For the good of the team

Before the Forest Hill game was a thing of the past, however, the dissensions between coach and captain had produced the inevitable result. There was a feeling of disquiet and apprehension among the players that showed itself in little but unmistakable ways and, while as yet it showed no apparent effect on their work, threatened to impair their morale sooner or later. There was a good deal of talk, a good deal of discussion, and the fellows began to take sides. Five or six of the veterans honestly considered that Mr. Haynes had been and still was conducting the affairs of the team in a high-handed manner, and while they credited him with the best of intentions they still held that Stuart was “getting a raw deal.” To these faithful supporters were added a few others who, caring little about the merits of the case, loved a scrap for its own sake. To be fair to Stuart it should be said that, if he did little to prevent this situation, he at least did nothing intentionally to produce it. When he found that the players were actually beginning to take sides he saw the danger and, not hypocritically, declared that “Haynes was boss and it was up to them all to obey orders and not shoot off their mouths.” That, though, only brought knowing looks. Of course Stuart would talk like that: he would feel that he had to!

The other side hinted disagreeably that the captain had a swelled head; that he always had had and that it was bigger than ever since he had been made captain: and that any fellow who couldn’t get along with a chap like Mr. Haynes was a natural-born grouch. Stuart found support and sympathy in an unsuspected quarter in the shape of manager Fred Locker. Locker had nothing against the coach personally, but he had spent three years at Manning and had seen things done differently, and, while he had nothing to say publicly, he let Stuart know his sentiments. He talked to Jack one evening, too, but he quickly agreed with the latter that, whoever was in the right, Stuart mustn’t be allowed to “mess things up and make a fool of himself.” The main thing, of course, was to lick Pearsall and it was every fellow’s duty to work for that result.

In the Forest Hill game Stuart played as well as he ever had, although the incentive to great effort was lacking since the contest was one-sided from the first. On Monday, however, when the first was stacked up against the second and Saturday’s players were, contrary to custom, sent into the scrimmage, Stuart was distinctly off his game. Scenting an opportunity to triumph, perhaps, the second, coached by Mr. Webster, who had long since earned the affectionate nickname of “Old Unabridged,” started in with a whoop. Several of the fellows on the first team who had played through the Forest Hill game slightly resented being called on to-day. Some of them were a little bit tired, or thought they were, which amounts to practically the same thing. Among them was Stuart. His resentment was principally aimed at the violation of a long-established precedent which allowed those who had played through a Saturday game a Monday of rest or, at the most, the lightest sort of labor. He didn’t much mind playing, although, as he explained later to Neil, he “didn’t feel very zippy,” but the injustice rankled. As a result he—well, he was pretty poor.

Second took the kick-off and came up the field hard, using a new split-formation play that “Old Unabridged” had just taught them, to such good results that they were on the first’s twenty-yard line before any one knew what was happening. After that they tried twice to bore through the center and then tried to heave across the left. Tom Muirgart spoiled that, however, catching the ball just short of the line, and the first lined up on her three yards. Stuart called for a plunge at center, which yielded practically nothing, and then, instead of letting Tasker punt out of danger, himself took the ball for a run around the right. In the situation that was as unexpected a play as it was hazardous. Perhaps Stuart expected its unexpectedness to make it go, but if he did he was wrong. A big second team tackle slammed through and got him before he could turn in and heaved him across the goal line for a safety.

Some of his companions looked on him sorrowfully and reproachfully, though only half in earnest. Coach Haynes spoke his mind quietly but crisply. “Bad generalship, Captain Harven,” he said, as Stuart found his feet again. “Too risky. You should have punted.”

Stuart, knowing all that quite as well as the coach, scowled and bit his lip. The coach, about to add something further, caught his expression and wisely changed his mind.

The second chose to kick-off and the pigskin floated high and far toward the first team goal. Stuart claimed it and got under it near the ten-yard line. The catch was not a difficult one. The other backs, never doubting that he would make it, sped ahead to form interference. The ball fell straight into Stuart’s hands and as straightly bounded out again. He tried to get it on the bounce as it went on toward the goal line, failed, and threw himself on it. Again misfortune met him. The ball somehow wiggled loose and a second team end, who had marvelously evaded the interference, crashed down across Stuart and captured the pigskin.

From the seven yards the second carried over in four plays, choosing Towne as a point of attack. Although she failed at goal, the second had, beyond any possible doubt, won the game in the first six minutes of play, and she rejoiced exceedingly and made herself most obnoxious; so much so that Billy Littlefield came to blows with a second team end and was yanked out by a stern referee. Stuart, sore and silent, followed back to position to find Millard Wheaton awaiting him. “Wheat” was trying hard to look regretful, but the attempt wasn’t very successful.

“What do you want?” asked Stuart darkly.

“You’re off,” said Wheaton. “Sorry, Cap.”

“Get out of here!” Stuart pulled his head guard on with a jerk.

Wheaton, at a loss, turned to Tasker, but Howdy only shrugged. Of course his duty was to call the referee’s attention to Stuart’s refusal, but—well, Stuart was captain of the team, and so, after a moment’s indecision, Wheaton trotted back to the side-line. Then Mr. Haynes walked out with Wheaton in tow. Stuart, seeing, went toward them.

“Captain Harven,” said the coach firmly but quietly, “I sent Wheaton in to take your place.”

“I intend to stay in, sir,” answered Stuart doggedly. “This is a practice game and a boob play or two don’t matter.”

