Stuart didn’t look for Mr. Haynes that evening. Instead, after supper in Safford’s only restaurant, he and Jack, together with three other early arrivals, went to the moving picture theater, which, like the Old Elm Café, was the sole representative of its kind in Safford. Stuart expected to meet the coach the next morning at breakfast, but the latter failed to show up. Pending the opening of Memorial, meals were served to the football players in the Lyceum House. This was a small cottage situated across the Principal’s Walk at the rear of Holton. In early days it had been used as a dormitory, as had a similar structure in the corner of the new campus. Later, the rooming facilities had been increased by the building of Sawyer and Byers Halls, the two cottages had been given over to the school societies, the Lyceum and Manning. The Lyceum House had four bedrooms on the upper floor, and living room, dining room and kitchen below. This morning the dining room was crowded when Stuart arrived. Nineteen fellows had answered the summons to pre-season practice, while the table seated but twelve. Fortunately, all of them did not come at the same time. As it was, Stuart made the fourth in the waiting line. His appearance was the signal for loud and hearty greetings, and there was much hand-shaking. Jack Brewton was already there and promised Stuart his place at table as soon as he “got outside a couple more eggs.”
Most of the returning players on last year’s first team were on hand: burly, red-haired Joe Cutts, the center; Leo Burns, square-headed and sandy-complexioned, as hard-fisted as he was soft-hearted, one of the best halfbacks in recent years; “Howdy” Tasker, big and gray-eyed and handsome, almost certain of the fullback position; Millard Wheaton, short but sturdy, pink-cheeked and blue-eyed, who meant to give Stuart a hard battle for quarterback supremacy; and others besides. Tom Muirgart, commonly known as “Mudguard,” yielded his chair to Stuart while Jack was still toying with his second helping of poached eggs, and Stuart deluged his oatmeal with milk and sprinkled it with sugar, and pitched in. “Whitey,” general factotum of the establishment, and as black a darkey as ever toiled in a southern cotton field, hurried back and forth in the seemingly hopeless endeavor to supply the wants of the eaters. Oatmeal, bacon, eggs, stewed peaches, toast, coffee, milk disappeared as if by magic, and pathetic plaints filled the air constantly: “Oh, Whitey! Got any more bacon?” “Whitey, bring some more milk, will you?” “Coffee, Whitey; and fill her up this time!” “Bring me two, three eggs, Whitey; and some toast!” “A-a-ay, Whitey! I’m starving! Get a move on, will you?”
At Stuart’s left a pleasant-faced, brown-eyed youth asked: “Have you seen the coach? He was asking for you last night.”
“No, what’s he like, Billy? I thought he’d be here this morning.”
“Rather a nice sort. Rather smallish. Looks keen, though.”
“Who’s that?” asked Joe Cutts from across the board. “Mr. Haynes? Quite a peppy boy, I’ll bet! He isn’t big, but he’s got a bad eye, son. He’ll have us jumping for fair!”
“If he can make you jump he’ll be going some,” laughed Billy Littlefield. Joe smiled tolerantly and landed a piece of toast on Billy’s nose. Wallace Towne, slipping into a vacated chair and absent-mindedly annexing Howdy Tasker’s glass of milk, joined in with:
“I hear there isn’t going to be any training table this year.”
“Where do you get that stuff?” asked Stuart pityingly.
“Coach. He doesn’t believe in ’em. He told me so yesterday. Came down on the train with him. Says all we need is plenty of plain food and no coddling. Told him I didn’t care how plain it was if it was plenty.”
Stuart frowned. “That’s nonsense,” he declared. “We’ve always had training tables here, and I guess we’ll continue to.”
“All right. You tell ’em. Whitey, for the love of Mike, feed me! All I’ve had’s a glass of milk.”
“Yes, and it was mine,” observed Howdy. “Feed the brute, Whitey.”
“Guess the new chap’s got a lot of revolutionary ideas,” went on Wallace. “Said a mouthful about straight football. Hates stunt plays, I guess. Strong on fundamentals, too. So am I. We agreed perfectly. Made a big hit with him.”
