Full-Back Foster

“Been looking for you ever since dinner, Foster,” said Eldredge accusingly. “Kept sort of scarce, haven’t you?”

Rogers laughed softly, nervously. Myron stiffened.

“You couldn’t have looked very hard, Eldredge. I was in my room – ”

“Oh, no you weren’t!” interrupted Eldredge triumphantly. “I looked there.”

“Until half-past three – or three.”

“Or half-past two – or two,” mocked the other.

“Well, what of it?” asked Myron coldly. He knew now that Eldredge intended trouble. “What did you want me for?”

“Oh, nothing much. I just wanted to give you something.”

“I don’t want it, thanks,” replied Myron. He turned to go on, but Eldredge stepped in front of him.

“Don’t, eh? Wait till you know what it is, Mister Smug!” Eldredge’s arm shot out. Although he had not guessed the other’s intention, Myron caught sight of the movement and instinctively stepped back. The blow, aimed at his face, landed lightly on his chest. Prompted by a rage as sudden as Eldredge’s attack, Myron’s right hand swept swiftly up from his side and caught his opponent fairly on the side of the face with open palm. The sound of the slap and Eldredge’s snarl of mingled surprise and pain came close together. Staggered by the blow, Eldredge fell back a pace. Then he sprang forward again.

“You – you – ” he stammered wildly.

But Rogers, stout and unwieldy, threw himself between in a panic of entreaty. “Don’t, Paul! Not here! Some one’s coming! You’ll get the very dickens! You crazy dub, will you quit? Paul– ”

“No, I won’t!” grunted Eldredge, trying to shove Rogers aside. “He can’t hit me and get away with it! I’ll show him – ”

“Let him alone,” said Myron.

“No! Aw, quit, Paul! Honest, some one’s coming down the line. It won’t hurt you to wait a minute, will it?” Rogers was panting now from the double exertion of being a human barrier and a suppliant. But he won, for Eldredge, almost as angry with his friend for delaying revenge as with his enemy, but utterly unable to get past him, stopped his efforts in despair.

“What do you mean, wait a minute?” he demanded, alternately glaring at Rogers and Myron.

“Well, wait until tomorrow,” panted Rogers. “You know what’ll happen if you fight here. Do it regular, Paul.”

“Tomorrow! Where’ll he be by that time?” asked Eldredge scathingly.

“Shut up!” cautioned Rogers hoarsely. “You’ll have a crowd here in a minute!” Already a group of three fellows had paused a little way off and were peering curiously through the darkness. “Listen, will you? You fellows can settle this just as well tomorrow as you can now. Fix it up for the brickyard at – at what time do you say, Foster?”

“Any time he likes!” answered Myron obligingly. Then, remembering that there were such things as recitations, he added: “Before breakfast: say a quarter to seven.”

“You won’t want any breakfast when I get through with you,” growled Eldredge.

“That all right for you, Paul?” asked Rogers. By this time he was leading the others by force of example along the walk.

“Sure.”

“Good! A quarter to seven, then, at the brickyard. Come on, Paul. So long, Foster!”

Myron made no answer as he strode on toward Sohmer. His pulses were still pounding, although he had managed to control his voice fairly well, and he was experiencing a sort of breathlessness that was novel and not altogether unpleasant. But, to be truthful, contemplation of tomorrow morning’s engagement with Eldredge at the brickyard, wherever that might be, did not fill him with unalloyed bliss. In fact, as excitement dwindled something very much like nervousness took its place. Myron was not a coward, but, as he climbed the stairs in Sohmer, he found himself wishing that he had kept his temper and his tongue under control yesterday noon!

Joe Dobbins, with both lean, sinewy hands desperately clutching his tousled hair, was bent over a book at the study table. Joe’s method of studying was almost spectacular. First he removed his coat, then his collar and tie. After that he seated himself on the edge of his chair, twined his ankles about the legs of it, tilted it forward until his elbows were on the table, got a fine, firm grip on his hair with each hand, took a long agonised breath – and plunged in! Studying was just as hard for him as it looked, and it is greatly to his credit that he succeeded at it as well as he did. Just now he looked up at Myron’s entrance. For a moment he stared vacantly. Then his hands dropped from his head, the chair thumped back into normal position and he came out of his trance.

“Hello,” he said vaguely.

“Latin?” asked Myron.

“Math,” was the sad response. Then, sensing something unusual about his room-mate, he asked: “What’s up?”

“Nothing. Why?”

