Behind the Line: A Story of College Life and Football

"If they will leave me behind, Syd, what can they hope for save rout and disaster? Of course, I realize that I could not have played, but my presence on the side-line would have inspired them and have been very, very helpful. I'm sure the score would have been quite different, Syd."

"Yes," laughed the other; "say fifty to nothing."

"Your levity and disrespect pains me," mourned Neil.

But despite the overwhelming nature of the defeat, Mills and Devoe and the associate coaches found much to encourage them. No attempt had been made to try the new defensive play, but Erskine had managed to make her distance several times. The line had proved steady and had borne the severe battering of the Yale backs without serious injury. The Purple's back-field had played well; Paul had been in his best form, Gillam had gained ground quite often through Yale's wings, and Mason, at full-back, had fought nobly. The ends had proved themselves quick and speedy in getting down under punts, and several of the Blue's tries around end had been nipped ingloriously in the bud. But, when all was said, the principal honors of the contest had fallen to Ted Foster, Erskine's plucky quarter, whose handling of the team had been wonderful, and whose catching and running back of punts had more than once turned the tide of battle. On the whole, Erskine had put up a good, fast, well-balanced game; had displayed plenty of grit, had shown herself well advanced in team-play, and had emerged practically unscathed from a hard-fought contest.

On Monday Neil went into the line-up for a few minutes, displacing Paul at left-half, but did not form one of the heroic tandem. His shoulder bothered him a good deal for the first minute or two, but after he had warmed up to the work he forgot about it and banged it around so that Simson was obliged to remonstrate and threaten to take him out. On the second's twenty yards Neil was given a chance at a goal from placement, and, in spite of his right shoulder, and to the delight of the coaches, sent the leather over the bar. When he turned and trotted back up the field he almost ran over Sydney, who was hobbling blithely about the gridiron on his crutches.

"Whoa!" cried Neil. "Back up! Hello, Board of Strategy; how do you find yourself?"

"That was fine, Neil," said Sydney.

"What?"

"That goal."

"Glad you liked it. I was beastly nervous," he laughed. "Had no idea I could do it. It's so different trying goals in a game; when you're just off practising it doesn't seem to bother you."

"Oh, you'll do. Gale is growling like a bear because they took him out."

"Is he?" asked Neil. "I'm sorry. Do you know whether he stands a good show for the game? Have you heard Mills or Devoe say anything about it?" Sydney shook his head.

"I'm afraid Gillam's got us both boxed," continued Neil. "As for me, I suppose they'll let me in because I can sometimes kick a goal, but I'm worried about Paul. If he'd only–Farewell, they are lining up again."

"I don't believe Gale will get into the Robinson game," thought Sydney as he took himself toward the side-line. "He seems a good player, but–but you never can tell what he's going to do; half the time he just sort of slops around and looks as though he was doing a favor by playing. I can't see why Neil likes him so well; I suppose it's because he's so different. Maybe he's a better sort when you know him real well."

After practise was ended and the riotous half-hour in the locker-house was over, Neil found himself walking back to the campus with Sydney and Paul. Paul entertained a half-contemptuous liking for Sydney. To Neil he called him "the crip," but when in Sydney's presence was careful never to say anything to wound the boy's feelings–an act of consideration rather remarkable for Paul, who, while really kind at heart, was oftentimes careless about the sensibilities of others. This afternoon Paul was evidently downcast, too downcast to be even cross.

"Well, I guess it's all up with me," he said as they passed through the gate and started down Williams Street toward college. "I'm glad you're back, chum, but I can see my finish."

"Nonsense," said Neil, "you'll be back to-morrow. Gillam is putting up a star game, and that's a fact; but your weight will help you, and if you buckle down for the next few days you'll make it all right."

But Paul refused to be comforted and remained silent and gloomy all the way home. Knowing how Paul had set his heart upon making the varsity for the Robinson game, Neil began to be rather worried himself. He felt, unnecessarily of course, in a measure responsible for the crowning of his friend's ambition. When he had prevailed on Paul to relinquish the idea of going to Robinson, he had derided the possibility of Paul failing to make the Erskine team; and now that possibility was rapidly assuming the appearance of a probability. Certainly the fault was Paul's, and not his; but the thought contained small comfort.

