CHAPTER XV
An Unexpected Ally
Garry Grayson flushed to the ears. The attack was so venomous, so unwarranted, that he was hardly able to believe that he had heard aright. His eyes blazed as they encountered Trompet Shrugg's.
His comrades were equally amazed. Their impulse was that of indignation. The second was to laugh. Knowing the real reason for Garry's disfigured appearance, the mistake of Mr. Shrugg in attributing it to a brawl seemed to them comical.
"This is no laughing matter," said the teacher sternly, as a ripple of amusement ran around the class. "Rowdyism is a thing to be condemned severely."
Garry by a great effort had gained a measure of self-control.
"I suppose you are referring to me, Mr. Shrugg," he said, rising and trying to speak respectfully.
"I am mentioning no names," said Trompet Shrugg primly. "Any one that the shoe fits can put it on."
"But I think that you must have meant me," persisted Garry, "because I am the only one in the class that has a swelled nose and a black eye."
"Well, you are correct in assuming that you were the boy I had in mind," snapped the teacher. "And I do not hesitate to say again that such conduct is disgraceful."
"What conduct?" asked Garry.
"Fighting," replied Shrugg.
"What makes you think that I have been fighting?" asked Garry.
"Your appearance shows it. And what is more, I want no impudence from you, Grayson. I am not here to be subjected to cross examination."
"I am not impudent," replied Garry. "I only want to say that you are mistaken. I have not been fighting. I got these injuries in the football game on Saturday."
Trompet Shrugg was so taken aback that for a moment he did not know what to say. He looked so discomfited, so disconcerted at the way his spite had proved a boomerang that a roar of laughter that could not be quelled rose from the class.
The teacher rapped angrily on his desk for order.
"If that be true," he said, "it simply confirms the opinion I have always entertained of the brutality of football. It is nothing less than organized fighting, and it's unworthy of our civilization. That will do, Grayson. You may take your seat."
At this moment the door opened and Mr. Allen, the principal, entered on his daily tour of inspection of the classes. He was a genial man and very popular with the boys. He was also a great friend of Mr. Grayson's and often visited at his home.
His eye lighted on Garry, who was just taking his seat.
"Hello, Garry," he said quizzically. "You look as though you had been through the wars."
"I got roughed up a little in the football game on Saturday," replied Garry, grinning.
Mr. Allen threw back his head and laughed.
"Well, they're honorable scars," he remarked. "I saw part of that game, and was especially struck by the way you made that last touchdown. It was splendid work, and I hope you'll keep it up. I want to say to all you boys that football is a great game. Any one with red blood in his veins can't help liking it. It develops courage, self-reliance, discipline and quick thinking—all the qualities that go into the making of the best type of manhood. I am sure that Mr. Shrugg will agree with me in this. Of course you must not let it interfere with your studies. Scholarship comes first. But as long as you maintain a good rank in your studies you can't do anything better in the hours devoted to pastime than to play good hard football, the harder the better. An occasional black eye won't do you any harm. It's a badge of honor, as in Garry's case."
During this talk, Trompet Shrugg's face was a study. Chagrin, embarrassment, consternation chased themselves across his features. As for the boys, they nearly choked in restraining their mirth.
Of course, had Mr. Allen had any idea of what had preceded his entrance, he would have foregone his eulogy on football for the sake of discipline and to spare the feelings of the teacher. But, wholly unaware of the situation, he made one or two more routine inquiries and left the room.
Study was resumed, but the work of the rest of that hour did not amount to much. Mr. Shrugg's face was as red as a peony. His pettiness had met with a just reward. The persecution he had heaped on Garry had returned to plague him. Never had the teacher felt such relief as when the gong sounded the signal of dismissal.
The boys poured out into the hall and then for the first time dared to give vent to their emotions. Peals of laughter echoed through the corridors, and the sound of it penetrated to the room in which Trompet Shrugg sat.
"Did you ever see such a face?" gurgled Ted Dillingham.
"And to think Mr. Allen should have come in just at that minute!" rejoiced Rooster. "Garry, you old rascal, I'll bet you had it all cooked up in advance!"
"Not guilty," declared Garry with a grin. "But it sure was a bit of good luck for me."
"I guess that ends Shrugg's riding you," conjectured Pete Maddern. "He won't dare rag you any more."
"Things were getting to such a pass that I'd just about made up my mind to draw up a round robin to Mr. Allen and get all the fellows to sign it," put in Tom Allison.
The story spread like wildfire through the school, and was greeted everywhere hilariously, for Trompet Shrugg had succeeded in making himself intensely unpopular. That Mr. Allen himself eventually heard of the incident no one knew for a certainty, but events that followed shortly afterward indicated that he had.