“You look like some one had dropped a firecracker down your neck, or something. What’s disturbed your wonted calm? Say, how’s that? ‘Wonted calm!’ Gee, that’s going some, ain’t it? I mean, is it not?”

“Great,” said Myron absently. He went into the bedroom and methodically changed coat and vest for a grey house jacket. When he emerged Joe was still unsatisfied.

“Going to study?” asked the latter.

“Yes – no – I don’t know. I ought to.” But Myron seated himself at the window instead of at the table and took one leg into his interlaced hands. Joe watched him solicitously. After a minute Myron asked with elaborate unconcern: “Did you ever fight any one, Dobbins?”

“Me?” Joe chuckled. “Well, I’ve been in a couple of scraps in my time. Why?”

“Just wondered. What – how do you go at it?”

“Me?” Joe leaned precariously back in his chair. “Well, I ain’t got but one rule, Foster, and that’s: Hit ’em first and often.”

“Oh! I – I suppose boxing is – quite an art.”

“Don’t know much about boxing, kiddo. Where I come from they don’t go in for rules and regulations. When you fight – you fight: and about the only thing that’s barred is kicking the other fellow in the head when he’s down! A real earnest scrap between a couple of lumber-jacks is about the nearest thing to battle, murder and sudden death that you’re likely to see outside the movies!”

“I didn’t mean that sort of fighting,” said Myron distastefully. “Fellows at – well, say, at school don’t fight like that, of course.”

“No, I don’t suppose so. I guess they stick to their fists. Anyway, they did where I went to school. We used to have some lively little scraps, too,” added Joe with a reminiscent chuckle. “I remember – But, say, what’s your trouble, Foster? Why are you so interested in fighting?”

“Oh, I was just wondering,” answered Myron evasively.

“Yeah, I know all about that. Who you been fighting?”

“No one.”

“Who you going to fight?”

“I haven’t said I was going to fight, have I? I was just asking about it. Maybe I might have to fight some time, and – ”

“Sure, that’s so. You might. You can’t ever tell, can you?” Joe picked up a pencil and beat a thoughtful tattoo on the blotter for a moment. Then: “Who is he? Do I know him?” he asked.

“Know who?” faltered Myron.

“This guy that’s after you. Come on, kiddo, open up! Come across! Let’s hear the story.”

So finally Myron told the whole thing, secretly very glad to do it, and Joe listened silently, save for an occasional grunt. When Myron had finished Joe asked: “So that’s it, eh? Tomorrow morning at a quarter to seven at the brickyard. Where’s this brickyard located?”

“I don’t know. I must ask some one.”

“Yeah. Now tell me this, kid – I mean Foster: What do you know about fighting?”

“Not much,” owned Myron ruefully. “I saw a couple of fellows at high school fight once, but that’s about all.”

“Never fought yourself?”

Myron shook his head almost apologetically. “No, I never had occasion to.”

Joe snorted. “You mean you never had a chance to find an occasion,” he said derisively. “You were kept tied up to the grand piano in the drawing-room, I guess. Think of a husky guy like you getting to be seventeen years old and never having any fun at all! Gee, it’s criminal! Your folks have got a lot to answer for, Foster, believe me! Here, stand up here and put your fists up and show me what you know – or don’t know.”

Myron obeyed and faced the other awkwardly. Joe groaned.

“Gee, ain’t you the poor fish? Stick that foot out so you can move about. That’s it. Now I’m going to tap you on the shoulder, the left shoulder. Don’t let me!” But Myron did let him, although he thrashed both his arms about fearsomely. “Rotten! Watch me, not my hands. Now look out for your face!”

A minute later Joe dropped his hands, shook his head and leaned dejectedly against a corner of the table. “It’s no use, kiddo, it’s no use! You’ll be the lamb going to the slaughter tomorrow. Ain’t any one ever taken the least interest in your education? What are you going to do when that Eldredge guy comes at you?”

Myron smiled wanly. “I guess I’ll just have to do the best I can,” he said. “Maybe he isn’t much better than I am.”

“Don’t kid yourself. When a guy picks a quarrel the way he did it means he knows a bit. Still, at that – ” Joe stopped and stared thoughtfully at the wall. Then: “What’s his full name?” he asked.

“Paul Eldredge is all I know of it.”

“That’ll do. I’ll be back in a few minutes.” Joe picked up his cap and made for the door. “Nothing like knowing what you’re up against,” he said. “Sit tight, Brother, and leave this to me. If I was you I’d do a bit of studying, eh?”

