The Half-Back: A Story of School, Football, and Golf

"Oh!" It was Joel's mother who exclaimed. "Why, Joel, that other man threw him down."

"That's part of the game, mother. He did that to keep Blair from getting the ball any nearer the scrub's goal. He isn't hurt, you see."

"And do you mean that they do that all the time?"

"Pretty often."

"And do you get thrown around that way, Joel?"

"Sometimes, mother; when I'm lucky enough to get the ball."

"Well, I never."

"Football's not a bad game, Mr. March," West was saying. "But it doesn't come up to golf, you know. It's too rough."

"It does look a little rough," answered Mr. March. "Do they often get hurt? Seems as though when a boy had another fellow on his head, and another on his stomach, and another on his feet, and the whole lot of them banging away at once, seems like that boy would be a little uncomfortable."

West laughed.

"Sometimes a fellow has his ankle sprained or a knee twisted, or a shoulder-bone bust, or something like that. But it isn't often anything worse occurs."

"Well, I suppose it's all right then. Only when I was a boy we never went round trying to get our ankles sprained or our collar-bones broke; you young fellows are tougher than we were, I guess."

"I shouldn't wonder, sir. I believe Joel has been feeling pretty bad for a long time because he's got nothing worse than a broken finger."

"What? Broke his finger, did he? Eh? He didn't write anything about it; what's he mean, getting broken to pieces and not telling his parents about it?" West glanced apprehensively at Joel, but the latter had missed the conversation, being busy following the progress of Barton, of the scrub, who was doing a long run along the side line.

"Well, it wasn't much of a break, sir. It's all right now, and I think he thought you'd be worried, you know. I'm sure if it had been anything important he would have written at once."

"Humph," grunted Joel's father. "If he's going to break himself in pieces he'd better stop football. I won't have him taking risks. I'll tell him so!"

The fifteen-minute half had come to an end, and the players were either resting on the ground or going through some pass or start under the tuition of a coach. Suddenly Joel looked down to see Briscom, the scrub captain, climbing the seats. He ducked his bare head to the others and sank into the seat at Joel's side.

"Look here, March, can you help us out the next half? They've taken Webster on the Varsity, and"–he lowered his voice to a confidential roar–"we want to make a good showing to-day."

"Of course," answered Joel, "I'll come at once. Can I get some togs from some fellow?"

"Yes. I'll ask Whitman to find some. I'm sorry to take you away from your folks, but it's only fifteen minutes, you know."

So when the whistle blew Joel was at left half-back on the scrub, attired in borrowed plumage that came far from fitting him. And Mrs. March was in a tremor of dismay lest some one should throw Joel down as she had seen Blair thrown. Mr. March had not quite recovered from his resentment over his son's failure to apprise him of the broken finger, which, after all, was only broken in West's imagination, and viewed his advent on the field with disfavor.

Outfield began to wonder if his pleasant fiction regarding Joel's finger was to lead to unpleasant results, when Mr. March relieved his mind somewhat by suddenly taking interest in the career of his son, who was trying to make an end run inside Dutton with half the scrub hauling, pushing, pulling, shoving him along.

"Er–isn't that likely to be bad for that finger of his?"

"Oh, no, sir," answered West. "He looks out for his finger all right enough. There, he made the distance. Bully work. Good old Joel."

"Did he do well then, Mr. West?" asked Joel's mother. "Of course he did, mother," answered Mr. March disdainfully. "Didn't you see him lugging all those fellows along with him? How much does that count, West?"

"Well, that doesn't score anything, but it helps. The scrub has to pass that line down there before it can score. What they're trying to do now is to get down there, and Joel's helping. You watch him now. I think they're going to give him the ball again for another try around end." West was right in his surmise. Kicks were barred to-day save as a last resort, and the game was favoring the scrub as a consequence. The ball was passed to the right half-back; Joel darted forward like an arrow, took the ball from right, made a quick swerve as he neared the end of the line, and ran outside of the Varsity right end, Captain Dutton, who had been playing pretty well in, in the expectation of another try through tackle-end hole. As Joel got safely by it is more than likely that he found added satisfaction in the feat as he recalled that remark of Dutton's the week before: "What were you doing, you idiot?"

