Quarter-Back Bates

“Do you take your meals here?” Dick inquired.

“No, Mrs. S. doesn’t give meals. She used to, but that was before my time. I eat around. Usually at ‘The Eggery.’ Sometimes at Thacher’s. Stan says you’re out for the football team. Going to make it all right?”

“I don’t know, I’m sure. I’m going to try to. Do you – are you – ”

“No, I’m not athletic, Bates. My favourite sport is mumblepeg. Besides, my studies prevent. Oh, shut up, Stan! Let me make a good impression on Bates, can’t you? What time is it, anyway? Look here, let’s go to the movies. What do you say?”

“Not for me,” answered Stanley. “I’ve got to beat it back and do some work tonight. Besides, the last time – ”

“Oh, that!” laughed Rusty. “Wasn’t it silly? Such a fuss about so little, eh?”

“Oh, yes, very little!” Stanley turned to Dick. “He and Blash stretched a rope across the aisle and tied it to the arms of the seats ahead of them. Being fairly dark, some confusion ensued!”

“During which, if I remember correctly, you and Joe and Blash sneaked out. Just shows what a guilty conscience will do, Bates. I remained, secure in my innocence, and saw the show through.”

“Yes, you rotter!” said Stan indignantly. “You put the blame on us, and every time I go there now the doorman looks at me unkindly.”

“Well, you were out of the way and I wasn’t. Besides, I wanted to see the rest of the picture.”

“Rusty, if you got your deserts,” said Stanley, feelingly, “you’d be shot at sunrise. Well, I must beat it. Coming along, Dick?”

Dick went, in spite of Rusty’s pleas. They left by way of the bedroom and Dick watched the hall door very, very carefully. It proved to be a perfectly normal door, however. Rusty told Dick to call again and held conversation with them over the banister until they had reached the street door, while from a second floor room came howls of “Shut up, Rusty! Shu-u-ut u-u-up!”

“It’s only Haynes,” called Rusty reassuringly. “Don’t mind the poor fish. Come again, fellows! Good night!”

In the letter rack in Sohmer was another envelope addressed to Dick and within was a third penny.

CHAPTER VI

DICK MAKES AN ENEMY

That was on Friday. The next afternoon Parkinson played her first game, with Mapleton School. Mapleton had started the Parkinson schedule for several years, invariably providing just the amount of fight desired, and today was no exception to the established rule. Four ten-minute periods were played and Parkinson managed to run up seventeen points. It was a slow and uninteresting game from the spectators’ standpoint, and the afternoon was scorchingly hot for the last of September. “Babe” Upton, who weighed well over a hundred and eighty and played centre, affirmed afterwards that he could feel himself melting away like a candle. Indeed, although none of the team was allowed to remain in the contest for more than two periods, there were many who found it hard medicine. Dick, who as a member of the squad was supposed to look on and learn, watched the game from the Parkinson bench and sweltered uncomplainingly for the better part of an hour and a half. Naturally enough, his interest concentrated itself on Stone and, later, Cardin, the quarter-backs. He secretly thought that Cardin, with sufficient instruction, could be developed into a better quarter than Gus Stone, for Cardin was a quick, gingery youngster who drove his team hard, while Stone, although more experienced and heavier, had a tendency to go to sleep on his feet, and the plays always dragged just when they should have been run off at top speed. A third candidate, a thin ramrod of a youth, was tried out for a few minutes just at the end of the game. A neighbour told Dick that his name was Pryne, adding facetiously that it ought to be Prune. Pryne had scant opportunity to show whether he deserved the latter appellation, however.

When Mapleton had gone away and the stands had practically emptied, the members of the squad who had taken no part in the game were called out for an hour’s work. Coach Driscoll did not remain, and the job fell to Harry Warden, who because of a weak ankle had been out of his place at left half on the team that afternoon. By some chance the running of one of the three makeshift teams fell to Dick, and, with a few of the candidates who had failed to get placed on the squads following, he started off. The simplest sort of plays were being taught, straight line bucks and runs, outside ends and a rudimentary set of signals was used. At first the men moved hardly faster than a walk. Then, having presumably learned their duties, they were allowed to trot. It seemed to Dick that he was burdened with the stupidest aggregation on the field, and one of the backs, a shock-haired, long-nosed youth named Halden, outdid them all. No matter how many times Halden was walked through a play, the instant speed was called for he forgot all he had learned. Finally, after he had “gummed up” a simple two-man attack on left guard for the third time, Dick’s exasperation found voice.

