Left End Edwards

"Second down!" proclaimed Joe Lawrence, the manager, jumping into the mêlée. "Six to go."

Mr. Robey and Andy Miller followed the teams closely, watching and shouting directions, the coach on the third squad side and Andy behind the second.

"Good work, you fellow!" applauded Andy, darting up to slap the half on the back and send him back to his place breathless but grinning. "That's the way to do it! Now, then, once more. You've got six to go. Let me see you get it. Play lower, you fellows in the line! Get down there! Lift 'em and throw 'em back! That's the ticket!"

But the gain was scant and Carmine walked back to kick.

"Get through and block this!" panted the second's quarter, dodging back and forth for a likely opening.

"You fellow on the end there!" cried Andy. "Play back further and stop that tackle!"

"Watch for a forward pass!" warned a second squad back. "Spread out, Billy!"

"Hold 'em!" shouted Carmine.

Then came the signals, back sped the ball—a poor pass—the second came tearing through, Carmine dropped the ball and swung his leg and away it floated. A second squad back caught it near the side-line, tucked it under his arm and started back. The third squad's right end had been blocked and now, eager to make up for lost time, he overran and missed his tackle entirely and the second's back came speeding up the field near the side-line, a hastily-formed interference guarding him well. Ten yards, fifteen, twenty, and then Carmine wormed through and brought the runner to earth.

"That's one on you, right end," said Andy sternly. "You got boxed to the king's taste that time. Now, third, see what you can do on the defence."

"Draw your line in, Carmine," called Marvin. "Look where you are, man! The ball's almost on the twenty yards! Peters, close up there! Now push 'em back, third!"

"Who's that right end, Dick?" asked Andy of Marvin.

"Chap named Holt. He isn't very good."

"How would it do to try Edwards there? He looks clever."

"That's his position, Andy, but the kid can't tackle. I'll give him a try, though. That's rotten, third! Blaisdell, where were you then? For the love of mud, man, watch the ball! Five yards right through you! Now get back there and stop them!"

"Second down, five to go," called Lawrence. "You left end on the second, you were off-side then. Next time I'll penalise you. Watch out for it."

"Same formation!" piped the second's quarter. "Make it good, fellows! Let's score now!"

"Hold 'em, third! Don't give 'em an inch. Get down there, Peters!"

"Third down!" called Lawrence a moment later. "You've got three and a half to go, second!"

"That's the stuff!" cried Carmine jubilantly, dealing blows of approval on the bent backs of the forwards. "That's the way to stop 'em! Now once more, third!"

Then, "Fourth down and a yard and a half to go," announced Lawrence.

"Kick formation!" called the attacking quarter. "Simmons back!"

"Block this! Block it! Get through now, fellows!"

"Hold hard there, second!" There was a moment of silence. Then the ball shot back. Simmons caught it waist-high, dropped it, kicked and went down under the charge of the desperate second squad players. But the ball sailed over the cross-bar and the second had scored.

"That'll do, Holt," said Marvin. "Edwards, you play right end. Saunders!" A substitute struggled out of his sweater and came racing on. "Go in at left tackle, Saunders. Pearse, you'd better kick off."

The game went on, the second squad bringing the pigskin back twelve yards on the kick-off and then hammering through for fifteen more before the third forced them to punt. Carmine caught on his thirty-five yards, made a short gain and was downed. Twice the third got through for a yard or two and then Carmine again fell back to kick. This time the pass was a good one and Carmine got off an excellent punt that went over the head of the opposing quarter-back and bobbed along toward the goal. The left half scuttled to his assistance and, when the ball was in the quarter's arms, threw himself in front of the first of the foe. But that particular adversary was canny. He twisted aside, leaped over the stumbling half and dived for the runner. It was a poor tackle and the man with the ball struggled on for three yards after he was caught, but the ball was down on the second's twenty-seven yards, and Steve, picking himself up from the recumbent enemy, heard Marvin shouting: "A rotten tackle, Edwards, but fine work down the field!" And, "Good stuff, you end!" approved the coach, while Tom, beaming, patted him ungently on the back.

The scrimmage was over a minute later, and, although the second had triumphed by that goal from the field, the third trotted back to the gymnasium feeling very well pleased with themselves. They had had their baptism by fire and had acquitted themselves well. Steve and Tom, panting but happy, had almost reached the gymnasium when Steve recollected his engagement with Marvin.

