The discouraging thing about beating the First was that the First wouldn’t stay beaten. If you scored on it one day it came back the following day and tried to see just how overbearing it could be. Or if you beat it on Monday, say, it spent the rest of the week rubbing your face in the dirt, until you almost wished you hadn’t been so rash. So the Scrub’s hour of triumph was brief. On Tuesday the enemy, with all its best talent present, took a long, craving look at the Scrub and proceeded to devour it. Three scores, two touchdowns and a field-goal resulted from the first period, by the end of which the Scrub was somewhat demoralized although still fighting. During the five minutes of intermission Mr. Babcock managed to restore his charges to a fair condition of usefulness. What no one could understand was why, when the Scrub had the ball, the First got the jump every time and upset every play before it reached the line. This had happened with such monotony that the most reasonable explanation seemed to be that the First had somehow since yesterday become endowed with clairvoyant powers that enabled it to know beforehand what the opponent meant to do. That the First had learned the Scrub signals had occurred to the latter, only to be promptly rejected. Neither Coach Otis nor Captain Lothrop would profit by such an advantage. Yet, merely to make a certainty more sure, or, perhaps, because no other remedy suggested itself, the signals, already changed when Clem Henning had joined the enemy forces, had been switched again since play had started. So that couldn’t be it.
Yet something was wrong. The Scrub wasn’t playing any slower than usual; in fact, both line and backfield were almost beating the ball; and yet to-day the only safe play for the Scrub was a punt, and even one of those had been nearly blocked! “Cocky” puzzled and wracked his brain without finding the solution, and the Scrub went back to the massacre still perplexed and irritated. Yet the second scrimmage period wasn’t so bad, for there was only one more score by the First, and the Scrub made four first downs and got within twenty yards of the enemy’s goal. Nevertheless it was a chastened and somewhat dazed squad which made its weary way back to the gymnasium in the early dusk. Perhaps the defeated army after Waterloo felt about the way the Scrub did. Yesterday they had been, to-day they were not. And no one was able to say why!
No one in the Scrub, that is. Almost any member of the First Team could have explained the mystery very promptly had he chose. But he didn’t choose. The First merely looked superior and a little bit contemptuous; and it took two Firsts and three Scrubs to separate Al Greene and “Swede” Hanbury in the shower room after “Swede” had made what sounded like a perfectly innocent observation regarding the afternoon’s proceedings. Even so the peacemakers didn’t intervene in time to prevent bloodshed, for Al was sniffing through an ensanguined nose as he was led protestingly away and “Swede” was working his jaws experimentally and prodding the left side of his chin with an inquiring finger.
Beside the First Team members, however, the secret of the Scrub’s overthrow was known to one other at least. Loring, seated in his chair beyond the third turn of the running track, attended by the faithful Wattles, had used his eyes and his book-learned knowledge of football to advantage, and so, after supper, when Tom did not appear promptly at the room on the first floor of East, Wattles was sent in search of him. As Tom was in Mr. Babcock’s study just then, Wattles failed to find him. Clif, encountered by Wattles in a corridor, was of no assistance, for Clif had been searching for Tom himself. But Clif agreed to deliver the message when the missing one was found, and Wattles returned to report failure. Clif didn’t find an opportunity to deliver that message, however, until he ran into Tom on the way to assembly hall, and so it wasn’t until after study hour that the two reached Loring’s room. Tom had done very little studying, for the fact that Loring had sent for him had plunged him into a sea of conjecture. It might just be that Loring could throw light on the engrossing mystery. The chap was certainly sharp! Already he had offered two or three suggestions that, passed on to Coach Babcock, had been adopted to the betterment of the Scrub. Tom had acknowledged to Clif no later than Saturday that Loring was really being of use!
“Say,” demanded Tom anxiously when Clif had closed the door behind them, “what’s on your mind, Loring?”
“What’s on yours?” asked Loring smilingly.
Tom groaned. “Not a thing in the world, old son! Nothing but the trifling recollection of having been licked 23 to 0 this afternoon. Come on! Spill it! I know you’ve got some sort of dope.”