The first game of the league season—that with Wimbledon—was now rapidly approaching and the boys were looking forward to it eagerly. That team had usually put up a stiff fight, and the year before Lenox had beaten it only by a lucky field goal as the last quarter was nearing its end.
Coach Garwin did not hold it cheaply—indeed, he never made that often fatal error in regard to any games on the schedule—and he drove his boys on remorselessly in practice. By this time they had become pretty well seasoned, and the coach had no hesitation in making them go the limit.
He compelled the scrubs, too, to be on their toes all the while. Not that the second string men needed any urging. The close call they had given the regulars in the first game was ever present with them, and they were frantically eager to win a game from their opponents.
Victory, however, never came as close to them as it had in that first game. The regulars then had been over confident and had come near paying the penalty. Now that they knew the stuff the scrubs were made of, the regulars went in every time expecting a stiff struggle, and their superior weight carried them through to triumph.
"Looks less likely than ever that we'll get on the first team this year," mourned Rooster.
"You never can tell," replied Garry, with his unconquerable optimism. "I don't wish the regulars any bad luck, but accidents are likely to happen at any time. Sometimes three or four fellows are knocked out in a single quarter, and then our chance may come. All we've got to do is to keep on plugging with all our might."
There was no doubt that Garry himself was putting that principle in practice. He was out almost every day on the field working to his utmost. He was among the first to get on the playing oval and among the last to leave. And very frequently he and some of the Hill Street bunch would get together after supper and practice in the lot back of his house until darkness forced them in.
He was happier now than he had been at any other time since school opened. His persecution by Trompet Shrugg had greatly diminished. Ted conjectured that some one had "put a flea in the old boy's ear," as he disrespectfully phrased it. More likely it was the recollection of the humiliation he had suffered when Mr. Allen had unwittingly spiked his guns that made the teacher of English more careful in his dealings with Garry.
On the day set for the Wimbledon game Garry was as hard as nails and ready for the call, if the call should come.
The game was to be played at Lenox, which gave a slight edge to the home team. They were on familiar ground, and the larger part of the crowd would be rooting for them.
But Wimbledon was only eight miles away, and practically the whole school came over to encourage their football team, most of them bringing horns and cowbells along with which they were prepared to make a din whenever the occasion required.
Garry, with his comrades of the scrubs, was on the side lines with a blanket thrown over his shoulders. As the Wimbledon boys romped out on the field for practice, he had a good chance to size them up.
What he saw made him a trifle uneasy, for the visitors were a husky bunch and showed up extremely well in their ten minutes of practice. To his eyes they seemed trained to the minute and to have somewhat more "beef" in their line than the Lenox boys.
Lenox won the toss and elected to kick off. The teams lined up on the home forty-yard line, and Wynn sent the ball hurtling down the field for thirty-five yards. Beebe, the red-headed fullback of Wimbledon, ran the ball back for five yards before he was downed, and the game was on.
The teams lined up for the scrimmage, with Wimbledon having the ball. Johnston, their left halfback, plunged through left guard and tackle for a gain of four yards. Beebe tried the other side and made two more, and on the next down went through for five, making the distance with a down to spare.
It was an auspicious beginning for the visitors, and the yells and cowbells of their rooters drowned all other sounds.
"First blood for Wimbledon!"
"Show these fellows where they get off."
"Wimbledon, Wimbledon! Our team weighs a ton!" they chanted in chorus.
But their yells died down a moment later when Wynn intercepted a forward pass and made a pretty run of twenty-two yards around the Wimbledon right end.
Now the Lenox backs got in their work. Dittler bucked the line for two yards. Wynn went through for three. Knapp was good for two more, and then Dittler again took up the Lenox burden for four more.
Lenox had made the distance and still had the ball, with the Wimbledon goal only about nine yards away.
This time the Lenox rooters had their turn at yelling, and it made that of the Wimbledon partisans seem weak in comparison.
But now the staying qualities of the visitors was put to the test, and they responded gamely. With their goal in danger, they put up a furious resistance. Dittler, on the first down, was thrown back for a loss of three yards. Knapp was good for only two. Wynn duplicated this with two more.
With eight yards to go on the fourth down, Lenox tried a forward pass. But a magnificent leap of Beebe's intercepted it and the prospect of a touchdown went glimmering.
Beebe dropped back and kicked the ball nearly to the middle of the field. Knapp ran it back for eight yards, and the teams lined up for the scrimmage, with Lenox in possession of the ball.