Barry Locke, half-back

Mill’s room was quite full at the appointed hour. Mr. and Mrs. Lyle and Betty had come with Peaches and Toby. Mrs. Anderson, a plump, good-natured lady, overflowed from her chair and, of course, Zo was there, and Mill himself. The only absentee was Barry, but Peaches explained that he would be along later.

Mill had changed the location of the radio set. It now stood close to the high chiffonier and several feet from the wall. The table on which it reposed was draped with a heavy cloth—loaned for this occasion only by Mrs. Anderson—which fell to within a few inches of the floor. As the cloth was gorgeously crimson, it added greatly to the scene and set off beautifully the shining black panel of the receiver and the wide-mouthed horn beside it. Of course the guests had to view the apparatus at close range and have its mysteries explained to them, and after that they retired expectantly to the half-circle of chairs and Mill became busy at the dials.

“I hope we’ll get something to-night,” he announced. “I’ve been having pretty good luck, but you never can tell.” Toby, who had inspected the instrument with the others but had failed to show himself much impressed, was here heard to utter a suspicious “Huh!” Mill ignored it. “We’ll try for some music first,” he went on, both hands busy at the little black knobs. Then, with startling suddenness, some one was singing an Irish ballad! Mrs. Lyle gasped, “Gracious goodness!” and Mr. Lyle beamed and rubbed his hands quite as though he were entirely responsible for the miracle.

“W.D.J.K,” announced Mill, above the voice of the singer. “New York. That’s a fellow named Burns singing. He’s pretty good.”

“Oh,” sighed Mrs. Lyle, “I thought it was John McGregor!”

“McCormack, Mamma,” Betty corrected gently.

“Yes, of course, dear. I meant—”

There was an orchestral selection after that, mysteriously picked out of the air by the simple readjustment of the knobs, and then an almost deafening shriek of static that made Mrs. Lyle jump and produced a painful facial contortion from Toby, no longer a doubter. Mill put the instrument through its paces very thoroughly for the benefit of its eager audience and was patiently trying to pick up Cleveland when Peaches interrupted:

“Say, Mill, it’s almost eight, and I told Toby you’d get that Onondaga University lecture. You know, the one by Professor Brown about frogs.”

Mill looked blank for a moment. Then he said:

“Oh, yes, I remember. Was that at eight? All right. Let’s see.” He consulted a sheet of paper. “W.L.L.O. That’s it. I’ll see if there’s anything doing yet.” He manipulated the knobs of the dials again, at first with no result. “That’s funny,” he muttered.

Mr. Lyle consulted his watch.

“Seven fifty-six,” he said. “Likely it isn’t time yet.”

“Oh, they don’t always start just on the minute,” said Peaches. “Do they, Mill?”

“Not always.” Mill turned the knobs some more and then stood up and leaned over the table. “Maybe the wiring’s loose,” he muttered. He said something else, probably to himself, since it was not intelligible to the audience, while leaning over the dark space behind the table. Then, although it still lacked three minutes of being eight o’clock,—Mr. Benjy set his watch every day by the station clock,—a rather high-pitched voice suddenly broke into the expectant silence:

“Station W.L.L.O., Onondaga University Experimental Station, Onondaga, New York, broadcasting. The first number on our program this evening will be a paper read by Professor N. B. Brown, D.S., S.D., R.O.T., of the Department of Zoölogy, Onondaga University. Station W.L.L.O., broadcasting.”

There was a pause.

“Much more distinct,” said Mr. Benjy, looking around for confirmation. Mrs. Lyle nodded. “Different,” she whispered. “Sounds almost as if—”

Toby was leaning forward and gazing absorbedly at the horn, seeking enlightenment on the care of Antonio. Betty, her eyes dancing, was looking questioningly at Peaches’ impassive countenance. After a brief moment a deeper voice came to them, somewhat muffled but very distinct. Toby’s intent frown indicated almost painful effort.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” began the unseen lecturer, “I shall speak to you this evening, very briefly, on the subject of ‘The Care and Feeding of Batrachians.’ Batrachians, as most of you know, are frogs, toads, snakes, and similar insects of a zoöphagous nature.”

“What’s he mean—‘insects’?” demanded Toby, in a hoarse and protesting whisper.

Peaches said, “S-sh!” and frowned him into silence. The voice of the professor possessed quite a different tone than those who had preceded him. It was no clearer, but it gave the impression of coming from a point much nearer than Onondaga, New York. The professor did not seem used to public addresses, either, for he hesitated frequently and frequently repeated himself.

“The domestication of the frog is a simple matter and is becoming more and more popular. Indeed, it would seem that the day is not far distant when every family will have its pet frog or toad. The frog is capable of being trained into a useful household member. It is affectionate and faithful, responding readily to kind treatment. Efforts now being made by the American Frog Fanciers’ Association to produce a breed of very large frogs to take the place of watch-dogs promise to be successful. The deep-bass challenge of a watch-frog will, I think, strike terror to the heart of any midnight marauder.”

