Stuart borrowed some clubs from Fred Locker and tried to interest himself in golf and, for several afternoons, with Neil swinging along beside him on his crutches, haunted the links. But impatience and ineptness soon proved too much for a lukewarm enthusiasm and that means of passing the time was discarded. Stuart relied on Neil almost pathetically that first week, and the latter good-naturedly put himself at the disposal of his chum and tried his best to be of service, neglecting his studies on many occasions and not infrequently getting pretty tired in accompanying the other over the roads or across fields. As nimble as he was, the crutches hurt cruelly after a while, and Stuart, trying, it seemed, to escape from the sounds of punted balls and the cries of the players on the gridiron, set a lively pace sometimes.
Stuart’s own studies suffered, too, and they could ill afford to since football duties had left him in none too good a standing. On Friday Mr. Moffit summoned him to his study in Holton and Stuart went over there dejectedly that evening after supper. However, the English instructor didn’t prove formidable. He managed to make the boy talk about the loss of the captaincy and, perhaps because he was tired of pretending, Stuart made a clean breast of the affair, from first to last, finding his audience sympathetic and obtaining much relief from the confession.
“Harven,” asked Mr. Moffit when Stuart had ended, “do you recall a conversation we had here one afternoon before school started?” Mr. Moffit’s eyes twinkled. “We discussed, among other things amenability. I think some one had charged you with a lack of that quality, and we denied the aspersion with the contempt it deserved and substituted an over supply of self-dependence.”
Stuart nodded gloomily.
“Oh, well, that gets us nowhere, does it? One of the most puerile pursuits that the human creature indulges in is weeping on the graves of dead actions. There’s nothing in it, Harven. Just clang the cemetery gate, stick your hands in your pockets, pucker your lips and whistle bravely. And then tackle the next job. Of course we do learn by past mistakes—at least we ought to and some of us do—but there’s nothing to be gained by beating the breast and putting ashes in the hair. Now then, what are you doing?”
“Doing?” asked Stuart vaguely.
“Yes. You’re out of football. What’s taking its place? I’m fairly certain it’s not English A!”
Stuart smiled sheepishly. “I’m sorry about this morning, sir. I—I didn’t even look at the stuff yesterday.”
“You don’t have to tell me that,” laughed Mr. Moffit. “Well, if it isn’t study that’s occupying your mind and time, what is it?”
“I guess nothing much. I’ve been walking around. And I tried golf, but——”
“There! I knew you had some intelligence, Harven!” the instructor beamed. “Golf ought to be just the thing for you.”
Stuart shook his head. “I’m no good at it, sir.”
“Who is? I’m probably the poorest player that ever swung a club. But I don’t let that worry me. Not too much, anyhow. I promise myself that some day I’ll know so much golf that I’ll have to write a book about it to keep from bursting! You’re eighteen—Seventeen, is it? Well, of course you’re starting perhaps ten years too late, but you’ve a good chance to make good. My misfortune is that I never heard of the game until I was nearly thirty. Got any clubs?”
“No, sir, I borrowed some from a fellow.”
“Take mine then. They are in the closet over there doing nothing. I hate to open the door and get the reproachful looks they give me! It may be imagination, Harven, but sometimes when I awake at night I could swear that I hear them whimpering. Take them and use them. Break them, if you like. I’m sure a golf club would rather be broken than idle!”
“Thanks, sir, but I don’t believe I’ll try it any more just now. I—I don’t seem to be able to get my mind on it.”
Mr. Moffit sighed. “You’re right then. Don’t try golf when you can’t give it every thought. It’s divided attention on the links that has enriched the men who make golf balls. Well, if not golf, what then?”
Stuart shook his head again. “I’ll find something, sir. I mean to try basket ball later.”
“Don’t wait until later, Harven. Find something at once and put your heart into it. Do you row?”
“No, sir, not much. I can scull a bit.”
“A pleasant diversion, but not absorbing, I fear. Well, think it over and tackle something. And come and see me about the middle of next week and tell me what it is. Will you?”
“Yes, sir. Thank you.”
“Good! And just one more thing, Harven. When you go out of here I want to see you put your shoulders back and hear you whistle!” Mr. Moffit was on his feet and holding his hand out. Apparently the interview was at an end, but the subject of English A had been scarcely touched on, and as Stuart shook hands he said:
“I’ll try to do better in English, Mr. Moffit. I’m sorry——”
“Bless you, I didn’t ask you over here to talk English to you,” interrupted the other heartily. “I was after the cause, Harven—the effect was apparent. Come out from under the weeping willows and hit the sunshine trail, my boy! That’s the first thing. Then find something to do and do it hard. After that English A and all the other courses will pretty nearly look after themselves! Good night.”
Outside, Stuart heard Mr. Moffit’s window go up and the instructor’s voice called: “Harven! You’re not doing it, you know! Shoulders back and whistle, you duffer!”
Stuart laughed and obeyed.