Myron followed the advice. Just at first it was hard to get his mind on lessons, for his thoughts kept recurring to the coming encounter and when they did he squirmed uneasily in his chair and felt a kind of tingling sensation at the end of his spine. On the football field Myron had often taken blows and given them in the excitement of the game. He had had some hard knocks and had seen plenty of rough playing. He couldn’t remember ever having been afraid of an opponent, although he had more than once entered a contest with the knowledge that the enemy was “laying for him.” But, somehow, this was different. What resentment he had felt against Paul Eldredge had passed, and so even the spur of anger was lacking. He would have to stand up there tomorrow morning and be knocked around at Eldredge’s pleasure, it seemed, for no very good reason that he could think of. It was rather silly, when you came to consider it calmly. Eldredge had been rude to him, he had been rude to Eldredge, Eldredge had struck him, he had struck Eldredge. Now when things were nicely evened up he must take a licking! Well, he supposed there was no way out of it short of acting like a coward. He would have to take what was coming to him, getting off as easily as he could, and try to like it! Well, he had taken punishment before and could again. Having reached that conclusion, he managed to get his thoughts back to his studies and was going very well when Joe returned.

CHAPTER XI

MYRON MISSES AN ENGAGEMENT

“Well, I’ve got his number,” announced Joe, discarding his cap and dropping into a chair. “He’s a scrapper. He’s had three or four mix-ups since he has been here, usually, as near as I can make out, with fellows who didn’t know much fighting. He’s got a quick temper and is ugly when he’s started. He’s a second class fellow and plays hockey and baseball. Had a fuss with the baseball coach last spring and was laid off for awhile. Apologised and got back again finally. I didn’t hear any one say he was liked much. The main thing, though, is that he can scrap. Keith says he’s quite a foxy youth with his fists; says he thinks he’s taken lessons. So now we know where we are, eh?”

“Yes, it seems so,” answered Myron. “Well, there’s no use talking about it, is there? Did you find out where this brickyard is?”

“Yeah, it’s just across the street at the far side of the campus, back from the road a bit. I’ve been thinking, Foster. There’s no sense in you going up against a fellow who knows how to fight, is there?”

“No, but it doesn’t seem to be a question of sense,” replied Myron, smiling.

“What I mean is, it isn’t a fair proposition for a chap who can’t even keep his guard up to try to fight a guy who knows all the ropes. Might as well expect one of Merriman’s puppies to fight a bull-dog. That’s so, ain’t it?”

“Well, it isn’t quite that bad,” said Myron. “At least, I hope not!”

“Mighty near. So here’s my plan, kiddo. You stay right in your downy couch tomorrow morning and I’ll see this guy Eldredge myself.”

“What?”

“Sure! Why not? He wants a scrap, don’t he? Well, he wouldn’t get any if you were to go. It wouldn’t be worth his trouble getting out of bed. But me, I can show him a real good time, likely. I don’t say I can lick him, for they tell me he’s a right shifty guy and has some punch, but I can keep him interested until he’s ready to call it a day. Besides, I ain’t had a real good scrap since last winter and I’m getting soft. So that’s what we’ll do, eh?”

Myron laughed. Then, perplexedly, he asked: “You aren’t in earnest, Dobbins?”

“Sure, I’m in earnest? What’s the joke?”

“I guess it would be on Eldredge,” chuckled Myron.

“That’s so.” Joe smiled too. “He will be a bit surprised, won’t he? Maybe he will be peeved, too. I wouldn’t wonder. Well, that’s nothing in our young lives, eh? We’re doing the best we can for him.”

“But – but do you really think I’d agree to that?” asked Myron. “You’re joking, of course!”

“What do you mean, joking?” demanded the other indignantly. “And why wouldn’t you agree? Ain’t it the sensible thing to do?”

“Maybe, but I can’t do it, of course, Dobbins. You must see that. Why, hang it, if I challenge another fellow to fight I don’t expect him to send a substitute!”

“What you expect don’t cut any ice, kiddo. If the guy you challenge can’t fight a little bit he’s a plain idiot to let you whang him around, ain’t he? And if he knows another guy who doesn’t mind taking his place why ain’t it all right and fair for him to send him along? Tell me those!”

“Why, because – because it isn’t!” answered Myron impatiently. “Eldredge hasn’t anything against you. His quarrel is with me. What would he say about me if I stayed away and let you go instead?”

“Him? What could he say? I’ll tell him you’re no scrapper. That’ll fix that in his mind, won’t it? Mind you, Foster, I ain’t saying he’s going to be pleased at running up against a guy who knows a thing or two about the game, but it don’t seem to me that we need to worry about whether he’s pleased or not. He wants a scrap and we’re giving him one. That’s enough, ain’t it?”

