"Three more," said Smeed.
Doc Macnooder rushed in hysterically.
"Hungry, go the limit—the limit! If anything happens I'll bleed you."
"Shut up, Doc!"
"Get out, you wild man."
Macnooder was sent ignominiously back into the kitchen, with the curses of the Dickinson, and Smeed assured of their unfaltering protection.
"Three more," came the cry from the chastened Macnooder.
"Three it is," said Hickey. "Forty-two and three makes—forty-five."
"Holy cats!"
Still little Smeed, without appreciable abatement of hunger, continued to eat. A sense of impending calamity and alarm began to spread. Forty-five pancakes, and still eating! It might turn into a tragedy.
"Say, bub—say, now," said Hickey, gazing anxiously down into the pointed face, "you've done enough—don't get rash."
"I'll stop when it's time," said Smeed; "bring 'em on now, one at a time."
"Forty-six, forty-seven, forty-eight, forty-nine!"
Suddenly, at the moment when they expected him to go on forever, little Smeed stopped, gazed at his plate, then at the fiftieth pancake, and said:
"That's all."
Forty-nine pancakes! Then, and only then, did they return to a realisation of what had happened. They cheered Smeed, they sang his praises, they cheered again, and then, pounding the table, they cried, in a mighty chorus:
"We want pancakes!"
"Bring us pancakes!"
"Pancakes, pancakes, we want pancakes!"
Twenty minutes later, Red Dog and the Egghead, fed to bursting, rolled out of Conover's, spreading the uproarious news.
"Free pancakes! Free pancakes!"
The nearest houses, the Davis and the Rouse, heard and came with a rush.
Red Dog and the Egghead staggered down into the village and over to the circle of houses, throwing out their arms like returning bacchanalians.
"Free pancakes!"
"Hungry Smeed's broken the record!"
"Pancakes at Conover's—free pancakes!"
The word jumped from house to house, the campus was emptied in a trice. The road became choked with the hungry stream that struggled, fought, laughed and shouted as it stormed to Conover's.
"Free pancakes! Free pancakes!"
"Hurrah for Smeed!"
"Hurrah for Hungry Smeed!!"
In this same fall of Hungry Smeed's arrival, when the Dickinson, the Cleve, the Woodhull, the Griswold, the Hamill, the Kennedy, and the Davis, were each separately convinced that the faculty was seeking to prevent its winning the football championship, by filling the house with boys under weight and under size, there arrived at the Kennedy the now celebrated "Piggy" Moore. He did not come on the top of the stage as new boys should, but drove up in a carriage, in the company of an aunt, who departed with misgivings, after kissing him in the full sight of the campus.
For she had raised Piggy on the bottle of gentle manners and rocked him in the cradle of innocent and edifying ambitions until the manly age of sixteen. His hands were soft and manicured, he entered a room with grace and left it with distinction. His body was swathed in plumpness. His face was chubby and well nourished, with fat, indolent eyes and wide nostrils. He was five feet eight and weighed a hundred and fifty.
Without embarrassment or anxiety he went to his room, removed his coat, folded it neatly on a chair, turned up his sleeves and proceeded to spread on his bureau a toilet-set of chaste silver. He was neatly arranging eight pairs of shoes, carefully treed, when his name was shouted from the hall.
"Oh, Moore! Hello there!"
He emerged hurriedly to find Captain Hasbrouck in football togs, eyeing him critically and without enthusiasm.
"Football practice, Moore!"
"It will take me an hour or so, I'm afraid," said Moore, smiling politely, "that is, to put my things in order and get thoroughly unpacked."
"Sir!"
Piggy was surprised. The voice was harsh, rude and ominous, and the figure of Hasbrouck quite obscured the doorway.
"Yes, sir!" he said hastily. "I'll be right down, sir."
"Have you got any football togs?" said Hasbrouck, looking at the toilet set.
"No, sir."
"A sweater?"
"No, sir."
"Well, we only want a little light practice. Get your things to-night in the village. On the jump now!"
Moore hastily trooped down with the others and followed across the long green stretches in the tingly September air, a little apprehensive of what the term "light practice" might mean. The veterans in scarred suits and rent jerseys marched gloriously in front, gambolling and romping with the ball, shouting out salutations to parties who swarmed over the campus from other houses on the way to the playgrounds. The newcomers in hastily patched-up costumes, incongruous and absurd, clustered together talking in broken, forced monosyllables. Suddenly the advance halted and a shout went up.
"Here come the Dickinsons. Gee, look at the material they've got!"
Piggy, uncomprehending, beheld a group of thirty-odd boys swinging toward them, shouting and laughing as they came. From the advancing crowd came a challenging yell.
"We're going to wipe the earth up with you, Kennedy."
"Good-bye, Kennedy. Good-bye!"
From the Kennedys the challenge was flung back:
"We've got you where we want you."
"You'll be easy, Dickinson."
"We'll attend to the championship this year."