Joel got safely by Dutton, and fooled the sprightly Prince, but very nearly ran into the arms of Kingdon, who missed his tackle by a bare six inches. Then the race began. Joel's path lay straight down by the side line. The field followed him at a distance, and the most he could hope for was a touch-down near the corner of the field, which would require a punt-out.

"Ain't that Joel?" cried Mr. March, forgetting his grammar and his dignity at one and the same moment, and jumping excitedly to his feet. "Ain't that Joel there running? Hey? They can't catch him. I'll lay Joel to outrun the whole blame pack of 'em. Every day, sir. Hey? What?"

"I think he's all right, sir, for a touch-down," answered West gayly. "Hello, there's Blair leaving the bunch. Tally-Ho!"

"I don't care if it's a steam-engine," shouted Mr. March, "he can't–I don't know but as he's gaining a little, that fellow. Eh?"

"Looks like it," answered West, while Mrs. March, with her hand on her husband's arm, begged him to sit down and "stop acting so silly."

"Geewhillikins!" cried Mr. March, "Joel's caught! No, he's not–yet–Eh?–Too bad, too bad. Run, Joel, he's got ye!" Suddenly Mr. March, who had almost subsided on his seat, jumped again to his feet.

"Here! Stop that, you fellow! Hi!" He turned angrily to Outfield, his eyes blazing. "What'd he knock him down for? Eh? What's he sitting on my boy for? Is that fair? Eh?"

West and Mrs. March calmed him down and explained that tackling was quite within the law, and that he only sat on him to prevent him from going on again; for Blair had cut short Joel's triumph fifteen yards from the goal line, and the spectators of the soul-stirring dash down the field were slowly settling again in their seats. Mr. March was presently relieved to see Joel arise, shake himself like a dog coming out of water, and trot back to his position.

Another five minutes, during which the scrub tried desperately to force the ball over the Varsity's goal line, but without success, and the match was over, and Briscom was happy; for the Varsity had scored but once, and that on a fumble by the scrub quarter-back. Joel trotted off with the teams for a shower and a rub-down, and West conducted his parents back to the gate, where they awaited him. On the way Mr. March confided to West that "football wasn't what he'd call a parlor game, but on the whole it appeared to be rather interesting."

In the evening the quartet went into town to the theater and Joel's mother cried happily over the homely pathos of The Old Homestead, and Outfield laughed uproariously upon the slightest provocation, and every one was extremely happy. And afterward they "electriced" back to college, as West put it, and the two boys stayed awake very, very late, laughing and giggling over the humors of the play and Joel's broken finger.

Mr. and Mrs. March left the next day at noon, and Joel accompanied them to the depot, West having a golf engagement which he could not break. And when good-by had been said, and the long train had disappeared from sight, Joel returned to college on foot, over the long bridge spanning the river, busy with craft, past the factories noisy with the buzz of wheels and the clang of iron, and on along the far-stretching avenue until the tower of the dining hall loomed above the tops of the autumn branches, entering the yard just as the two o'clock bell was ringing.

CHAPTER XIX.

A VARSITY SUB

Give a boy the name of being a hero and it will stick. Joel was still pointed out by admiring Hillton graduates to their friends at Harwell as "March, the fellow who kicked the winning goal-from-field in the St. Eustace game two years ago." And while Joel had performed of late no doughty deed to sustain his reputation for valor, the freshman class accepted him in all faith as a sort of class hero, off duty for the moment, perchance, but ever ready to shed glory upon the class by some soul-stirring act.

Consequently when it was told through college that Joel March had been taken on to the Varsity Eleven as substitute left half-back no one was surprised, unless it was Joel himself. The freshman class wagged its head knowingly and said: "I told you they couldn't get on without March," and held its head higher for that one of its members was a Varsity player. It is not a frequent thing to find a freshman on the Varsity team, even as substitute, and Joel's fame grew apace and many congratulations were extended to him, in classroom and out. Blair was one of the first to climb the stairs of Mayer and express pleasure at the event. He found Joel seated in the window, propped up with half a dozen crimson pillows, attempting to sketch the view across the yard to send home to his sister. West was splicing a golf shaft and whistling blithely over the task.