“It’s the craziest thing I ever heard of,” said Myron. “Of course, I’m awfully much obliged, Dobbins. I appreciate it, honest. I don’t know why you should offer to do it, either. But it’s absolutely out of the question. So let’s not talk about it any more.”

Joe frowned, opened his mouth, closed it again without speaking and fell to studying his hands. After a moment Myron asked: “What do I do when I get there, Dobbins? Do we shake hands or – or just start in?”

“Start in,” answered the other absently. “Look here, Foster,” he continued earnestly, “you’re going to act like a plumb fool. Why, that guy’ll paste you all over your face and leave you looking like a raw beefsteak! Then faculty’ll want to know what you’ve been doing and there’ll be all sorts of trouble on tap. What you going to do when he begins lamming you?”

Myron shrugged. “Stand him off the best way I can. Lamm him back if I can. Maybe I’ll get on to the game after awhile. I’m going to try. I thought maybe you could show me a few things tonight, just so’s I wouldn’t look too green tomorrow. It isn’t late, is it?”

“No, it isn’t late.” Joe brightened perceptibly for an instant, but then his face fell again and he shook his head. “It wouldn’t be any use, kiddo. You’d forget it all in the morning. I guess if you won’t do like I said the best thing’ll be to let him knock you down as soon as possible. When you’re down, stay down. If he asks have you had enough, you tell him yes. Then you can shake hands and get through without getting all beat up.”

“Is that what you’d do?” asked Myron sharply.

“Me? Well, I – I don’t know as I would, just.”

“Then why should you think I’d do it? Who told you I was a coward? I can’t fight, and I know it, but I don’t intend to lie down!”

“Whoa, Bill! I ain’t said you were a coward. I know better, of course. If you were a coward you’d try to squirm out of meeting the fellow, wouldn’t you? All right, have it your own way, kiddo. Only don’t worry about it, see? You get a good sleep and leave tomorrow look after itself.”

“Thanks. I’m going to do that, Dobbins. Guess I’ll turn in now and dream I’m Jess Willard or one of those guys – fellows. Are you going to study some more?”

Joe nodded. “Yeah, I’m going to study some. Good night.”

“Good night,” answered Myron. A few minutes later he spoke again from the bedroom. “I say, Dobbins!”

“Yeah?”

“I’m awfully much obliged. You’ve been mighty kind, you know.”

“That’s all right, kiddo,” growled Dobbins. “Go to sleep.”

Whether Myron dreamed that he was a prizefighter, or dreamed at all, he didn’t remember when he awoke. That he had slept restfully, however, he realised the instant he was in possession of his faculties. He told himself that he felt fine. And when, a second later, he remembered the engagement at the brickyard the empty feeling at the pit of his stomach lasted but a moment. He turned his head and glanced at the clock on top of his dresser. Then he stared at it. It said twenty-eight minutes after six! It wasn’t like that clock to go wrong. It had been all right last evening when he had wound it, too. Suppose it was still right! Suppose he had overslept! He looked quickly at Joe’s bed. It was empty. Great Scott! He’d have to hurry if he was to get to that brickyard in seventeen minutes! He started to throw the covers aside, but he didn’t. He couldn’t! He couldn’t move his arm! Why, he couldn’t move any part of him except his head! Something awful had happened to him! Fright gripped him and in a panic he strove to get command of his limbs. Horrible thoughts of paralysis came to him. The bed creaked, but he remained flat on his back! And then it dawned on him that the reason he couldn’t move was because he was tied down!

For a moment he was so relieved to discover that the fault was not with him that he didn’t realise his situation. It was only when he remembered the time again that he understood. This was Joe Dobbins’ doing! Joe had tied him down to his bed, though how he had done it without awakening him Myron couldn’t imagine, and had himself gone to meet Eldredge! Surprise gave way to anger and mortification. What would Eldredge think of him? All Joe’s explanations would fail to convince Eldredge that Myron had not purposely stayed away. Of all the crazy, meddlesome fools in the world, Dobbins was the craziest! Wait until he found him! Wait until he told him what he thought of him! Wait —

But just then Myron realised that waiting was the one thing he couldn’t afford. The clock had ticked off two minutes of the precious time remaining to him and the long hand was moving past the half-hour already. He studied his predicament. Joe had, it appeared, used his own sheets and quilt and, probably, other things as well, and Myron was as securely fastened down as Gulliver by the Lilliputians! He could move each leg about an inch and each arm the same. By arching his back he could lift his body just off the bed: something, possibly a sheet, crossed his chest and was tied fast to the side rails. He squirmed until he was exhausted, and the only apparent result was to give himself the fraction of an inch more freedom. He subsided, panting, and his anger found room for grudging admiration of Joe’s work. How that idiot had managed to swathe and bind him as he had done without waking him up was both a marvel and a mystery!