"I've got to go back," he said in dismay. "I promised Marvin to see him after practice."

"There he comes now," said Tom, nodding toward where the little quarter was approaching with Mr. Robey and Andy Miller. Steve stopped beside the path and Tom fell back to wait for him.

"I forgot you wanted me to wait, Marvin," said Steve apologetically, as the trio came up.

"Oh, that's all right, Edwards. I forgot myself. Another day will do just as well. I didn't know we were to have scrimmage to-day."

"You keep up that stuff you showed to-day, Edwards," said Mr. Robey, "and we'll have you on the second the first thing you know." Then his glance passed Steve to Tom. "You too, Hall. I watched you. You're doing well. Keep it up."

The three went on, and Steve and Tom silently followed. Neither spoke until they reached the steps. Then,

"I'm awfully glad," said Tom.

"So am I," replied Steve heartily. "Bet you you'll make the second before the week is out."

"I meant about you, Steve," said Tom simply.

CHAPTER XII

CANTERBURY ROMPS ON—AND OFF

But existence at Brimfield Academy wasn't all football, by any means, nor all fun. There was a lot of hard work mixed up with the play, and both Steve and Tom found that an immense amount of study was required of them. They each had thirty recitations a week, and in both Greek and Latin their preparation at high school had, not unnaturally, been deficient. That meant hard sledding for a while. Tom realised the fact before Steve would, and so spared himself some trouble. Steve resented the extra study necessary and for the first fortnight or so trusted to luck to get him through. And for a time luck stood by him. He had a way of looking wise in class that imposed for a while on "Uncle Sim," as Mr. Simkins was called, but after Steve had fallen down three or four times the instructor scented the truth of the matter and then Steve's life became a burden to him. Mr. Simkins took delight, it seemed, in calling on him at the most unexpected moments until, one day, in sheer desperation, Steve gave utterance to the answer "not prepared." That was to Uncle Sim what a red rag is to a bull! There was a scathing dressing-down then and there, followed by a visit that evening from Mr. Daley. Steve was secretly uneasy, for more than one story of summary justice on the part of the Greek and Latin instructor had reached him, but he presented a careless front to the Hall Master. Mr. Daley was plainly eager to help, but, as usual, he was embarrassed and nervous, and Steve, who had taken a mild dislike to him, resented his interference.

"The stuff's too hard," he said in answer to Mr. Daley's inquiries. "Look at the lesson we had to-day, sir; all that and this, over to here; sight reading, too. And two compositions so far this week! I just didn't have time for it last night, and so when he called on me to-day I told him I wasn't prepared. And then he—he ragged me in front of the class and gave me a page and a half to write, beside to-morrow's lesson. I can't do it, and that's all there is to it!"

"Er—yes, yes, I see. I'm sorry, Edwards. Now, let us have a look at this. Yes, there's quite a lot of it. You—ah—you didn't have much Latin before you came here, I take it?"

"Had enough," growled Steve, "but nothing like this. I've had Cæsar and some Cicero. I never had any luck with Latin, anyway." And Steve viewed the open book with distaste.

"It's the quantity, then, you find—ah—difficult," said Mr. Daley. "As far as grammar is concerned, I take it you are—ah—well grounded, Edwards?"

"I suppose so. But look at the length of the lesson we have!"

"Yes. Very true. But, of course, to complete a certain amount of work in the year it is—ah—necessary to do quite a good deal every day. Now maybe you—ah—haven't been really setting your mind on this. I know in my own case that I very often find myself—ah—skimping, so to speak; I mean going over a thing without really getting the—ah—the meat out of it. I'm almost certain that if you really settled your mind on this, Edwards, that you'd get along very well with it. Suppose now that you give twice as much time to it to-night as you usually do. If some other study must suffer, why, let it be your French and I will let you by to-morrow if you aren't well prepared. And—ah—I wish when you've been over this you'd come down and let me—ah—go over it with you lightly. I think—I think that would be an excellent idea, Edwards."

"Oh, I'll try it," grumbled Steve, "but it isn't any use. And look at what I've got to translate for him!"

"Yes, yes, I see. Well—ah—bring your book down after awhile and we'll see what can be done. How are you getting on, Hall?"