Toby’s face was a study now. He turned puzzled, searching glances on the other members of the audience, but nowhere could he discern anything save ready acceptance of the professor’s surprising statements. Perhaps Mr. Benjy looked a trifle startled, but certainly not incredulous. Mrs. Anderson beamed contentedly, Mrs. Lyle listened with flattering attention, and Betty, with lowered head, seemed completely absorbed in the subject. Peaches and Zo wore expressions of polite interest and Mill—well, Toby couldn’t see Mill’s face, as the latter was increasingly busy with the instrument.

“The feeding of the frog while in captivity,” continued the professor, “is a matter of great moment and one little understood by the amateur frog-owner. Experiments conducted by the Onondaga University Experimental Station, under my direction, have recently thrown much light on this subject. While the frog in his natural environment is a carnivorous mammal, once placed in captivity he soon becomes herbivorous, thriving on a vegetable diet. With a little training the domesticated frog will, in fact, eat almost anything. Here at the station we have found that a breakfast of corn-flakes, with a small amount of milk and sugar, a luncheon of pickled beets or raw onions—”

Toby was in a pathetic state of protest. He made all sorts of strange noises in his throat and would doubtless have exploded had it not been for the stern gaze of Peaches.

“—and a dinner of sauer-kraut, with perhaps a small portion of hard-boiled egg, have proved very satisfactory. A firm in New York is now putting on the market a ‘frog biscuit’ which I can heartily recommend.”

“He’s crazy;” protested Toby, hoarsely. “He—he—”

“Shut up!” warned Peaches, and Mrs. Lyle shook her head in gentle deprecation. Betty fumbled for her handkerchief. Toby glared and muttered beneath his breath, and shuffled his feet rebelliously.

“The frog,” the professor was continuing, now seeming more en rapport with his subject, “should be provided with a warm bed, free from drafts. Nothing is better than the frog-kennel which may now be procured from any enterprising dealer in frog-supplies. This should be lined with cotton batting, while a few thicknesses of some soft woolen material should be provided for the frog to draw over him on cold nights.”

“Huh! Just a lot of lies!” shrieked Toby. “He doesn’t know what he’s talking about! Listen a minute—”

But no one seemed able to listen. Peaches was holding his head in his hands, Zo was frankly weeping,—or something,—and Betty was snuffling into her handkerchief. Even Mr. Benjy seemed strangely affected. Queer sounds mingled with the speech proceeding from the direction of the radio, sounds of suppressed sobs, sighs, chokes! Mill was leaning his head against a dial, his shoulders shaking. Toby stared, open-mouthed, from one to another, and while he was still striving to understand what it all meant the professor gave utterance to what was to prove the last verbal straw.

“For this,” declared the professor, “we have the word of no less an authority on the domestication of the frog than Mr. Tobias Theocritus Nott, the eminent—”

There was a roar from Toby, the crash of an overturned chair, and then bedlam!

“Look out for the radio!” shrieked Mill, stretching protective arms about the instrument.

Toby was almost lost to view under the folds of the red cloth, but not for long. Breathing stertorously, he emerged, dragging behind him in his remorseless grasp the disheveled form of Barry—Barry helpless with laughter and holding in one hand a crushed megaphone and in the other a crumpled sheet of paper!

“Huh!” said Toby when the audience had calmed down once more, “I knew there was something mighty funny about it! Feeding a frog with sauer-kraut and—and all that piffle! Huh! Any fellow would know that was perfectly crazy!” He gazed scornfully about him, encountered the streaming eyes of Peaches, and gave a grudging chuckle. “Well, I ain’t saying you didn’t fool me just at first,” he acknowledged, “but—shucks!—it didn’t take me long to find out! Say, who made up all that stuff? I’ll bet it was you, Peaches. Gee! you were ignorant! Why, say, you called a frog an insect right at the first of it!”

Peaches gave way to a fresh spasm of emotion, clinging to Zo’s chair. Mrs. Lyle was saying to Mrs. Anderson:

“Well, I did think it was sort of— But so many things go on nowadays— And coming right out of the radio machine like that—”

“Don’t—don’t say any more, Toby!” begged Peaches, wiping his eyes. “I—I can’t stand it!”

“Well, well!” Mr. Benjy chuckled admiringly; “quite a—er—quite a hoax, Mother!”

“Wonderful!” Mrs. Lyle agreed. “And I don’t see yet how Barry made that music. It sounded so natural that—”

“But, my dear, the music was—er—that was real,” explained Mr. Benjy. “The deception began with the—er—the speech by the professor.”

“Goodness gracious!” exclaimed Mrs. Lyle. “So that’s how it was! Well, I’m sure—”

“Please, Barry, may I have the—the speech?” asked Betty. “I’d love it.”