“You! Eight half! What good do you think you are? You’re supposed to go in there and clear out that hole, and instead of that you let the runner ahead of you and then walk all over his heels! Can’t you understand that play? Don’t you get the signal, or what’s your trouble?”

“I thought full-back went ahead,” grumbled Halden.

“You thought! Great guns, haven’t you been through that play often enough? Come on, now! Try to get it right this time.”

Halden did get it right, but the effort so unnerved him that he stopped as soon as he was clear of the line and the full-back ran into him.

“All right as far you got,” commented Dick, bitterly, “but there’s supposed to be an opposing line in front of you, Halden. Keep on going! Here, we’ll switch that play to the other side and you watch how it’s done.” This time the right half cleared the hole on his own side and the full-back, ball hugged to his stomach, plunged after him. “Get it?” asked Dick of Halden.

“Sure,” growled the left half.

“Well, try it then. All right! 7 – 15 – 18 – 7 – ”

Halden started off much too soon, beating the signal by a yard, and a trickle of laughter arose from the squad. “Fine!” called Dick. “That’s great work, Halden! But it’s usual to wait until the ball is snapped! Here, you drop out and let someone else in here for a while.”

“You’re not running this,” objected Halden, angrily.

“I’m running this squad, and I don’t intend to waste everyone’s time trying to drive a simple idea into that concrete dome of yours!” Dick turned to the followers. “Any of you fellows play half?” he asked.

A volunteer stepped forward and Halden, muttering and angry, dropped back. It was at that instant that Dick noted the presence of Warden. If he had known the Varsity man was there, he might have been slower in assuming authority, but, having begun, he kept on with it. “All right. Left half, please. Now then, fellows, let’s get going again. Mind the signals!”

Of course when he called on right half to take the ball on a run outside, tackle one or two made the mistake of supposing it was the unsuccessful play that was called for and acted accordingly, but that was to be expected. “I told you to mind signals,” scolded Dick. “Don’t try to guess what’s coming. Listen to me!” When the goal line was reached and they swung around for a trip back up the field, Dick saw that Warden had taken himself off again and was somewhat relieved. He had more than half expected a calling-down for sending Halden out. Toward the end of the signal drill the squad worked fairly well, although Dick persisted in the belief that he had fallen heir to the most stupid bunch on the field. When dismissal came they trooped over to the benches to get sweaters, and as Dick pulled his on he heard Halden’s voice at his shoulder.

“Next time you bawl me out like that I’ll hand you a punch on the nose,” growled the half-back candidate. “You wouldn’t have done it if that big fellow hadn’t been there!”

Dick’s head emerged from his sweater and he viewed Halden coldly. “Son,” he said in as low a voice as the other’s, “if you try any tricks with me I’ll hurt you badly. And any time I’m playing quarter where you are and you don’t show any more intelligence than you did today, you’re going to get roasted. You make the most of that, Halden!”

“You try it!” hissed the other like a villain in a melodrama. “You think you’re somebody, don’t you? Well, you’ll get yours if you try to make a goat of me!”

“Oh, piffle!” said Dick disgustedly, elbowing away. “Keep your temper if you want to play football.”

“Yes, and I’ll be playing football when you’re kicked off,” answered the other.

Dick shrugged and went his way, Halden following gloweringly to the gymnasium. In the locker room, Harry Warden crossed over and seated himself beside Dick on the bench in front of his locker. “Say, Bates,” he began, “you’ve done that sort of thing before, haven’t you?”

“What sort of thing?” asked Dick, a twinkle in his eye. “Fired a fellow off the squad without authority?”

Warden’s sober countenance showed the faintest ghost of a smile: or perhaps it was only the eyes that smiled. “I meant run off signals. I thought you showed a good deal of familiarity with the job.”

“Why, yes, I’ve done it before, quite often. I’ve played three years, two of them on my high school team. We all had to take hold and coach at times, Warden. Our real coach couldn’t give us a great deal of time. He worked in a hardware store, you see, and his boss didn’t care a great deal about football.” Dick smiled. “We couldn’t pay him anything and he couldn’t afford to lose his job.”

“What school was that?” asked Warden.

“Leonardville, Pennsylvania, High.” Dick watched to see if the information aroused recollection. It didn’t. Evidently Fame didn’t travel into New England.

“You played quarter-back?” Dick nodded. “Hm.” Warden rubbed a cheek reflectively. “What’s your weight?”

“One-fifty-one today.”