"Hello, Sophy," cried that youth, "have you come to initiate us into the Sacred Order of Hullabalooloo? Dump those books off the chair and be seated. March is such a beastly untidy chap," he sighed; "he will leave his books around that way despite all I can say!"

"These books, Out," replied Blair, "bear the name of one West on their title pages, and, in fact, on a good many other pages, too. What say you?" A look of intense surprise overspread the face of Outfield.

"How passing strange," he muttered. "And is there a chemistry note-book among them?"

"I think so. Here is one that contains mention of C2H6O, H2SO4, and other mystic emblems which appear very tiresome; it also contains several pages filled with diagrams of the yard and plans of Pompeii before the devastation."

"Yes," answered West, "that's my chem. note-book. It's been missing ever since Tuesday. But those are not diagrams of the yard, my sophomoric friend; they're plans of the golf course."

"Well, just as you say. Catch! Say, March, I've just heard that you've made the Varsity. I'm most splendidly glad, my young friend. You make three Hillton fellows on the team. There's Selkirk, and you, and yours tenderly; and we'll show them what's what when Yates faces us. And I'll tell you a little fact that may interest you. Prince won't last until the Yates game, my lad. He's going silly in his ankle. But don't say I told you, for of course it's a dead secret. And if he gives out you'll get the posish. And then if you can make another one of those touch-downs in the Yates game–"

"Shut up, please, Blair!" groaned Joel.

"Nonsense, you're all right. I heard Button saying last week that nothing short of a ten-story house could have stopped you that day."

"He must think me an awful fool," responded Joel. "The idea of not remembering that I was off-side!"

"Pshaw; why, the first time I played against Eustace at Hillton I tackled the referee in mistake for the man with the ball! And threw him, too! And sat on his head!" West grinned.

"And they did say, Blair, that you were feeling aggrieved against that referee because he had called you down for holding. And I have heard that you weren't such a fool as you looked."

"Nothing in it, my boy," answered Wesley Blair airily. "Mere calumny. Am I one to entertain feelings of anger and resentment against my fellow men? Verily, very much not. But he put me off, did that referee chap. He was incapable of accepting the joke. What is more depressing than a fellow who can't see a joke, March?"

"Two fellows who can't see–et cetera," answered Joel promptly.

"Wrong, very wrong. I don't know what the answer is, but I'm quite certain it isn't that. Well, I must be going. I have studies. I don't waste the golden moments in idleness. I grind, my young and thoughtless friends, I grind. Well, I only came up to congratulate you, Mr. March, of Maine. I have done so. I now depart. Farewell! Never allow the mere fact of being off-side interfere with–"

Blair slammed the door just in front of a whizzing golf ball and clattered downstairs. Presently he appeared on the walk beneath the window and wiggled his fingers derisively with the thumb against a prominent feature of his face. But at the first squeak of the window being pushed up he disappeared around the corner.

Joel's days were now become very busy ones. Every morning he was awakened at seven, and at eight was required to be on hand at the training table for breakfast. The quarters were at Old's, a boarding house opposite the college yard, and here in a big, sunny front room the two long tables were laid with numerous great dishes of oatmeal or hominy, platters of smoking steak, chops or crisp bacon, plates of toast, while potatoes, usually baked, flanked the meat. The beverage was always milk, and tall pitchers of it were constantly filled and emptied during this as well as the other meals. And then there were eggs–eggs hard boiled, eggs soft boiled, eggs medium, eggs poached–until, at the end of the season, the mere mention of eggs caused Joel's stomach to writhe in disgust.

During breakfast disabilities were inquired after, men who were known to have nerves were questioned as to their night's rest, and orders for the day were given out. This man was instructed to see the doctor, another to interview the trainer, a third to report to the head coach. The meal over, save for a half hour of practice for the backs behind the gymnasium the men were free to give all their energies to lessons, and so hurried away to recitation hall or room.

At one o'clock the team assembled again for lunch, with books in hand, and at break-neck speed devoured the somewhat elaborate repast, each man rushing in, eating, and rushing out, with no attempt at sociability or heed to the laws of digestion.