“I guess so,” said Barry. “If Peaches doesn’t want it. It was so dark back there I couldn’t see the writing half the time. That’s why I sort of muddled it.”

“But where were you when we came in?” asked Betty. “I’m sure I didn’t see you behind the table, for I looked there. Walter showed us where the wires went.”

“Under it,” chuckled Barry. “And there wasn’t much room there, either!”

Cloudy sky and chill winds greeted Barry when he awoke the next morning. Mount Sippick had hid its head under a leaden-hued canopy of mist. Leaves were scurrying along the road and overnight, or so it seemed, Brazer’s marsh had turned to russet and crimson. But it was fine football weather, and that afternoon practice went with more vim than ever before that season. The squad was noticeably smaller and Barry learned that the Major had made a cut the day before.

“Where have you been?” asked Ike Boardman, who supplied the information. “The notice was on the board yesterday after practice.”

“I didn’t see it,” said Barry. “Did you—you didn’t happen to—I mean was my name down?”

“Yours? No, of course not. Don’t you worry, Locke. I’ll bet a hat the Major will have you in the line-up before long. He’s got a crush on you, I guess. No offense, Locke. I’ll say you’ve got as much right there as Gissing or Allen.”

“Allen!” exclaimed Barry. “You mean Clyde Allen?”

“Sure. That’s the only Allen we’ve got, isn’t it? What’s so surprising?”

“Gee! I wouldn’t like to—” Barry lapsed into troubled silence.

“Oh, I see!” chuckled the substitute quarter. “Allen’s a side-kick of yours, isn’t he? Well, listen, kid: friendship ceases on the football field. If you can beat him for a half-back job you go ahead and do it as hard as you can. It’s up to him, Locke. I believe you can do it, too. He can’t punt, can he? I’ve never known him to, anyway.” Boardman chuckled. “Oh, boy! and wouldn’t it get his goat! Your friend Allen, Locke, thinks he’s a regular terror in the back-field. Some one ought to tell him to stop fancying himself and get to work.”

Barry had hitherto considered Ike Boardman rather a sensible chap, but now it was apparent that he possessed very poor judgment. To say that Clyde was in danger of losing out to him, Barry, proved it. That was a ridiculous notion, evidently born of Ike’s lack of appreciation of Clyde. Barry almost, but not quite, wished that Major Loring had included his name in the list of those released from the squad. It would have made it much easier to face Clyde presently. Clyde was getting awfully sort of distant nowadays, and Barry didn’t like that.

However, such reflections didn’t last long, for Major Loring drove the players hard that day, and when one is plunging at a canvas dummy that is being drawn creakily past on its rusted cable, or is concentrating on a series of numbers in the effort to determine what they mean to a substitute right half-back, there is little opportunity for thought on other matters.

For the first time in a drill Barry was called on to punt that afternoon, and although he was inwardly nervous as he retired to kicking position and was over long in getting the ball away, he did well enough. On two subsequent occasions he bettered his effort considerably. When scrimmaging began he sat once more on the bench, with Clyde a dozen spaces beyond and seemingly unaware of his existence. He was glad when Clyde was summoned by the coach.

Just before the practice game was over Barry was called in, together with four or five other bench-warmers, and had a few minutes of real battle. He was given the ball but once and then managed to get some three yards off the first-squad right tackle. A minute later he missed a play and so was instrumental in securing a four-yard gain by Demille, for which he received a merited dressing-down from the Major. After that unfortunate incident he was not sorry when the horn squawked an end to the session.

He went along with the team on Saturday, one, and perhaps the least important member, of a squad of thirty-two players. Major Loring used twenty-eight of the thirty-two during four twelve-minute periods, but was not able to avoid defeat. Greenville Academy showed more advanced football than did the visitors, using several complicated plays that Broadmoor had learned no defense for. The final score was 14 to 6, Greenville inflicting seven points on an already vanquished opponent in the final moments of the last period.

Barry, viewing the contest all through from the side-line, alternately hoped and despaired, rejoiced and groaned, and in the end took the defeat much to heart and didn’t recover his spirits until he had experienced the cheering effects of supper. The fact, gleaned from the Sunday paper the next morning, that Hoskins had fairly romped away with her game that afternoon brought no encouragement to the supporters of the Purple-and-Gray. Pessimism and criticism were rife throughout the school.

Monday brought back the daily grind of lessons and practice. The weather relented and provided some warm days. Barry found that he had become a regular member of Squad 3 and that Major Loring was giving him a flattering if embarrassing amount of attention. The punting practice continued and the school took cognizance of the fact that the Major was engaged in developing a fellow named Locke, a Third-Class chap, into an understudy for Tip Cartright and Ira Haviland; Barry discovered that he had become a person of some small consequence. Fellows who had a month before appeared unaware of his existence now took pains to nod to him, and his circle of speaking acquaintances grew rapidly. All of which pleased him. And then, on Friday, the impossible came to pass!