“You look lighter. That’s your build, though. I liked the way you handled that bunch of dubs today, Bates. Ever done much punting?”

“Not very much. We had a full-back who was pretty nifty at that. I’ve done some drop-kicking, though.”

“Can you do two out of three from the thirty yards?”

“Yes, if the angle isn’t too wide.”

Warden got up. “I wouldn’t be surprised, Bates, if Driscoll took you onto the first squad some day soon. Keep on the way you’re going, will you? Let’s see if we can’t prove him wrong. You know, Driscoll insists that you can’t make a prep-school player from a high-school fellow. He says they always know too much. Think it’s that way with you?”

Dick looked haughty for an instant. Then he smiled. “Why, I don’t believe so, Warden. That’s a funny idea of his, though.”

“He says he’s never had much success with high-school fellows,” said Warden thoughtfully. “I know what he means, too. Maybe you wouldn’t notice it, Bates, but it’s a fact that most chaps who show up here from high schools have mighty good opinions of themselves. Half the time they’ve been captains of their teams, you know, or crack half-backs or quarters, and they don’t take kindly to new ways and hate being told anything. I know two or three cases myself. By the way, you weren’t captain, were you?”

“No.” Dick didn’t explain that he might have been had he remained in Leonardville! “I would say, though, that it depended on the fellow, Warden, and not on the fact that he’d been playing with some high-school team.”

“Yes, maybe. Well, see you again, Bates. And, by the way, you did just right to drop that chap this afternoon. So long.”

When he had gone Dick sat and nursed one bare foot for several minutes and wondered what Warden’s interest portended. He felt rather cheered-up when he finally went on with dressing himself. Warden’s remark about Coach Corliss and the first squad sounded good to him.

CHAPTER VII

PAGING MR. BLASHINGTON

There were two more pennies awaiting him on the letter rack, each enclosed in a business envelope. One envelope bore the inscription, “After Five Days Return to The Warne Gas and Electric Company, Warne, Mass.,” and the other purported to have come from the “Stevens Machine Company.” But the handwriting was suspiciously the same on each envelope. Upstairs, Dick handed the two to Stanley and told about receiving the previous three pennies. For a moment Stanley seemed as puzzled as Dick. Then, however, a smile spread itself slowly over his face and he chuckled.

“Anybody owe you any money?” he asked.

“Not that I know – ” began Dick. Then comprehension dawned. “By Jove! You mean Blashington?”

“Of course. It’s just the crazy sort of thing he’d do. He owed you twelve and a half cents, didn’t he? Well, he’s paying his debt. But where he manages to get hold of all these bum pennies is beyond me. There isn’t one of the five, Dick, that you could pass on anyone but a blind man!”

“Well, it’s putting him to a lot of trouble, I’ll bet,” said Dick grimly. “If he can stand it I can. Funny, though, I didn’t think of him. I thought yesterday it was Rusty Crozier. That’s why I showed them to you last night. Crazy ape!”

“Hand me a scrap of paper and a pencil, Dick. Anything will do. Thanks.” Stanley wrote a few lines, folded the paper many times and handed it back. “Just for fun, Dick, when Blash has made his last payment, you read what I’ve written there,” he directed.

“Gee, you’re as bad as he is for silly jokes,” grumbled Dick. But he opened the drawer in his desk and dropped the paper inside. “And that reminds me that I ran across another crazy idiot this afternoon. His name’s Halden. He wanted to punch me because I called him down for balling up a play in signal drill. Know him?”

“Sanford Halden?” Stanley nodded. “Know who he is, yes. He’s a sort of a nut. Goes in for everything and never lands. Used to think he was a pole-vaulter. Then he tried the sprints and – well, I guess he’s had a go at about everything. The only thing I ever heard of his doing half-way well is basket-ball. I believe he’s fairly good at that. Usually gets fired, though, for scrapping. They call him Sandy. He’s a Fourth Class fellow.”

“Is he? I thought he was probably Third. He must be older than he looks then.”

“I guess he’s only seventeen,” said Stanley. “He’s smart at studies. He’s one of the kind who always knows what he’s going to be asked and always has the answer. It’s a gift, Dick.” And Stanley sighed.

“He’s going to have another gift,” laughed Dick, “if he gets fresh with me! Talk about your stupids! He was the limit today. Had hold up the whole squad while he was being taught the simplest play there is. Then he had the cheek to threaten to punch my nose! I hope they let me run a squad tomorrow and put him on it!”

“Calm yourself, Dickie. Halden’s a joke. Don’t let him bother you. Let’s go to supper. Don’t forget this is movie night.”