“You would,” said Jack scathingly. “You’d agree with any one, you old sycophant.”
“What’s that?” asked Wallace untroubledly. “An elephant’s little boy? I deny it. You’re thinking of Joe.”
“I’ve seen his sort before,” said Stuart. “They start out with the idea of changing everything, but they soon get over it.” He smiled patiently. “That straight football guff’s mighty old stuff. It won’t win games to-day. He’ll get over it. Got any more eggs, Whitey?”
Reaching the field at half-past ten—a few minutes beyond that time, as a matter of fact, but if the captain can’t be late, who can?—Stuart concluded at first glance that Mr. Haynes had again failed to put in an appearance, and he wasn’t altogether displeased. This new coach seemed to be acting rather cocky, Stuart thought, and being late to practice might tone down some of his assurance. But a second look showed a stranger there. The fact that he was in togs quite as disreputable as any being worn there had disguised him. He was talking to Miles Whittier, the assistant manager, when Stuart made himself known. Mr. Haynes shook hands cordially, but, Stuart thought, without as much empressement as the situation called for. While they talked Stuart studied the other and was conscious of a slight feeling of disappointment. Perhaps the description he had heard was to blame. At all events, the coach was much more of a “regular fellow” than Stuart had unconsciously pictured him. He was small, perhaps, but the fact didn’t impress you greatly because he was remarkably well built. He was younger than Stuart had suspected, too; surely not more than twenty-six. He was good looking, but the good looks were more a matter of expression than of features, for the latter were irregular. There was a short nose and a rather long upper lip, a firm mouth and a square jaw, keen dark-brown eyes and a wide forehead under hair that appeared to have a suspicion of red in it. He had a pleasant smile and an agreeable voice, and yet Stuart somehow felt a trifle uncomfortable while they conversed. Perhaps it was the penetrative quality of the straight, unwavering regard of the coach that was responsible.
For Alan Haynes was doing a little studying, too. He wanted very much to learn what sort of a youth this was with whom he was to work. What conclusions he reached I do not know. He saw, however, a straight, well-made boy of a trifle more than normal height and weight for his years, with the good looks of regular features and perfect health. I doubt if he read any antagonism, for I don’t think that Stuart was conscious of any, but I think he surmised that behind the blue-gray eyes there lay a touch of arrogance, and perhaps the corners of the pleasantly-smiling mouth hinted that its owner was self-willed. Maybe because of such surmises, the coach paid the most respectful deference to Stuart’s words, and the latter mentally concluded that Wallace Towne’s characterization of the new coach had been overdrawn. Probably, he thought, the other had talked sort of big to impress Wallace. There was no harm in that just so long as he didn’t try it on him!
“We’d better get together this evening, Harven,” the coach was saying, “and talk things over. Suppose I drop in at your room? I haven’t found quarters yet, and my room at the hotel is just a box.”
“Suits me, Mr. Haynes. I’m in Lacey, the second dormitory on the Lane; Number 12; one flight. How about eight o’clock?”
“Perfect. Well, shall we get them started?”
After practice the coach had company on the way back to the village. “The Laird” was taking a dozen or so pairs of football shoes to the repair shop. He had them tied together by the lacings and slung over his shoulder as the coach fell into step beside him. His real name was Angus McCranie and he looked as Scotch as his name sounded. It was always somewhat of a disappointment, though, to hear The Laird speak, for it was only in moments of excitement that his native burr was used. He had been trainer at Manning for nearly a dozen years and had become as much a part of the institution as Manning Hall or Old Jarratt, the Greek and Latin professor, or even Doctor Gurley himself. He was short and leanly muscular, with grizzled hair and pale blue eyes that shone startlingly bright from under thick tufts of brows and from a seamed face that, summer or winter, was always the color of a well-worn saddle. In age, The Laird was, by his own confession, “upwards of thirty.” The register in the little town of his birth would have proved him well over forty. But age was of small importance in his case. He was still as spry, to all appearances, as he had been a dozen years since; and another score of years would make little difference.
“And what did you think of the lads, sir?” asked The Laird, as they took the turn of High Street near Manning Society House.