“Well, I know one reason why you got beaten so badly, Tom.”
“What is it?”
“First jumped you every time.”
“O Sacred Ibis of the River Nile!” wailed Tom. “Is that the best you can do? Listen, Loring. Strange as it may sound to you, quite a few of us guessed that about five hours ago!”
“And did you also guess why?” asked Loring sweetly.
“We guessed, yes, but they were rotten guesses. Do you know?”
“I think I do. The answer is ‘Jackson.’”
“Sim? How do you mean?” Tom sat up straight and opened his eyes widely.
“Didn’t you notice that after the first few minutes of the second period you fellows began to make your plays go?”
“Yes, they certainly went better in the second show.”
“And after Duval went in at quarter for Jackson?”
“By Jove, that’s so! But what—how—”
“Tom, if the other fellow tells you a second beforehand when the ball’s going into play isn’t that a bit of a help to you? Doesn’t it allow you to beat the ball a bit?”
“You mean that Sim gave the play away? I mean—”
“Yes. Remember that First was penalized twice for off-side? Well, it ought to have been penalized half a dozen more times. It would have been if I’d been refereeing. Those fellows watched Jackson and started before the ball every time you had it. By the time the runner got the ball there was no chance for him. Two or three times—”
“But, great Scott, what did Jackson do? I didn’t see anything wrong, Loring.”
“You were too close, Tom. I wish I had the use of my legs so I could show you. Clif, you be Jackson for a minute, like a good chap. All right. Give your signals—wait, you’re turning this way now, bending down. That’s it. ‘Signals!’ Now then, you turn toward the center. You’ve had your left hand, or your right, maybe, on the center’s back while you’ve been giving the signal, but now you drop it and hold your hands for the ball. Act it out that way, please.”
“I’ll try,” laughed Clif. “Signals! Twenty-three, forty-three, seventeen! Twenty-three, forty-three—” He dropped his right hand from an imaginary back and—
“See it?” exclaimed Loring.
Tom shook his head in puzzlement as Clif straightened up again. “Why, his shoulder, man!” said Loring impatiently. “First it’s way up like this where half the First Team’s linemen can see it. Then it disappears and after you’ve counted two the ball is snapped. That’s as regular as—as—why, it never fails! I timed it half a dozen times, Tom. Down went Jackson’s shoulder and from three-quarters to a second afterwards Ridgway snapped. Some one found that out and spread it. Now the First Team forwards watch Jackson’s shoulder instead of the ball or the men in front of them and when it ducks they charge. Sometimes they were past the line before the ball was in Jackson’s hands. If there had been a linesman he would have penalized First six or eight times; almost every time you chaps had the ball in the first half; but a referee or an umpire can’t see that sort of thing from where he stands. When Duval went in you began to make your plays good because the First wasn’t being tipped off when to start.”
“Heck!” murmured Tom. “So that was it! A simple little thing like that! My sainted Aunt Jerusha! And no one saw it!”
“I don’t see what your blamed old aunt’s got to do with it,” objected Clif disgustedly. “I’ve said all along, and so has Loring, that we ought to cut out passing to the quarter except when—”
“What’s the difference?” demanded Tom. “Sim would do the same thing if the pass was direct to the runner. He’s got to learn to keep his shoulder out of sight. Either that or quit! Say, I’ve known backs who gave the play away by shifting or moving their feet or something, but this is the first time I ever heard of a quarter giving the other team a starting signal! Heck, wouldn’t that jar you?”
“Well, I’m glad we know what’s wrong,” said Clif thankfully. “To-morrow—”
“To-morrow! Say, I’ve got to see ‘Cocky’!” Tom jumped for the door. “Loring, you win the spun glass crow-bar, old son! See you later!”
Then the door slammed.
Three minutes later Tom was enlightening a surprised, relieved and somewhat chagrined “Cocky.” But after several minutes of explanations and questions and comments the coach suddenly looked puzzled. “But look here, Kemble. An hour ago you didn’t know any more than I did. How does it happen you come along now and—”
“Loring Deane,” said Tom. “Let me tell you about him, sir.”
