to give anything! But you can, Morris; you can afford
to give what you promised--more than that.”

“Oh, leave off!” said Morris. “Run along with your check, like a good
little boy.”

Peter hesitated; then he folded the slip of paper and placed it in his
pocket. Taking the pen, he dipped it into the ink and wrote a receipt.
Then he faced Morris again.

“Yes, I’ll take this on account. But I’ve got to have ninety more,”
he said, doggedly. “And I’m going to have it. I’m going to keep at it
until I get it. You’ve got to do what is right, Morris!”

“You’re like what’s-his-name’s raven,” sighed the other. “But I’ll tell