"Pretty well, sir. I find it a bit stiff, too, but maybe after awhile I'll get the hang of it."

"That's the way to talk!" exclaimed the instructor approvingly. "That—ah—that is the right attitude, Hall. Make up your mind that it will come and it will come. We all have our—our problems, and the only way to do is to—ah—face them and ride straight at them. So often, when we reach them, we find them—ah—we find them so very much more trivial than we had supposed. They're like—like hills seen from a distance that look terrifically steep. When we—ah—reach them we find them easy grades after all. You see what I mean? Yes, yes. Well, I shall expect you in my study later, Edwards. I want you—both of you, that is—to realise that I am very eager to be of assistance at any time. Possibly I can't help very much,—but—ah—I am most willing, boys."

"Silly chump," growled Steve when the door had closed behind Mr. Daley. "I wish—ah—he'd—ah—mind his own—ah—business!"

But Tom didn't smile. "I think the chap means to be awfully decent, Steve," he said thoughtfully. "The trouble is, I guess, he's scared to death of the fellows. You can see that in class."

"He's a regular granny," replied Steve. "Wish he had this stuff to do. I guess he wouldn't be so light and airy about it!"

"You'll go down and let him help you, though, won't you?" asked Tom anxiously.

"Oh, I suppose so. He can do the whole thing if he wants to. Where is my dictionary?"

With Mr. Daley's help, freely offered and grudgingly accepted, Steve weathered that crisis. And secretly he was grateful to the Hall Master, though he still pretended to believe and possibly did half believe that the latter was a sort of mollycoddle. Tom told him indignantly once that since Mr. Daley had been so awfully decent to him he ought to stop poking fun at him. To which Steve cheerfully made answer that even a mollycoddle could be decent at times!

Brimfield played Canterbury High School on a Wednesday afternoon in early October and had a good deal of a scare. Canterbury romped on to the field like a bunch of young colts, and continued to romp for the best part of three ten-minute periods, long after Brimfield had decided that romping was no longer in good taste! Led by a small, wiry, red-headed quarter-back, who was likewise captain, and directed from the side-line by a coach who looked scarcely older than the big youth who played centre for them, the Canterbury team took the most astounding liberties with football precedents. They didn't transgress the rules, but they put such original interpretations on some of them that Mr. Conklin, who was refereeing, and Mr. Jordan, instructor in mathematics, who was umpiring, had their heads over the rules-book nearly half the time! Now and then they would march to the side-line and consult the Canterbury coach. "Where do you get your authority for that play?" Mr. Conklin would ask a trifle irritably. Thereupon, silently but with a twinkle in his eye, the coach would gravely take the book, flip the pages, lay a finger on a section and return it.

"Hm," Mr. Conklin would say. "Hm; but that seems to be in direct contradiction of another rule over here!"

"Quite likely," the coach would reply indifferently. "There are quite a few contradictions there. Of course, you may accept either rule you like, gentlemen."

Disarmed in such wise, the officials invariably decided the play to be legal, and Quarter-back Milton, of Brimfield, would protest volubly and get very, very red in the face in his attempt to carry his point and, at the same time, omit none of the respect due a faculty member! It was hard on Milton, that game, and several times he nearly had apoplexy.

Then, too, Canterbury did the most unexpected things at the most inopportune moments. When Brimfield expected her to rush the ball she was just as likely to get off a kick from close formation. When the circumstances indicated an attack on the short side of the field Canterbury's backs swung around the other end. When a close formation was to be looked for she swung her line half across the field, so confusing the opponents that they acted as though hypnotised. The forward pass was to Canterbury a play that afforded her infinite amusement. She used it in the most unheard of locations; in midfield, under the shadow of her own goal, anywhere, everywhere and almost always when least expected. At the end of the second period Brimfield trotted away to the gymnasium dazed and tired of brain, with the score 7 to 0 against her.

The surprising thing about the visitors was that they played as though they were just having an afternoon of good fun. They romped, like boys playing leap-frog or follow-my-leader. They romped up the field and they romped down the field and, incidentally, over and through and around their opponents. And the more care-free and happy Canterbury became, the more anxious and laboured grew Brimfield. The Maroon-and-Grey reminded one of a very staid and serious middle-aged party with a grave duty to perform trying to restrain the spirited antics of a small boy with no sense of decorum!

