Jeff had just twenty-eight yards to go for a touchdown, and he covered twenty-two of them before he was threatened. Then Drayton, right end, overhauled him. But after the tackle Jeff made three good yards, and when the whistle sounded, the pigskin lay no more than four feet from the last whitewashed streak. A horn tooted hoarsely, but “G.G.” would have none of it.
“Play on,” he ordered grimly. “Two minutes more, First!”
The Scrub exulted. They would have cheered Mr. Otis if there had been time. The First set grimly to work to hold the enemy at bay, and Thayer’s first smash at the line netted inches only. But neither Sim nor the big fullback was discouraged. Four feet was only four feet, and Johnny could take that in a stride! But he had to have a hole, and the center of the First’s panting, crouching line offered not even a crevice. So Sim shifted to his right, playing beyond end himself, and the Scrub drove straight ahead, wedging between guard and tackle, and Thayer shot up and forward, and the whistle blew and the ball was over!
To make assurances doubly sure, Sim Jackson gave way to Hoppin, and “Hop,” standing safely away from his line, took a long and rather ragged pass from “Babe” Ridgway, and toed it neatly over the bar. And the Scrub had scored on the First—the real, honest-to-goodness First, and not a mess of substitutes—and every one was happy. Every one, that is, except the First!
The period ended a minute later, and the Scrub went carousing away to the lee of the stand and pulled blankets about them, and talked it all over gleefully. Perhaps they made more of it than it was worth, both then and later, but, on the other hand, perhaps they didn’t. It might, you see, be a long, long time before they had another chance to celebrate any such decisive victory as they had scored that day!
There was more to follow, but it wasn’t likely that Mr. Otis would put the same line-up back. Nor did he. A few first string forwards faced the Scrub in the second scrimmage, but they melted away as time went on, giving place to substitutes until at last a whole new team fought for the honor of the First. And Mr. Babcock freshened his bunch, too. He didn’t have enough men for a whole new team, but he did the best he could, and only Clem Henning and “Wink” Coles played to the end. Clif didn’t see any work in that session, while Tom dropped out soon after the start to make way for Ike Patch. They crouched together, bundled under their own blankets and another, and watched intensely. To you or me that second scrimmage wouldn’t have proved very interesting. In fact, I doubt if either of us would have stayed two minutes out there in that chilling gale. But Clif and Tom found the spectacle a most thrilling one, groaning when “Swede” Hanbury, the second-string full back, romped through the Scrub for twelve long yards and exulting shrilly when “Wink” plunged through and fell on a fumbled ball at a moment when disaster threatened the Scrub, seven yards from its goal. Yes, though neither side scored, though misplays were frequent and opportunities wasted, Clif and Tom found the contest heart-filling enough.
That evening the Scrub was carelessly enough christened with a name that stuck the season through. Some unknown witness of the afternoon’s struggle uttered the phrase, and it met with favor from a listener, and was repeated, probably as his own, and by the next afternoon it had captured popularity, and written itself into school language. After that it was never, save officially or in the polite pages of The Lantern, “Mr. Babcock’s Team.” Nor was it the “Second.” It was the “Fighting Scrub.”
That was a name to live up to, and the Scrub, from Adams to Tyson, taking it alphabetically, resolved to merit it. Mr. Babcock smiled in his sleeve. He believed in fight. Fighting, though, won’t always win, especially if the odds against the fighter are long. And if the Scrub thought to repeat its victory of Thursday right away it was doomed to disappointment. Because on Friday, during the brief ten minutes of real scrimmage that took place, the First, having knocked together a hasty and temporary defense against forward-passes, seized the Scrub by the nape of its neck and fairly wiped up the gridiron with it. Smarting under the defeat of the day before, and the gibes of its schoolmates, it sought vengeance and obtained it in handfulls. It scored two touchdowns and followed the second with a goal, and later, in the gymnasium, held up thirteen points for the infuriation of the Scrub. The Scrub, which had “rubbed it in” good and hard yesterday, tried its best to grin and found the effort painful.