Afternoon practice was at four o'clock. Individual practice was followed by team practice against an imaginary foe, and this in turn gave place to a line-up against the second eleven. Two stiff twenty-minute halves were played. Then again individuals were seized on by captain and coaches and put through paces to remedy some fault or other. And then the last player trots off the field, and the coaches, conversing earnestly among themselves, follow, and the day's work is done. There are still the bath and the rub-down and the weighing; but these are gone through with leisurely while the day's work is discussed and the coaches, circulating among the fellows, inflict an epilogue of criticism and instruction.

There remained usually the better part of an hour before dinner, and this period Joel spent in his room, where with the lamp throwing its glow over his shoulder, he strove to take his mind from the subject of tackling and starting, of punting and passing, and fix it upon his studies for the morrow.

For life was far from being all play that fall–if hard practice and strict training can be called play!–and Joel found it necessary to occupy every moment not taken up by eating, sleeping, and practicing on the gridiron with hard study. It can scarcely be truthfully asserted that Joel's lessons suffered by reason of his adherence to athletics, though a lecture now and then was slighted that he might use the time in pursuing some study that lack of leisure had necessitated his neglecting.

But a clear head, a good digestion, and racing blood render studying a pleasure rather than a task, and Joel found that, while giving less time than before to lessons, he learned them fully as well. One thing is certain: his standing in class did not suffer, even when the coaches were more than usually severe. Joel's experience that fall, and many a time later, led him to conclude that the amount of outdoor athletics indulged in and the capability for study are in direct ratio.

West, too, was a most studious young gentleman that term, and began to pride himself on his recently discovered ability to learn. To be sure, golf was a hard taskmaster, but with commendable self-denial he did not allow it to interfere with his progress in class. Both he and Joel had earned the name of being studious ere the end of the fall term, and neither of them resented it.

Unlike the preceding meal, dinner at the training table was a sociable and cheerful affair, when every man at the board tried his best to be entertaining, and when "shop," either study or football, was usually tabooed. The menu was elaborate. There were soup, two or three kinds of meat, a half dozen vegetables, sauces, the ever-present toast, pudding or cream, and plenty of fruit; and for drinkables, why, there was the milk, and sometimes light ale in lesser quantities. At one end of the table–whether head or foot is yet undecided–sat the captain, at the other end the head coach. Other coaches were present as well, and the trainer sat at the captain's left.

There was always lots of noise, for weighty things were seldom touched upon in the conversation, and jokes were given and taken in good part. When all other means of amusement failed there were still the potatoes to throw; and a butter chip, well laden, can be tossed upward in such a manner that it will remain stuck more or less securely to the ceiling. This is a trick that comes only with long practice, but any one may try it; and the ceiling above the training table that year was always well studded with suspended disks of crockery. Bread fights–so named because the ammunition is more likely to be potatoes–were extremely popular, and the dinner often came to an end with a pitched battle, in which coats were decorated from collar to hem with particles of that clinging vegetable.

His evenings usually belonged to Joel to spend as he wished, though not unfrequently a blackboard talk by the head coach or a lecture by some visiting authority curtailed them considerably. He had always to be in bed by ten o'clock.

But sleep sometimes, especially after a day of hard practice, did not readily come, and he often laid awake until midnight had sounded out on the deep-toned bell in the old church tower thinking over the events of the day, and wondering what fate, in the person of the head coach, held in view for him. And one night he awoke to find Outfield shaking him violently by the shoulder.

"Wh-what's the row?" he asked sleepily.

"You," answered Outfield. "You've been yelling '4, 9; 5, 7; 8, 6' for half an hour. What's the matter with you, anyhow?"

"The signals," muttered Joel, turning sleepily over, "that's a run around left end by left half-back. And don't forget to start when the ball's snapped. And jump high if you're blocked. And–don't–forget–to–" Snore–snore! "Well," muttered West as he stumbled against an armchair and climbed into bed, "of all crazy games–"

But West was not in training and so possessed the faculty of going to sleep when his head struck the pillow. As a consequence the rest of his remark was never heard.

CHAPTER XX.

AN OLD FRIEND

"MARCH! Joel March!"