So Tom told, ending with: “Two or three things I spoke to you about weren’t my ideas at all. They were his. I wasn’t trying to swipe the credit for them, Mr. Babcock, but I thought you’d think I was sort of crazy if I told you about Loring. Heck, I only did it because the poor guy wanted to get in on football. He’s a regular nut, sir. Then, blamed if he didn’t come across with two or three good ideas, like the one about playing Bingham close in on forward-passes to the right, and it just seemed easier to let you think that they were brain-waves of my own than explain.”
“I see. Well, it looks to me, Kemble, as though it would be a rather brilliant idea to encourage Deane. Guess we’d better attach him to our ‘coaching staff,’” Mr. Babcock added laughingly.
“I wish he would let you see some of the plays he’s planned. Some of them look pretty good to me, but I’m not much of a hand at diagrams.”
“I’d like to see them, of course,” replied Mr. Babcock, not very enthusiastically. “Bring them along some evening.”
“I spoke about that, sir, but he didn’t seem keen for it. He’s got a forward-pass play, with an end throwing, that looks sort of good, and I was wondering if we couldn’t try it out, Mr. Babcock. There’s a lot of us who would like mighty well to beat Minster High next Saturday. And then, of course, we’ve got to lick that Wolcott Scrub!”
“I’ll drop in on Deane to-morrow and get him to show me what he’s got. I’d like to make his acquaintance, too. Oh, by the way, Kemble, there’s something I meant to speak of when you were in here before. How are you getting on in classes?”
“Me, sir? Well, I’m all right, I guess. Of course, I’m not what you could call a shining example right now, Mr. Babcock, but as soon as football’s over I’ll be sitting pretty.”
“Hm. Well, if I were you I’d find plenty of time for studying, my boy. In fact, I’d make rather an effort just now, because it wouldn’t do to have something come up and prevent you from playing. Think it over, will you? A word to the wise, as they say. Good night.”
“Now,” reflected Tom, as he made his way back to East, “just what did he mean by that? Some one’s been talking, and I’ll bet it’s that old ‘Alick.’ Maybe I’d better try to make a better showing with him. He’s been looking sort of mean lately. Yes, sir, I’d just better get back on ‘Alick’s’ good side.”
Wednesday’s sensation was the showing of the Scrub against the First in two periods of fifteen and ten minutes each. With Charlie Duval at quarter most of the time, the Scrub held the enemy on the defense all through the first period and, while it wasn’t able to get across the goal-line, it made the adversary play harder for some minutes than it had played all the fall. In the second period, with many substitutes present on both teams, the First got the upper hand and managed to hold it, finally working the ball close to the Scrub’s goal and losing it when Ogden fumbled a pass from center. A few minutes later it tried a desperate attempt at a goal from the thirty-six yards and missed it narrowly. Following that, with less than three minutes left, Scrub faked a punt and sent Tom galloping past left tackle to midfield. Tom was having one of his good days, and now, aided and abetted by Johnny Thayer, he secured two more first downs before First steadied and stopped the onslaught. After Johnny had punted over the line the whistle blew and ended the scoreless battle.
Loring had a tale to tell that evening. Mr. Babcock had been in to see him just after dinner and they had had a wonderful talk about football and the Scrub Team and those plays of his, for “Cocky” had made him show them, saying that Tom had told about them. “And he went away with four of them,” said Loring, trying to conceal his delight. “Said he wanted to study them and that if they looked all right he’d have you fellows try them out some day soon.”
“Did he take that forward-pass from end?” asked Tom.
“Yes, and he was looking at that a long time. Say, wouldn’t it be corking if that worked all right?”
“Work? Of course it will work. It’ll go big. Mark my words, old son.”
“Well, I don’t know. Maybe there’s a weak spot somewhere. Mr. Babcock says you can’t really tell a whole lot about plays until you’ve actually tried them out against another team.”
“That one’s all right,” replied Tom confidently. “I’d like to use it against Minster next Saturday and get it working nicely for the Wolcott Scrub. I like that play. I’ll bet it turns out to be the cheese, old son!”