When the second half began, Canterbury added insult to injury. Instead of booting the pigskin down the field in an honest and earnest endeavour to obtain distance, she deliberately and with malice aforethought, dribbled it on the bias, so to speak, toward the side-line. Benson, right end, should certainly have got it, but he was so perplexed that he never thought of picking it up until a Canterbury forward had performed the task for him and had raced nearly twenty yards down the field! It was an unprecedented thing to do, or, at least, unprecedented at Brimfield, and the audience voiced its disapproval strongly. But as the ball had gone the required ten yards there was nothing to do but smile—a trifle foolishly, perhaps—and accept the situation. And the situation was this: Canterbury had kicked off and gained over thirty yards without losing possession of the ball! But in one way that play was ill-advised. Brimfield had stood all sorts of jokes and pranks from the enemy with fairly good grace, but this enormity was too much. Brimfield was peeved! More than that, she was really angry! And, being angry, she forgot that for twenty minutes she had been outplayed and started in then and there to administer a licking to the obstreperous small boy.

Even then, however, Canterbury continued to romp and enjoy herself. She found hard sledding, but she worked down to Brimfield's eight-yard line before she was finally halted. Then her right half romped back for a try at goal and joyously booted the ball. But, to the enormous relief of the onlookers, the ball went under the bar instead of over, and Canterbury romped back again. That third period was very evenly contested, Brimfield, smarting under a sense of wounded dignity, playing well together and allowing Canterbury no more opportunities to attempt scores. The visitors, still untamed, sprang strange and weird formations and attacks. A favourite trick was to start a play without signals, while one of her men was ostensibly tying a shoe-lace yards away or requesting a new head-guard near a side-line. It invariably happened, though, that the shoe-lace was tied in time to allow the youth to get the ball on a pass and attempt a joyous romp around the opponent's end. There was no scoring in the third period, but the whistle blew with the pigskin down on Canterbury's twenty-five yards and Brimfield with four to go on third down.

As there was no practice that afternoon, Steve and Tom saw the game from the grand stand, with two cronies named Draper and Westcott. Draper's first name was Leroy and he was called Roy. He was a tow-haired youngster of fifteen with very bright blue eyes and a tip-tilted nose that gave him a humorously impertinent look. He, like Steve and Tom, was a Fourth Former. His home was in Pittsburg, Pennsylvania, and, while Pittsburg was a good hundred miles from Tannersville, the fact that they were citizens of the same glorious commonwealth had drawn he and Steve together. Harry Westcott was a year older and came from a small town in Connecticut. He was Roy's room-mate in Torrence. He had a slim, small-boned body and a good-looking face with an aquiline nose and a pair of very large soft-brown eyes. His dark hair was brushed straight back from his forehead and was always very slick. Harry was what Roy called "a fussy dresser" and affected knickerbockers and golf-stockings, negligée shirts of soft and delicate hues of lavender or green or blue and, to quote his disrespectful room-mate once more, "symphonic ties." Harry was the embodiment of aristocratic ease and always lent a "tone" to any gathering. He maintained an air of what he probably considered well-bred composure and tabooed enthusiasm. Harry never declared that a thing was "bully" or "fine and dandy"; he mildly observed that it was "not half bad." This pose amused him, doubtless, and entertained his friends, and underneath it all he was a very normal, likable chap. It was Roy Draper who broke the strained silence that had endured until the whistle put an end to the third period.

"I wouldn't give a cent for Canterbury's chances in the next period," he said. "Look at Andy's face, fellows. It has the 'blood-lust' on it. When Andy looks that way something has just got to happen!"

"He looks annoyed," assented Harry.

"You'd be annoyed if you had your lip cut the way his is," chuckled Roy.

"Do you think we'll beat them?" asked Tom anxiously.

"Nothing can save them," replied Roy conclusively. "Andy has his dander up."

"It took him long enough to get it up," grumbled Steve. "He let those fellows run rings around us in the first half."

"That's his foxy way. Now he's got them all tired out and we'll go in and rip 'em up. You watch!"

"There's Marvin going in for Milton," announced Tom. "Say, those chaps haven't made a change in their line-up yet."

"One," corrected Harry. "They put in a new right guard last period. They're a funny lot, seems to me. You'd think they were having the time of their lives."