That evening twenty youths crowded into Clem Henning’s room, which he shared with Jimmy Ames, and, occupying practically every horizontal surface therein, set about the election of a captain. A week before the undertaking had not seemed important. Any fellow would do; especially Clem, who was already holding down the job temporarily. But since a week ago the lowly Scrub had become the Fighting Scrub. It had seen service, acquired traditions, and won honor. It was no longer merely twenty youths brought together by chance. It was a fellowship, a fraternity, a shoulder-to-shoulder clan. It was—well, it was the Fighting Scrub! And so the election of a leader had suddenly become a matter of vast importance, something to be done carefully, and only after much thought.
A good deal of the thinking had been done by Tom, and he had shared some of his thoughts with Clif. But not all, as it turned out. “I was talking with Clem Henning this afternoon,” Tom announced on Wednesday, “and he says he doesn’t want to be captain. Says he won’t be if he has to.”
“Guess it will be Coles, then,” said Clif.
“Coles is all right. But how about Jimmy Ames?”
“Ames? Why, I don’t know. I like Coles better. Or Stiles.”
“Stiles, eh? We-ell, yes, maybe. You know, Clif, I wouldn’t say no if they offered it to me.”
“Offered what?”
“Captaincy.”
“A fat chance,” jeered Clif. “One of the old fellows will get it, of course. Henning ought to take it. He’s a First Class fellow. Either he or Ames.”
“I don’t see that it matters what your class is,” Tom demurred. “I’m not saying I’m expecting to get it, of course, but if some one nominated me I’ll bet I’d get four or five votes. It would be fun to see, eh?”
But Clif didn’t enthuse greatly. “That may be your idea of fun, Tom, but it isn’t mine. To stand for election just to see yourself licked is crazy.”
“Heck, what’s the difference if you are licked? Say, if any of the crowd should put me up, vote for me once anyway, like a good guy, will you?”
“I’ll second the nomination, if it’s done,” laughed Clif, “but I’d like to know who you think’s going to put you up!”
“Well, some one might. You can’t tell. Some one might do it just to be funny.”
“I don’t think it would be so blamed funny,” said Clif, slightly indignant. “If it comes right down to brass tacks, I guess you’d make a good enough captain—with me to help you!”
Mr. Babcock had declined an invitation to be present on the momentous occasion, and so it was Clem Henning who coughed loudly, and said that they were there to elect a captain, and he guessed they’d better get at it, and that so far as he was concerned, he was out of it entirely because he didn’t know how to be a captain, and it was too pesky much trouble anyway!
Much protestation followed, some of it perhaps polite rather than sincere, and several fellows tried to talk at once. “Wink” Coles finally got a hearing, and declared that Clem was the man for the job, and why not elect him, and pay no attention to what he said. Gillespie, known as “Gilly,” got quite eloquent, and reminded them that they should elect one of their number who possessed the gift of leadership, and placed in nomination Pat Tyson. The applause was rather for the eloquence than the nominee, it seemed. Then Jackson proposed “Babe” Ridgway and “Babe” declined in a panic. After that proceedings slowed up. Clif, observing Tom, laughed to himself. Although Tom seemed to have not a care in the world, Clif thought he could detect anxiety. Evidently it occurred to no one to nominate Tom, even as a joke, and Clif was wondering whether to do it himself when Thayer was offered as a candidate. The applause was flattering, but the meeting had certainly not been stampeded, and Johnny, himself, was rewarding his sponsor with a malignant scowl. Clem spoke again from his precarious seat on the radiator—which, fortunately, was not radiating to-night—and suggested that they get busy and do something, because it would be study hour in about ten minutes.
“Maybe we’d better ballot. Jimmy, tear up a couple of sheets of paper from my block, will you? So far the candidates are Tyson, Ridgway—”
“Nothing doing!” protested “Babe.”
“—and Thayer. But I’m going to nominate another. I like the captain to be a backfield chap. After that he ought to play well enough to be certain of his place (laughter), and he ought to have a whole lot of fight and pep. In fact—” and Clem’s eyes twinkled—“he ought to be a fellow who can go after what he wants and get it. I nominate Kemble.”
There was a brief instant of surprise, surprise plainly, oh, so plainly shared by Tom! Then came an astonishing amount of applause, astonishing at least to Clif, who was reprehensibly late in joining in it. Tom was shaking his head, not so much negatively as doubtfully. “Heck, fellows, I’m new around here, and I guess you want a fellow who’s been here longer. Henning says he won’t take it, but if we show him we need him—”
“I’m out,” declared Clem, grinning across at Tom. “Let’s vote.”