He met Coach Haynes only twice or thrice in that week. He made no effort to avoid him, but their paths seldom crossed. When they did meet they spoke politely. Rather to his surprise, Stuart found that his enmity toward the coach was leavened by a large admixture of respect. The coach, he reasoned, was an open and avowed foe who had, when all was said, fought fairly. Some day not far distant Stuart meant to go to him and tell him just exactly what he thought of him, but until that delectable moment he would treat him with the dignity and respect due one warrior from another. But toward the Committee on Athletics, faculty and student members alike, he cherished a dark wrath. Especially toward Judson McColl and Stearns Wilson was this anger directed. They, as it seemed to Stuart, were veritable snakes in the grass. He got a good deal of unconscious comfort from that anger and suffered a distinct loss when he was forced to abandon it. That happened one morning when toward the end of the week, he met McColl face to face in front of the library and, instead of returning McColl’s friendly “Hi, Stuart!” gave him a coldly contemptuous look and passed silently on. Almost any other fellow but the President of the Student Council would have shrugged his shoulders and thereafter let Stuart alone, but McColl wasn’t the sort to do that; which is, perhaps, one reason why he was President of the Student Council and of Manning Society. Unexpectedly, Stuart felt himself grasped by the shoulders and pushed gently but very, very firmly against the library wall. Judson McColl regarded him good-humoredly yet sternly.
“Let’s get this right, Stuart,” he said quietly. “Why the haughty brow and the frozen glare? Come across, old man.”
Stuart came across promptly, glad of the chance, and McColl heard him out patiently. Then, however, he told Stuart things that fairly took the ground from under Stuart’s feet. “Stearns and I were against the resignation business from the start,” he said, “but we had the three faculty members against us right along. We didn’t make much of a fight against that first resolution, for we thought it might be a good thing if you came and talked it over with the Committee. Where you made your mistake was not doing it, Stuart. When you sent your resignation in Stearns and I did everything we could to get the Committee to lay it on the table and appoint a sub-committee to see you, but Pierson and Wallace and Dodge wouldn’t stand for it. We called Coach Haynes in that evening and he was flatly against accepting the resignation, but——”
“What?” exclaimed Stuart.
“Yes, Haynes told us plainly that we shouldn’t accept your resignation until we’d made another effort to smooth things over with you. But the faculties were on their dignity, and Pierson said you’d had your chance and had refused it. When it came to a vote Stearns and I were two against three and we lost out.”
“I didn’t know that,” muttered Stuart.
“You know it now, son,” answered Jud McColl dryly. “It’s a pretty good idea not to go off half-cocked, Stuart.” Then McColl laughed and slapped Stuart on the shoulder. “Buck up and smile!”
Stuart managed the smile, but it wasn’t very hearty. “Sorry I made such an ass of myself, Jud,” he mumbled. “Thanks for—for what you did.”
“You’re welcome, son. Sorry we couldn’t do more. If I’d had any idea you were going to come back with that resignation like that I’d have been around to see you. It wouldn’t have done any harm, you know, if you’d met us halfway instead of flying off the handle like that. What was the big idea?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” Stuart shook his head dejectedly. “I thought it was Haynes’s doing and I was sore.”
“Well, of course, Haynes did put the matter before the Committee, but he only asked to have things cleared up so the team would get along better. I don’t believe for a moment that he wanted you out, old man. Look here, why don’t you call it an even break and start over again? Why not go out and help them along, Stuart?”
“Oh, I guess they don’t need me,” muttered the other. “Besides, I’d be off my game.”
“Well, think it over and see if you can’t forget your hurt feelings. So long!”
Perhaps it was unfortunate that, fifty yards further on, passing Sawyer, Stuart almost collided with Steve Le Gette, and that to Stuart it seemed that Le Gette’s startled look changed, as he sheered aside, into an expression of malicious triumph. In any event, the chance meeting drove out of Stuart’s mind any effect caused by McColl’s advice. He certainly wouldn’t go back to the team as long as Le Gette was there to sneer, he told himself!
Until three or half-past in the afternoons Stuart got along fairly well, for there was plenty to occupy his mind, but when the hour of football practice arrived he felt horribly lost. When you’ve been doing a certain thing at a certain time each day for a long period you can’t help missing that thing when it’s no longer there for you to do. Stuart tried studying, but the silence of the well-nigh empty hall oppressed him. Besides, the hours between three and six of a fine October day were never meant to be wasted in poring over the pages of a text book! Even Neil realized that and, though he would offer to remain in Number 12 and keep Stuart company, the latter always refused to allow him to do so. Neil’s favorite retreat in good weather was a bench beside the tennis courts, or, when there happened to be a match in progress, the summit of the short ladder, from where he gravely made some such announcement as; “The games are three—one. Mr. Spudkins leads.” Several times he induced Stuart to accompany him to the courts, but the football player didn’t entertain Neil’s enthusiasm for tennis and after looking on through half a dozen games he got bored and restless. He had really tried very hard to find interest in golf, but as he had never played enough to more than learn the modus operandi he failed. He might have found a place in one of the four-oared shells without much trying, for he was a fair hand with a sweep and there were always from three to ten dormitory and class crews in training during the fall, but the plain truth is that he wanted to play football and didn’t want to do anything else. Even to have gone to the field and looked on would have been better than nothing, but pride forbade that. He was surely at a loose end those days, and the fact that every afternoon for a week provided ideal football weather made it seem that even Nature was taking a hand in his chastening. But on the day of his enlightening talk with Judson McColl chance offered him a solution of one difficulty.