Going to the movies was a regular Saturday night event at Parkinson and usually a good half of the school was to be found at one or the other of the two small theatres in the village. Tonight, perhaps because of the heat, the stream that trickled across the campus to the head of School Street as soon as supper was finished was smaller than usual, and Dick and Stanley, Blash and his room-mate, Sid Crocker, commented on the fact as they started off.

“The trouble is,” hazarded Sid, “they don’t have the right sort of pictures. Gee, they haven’t shown Bill Hart since ’way last winter!”

“How do you know! They may have had a Hart picture while we’ve been away. What I kick about is this educational stuff. I suppose it doesn’t cost them much, but I’m dead tired of Niagara Falls from an airplane and gathering rubber in Brazil – or wherever they do gather it – and all that trash.” Blash shook his head disgustedly. “Hope they’ll have a real, corking-good serial this year. Nothing like a good serial to keep a fellow young and zippy.”

“They give us too much society drool,” said Stanley. “Pictures about Lord Blitherington losing the old castle and his string of hunters and going to America and stumbling on a gold mine and going home again and swatting the villain and rescuing the heroine just as she’s going to marry the old guy with the mutton-chop whiskers. I wish they’d let her marry him sometimes. Guess it would serve her right!”

“Well, they’ve got a pretty good bill at the Temple tonight,” said Dick. “That Western picture looks great.”

“Yes, but who’s this guy that’s in it?” demanded Sid suspiciously. “Who ever heard of him before?”

“Everyone but you, you old grouch,” Blash assured him sweetly. “Come on or we’ll have to stand up until the first picture’s over.”

Adams Street was quite a busy scene on a Saturday night, for the stores kept open and the residents of a half-dozen neighbouring hamlets came in to do the week’s buying. While they were making their way through the leisurely throng Sid had a fleeting vision of Rusty Crozier, or thought he had. Stanley said it was quite likely, as Rusty was a great movie “fan.” Then they were part of the jam in the entrance of the Scenic Temple, and Blash, because of superior height, had been commissioned to fight his way to the ticket window. Followed a scurry down a darkened aisle and the eventual discovery of three seats together and one in the row behind. Blash volunteered for the single one and since it was directly behind the seat occupied by Dick the latter subsequently shared with Stanley the benefit of Blash’s observations and criticisms. A news weekly was on the screen when they arrived, and Blash had little to say of the pictured events, but when Episode 17 of “The Face in the Moonlight” began he became most voluble. Stanley kept telling him to shut up, but Dick, who didn’t find the serial very enthralling, rather enjoyed Blash’s absurdities. A comedy followed and then came a Western melodrama with a hero who took remarkable chances on horseback and a heroine who had a perfect passion for getting into trouble. There were numerous picturesque cow-boys and Mexicans and a villain who, so Blash declared delightedly, was the “dead spit” of Mr. Hale, the instructor in physics. Just when the picture was at its most absorbing stage the piano ceased abruptly and after an instant of startling silence a voice was heard.

“Is Mr. Wallace Blashington in the house? Mr. Wallace Blashington is wanted at the telephone!”

The piano began again and the usher, a dimly seen figure down front, retreated up the aisle like a shadow. The three boys in front turned to Blash excitedly.

“What is it, Blash?” asked Sid.

“Better go see,” counselled Stanley.

“Are you sure he said me?” whispered Blash. He sounded rather nervous.

“Of course he did! Beat it, you idiot! Come back if you can. Ask the man next you to hold your seat, Blash.”

“We-ell – but I don’t see – ” muttered Blash. Then he got up, dropped his cap, groped for it and found it and pushed his way past a long line of feet, stepping on most of them. At the back of the theatre an usher conducted him to the ticket booth and he picked up the telephone receiver.

“Hello!” he said. “Hello! This is Blashington!”

“Hello! Is that you, Mr. Blashington?” asked a faint voice from what seemed hundreds of miles away.

“Yes. Who is talking?”

“Mr. Wallace Blashington?”

“Yes! Who – ”

“Of Parkinson School?”

“Yes! What – who – ”

“Hold the line, please. Baltimore is calling.”

Then followed silence. Blash wondered. He tried to think of someone he knew in Baltimore, but couldn’t. He felt decidedly nervous without any good reason that he knew of. Through the glass window he saw the doorman watching him interestedly. Beside him the girl who sold tickets pretended deep absorption in a magazine and chewed her gum rhythmically, but Blash knew that she was finding the suspense almost as trying as he was. After what seemed to him many minutes a voice came to him. It might have been a new voice, but it sounded to Blash much like that of the first speaker.