Jimmy Ames distributed slips of paper, pens and pencils passed from hand to hand, and “Wink” started some one’s cap around, and the slips dropped in. Then Jimmy dumped the ballots on the bed, and Clem prepared to tabulate them on the back of an envelope exhumed from a pocket. Lou Stiles interrupted proceedings.
“Hold on a sec! How are we doing this? Does a majority elect or a plurality or what?”
“Plurality,” decided Clem, and as no one dissented—although Leo Gosman wanted anxiously to know what a plurality was—the counting proceeded, and after a minute, Clif read the result. “Ridgway gets four,” announced Clif, “Kemble ten and Tyson six. Kemble is elected. The meeting’s adjourned sine die, pro tem and e pluribus unum!”
“Speech! Speech!”
“I don’t know how,” responded Tom, grinning. “Besides, there isn’t time. But I want to say that I thank you fellows for the honor, and that I’ll do my best to help you put the Fighting Scrub on the map. I don’t deserve the captaincy, of course; most any of the rest of you would have been better; but I’ll certainly try to deserve the—er—unexpected honor. That’s all, I guess.”
“Hold on,” said “Babe.” “Let’s make it unanimous, fellows. What do you say?”
“I’ll second that,” declared Pat Tyson good-naturedly.
“Moved and seconded—”
“You can’t! The meeting’s adjourned,” laughed some one.
“Forget it! Kemble is unanimously elected Captain of the Wyndham—no, of the Fighting Scrub, and may Heaven help him!”
To which sentiment the party laughingly dissolved, hurrying off to arm themselves for study hour.
“Well, I don’t see how it happened,” said Clif as he and Tom went back to West. “It’s great, Tom, and I’m awfully pleased, but I certainly was surprised!”
“It was a regular bolt from the blue,” agreed Tom gravely. “Look here, did you vote for me?”
“Of course I did!”
“That’s funny then.”
“What is?”
“I had eleven votes pledged and only got ten. Some lowlife went back on me!”
“You had eleven—” A light broke on Clif. “Why—why,” he sputtered at last, “you blamed old fox! Do you mean to say that you knew all the time—”
“Well, I couldn’t be sure,” Tom chuckled. “As it was, one of my pledges got away. But I sort of expected, Clif.”
“You—you politician! How’d you do it?”
“Just got them to promise to vote for me in case my name was proposed. They didn’t think it would be, of course.”
“I should say not! But how did—how’d it happen that Henning nominated you?”
“Henning thought I was the right fellow for the job,” replied Tom tranquilly.
“He did, eh? I’d like to know where he got that—”
“Some one told him, I guess.”
“Some one! Huh! The some one was you, then, I’ll bet! Say—”
But Tom was half-way up the stairs and Clif’s remarks were curtailed. Turning toward Number 17, he shook his head helplessly. Then, however, he chuckled.
After study hour Clif persuaded Tom to accompany him to Mr. McKnight’s. This was the evening of what “Lovey” called his “shindig.” Clif had visited his adviser several times since that first conference, but had never managed to attend one of the Friday night gatherings. Tom was far from enthusiastic, but yielded to his chum’s pleas. Besides, Clif accused him of duplicity and deceit, and several other dreadful things in connection with his election to the Scrub captaincy, and perhaps Tom felt that he owed Clif something in the way of apology. They found only eight others in Number 19 when they arrived; eight, that is, beside the instructor. During the next few minutes the number was augmented by the arrival of an attenuated youth with a surprisingly long neck and prominent Adam’s apple, which leaped convulsively when he talked, and a Junior who was painfully embarrassed, and spent the hour voiceless in a corner.