He stopped at the bulletin board in the corridor of Manning and, for want of a better way in which to pass a couple of minutes, read some of the notices. The fact that Sawyer, 22 Meigs, had lost a gray sweater, or that Lumkin, 8 Byers, wanted to buy a second-hand typewriter didn’t engross him. Neither did a plaintive call for candidates for the soccer football team. He was in a mood to bear with splendid equanimity the failure of Sawyer to recover his sweater, the inability of Lumkin to acquire a typewriter and the utter collapse of the soccer team. But a moment later he came across an announcement that did excite his interest. It was already a week or more old and it announced the date of the Fall Handicap Meeting and stated that entries would be received up to and including November 4. The notice was signed “Charles E. Dodge, 2 Sawyer Hall.” Mr. Dodge was the Physical Director, and, with The Laird, attended to the training of the track and field candidates.
Stuart reread the announcement and then frowned thoughtfully. In his junior year he had won third place in the Spring Track Meet in the mile and had just failed of capturing fourth in the half. Last year he had won his place on the eleven and lost interest in the cinder path. But somewhere there was a pair of spiked canvas shoes with his name lettered on the lining in faded ink, and there was time enough for all the practice he wanted. He didn’t believe for a moment that he could finish the mile or get placed in the half mile, but it wouldn’t be bad fun trying, and, which was really his reason for considering the idea, the running track surrounded the second team gridiron, and from the second team gridiron one could see very nicely what was going on in first team circles! In other words, while he wouldn’t have gone to the first team field and watched practice for anything, he could see no reason why it shouldn’t be perfectly permissible to take up track work and sometimes, in the pauses of practicing starts or after a jog around the cinders, cast an occasional uninterested glance over toward the big team. The more he considered the plan the better it looked to him, and so, without more ado, he walked over to Sawyer Hall, discovered Mr. Dodge in his study and put his name down for the mile run and the 880 yards. Mr. Dodge was in a chatty mood and Stuart had to stay and talk much longer than he wanted to. The Physical Director did not, however, refer to Stuart’s resignation from the football captaincy, and so Stuart forgave him for his loquaciousness and tried hard to become interested in track matters and the chances of capturing the Dual Meet with Pearsall next May. Mr. Dodge observed, evidently quite sincerely, that he hoped the team would have Stuart’s services when that time arrived.
When he told Neil that evening the latter was clearly puzzled. “Why,” he said doubtfully, “I dare say you’ll get some fun out of it, Stuart, but you’ll find yourself in pretty punk condition, I’m afraid. And there’s only a few days left for practice.”
“Oh, I don’t expect to do anything,” answered the other. “I’ll probably last about two laps in the mile and finish last in the other, but I’m not doing anything just now, and a fellow ought to keep in some sort of condition. I may go in for basket ball after recess. Or maybe hockey. I wonder where those running shoes of mine got to.”
The next afternoon he was out on the track. The Laird, who found time from duties with the football team to give a few minutes daily to the track men, viewed his appearance with surprised approval and warned him against overwork. Stuart dryly assured him that he had no reason for uneasiness, and The Laird puckered his brows and nodded. Evidently the new candidate for track honors wasn’t to be considered very seriously. Mr. Dodge, however, appeared to entertain no doubts on the subject of Stuart’s earnestness and, when he arrived to look after the candidates, displayed an embarrassing and even annoying interest in the newcomer. If only to keep from disappointing Mr. Dodge, Stuart was forced for several succeeding afternoons to make a plausible pretense of training, something that rather interfered with his observation of the first team practice. Of course, he found himself hideously out of form and suspected that some of the other candidates were viewing his presence on the track with a mixture of sympathy and amusement. But he didn’t mind that so very much. What he would have minded was the knowledge that Coach Haynes and the football fellows were suspecting the real reason for his proximity to the first team gridiron. But it is scarcely likely that any of them, unless, possibly, it was Jack, gave any thought to the matter.
After the third day on the cinders Stuart found that a little of his former speed and stamina had returned to him, although he still doubted his ability to give any of his competitors a real race in either of the events for which he was entered, even if he had been inclined to. Judging, however, by the time he spent on the track and beside it, you would have thought him a most determined candidate, for he was always one of the first to arrive and he never left until after the football men had gone from the gridiron. If he spent most of his time sitting around in his bathrobe and looking across the field, that was his own affair. Hadn’t The Laird warned him against overwork?