Next day's practise, in preparation for Erskine's last game before the Robinson contest, proved Paul's fears far from groundless. Gillam, Neil, and Mason started work when the line-up was formed, and Paul looked on heart-brokenly from the bench. It was not until Neil had failed twice and succeeded once at field-goals, and Gillam had been well hammered by the second's tandem plays, that Paul secured a chance. Then Neil was taken out and his friend put in.

Neil wrapped a frayed gray blanket about his shoulders and reflected ruefully upon events. He knew that he had played poorly; that he had twice tied up the play by allowing his thoughts to wander; that his end-running had been slow, almost listless, and that his performance at goal-kicking had been miserable. He had missed two tries from placement, one on the twenty yards and another on the twenty-seven, and had only succeeded at a drop-kick by the barest of margins. He couldn't even lay the blame on his injured shoulder, for that was no longer a factor in his playing; the bandages were off and only a leather pad remained to remind him of the incident. No, he had simply worried his stupid head over Paul's troubles, he told himself, and had thereby disappointed the coaches, the captain, and himself. Simson found him presently and sent him trotting about the field, an exercise that worked some of his gloom off and left him in a fairly cheerful frame of mind when he ran up the locker-house steps.

But at dinner he found that his appetite had almost deserted him. Simson observed him gravely, and after the meal was over questioned closely. Neil answered rather irritably, and the trainer's uneasiness increased; but he only said:

"Go to bed early to-night and lay off to-morrow. You'll be better by Monday. And you might take a walk to-morrow afternoon; go off into the country somewhere; see if you can't find some one to go with you. How's the shoulder? No trouble there, is there?"

"No, there's no trouble anywhere; I just wasn't hungry."

"Well, you do what I've told you and you'll get your appetite back, my boy."

Neil turned away frowning and took himself to his lodging, feeling angry with Simson because he was going to keep him off the field, and angry with himself because–oh, just because he was.

But Neil was not the only person concerned with Erskine athletics who was out of sorts that night. A general air of gloom had pervaded the dinner-table. Mills had been even silenter than usual; the three other coaches present had been plainly worried, and Simson, in spite of his attempts to keep the conversation cheerful, had showed that he too was bothered about something. A bomb-shell had landed in the Erskine camp and had exploded in Mills's quarters.

On the front steps Neil met Cowan. The two always nodded to each other, but to-night Neil's curt salutation went unheeded. Cowan, with troubled face, hurried by him and went up the street toward Mills's rooms.

"Every one's grouchy to-night," muttered Neil. "Even Cowan looks as though he was going to be shot."

Meanwhile the athletic authorities of Erskine and the coaches were met in extraordinary session. They were considering a letter which had arrived that afternoon from Collegetown. In the letter Robinson announced her protest of Thomas L. Cowan, right-guard on the Erskine football team, on the score of professionalism.

"It just means," wailed Foster, who had brought the tidings to Neil and Paul, "that it's all over with us. I don't know what Cowan has to say, but I'll bet a–I'll bet my new typewriter!–that Robinson's right. And with Cowan gone from right-guard, where are we? We haven't the ghost of a show. The only fellow they can play in his place is Witter, and he's a pygmy. Not that Witter doesn't know the position, for he does; but he's too light. Was there ever such luck? What good is Burr's patent, double-action, self-inking, cylindrical, switch-back defense if we haven't got a line that will hold together long enough for us to get off our toes? It–it's rotten luck, that's what it is."

And the varsity quarter-back groaned dolorously.

"But what does Cowan say?" asked Neil.

"Don't ask me," said Foster. "I don't know what he says, and I don't believe it will matter. He's got professional written all over his face."

"But he played last year," said Paul. "Why didn't they protest him then?"

"I'll pass again," answered Foster. "Maybe they hadn't discovered it–whatever it is–then; maybe–"

"Listen!" said Neil.

Some one stamped up the steps and entered the front door. Foster looked questioningly at Neil.

"Cowan?" he whispered. Neil nodded.

Foster sprang to the study door and threw it open. The light from the room fell on the white and angry countenance of the right-guard.

"Cowan," said Foster, "for heaven's sake, man, tell us about it! Is it all right?"

But Tom Cowan only glared as he passed on up the stairs.