“I think differently. Kindly do as I say. We can discuss the matter later.”

“No, sir! I’m captain and I’m within my rights, Mr. Haynes. I’m going to play this period out. It wasn’t fair to work us to-day, anyhow. Some of us are done up. If we make mistakes it’s because we oughtn’t to be here at all. You can put Wheat in the next period if you like, but he doesn’t play quarter now.”

Mr. Haynes looked a bit white, but he only nodded and turned on his heel. Then: “Come on, Wheaton,” he said, and led the way back to the side line. Stuart was aware that the other fellows were very carefully avoiding looking at him. Harmon broke the silence and the tension with a cheerful “Come on, First! Let’s get ’em!” and the whistle piped.

Stuart played the twelve-minute period out, as he had said he would, and played very raggedly, although there were no more glaring mistakes. When the teams went off, second still holding her 13 to 0 lead, Stuart tried hard to look nonchalant and smiling and accepted the blanket that The Laird tossed him with a joking remark. The Laird, though, shook his head gently. Stuart froze up and watched the rest of the scrimmage in silence.

He had plenty of time for second thought before the final whistle blew and the first team trailed off to the gymnasium smarting under a 13 to 7 defeat, and in that time he decided that he had, in the accommodating language of the baseball diamond, “pulled a boner.” He firmly believed himself to have been justified in his refusal to accept dismissal from the line-up. That didn’t trouble him. His mistake had been, he concluded, in insisting on his right to remain. It would have been better in every way had he protested with dignity and gone off the field. He would have had the sympathy of his team mates, avoided the possible charge of insubordination and added further evidence of the coach’s high-handedness. As it was, he had the uncomfortable conviction that he had made himself appear ridiculous rather than heroic. These reflections were no aid to composure and peace of mind, and, although he wanted to convey the impression that the incident had left him undisturbed, no one was deceived by his studied attempt at nonchalance. He took pains not to avoid Mr. Haynes, but did not seek to reopen the discussion. For his part, the coach, rather graver than usual, seemed to have dismissed the matter from his mind.

Stuart went back to Lacey from the gymnasium and recounted the incident to Neil. He treated it lightly, even flippantly, but under the lightness was an unconscious note of defiance. He didn’t expect Neil to altogether approve of his action, but it was typical of him that he always did tell Neil things whether he looked for commendation or censure. Perhaps this was largely because the other’s judgments, for or against, were invariably frank and honest. When Stuart had ended, Neil smiled and shook his head.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do with you, Stuart,” he sighed. “You do mess things up frightfully!”

“What about others?” asked Stuart in injured tones. “Who started the trouble to-day?”

“Don’t be a goop,” begged Neil. “If some one shies a brick at you, is there any reason why you can’t side step it? Whether you realize it or not, you’ve been trying to make out a case against Mr. Haynes ever since you got here. Of course, that’s poor business, but if you must do it, why do everything you can to spoil it? No matter who was in the right to-day, and I’m not enough of a football man to know, your cue was instant obedience. Then, if there was any injustice, you’d have had public opinion on your side. Can’t you see that, you chump? What happened afterwards?”

“Nothing. He didn’t open his mouth, and so I didn’t.”

“You better, though,” said Neil earnestly. “See him this evening and make some sort of an apology.”

“I will like fun!” exclaimed Stuart indignantly.

“You’ve got to,” Neil replied firmly. “You can insist all you please on your rights in the matter, but you must own up that you acted wrongly. You did, you know. That was a poor example to set the rest of the team, Stuart.”

The other was glumly, rebelliously silent for a minute. Then: “Of course I did the wrong thing,” he acknowledged grudgingly. “Seems to me I’m always doing it where Haynes is concerned. He gets my goat, confound him! I had a good case against him to-day and I spoiled it, just as you say. I won’t go over to his rooms and lick his boots, Neil, but I’ll call him on the telephone after supper.”

Neil considered a moment doubtfully. After all, even that was quite a concession from Stuart, and so he nodded. “All right, but be decent, Stuart. Don’t talk haughty.”

“All right, but I won’t apologize: understand that! I’ll say I was wrong in staying in after he told me to come out, but I won’t say that I didn’t have a perfect right to!”

But after supper, although Stuart went twice to the telephone downstairs, Mr. Haynes didn’t respond, and so that near-apology wasn’t made. There was much talk that evening among the players and even Stuart’s stanchest upholders could find no good excuse for him. The best they could do was plead extreme provocation; and even that was challenged by the opposition. By the next day the school in general had hold of the story and there were many and varied versions of what had actually happened. The most sensational story had it that blows had been exchanged between coach and captain. The school in general stood loyally behind the captain, for, especially amongst the younger boys, he was looked up to as a hero. Junior class fellows viewed his progress across the campus that morning with an admiration so evident as to make Stuart uncomfortable.

Returning from a recitation at eleven, he found an envelope in his box bearing the inscription, “Manning School, Safford, Conn. Committee on Athletics.” Communications from the Athletic Faculty, usually on routine matters, were no unusual affairs, and Stuart slipped the letter into his pocket with no disturbing premonition and only slight curiosity. In fact, it was not until he had been in Number 12 for several minutes and had settled down to dig for an impending hour test in English that he recalled the missive and dug it from his pocket. Since Neil was at a recitation, Stuart had the room to himself, something that he was later very thankful for. He made nothing of the letter at the first reading, for incredulity turned the phrases into a meaningless jumble. Then, a puzzled frown between his eyes, he read it again.