At first the guests looked to be a motley crowd, but after a while Clif concluded that there was nothing out of the ordinary about them. They represented, he decided, the non-athletic element of the school; or, to put it more fairly, the intellectual element. Tom was plainly sorry he had come. Introductions were necessary in many cases, though some of the fellows already claimed nodding acquaintance with the two. Mr. McKnight had already learned of Tom’s election and congratulated him very warmly, thereby spreading the news throughout the study. The youth with the agitated Adam’s apple, whose name proved to be, appropriately enough, Baldwin, and whom Tom ever after alluded to as “The Pippin,” insisted on shaking hands a second time with Tom and “felicitating” him. Baldwin modestly claimed brotherhood with Tom by reason of being somewhat athletic himself, having played last year on the Second Class Tennis Team. Whereupon Tom said: “Fine! Tennis is a great game. And I like croquet, too, Baldwin.” Baldwin agreed that croquet was doubtless an interesting pastime, but you could plainly see that he resented having it placed on a level with tennis.
“Lovey” went to the piano and played something that sounded extremely difficult, and horribly mixed-up. Clif enjoyed watching his hands, though. Evidently Mr. McKnight could play well, but Clif was relieved when he broke into a popular song and, setting the example in a good baritone, persuaded most of the company to sing. There were three or four vocal selections rendered, and then “Lovey” moved a small table into the center of the big, soft rug, and served refreshments of sandwiches and cake, and lemonade. Eating appeared to loosen the tongues of the “intellectuals,” and soon at least four debates were under way. Baldwin, half a sandwich poised in his right hand, a glass of lemonade in the other, stood before the empty grate and deplored the lack of opportunity for self-expression at Wyndham. Neither Clif nor Tom could hear him very well, but Tom stared fascinatedly at his throat, and murmured, “There it goes! Look at it! Up! Down! Up! Heck, he’s swallowed it!”
But he hadn’t.
Mr. McKnight sat down by Clif and talked football a while. He seemed to know a great deal about it, and presently Tom was weaned from his absorbed occupation of watching Baldwin, and took part in the talk. “Lovey” told them he hoped the Scrub would be as good this year as it had been last. “Babcock’s a clever coach, fellows. He’s taken some mighty unpromising material before this and turned out an excellent team.” Noting Tom’s grin, the instructor hastily amended. “I didn’t mean to say it just that way, Kemble,” he laughed. “From what I’ve heard and seen of his material this fall he’s rather better off than usual. To my thinking Babcock would make a fine First Team coach in case Mr. Otis failed us. Of course, though, he couldn’t give the time to it. Even now he’s pretty hard pressed to coach you chaps.”
“He’s an awfully good coach, I think,” agreed Clif. “He gets you to do things without telling you to, somehow. I mean, you want to please him, you know, and so you—you sort of just do things without waiting to be told!”
“That’s very true, Clif,” agreed Mr. McKnight. “He has always been able to win coöperation. We were at college together, although I knew him only slightly. He was a class ahead of me. But it was so with everything he went into there. They made him captain of the Senior eleven his last year, and he went in and won the class championship. It’s like pulling teeth without gas to get a senior to come out and practice for football, but Babcock did it somehow, and they licked the sophomores first, and then tackled us after we had nosed out ahead of the freshmen. Of course we expected to beat them badly, and every one else expected us to, but Babcock worked up a cheering section with plenty of tin pans, and watchman’s rattles—noise was always part of the game—and held us for the first half. I was only a substitute and didn’t get into the fun until the last minute. We got a field-goal in the third quarter, and thought we had the class championship won. But along toward the last of it Babcock called for time and got his crowd together and gave instructions. They had been using only six or eight old plays, and we’d had no trouble guessing what was coming. We could see Babcock making a sort of diagram with his finger on the ground, and the others bending over and watching, and we laughed, and our crowd on the side-line made fun of them. Then they came back and spread themselves all across the field in a ridiculous sort of formation, with only two men behind the line. Of course we spread out to cover them, and played our center back, and got all set for a tricky pass. But we were all wrong. Their quarterback took the ball, and came straight through with it, and, as we were wide open, he had a good start with two men making interference for him before we found out what was happening. We chased him sixty-odd yards, but every time one of us thought we had him, a Senior would crowd us off, and send us tumbling, and he went over right between the goal-posts—that was in the days of the free-try for goal—and so they licked us, seven to three. Babcock has told me since that he knew the only way to beat us was to get our forward line open, and that all that instruction and diagram stuff was merely bluff. All the instruction he gave was to the quarter. ‘Take the ball,’ he said, ‘and run it straight down for a score.’”