“Excellent,” answered the coach promptly and emphatically. “A fine looking lot, I call them. What is your opinion of this year’s material, Mr. McCranie?”
The Laird produced a briar pipe and began to fill it. “About average, sir. Mr. Haynes, the more I see of the lads, sir, the more settled I become as to one conviction, which is that you can’t ever tell what’s in a pudding till you open the bag.”
“Meaning,” responded the other, “that good-looking bodies don’t always land first over the hurdles.”
“Exactly, sir. I’ve seen fine, upstanding lads licked by runts in my time, and I’ve seen promising teams just fairly fall to pieces during a season. Man, it’s not the shape of a lad’s body, or the muscles that play under his skin that counts. It’s what’s on the inside. It’s the spirit of him!”
“True,” assented Mr. Haynes.
“And that’s why, sir, when they say to me ‘What do you think of the team this year,’ or the squad, maybe, I tell them the same thing. ‘Wait till they’ve got their first black eye,’ I say, ‘and then ask me!’”
Mr. Haynes nodded gravely. “That’s what brings out the spirit,” he replied. He paused midway of the bridge and looked down into the slowly moving stream. “Any fish in this river?” he asked.
The Laird leaned an elbow on the railing, blew a cloud of smoke into the sunlight and shook his head sadly. “There used to be, sir. I’ve caught ten-inch trout further up. But three years ago they built a mill at the falls and now you’ll get nothing saving a shiner or two. It’s a shame, it is so!”
“Too bad! Ten inches, eh? That’s nice fishing. Flies or worms, Mr. McCranie?”
“Well, I’ll tell you the truth, sir,” chuckled the trainer. “I’m as prideful an angler as any, Mr. Haynes, but as the Good Book says, pride goeth before the Falls. ’Twas worms I used.”
Further on Mr. Haynes said: “Captain Harven is rather a brilliant player, I understand, Mr. McCranie.”
“You’re right, sir. ’Twas he won the Pearsall game last fall. A very clever lad, Mr. Haynes. One of the finest quarters we’ve ever had here. And a grand runner. ’Twas his getting away for nearly sixty yards that brought us the victory. After that he could have been president if the lads could have made him such. They did the best they might, and, in spite of his being only a third-class boy this year, elected him captain.”
“A steady player?” inquired the coach casually.
The Laird shot a quick, keen glance at him. “You’re fair observing, sir. I’ll not say the lad’s a steady player, for he’s not, but you’ll be forgiving him that for the way he plays when he’s at his best. He’s high-strung like, with a wee bit of temper, but a fine lad for all, sir. There’s two kinds. There’s them that’s always reliable. You know beforehand what they’ll time at every lap. They’re grand, but there’s never a surprise in them, sir. Their time to-day is their time to-morrow, barring an accident. Then there’s the other sort. To-day you’ll click them one time, to-morrow another. You never know for certain what they’ll do. But when the time comes they’re like thoroughbred horses, Mr. Haynes. A touch of the spur and they tear loose, sir, and naught can head them. Maybe they’ll drop, past the line, but they’ll win!”
“That sort requires careful handling,” mused the coach.
“Man, you speak true! Haven’t I learned it? But they’re worth the trouble, sir.”
“Well, I’ll stop here,” said Mr. Haynes as they reached the hotel. “I hope you and I will get along splendidly, Mr. McCranie. I shall look to you for a lot of advice, for I’m pretty much of a stranger yet.”
“We’ll get along grand, sir,” replied the trainer heartily, “and I’m not denying there’s things I can tell you, for I’m an old dog here. But I’ll be asking you drop the ‘Mister,’ sir. McCranie’s my name, or Angus if you like it better. The lads call me The Laird, and that’s a name I’m fair proud of, Mr. Haynes, for they’d never have given it me if I’d not come by it rightly.”
“Very well, McCranie. And my name is Haynes, also without the ‘Mister.’”
“It is now,” replied the trainer, with a chuckle, “but I’m thinking that when we’re better acquainted ’twill be just ‘Coach’!”