That settled, he and Loring arranged the chess-men and Clif settled himself with a book. At five minutes to eight, the game being still undecided, the board was set aside until after study hour and Tom hurried up to Number 34 for his books. Billy Desmond met him at the head of the stairs.
“‘Alick’s’ been looking for you, Tom,” announced Billy casually. “Wants to converse with you in his study, young feller.”
“‘Alick’! Golly! Say, did he look—er—pleasant?”
“Extremely jovial, I thought.”
Tom groaned. “There’s breakers ahead then. He’s always sweet and pleasant just before he bites! Well, he will have to wait until after study. Heck, I wish I’d put in more time on my English this morning, instead of wasting it on math!”
Clif pushed Loring’s chair along the corridor after study hour and informed him that the chess game was going to be delayed. “Tom’s got to see Mr. Wyatt, and he’s scared to death.” Clif chuckled. “Wyatt’s the only person he ever was scared of, I guess!”
“I hope ‘Alick’ isn’t going to be nasty,” said Loring uneasily. “You know, Clif, Tom’s an awful dumbbell about English. Yesterday I thought ‘Alick’ was going to have a conniption when Tom gave those perfectly inane answers about ‘The Ancient Mariner.’”
“He was quaint,” laughed Clif. “But I guess ‘Alick’s’ just reading him the riot-act. Hang it, you know, Tom does try!”
“Y-yes, I know, but—” Loring shook his head. “Oh, well, he will pull through. He’s an awfully lucky dub!”
Half an hour later, however, the lucky dub didn’t look the part as, closing the door of Number 4 West behind him, he thrust his hands into his pockets and stared dazedly down the short corridor. He stood there a long minute before, with a shrug and a hardening of his features, he made his way briskly around the corner and set out for East Hall. He did a great deal of thinking on the way, but the more he thought the less happy he became, and when he at last reached Loring’s room he had to pause for an instant to wet his lips and work his face back into shape. When he went in he was grinning, and, since Clif had grown to know him fairly well by now, there was one occupant of the room not deceived by that grin. Loring asked anxiously: “Was he bad, Tom?”
“Well, depends,” replied Tom, seating himself with unusual decorum. “What would you call bad, old son?”
“Why—”
But Clif interrupted bruskly. “What’s he done, Tom? Don’t act the fool! Let’s hear it.”
“All right! He’s handed me a dirty wallop, if you must know, the old skunk! I’m on restriction.”
“Restriction!” exclaimed Loring. “Why, then—then you can’t—”
“So he very carefully reminded me,” said Tom bitterly. “Oh, he didn’t forget anything! Said the Office had had my case under consideration for some time and that only my standing in other studies had kept them from giving me the ax before. Said maybe if my time wasn’t so taken up with football I’d—” Tom stopped and shook his head. “Oh, he put the harpoon into me good and hard, and turned it around a couple of times. Well, I’m done for this season.”
“But, great Scott, isn’t he going to let you make up—or something?” demanded Clif. “He can’t keep you from playing all the rest of the season, can he? Why, there’s more than two weeks yet!”
“Oh, sure, I can make up,” laughed Tom grimly. “All I’ve got to do is get eighty or better from now on, write a nice little theme of five hundred words on Coleridge’s ‘Ancient Mariner’—five hundred, mind you!—and make up some stuff in paragraph structure that I fell down on Monday. Oh, sure, I can make up all right!”
“Well, but how long have you got to—to—”
“Friday afternoon for the theme. Heck, what’s the use of talking about it? I couldn’t write a hundred words about that blamed old mariner, let alone five hundred! And then getting eighty! Why, hang it, I’ve never got better than sixty-five in English, and I never expect to! It’s rotten stuff, and I hate it. Composition and rhetoric, and the whole blamed business! No, sir, I’m plumb through!”
“How do you mean, through?” asked Clif sharply.
Tom’s gaze dropped to the floor, and for a moment he made no answer. Then he shrugged his shoulders. “Well, what do you think?” he asked bitterly. “Wouldn’t you call it through?” Then, after a pause. “I dare say you fellows will make Johnny Thayer captain.”