Joel was striding along under the shadow of the chapel on his way from a recitation to Mayer and his room. The familiar tones came from the direction of the library, and turning he saw Stephen Remsen trotting toward him with no regard for the grass. Joel hurdled the knee-high wire barrier and strode to meet him. The two shook hands warmly, almost affectionately, in the manner of those who are glad to meet.

"March, I'm delighted to see you again! I was just going to look you up. Which way were you going?"

"Up to the room. Can't you come up for a while? When'd you arrive? Are you going to stay now?"

"Third down!" laughed Remsen. "No gain! What a fellow you are for questions, March! I got in this morning, and I'm going to stay until after the Yates game. They telegraphed me to come and coach the tackles. Instead of going to your room let's go to mine. I've taken a suite of one room and a closet at Dixon's on the avenue. I haven't unpacked my toothbrush yet. Come over with me and take lunch, and we'll talk it all over."

So Joel stuck his books under his arm and the two crossed the yard, traversing the quadrangle in front of University and debouching on to the avenue near where the tall shaft of the Soldiers' Monument gleams in the sunlight. But they did not wait until Remsen's room was gained to "talk it all over." Joel had lots to tell about the Hillton fellows whom he had not lost sight of: of how Clausen was captain of the freshman Eleven and was displaying a wonderful faculty for generalship; how West was still golfing and had at last met foemen worthy of his steel; how Dicky Sproule was in college taking a special course, and struggling along under popular dislike; how Whipple and Cooke were rooming together in Peck, the former playing on the sophomore class team and going in for rowing, and the latter still the same idle, good-natured ignoramus, and liked by every fellow who knew him; how Digbee was grinding in Lanter with Somers; how Cartwright had joined the Glee Club; and how Christie had left college and gone into business with his father.

"And Cloud?" asked Remsen. "Have you seen him?"

"Yes, once or twice. I've heard that he was very well liked when he left St. Eustace last year. I dare say he has turned over a new leaf since his father died."

"Indeed? I hadn't heard of that."

"West heard it. He died last spring, and left Cloud pretty near penniless, they say. I have an idea that he has taken a brace and is studying more than he used to."

"The chap has plenty of good qualities, I suppose. We all have our bad ones, you know. Perhaps it only needed some misfortune to wake up the lad's better nature. They say virtue thrives best on homely fare, and, like lots of other proverbs, I guess it's sometimes true."

Then Remsen told of his visit to Hillton a few weeks previous. The Eleven this year was in pretty good shape, he thought; Greene, an upper middle man, was captain; they expected to have an easy time with St. Eustace, who was popularly supposed to be in a bad way for veteran players. That same Greene was winning the golf tournament when he was there, Remsen continued, and the golf club was in better shape than ever before, thanks to the hard work of West, Whipple, Blair, and a few others in building it up.

The two friends reached the house, and Remsen led the way into his room, and set about unpacking his things. Joel took up a position on the bed and gave excellent advice as to the disposal of everything from a pair of stockings to a typewriter.

"It's a strange fact," said Remsen as he thrust a suit of pajamas under the pillow, "that Outfield West is missed at Hillton more than any fellow who has graduated from there for several years past. Perhaps I don't mean exactly strange, either, for of course he's a fellow that every one naturally likes. What I do mean is that one would naturally suppose fellows like Blair or Whipple would leave the most regrets behind them, for Blair was generally conceded to be the most popular fellow in school the last two years of his stay, and Whipple was surely running him a close second. And certainly their memories are still green. But everywhere I went it was: 'Have you heard from Outfield West?' 'How's West getting on at college?' And strange to say, such inquiries were not confined to the fellows alone. Professor Wheeler asked after West particularly, and so did Briggs, and several others of the faculty; and Mrs. Cowles as well.

"But you are still the hero there, March. The classic history of Hillton still recounts the prowess of one Joel the First, who kicked a goal from field and defeated thereby the hosts of St. Eustace. And Professor Durkee shakes his head and says he will never have another so attentive and appreciative member of his class. And now tell me, how are you getting on with Dutton?"

So Joel recited his football adventures in full, not omitting the ludicrous touch-down, which received laughing applause from his listener, and recounting his promotion to the position of Varsity substitute.