CHAPTER XVII

A PLAN AND A CONFESSION

Robinson's protest set forth succinctly that Cowan had, three years previous, played left tackle on the football team of a certain academy–whose right to the title of academy was often questioned–and had received money for his services. Dates and other particulars were liberally supplied, and the name and address of the captain of the team were given. Altogether, the letter was discouragingly convincing, and neither the coaches, the captain, nor the athletic officers really doubted the truth of the charge.

Professor Nast, the chairman of the Athletic Committee, blinked gravely through his glasses and looked about the room.

"You've sent for Mr. Cowan?" he asked.

"Yes," Mills answered; "he ought to be here in a minute. How in the world was he allowed to get on to the team?"

"Well, his record was gone over, as we believed, very thoroughly year before last," said Professor Nast; "and we found nothing against him. I think–ah–it seems probable that he unintentionally misled us. Perhaps he can–ah–explain."

When, however, Cowan faced the group of grave-faced men it was soon evident that explanations were far from his thoughts. He had heard enough before the summons reached him to enable him to surmise what awaited him, and when Professor Nast explained their purpose in calling him before them, Cowan only displayed what purported to be honest indignation. He stormed violently against the Robinson authorities and defied them to prove their charge. Mills listened a while impatiently and then interrupted him abruptly.

"Do you deny the charge, Cowan, or don't you?" he asked.

"I refuse to reply to it," answered Cowan angrily. "Let them think what they want to; I'm not responsible to them. It's all revenge, nothing else. They tried to get me to go to them last September; offered me free coaching, and guaranteed me a position on the team. I refused. And here's the result."

Professor Nast brightened and a few of those present looked relieved. But Mills refused to be touched by Cowan's righteousness, and asked brusquely:

"Never mind what their motive is, Cowan. What we want to know is this: Did you or did you not accept money for playing left tackle on that team? Let us have an answer to that, please."

"It's absurd," said Cowan hotly. "Why, I only played three games–"

"Yes or no, please," said Mills.

For an instant Cowan's gaze faltered. He glanced swiftly about the room and read only doubt or antagonism in the faces there. He shrugged his broad shoulders and replied sneeringly:

"What's the good? You're all down on me now; you wouldn't believe me if I told you."

"We're not all down on you," answered Mills. Professor Nast interrupted.

"One moment, Mr. Mills. I don't think Mr. Cowan understands the–ah–the position we are in. Unless you can show to our satisfaction that the charge is untrue, Mr. Cowan, we shall be obliged, under the terms of our agreement with Robinson, to consider you ineligible. In that case, you could not, of course, play against Robinson; in fact, you would not be admitted to any branch of university athletics. Now, don't you think that the best course for you to follow is to make a straightforward explanation of your connection with the academy in question? We are not here to judge the–ah–ethics of your course; only to decide as to whether or no you are eligible to represent the college in athletics."

Cowan arose from his seat and with trembling fingers buttoned his overcoat. His brow was black, but when he spoke, facing the head coach and heedless of the rest, he appeared quite cool.

"Ever since practise began," he said, "you have been down on me and have done everything you could to get rid of me. No matter what I did, it wasn't right. Whether I'm eligible or ineligible, I'm done with you now. You may fill my place–if you can; I'm out of it. You'll probably be beaten; but that's your affair. If you are, I sha'n't weep over it."

He walked to the door and opened it.

"It's understood, I guess, that I've resigned from the team?" he asked, facing Mills once more.

"Quite," said the latter dryly.

"All right. And now I don't mind telling you that I did get paid for playing with that team. I played three games and took money every time. It isn't a crime and I'm not ashamed of it, although to hear you talk you'd think I'd committed murder. Good-night, gentlemen."

He passed out. Professor Nast blinked nervously.

"Dear me," he murmured, "dear me, how unpleasant!"

Mills smiled grimly, and, rising, stretched his limbs.

"I think what we have left to do won't take very long. I hardly think that it is necessary for me to reply to the accusations brought by the gentleman who has just left us."

"No, let's hear no more of it," said Preston. "I propose that we reply to Robinson to-night and have an end of the business. To-morrow we'll have plenty to think of without this," he added grimly.