"I like that, though," said Roy. "After all, you know, this thing of playing football is supposed to be amusement."

"It's a heap more like hard work, though," replied Harry. "Not that I ever played it much."

"Did you ever play at all?" asked Roy.

"Once or twice at grammar school. It was too fatiguing, though."

"I'll bet it was," chuckled Roy. "I'd like to see you playing, old thing."

"I did, though; played right half-back. A fellow stuck his elbow into my face and I knocked him flat. Captain said it was part of the game, you know, and I shouldn't have done it. I said that any fellow who bumped my nose would have to look for trouble. Then the umpire put me off and the game lost a real star."

"Here we go," said Steve. "Now let's see if they can carry it over."

They didn't, however, just then. Canterbury held finely in the shadow of her goal and Marvin's forward pass to Captain Miller went out at the twelve-yards. But Canterbury was forced to punt a moment later, and Brimfield took up the march again. On the adversary's thirty-yard line, with six to go on the third down, Norton, full-back, attempted an impossible drop-kick—he was standing over forty yards from the cross-bar—and made it good.

"What did I tell you?" demanded Roy, digging Steve with his elbow.

"That's only three points, though," answered Steve doubtfully. "We couldn't make a touchdown."

"It isn't over yet," said Roy confidently. "We're getting better all the time."

Canterbury gave the ball to Brimfield for the kick-off and Fowler booted it down to the opponent's fifteen yards. Andy Miller was under it all the way and upset an ambitious Canterbury back before he was well started. Canterbury tried two plunges and then punted from her twenty-five-yard line to Brimfield's fifty. Marvin caught and brought the stand to its feet by reeling off twelve yards across the field before he was downed. Then Brimfield found herself and went down the gridiron by steady plunges, plugging the Canterbury line for good gains from tackle to tackle. Norton, at full-back, was the hero of that period. Time after time he took the pigskin and landed it for a gain. Marvin, cool and heady, ran the team beautifully, and when four minutes of playing time remained, Brimfield was again knocking at Canterbury's door, the pigskin on the latter's eighteen yards.

"First down!" proclaimed Roy triumphantly. "Here's where she goes over, old thing!"

"Let her go," replied Harry. "I'm watching."

"I hope they don't try another silly field-goal," muttered Steve.

"Not on first down, they won't. Bully work, Norton! Did you see it? Three yards easily!"

Then Marvin himself cut loose for four around left end and the Canterbury coach hustled three substitutes on. But Brimfield was not to be denied now. It was first down on Canterbury's seven yards, and, with the spectators yelling like Indians, Kendall, right half, took the ball on a delayed pass, found an opening outside right tackle and slipped through and over the line for six more points.

Captain Miller kicked goal and the score stood 10 to 7. Another minute of play followed, with Brimfield again pushing the high school team before her, and then the game was over and the quartette on the stand thumped each other elatedly—all save Harry—and ambled down to join the throng that spread over the field on its homeward way.

"What did I tell you?" asked Roy. "You can't fool your uncle!"

"You hate yourself, don't you?" drawled Harry. "Come on over to the room, you fellows."

Canterbury, having cheered the victor wholeheartedly, romped home.

CHAPTER XIII

SAWYER VOWS VENGEANCE

Miter Hill School followed Canterbury the next Saturday and was an unexpectedly weak opponent. The contest was slow and lifeless and dragged its weary length along until almost twilight. Miter Hill's players were in poor physical condition and, since the afternoon was warm and close, made a poor showing. The weather affected Brimfield, too, although she was not as susceptible to injury as the other team. Miter Hill was forever getting hurt, it seemed, and the audience which had braved a remorseless sun and a horde of blood-thirsty midges soon began to grumble.

The game was further slowed down in the last two periods by the substitution of half the members of the second and third squads for the Maroon-and-Grey. Even Tom had a three or four-minute experience on the 'varsity, something which he had long ceased hoping for, while Steve played nearly all of the fourth period at right end. He did very well, there, although Miter Hill was too weak in all departments of the game to afford any of her opponents a fair test. Toward the last the contest degenerated into more or less of a farce, Miter Hill tuckered and played out, and Brimfield, with a line-up of third and fourth substitutes, fumbling and mixing signals and running around like a hen with her head off!