The two crowds halted while the leaders inspected their antagonists, sizing up the new material. Moore, in a tailor-cut suit of English tweed, a stiff collar and a derby hat, felt for the first time a little out of the picture when Hickey of the enemy paused in front of him and derisively asked:
"Where did that come from?"
"Oh, that's been specially raised for us."
"He has? In a hothouse, yes! What'll he play?"
"He'll play all over the field. He's a regular demon!"
"Huh!"
"We'll twist your tail, Dickinson."
"We'll skin you, Kennedy."
"Yes, you will!"
"Yes, we will!"
The groups departed, each vowing that it was disheartening the way the faculty had favoured the other.
On the playground "Jock" Hasbrouck and "Fire Crackers" Glendenning held a consultation while the old boys frolicked with the ball and the new arrivals huddled in an embarrassed group.
The new material was excellent, beyond expectation, but no joy appeared on the face of the captain.
"How in the deuce are we ever going to beat the Dickinsons with such a bunch as that?" he said, with a shake of his head. "What do we need anyhow?"
"Both ends, a tackle and the halves," said Fire Crackers, gloomily.
"Well, we've got to do our best, that's all," said the captain, with a glance that made every newcomer miserable. "Let's see how we can line up. Fatty Harris, get in at centre, there. Keg, you'll have to go in at right guard. Buffalo, you stay at left."
The old boys, brawny and hard, formed into a centre trio.
"If you take left tackle we'd better put Walsh in at right to face Turkey," said Fire Crackers. "Legs Brockett, there, plays end, he says."
Walsh and Brockett, eyes to the ground, took their places in the line at a nod from "Jock."
"Duke Wilson, full; Fire Crackers, quarter. What then?" he said slowly to his counsel. "Suppose we give Pebbles Stone a chance at half this year?"
"What do you weigh, Pebbles?" asked Fire Crackers.
"One hundred and forty-five," brazenly answered the lithe, but rather frail person addressed.
"Honest?"
"Honest to God, Jock."
"Stripped?"
"No—o-o. With ten pounds in me pockets."
"Well, get in there, you old liar, you've got the sand all right."
Pebbles, with a delighted whoop, sprang into line. Then Fire Crackers and Jock stopped before a trim, cleanly-built boy with a suit that looked worthy.
"You're Francis, ain't you?"
"Yes, sir."
"Played half?"
"Yes, sir."
"What do you weigh?"
"One hundred and fifty, stripped, sir."
"Take right half."
Francis, quickly, but with an air of ease, took his place. Only one position remained vacant, left end. Hasbrouck glanced over the squad of slight, overgrown boys, and his eye by a process of elimination, rested on Moore, standing stiff and immaculate.
"Moore, get in to right end."
"Me?" said Moore in horror.
"Sir!"
"Sir."
"Quick!"
"But I—I've never played, sir!"
"Get into line!"
Piggy went sullenly, indignant and cherishing resistance. Hasbrouck gave a professionally pessimistic glance at the whole and said:
"Well, fellows, we'll only take a little light practice to-day. Try a few starts."
The candidates in threes and fours crouched on a designated line, dug their toes in the sod and raced forward at the clap of a hand, for a good fifteen yards.
"Take your place, Moore," said Jock finally. "Dig down and get off with a jump."
Piggy, embarrassed by the stiffness of his collar and the difficulty of retaining his derby without loss of dignity, made a lumbering attempt.
"Try again. You're not racing a baby buggy! Get back on your marks," said Hasbrouck, and moving to a position directly behind him, he thundered: "Now, one—two—three!"
A stinging hand descended upon the crouching Piggy, who leaped forward in indignant amazement.
"That helped," said Jock, with an approving nod. "Once more."
Piggy, red to the ears, a second time was forced to humble himself and receive the indignity of such propulsion.
"Here, Piggy, catch!"
Moore had just time to spin around, when a football vigorously thrown, smote him full in the stomach.
"Oh, butter-fingers!"
"Clumsy!"
"Get your arms in to it!"
"Now!"
Warned by a chorus of instructions Moore strove a dozen times to retain the tantalising spinning oval, which constantly slipped his grasp with a smart reminder as it bounded away.
"My boy, your education has been neglected," said Jock in disgust. "At least try and learn how to fall on the ball. Watch."
Rolling the pigskin in front of him, he dove for it, pouncing on it as a beagle on a rabbit.
"Now, Piggy, let her go!"
Moore, who loved his tailor-suit with the pride and affection which a father bestows only on the firstborn, desperately essayed to secure the pigskin with the minimum of danger possible.
A shriek of derision burst forth.
"No, my dear Miss Moore, I did not ask you to lie down and pillow your head upon it," said Jock in disgust. "That is not what is called falling on the ball. Go at it like a demon; chew it up, mangle it! Here, Morning Glory," he added, turning to a scrubby little urchin who was gambolling about, "take this young lady and show her how it's done."