The reply was written and forwarded the next day to Robinson, and the following announcement was given out at Erskine:

The Athletic Committee has decided that Cowan is not eligible to represent the college in the football game with Robinson, and he has been withdrawn. A protest was received from the Robinson athletic authorities yesterday afternoon, and an investigation was at once made with the result stated. The loss of Cowan will greatly weaken the team, it is feared, but that fact has not been allowed to influence the committee. The decision is heartily concurred in by the coaches, the captain, and all officials, and, being in line with Erskine's policy of purity in athletics, should have the instant indorsement of the student body.

H.W. NAST, Chairman.

The announcement, as was natural, brought consternation, and for several days the football situation was steeped in gloom. Witter and Hurst were seized upon by the coaches and drilled in the tactics of right-guard. As Foster had said, Witter, while he was a good player, was light for the position. Hurst, against whom no objection could be brought on the ground of weight, lacked experience. In the end Witter proved first choice, and Hurst was comforted with the knowledge that he was practically certain to get into the game before the whistle sounded for the last time.

Meanwhile Artmouth came and saw and conquered to the tune of 6-0, profiting by the news of Cowan's withdrawal and piling their backs through Witter, Hurst, and Brown, all of whom took turns at right-guard. The game was not encouraging from the Erskine point of view, and the gloom deepened. Foster declared that it was so thick during the last half of the contest that he couldn't see the backs. Neil saw the game from the bench, and Paul, once more at left-half, played an excellent game; but, try as he might, could not outdo Gillam. When it was over Neil declared the honors even, but Paul took a less optimistic view and would not be comforted.

All the evening, save for a short period when he went upstairs to sympathize with Cowan, he bewailed his fate into Neil's ears. The latter tried his best to comfort him, and predicted that on Monday Paul would find himself in Gillam's place. But he scarcely believed it himself, and so his prophecies were not convincing.

"What's the good of being decent?" asked Paul dolefully. "I wish I'd gone to Robinson."

"No, you don't," said Neil. "You'd rather sit on the side-line at Erskine than play with a lot of hired sluggers."

"Much you know about it," Paul growled. "If I don't get into the Robinson game I'll–I'll leave college."

"But what good would that do?" asked Neil.

"I'd go somewhere where I'd stand a show. I'd go to Robinson or one of the smaller places."

"I don't think you'd do anything as idiotic as that," answered Neil. "It'll be hard luck if you miss the big game, but you've got three more years yet. What's one? You're certain to stand the best kind of a show next year."

"I don't see how. Gillam doesn't graduate until 1903."

"But you can beat him out for the place next year. All you need is more experience. Gillam's been at it two years here. Besides, it would be silly to leave a good college just because you couldn't play on the football team. Don't be like Cowan and think football's the only thing a chap comes here for."

"They've used him pretty shabbily," said Paul.

"That's what Cowan thinks. I don't see how they could do anything else."

"He's awfully cut up. I'm downright sorry for him. He says he's going to pack up and leave."

"And he's been trying to make you do the same, eh?" asked Neil. "Well, you tell him I'm very well satisfied with Erskine and haven't the least desire to change."

"You?" asked Paul.

"Certainly. We hang together, don't we?"

Paul grinned.

"You're a good chap, chum," he said gratefully. "But–" relapsing again into gloom–"you're not losing your place on the team, and you don't know how it feels. When a fellow's set his heart on it–"

"I think I do know," answered Neil. "I know how I felt when my shoulder went wrong and I thought I was off for good and all. I didn't like it. But cheer up, Paul, and give 'em fits Monday. Slam 'round, let yourself loose; show 'em what you can do. Down with Gillam!"

"Oh, I dare say," muttered Paul dejectedly.

Neil laid awake a long time that night; he was full of sympathy for his room-mate. With him friendship meant more than it does to the average boy of nineteen, and he was ready and eager to do anything in his power that would insure Paul's getting into the Robinson game. The trouble was that he could think of nothing, although he lay staring into the darkness, thinking and thinking, until Paul had been snoring comfortably across the room for more than an hour.