“That you, Wallace!”

“Yes! Who are you?”

“This is Uncle John.”

“Who?”

“Uncle John, in Baltimore.”

“Unc – Say, you’ve got the wrong party, I guess! Who do you want?”

“Isn’t this Wallace?”

“This is Wallace Blashington!” Blash was getting peevish. “I haven’t any Uncle John in Baltimore or anywhere else!” The ticket girl sniggered and Blash felt his face getting red. “I say I haven’t – ”

“Yes, Wallace? I can’t hear you very well. I’ve just had word from Dick, Wallace, and – ”

“Dick who? I say Dick who!” roared Blash.

“Yes, Wallace, I’m sure you do. Well, this is what he says. I’ll read it to you. ‘Tell Blash – ’ He calls you Blash. ‘Tell Blash he needn’t bother – ’”

“Needn’t what?”

“Needn’t bother! ‘Tell Blash he needn’t bother to send the other – ’ Are you there, Wallace? Did you get that?”

“Yes! But who is talking? What is – Look here, I don’t understand – ”

“Yes, Wallace, I’ll speak more distinctly. – ‘Not to bother to send the other seven and a half cents!’”

“What cents? Say, look here! Who is Dick? Dick who? What – ”

“Dick Bates,” answered the ghostly voice.

Blash stared for an instant at the instrument. Then he said: “You – you – ” in an oddly choked voice, banged the receiver back on the hook and bolted through the door. He was aware that the ticket girl was giggling and that the doorman eyed him amusedly as he hurried into the theatre again and he wondered if they were parties to the hoax. In the darkness at the back of the house he paused and fanned himself with his cap, and as he did so he chuckled.

“Not bad,” he whispered to himself. “Not a-tall bad!”

Then he made his way down the aisle, located his seat after much difficulty and crawled back to it over many legs and feet. Three concerned faces turned sympathetically.

“No bad news, I hope?” said Stanley in an anxious whisper.

“Anything important?” asked Sid.

Dick looked but said nothing, and Blash, his lips close to Dick’s ear, hissed threateningly: “One word from you, Bates! Just one word!”

Instead of speaking, however, Dick turned his face to the screen again, his shoulders shaking. Further along, where Sid sat, there was a faint choking sound. Then Stanley said: “Oh, boy!” and fell up against Dick. Again that queer choking sound, then a gurgle, followed by a muffled explosion of laughter from Dick, and Stanley was on his feet, pushing Sid ahead of him, and Dick was following weakly on his heels, and a second after all three were plunging wildly up the darkened aisle.

“Ex-excuse me,” muttered Blash. He clutched his cap and wormed his way past a dozen exasperated, protesting members of the audience and pursued his friends. He found them in the lobby outside. Stanley was leaning against the side of the entrance, Sid was draped over a large brass rail, and Dick, midway, was regarding them from streaming eyes, one hand stretched vainly forth for support. The contagion of their laughter had involved doorman and ticket girl, while a small group of loiterers beyond were grinning sympathetically. On this scene appeared Blash. Stanley saw him first and raised one arm and pointed in warning. Dick looked, gave forth a final gasp of laughter and fled on wobbling legs. Sid and Stanley followed and Blash brought up the rear.

Down Adams Street in the direction of the railroad station went hares and hound, the hound gaining at every stride. Dick took to the street early in the race, the sidewalk being much too congested for easy progress, and had hair-breadth escapes from cars and vehicles. To him the station came into sight like a haven of refuge, and there he was run to earth in a dim corner of the waiting-room. When Stanley and Sid reached the scene, outdistanced by Blash, Dick was lying on a bench and Blash was sitting on him in triumph.

“Apologise!” panted Blash. “Say you’re sorry!”

“I – I – ” gurgled Dick.

“Say it, you lobster!”

“’Pologise!” grunted the under dog. “Sorry I – Oh, gee!” And, Blash arising from his prostrate form, Dick went off again into a paroxysm of laughter, while Stanley and Sid sank weakly onto the bench and wiped their eyes.

“Who did you get to do it?” asked Blash a few minutes later when they were making their way back to school. “Who was on the ’phone?”

“Rusty Crozier,” chuckled Dick.

“Rusty! And I didn’t recognise his voice! I guess, though, he put a pebble under his tongue or something.” Blash laughed. “Say, fellows, I’d have sworn he was a thousand miles away!”