“Gee,” muttered Myron, “I knew I was a sound sleeper, but – ”

Words failed him. Presently, despairing of success, he tried to free his right hand. Something that felt like a strap – he discovered afterwards that it was one of his neckties – was wound about the wrist, and his efforts were of no avail. The other hand was quite as securely tied. Tugging his feet against similar bonds was equally unprofitable. When the hands of the clock on the dresser indicated seventeen minutes to seven he gave up and tried to find consolation in arranging the eloquent remarks he meant to deliver to Joe Dobbins when that offensive youth returned.

Meanwhile, history was in the making on the trampled field of battle.

At a few minutes before the half-hour after six, a large, wide-shouldered youth attired in a pair of old trousers, a faded brown sweater that lacked part of one sleeve and a cloth cap of a violent green-and-brown plaid might have been seen ambling leisurely across the campus in the direction of the West Gate. In fact, he was seen, for from an open window on the front of Leonard Hall a pyjama-clad boy thrust his head forth and hailed softly.

“Hi, Joe! Joe Dobbins!” he called.

Joe paused and searched the front of the building until a spot of pale lavender against the expanse of sunlit brick supplied the clue. Then: “Hello, Keith,” he answered. “Can’t you sleep?”

Leighton Keith chuckled. “Where are you going?” he asked.

“Just for a stroll,” replied Joe carelessly.

“Wait a minute and I’ll come along.”

Joe shook his head. “Got a date, Keith, with a guy named Eldredge.”

Keith nodded and waved, but, after Joe had passed from sight around the corner of the building, he pursed his lips thoughtfully and stared out into the early morning world. Gradually a smile curved his mouth. “Paul Eldredge,” he murmured. “Guess we’ll look into this.” He donned a dressing-gown and passed into the corridor and along it until he reached a window that overlooked Linden Street. Joe was just sauntering through the gate, hands in pockets, nonchalance expressed in every motion. But Keith noted with satisfaction that he turned to the right into Apple Street and presently crossed that thoroughfare and disappeared into the lane that led toward the abandoned brickyard. Keith whistled expressively if subduedly and went quickly back to his room and aroused Harry Cater by the simple method of pulling the clothes from him. “Katie,” as he was called, groaned, clutched ineffectually for the bedding and opened one eye.

“Wake up, Katie,” said Keith. “Joe Dobbins has a scrap on with Eldredge at the brickyard. Come on!”

“Howjuno?” muttered Katie.

“He just told me.” That was near enough the truth, Keith considered. Katie opened the other eye, stared around the room and slung one foot over the edge of the bed. “All right,” he said briskly. “Wait till I get a shower and I’ll be with you.”

“Shower? Nothing doing!” Keith was piling rapidly into his clothes. “There isn’t time. This is something a little bit choice, old man, and we don’t want to miss it. Get a move on!”

CHAPTER XII

ELDREDGE REJECTS A SUBSTITUTE

Joe made his leisurely way along the lane, his feet rustling the leaves that littered the grassy path. There had been a frost during the night and in shaded places it still glistened. When he had left the lane and was making his way between the old tumbledown shed with its piles of crumbling bricks and one of the clay pits he saw that there was a skim of ice on the water below him. It was a morning that induced a fine feeling of well-being, that made the blood course quickly and would have put a song on Joe’s lips had he been able to sing a note. As it was, he whistled instead.

Ahead of him was a smallish shed, perhaps at one time the office. Some rusted barrows and pieces of machinery lay about it. As it presented the only place of concealment in sight, Joe concluded that it was the place of appointment. Eldredge, however, had not arrived. Joe made sure of that by looking on all sides of the building and peering into the interior through a paneless window. So he seated himself in the sunlight and philosophically waited.

Some ten minutes passed and then he heard footsteps and presently around the corner appeared Paul Eldredge and Sam Rogers. Joe frowned. Eldredge shouldn’t have brought a second fellow without telling Myron of his intention. The newcomers stopped in surprise when they saw Joe, and after an instant Eldredge said: “Hello! Have you seen – Is Foster here?”

“Hello,” replied Joe. “Foster? No, he isn’t coming.”