The next afternoon, Sunday, Neil, obeying the trainer's instructions, went for a walk. Paul begged off from accompanying him, and Neil sought Sydney. That youth was delighted to go, and so, Neil alternately pushing the tricycle and walking beside it while Sydney propelled it himself, the two followed the river for several miles into the country. The afternoon was cold but bright, and being outdoors was a pleasure to any healthy person. Neil forgot some of his worries and remembered that, after all, he was still a boy; that football is not the chief thing in college life, and that ten years hence it would matter little to him whether he played for his university against her rival or looked on from the bench. And it was that thought that suggested to him a means of sparing Paul the bitter disappointment that he dreaded.

The plan seemed both simple and feasible, and he wondered why he had not thought of it before. To be sure, it involved the sacrificing of an ambition of his own; but to-day, out here among the pines and beeches, with the clear blue sky overhead and the eager breeze bringing the color to his cheeks, the sacrifice seemed paltry and scarcely a sacrifice at all. He smiled to himself, glad to have found the solution of Paul's trouble, which was also his own; but suddenly it occurred to him that perhaps he had no right to do what he contemplated. The ethics were puzzling, and presently he turned to Sydney, who had been silently and contentedly wheeling himself along across the road, and sought his counsel.

"Look here, Syd, you're a level-headed sort of chump. Give me your valuable opinion on this, will you? Now–it's a supposititious case, you know–here are two fellows, A and B, each trying for the same–er–prize. Now, supposing A has just about reached it and B has fallen behind; and supposing I–"

"Eh?" asked Sydney.

"Yes, I meant A. Supposing A knows that B is just as deserving of the prize as he is, and that–that he'll make equally as good use of it. Do you follow, Syd?"

"Y–yes, I think so," answered the other doubtfully.

"Well, now, the question I want your opinion on is this: Wouldn't it be perfectly fair for A to–well, slip a cog or two, you know–"

"Slip a cog?" queried Sydney, puzzled.

"Yes; that is," explained Neil, "play off a bit, but not enough for any of the fellows to suspect, and so let B get the plum?"

"Well," answered Sydney, after a moment's consideration, "it sounds fair enough–"

"That's what I think," said Neil eagerly.

"But maybe A and B are not the only ones interested. How about the conditions of the contest? Don't they require that each man shall do his best? Isn't it intended that the prize shall go to the one who really is the best?"

"Oh, well, in a manner, maybe," answered Neil. He was silent a moment. The ethics was more puzzling than ever. Then: "Of course, it's only a supposititious case, you understand, Syd," he assured him earnestly.

"Oh, of course," answered the other readily. "Hadn't we better turn here?"

The journey back was rather silent. Neil was struggling with his problem, and Sydney, too, seemed to have something on his mind. When the town came once more into view around a bend in the road Sydney interrupted Neil's thoughts.

"Say, Neil, I've got a–a confession to make." His cheeks were very red and he looked extremely embarrassed. Neil viewed him in surprise.

"A confession? You haven't murdered the Dean, have you?"

"No. It–it's something rather different. I don't believe that it will make any difference in our–our friendship, but–it might."

"It won't," said Neil. "Now, fire ahead."

"Well, you recollect the day you found me on the way from the field and pushed me back to college?"

"Of course. Your old ice-wagon had broken down and I–"

"That's it," interrupted Sydney, with a little embarrassed laugh. "It hadn't."

"What hadn't? Hadn't what?"

"The machine; it hadn't broken down."

"But I saw it," exclaimed Neil. "What do you mean, Syd?"

"I mean that it hadn't really broken down, Neil. I–the truth is I had pried one of the links up with a screw-driver."

Neil stared in a puzzled way.

"But–what for?" he asked.

"Don't you understand?" asked Sydney, shame-faced. "Because I wanted to know you, and I thought if you found me there with my machine busted you'd try to fix it; and I'd make your acquaintance. It–it was awfully dishonest, I know," muttered Sydney at the last.

Neil stared for a moment in surprise. Then he clapped the other on the shoulder and laughed uproariously.

"Oh, to think of guileless little Syd being so foxy!" he cried. "I wouldn't have believed it if any one else had told me, Syd."

"Well," said Sydney, very red in the face, but joining in the laughter, "you don't mind?"

"Mind?" echoed Neil, becoming serious again, "why of course I don't. What is there to mind, Syd? I'm glad you did it, awfully glad." He laid his arm over the shoulders of the lad on the seat. "Here, let me push a while. Queer you should have cared that much about knowing me; but–but I'm glad." Suddenly his laughter returned.