To Piggy's culminating mortification, the diminutive Morning Glory, with a contemptuous sneer, began to instruct him in the new art, with a rattling fire of insults which drew shrieks of laughter from the squad.
"Now then, old ice-wagon—get your nose in it."
"Don't spare the daisies, dearest."
"Jump, you Indian, jump!"
"Ah, watch me—like this."
The urchin hurled himself viciously on the ball, ploughing up the soft turf, and bounding gloriously to his feet, with scornful, mud-stained face, cried:
"Ah, what're you afraid of! Now then, old house-boat!"
Piggy's collar clung limply to his neck, half the buttons of his coat had gone, streaks of yellow and green decorated the suit a custom tailor had fashioned for fifty dollars cash, but still he was forced to go tumbling after the ball, down and up, up and down, head over heels, at the staccato shriek of the Morning Glory, like the one dog in the show who circles about the stage, tumbling somersaults.
"That's enough for to-day," came at last Jock's welcome command. "We must begin easily. To-morrow we'll get into it. Practice over! Moore, jog around the circle six times and cut out pastry at supper."
During the dinner a great light dawned over Moore, as he sat silently investigating his new masters with sidelong, calculated glances. He went to his room and with one sweep eliminated the solid silver toilet set, removed the trees from his boots, packed away the pink embroidered bedroom slippers so neatly arranged under the bed and pruned solicitously among the gorgeous cravats. Then he went to the village and, under skilful prompting, bought a pair of corduroy trousers, a cap, a red-and-black jersey, the softest pair of football trousers in stock, a jersey padded at the elbows and shoulders, a sweater, a pair of heavy shoes, a nose protector, and a pair of shin-guards. Incased in every possible protection he reported next day for the dreadful ordeal of tackling and being tackled.
"So you've all got your togs," said Fire Crackers, surveying the squad of freshmen on the field. "Let's see how you made out."
With Keg Smith and Jock, he passed them over in inspection, punching and poking the new suits with brief interjections, until Moore was reached. Before that swollen figure the three halted in mock amazement.
"Who's this?" said Keg, with a blank face.
"It's Moore, sir," said Piggy innocently.
"What's happened to you?" continued Fire Crackers with great seriousness.
Moore, perceiving he had blundered again, grew red with mortification, while Fire Crackers stripped the sweater from him and examined the jersey.
"Say, just see what Bill sold him!" he exclaimed. "Isn't it a shame how he'll impose on the green ones? Look at that bed ticking! And those pads! Gee, I'll fix that!"
Before Moore could protest, Fire Crackers had ripped off the protections and flung them away.
"Now you'll feel easier," he said with a friendly smile. "Bill Appleby is an infernal old swindler: selling you shin-guards and a nose-protector! Huh! Throw 'em away."
"Thank you, sir," said Moore gratefully, "I'll make him take them back."
"That's right," said his inquisitor with a queer nod, "you're pretty green at this, aren't you?"
"I have never done much, sir."
"Well, let me give you a pointer; when you tackle, you want to grit your teeth and slam down hard, then you don't feel it at all."
"Thank you, sir."
"And when you're tackled," continued Fire Crackers with perfect seriousness, "just let yourself go limp; then you can't break any bones—see?"
"Yes, sir."
"You like the game, don't you?"
"Oh, very much."
Fire Crackers' advice did him scant good. On the whole it was probably the most painful afternoon he had ever known in his life. He had no instinct for tackling, that was certain. His arms slipped, his hands could not fasten to anything and he accomplished nothing more than to go sprawling, face downward.
"Funny you don't get on to that," said Jock, shaking his head. "I tell you what you do. Run down the line and take a few tackles; then you'll see how it's done."
Moore stood balancing, looking down to where Jock's one hundred and sixty-five pounds were gathering for a model tackle. Every natural instinct in him bade him turn tail and run.
"Come on now!" cried Jock, spitting on his hands. "Hard as you can."
Piggy went as a horse goes to a road-crusher, faltering and finally stopping dead. The next moment, Jock, cleaving the air in a perfect dive, caught him about the knees and threw him crashing to the ground. Piggy rose with difficulty.
"Do you get it now?" said Jock solicitously.
"I think I do," said Moore faintly.
"Well now, try one on me," said Jock, brightening. "Put your shoulder into it and squeeze it. Remember now."
Piggy remembered only the sensation of being tackled, and with the thought of that greater evil, improved astonishingly.
"That's the way to learn," said Jock approvingly. "Now, notice how I pull your legs from under you, and try to get that."
That evening after supper, Moore valiantly determined to take the bull by the horns. Seizing a favourable opportunity, he accosted his captain with the resolution of despair, and told him point blank that he would not be eligible for the team.
"Why not?" said Jock aggressively.
"I don't know anything about the game, sir," said Moore defiantly, "and I don't like it."
"Is that the only reason?"
"I don't want to play, sir—that ought to be enough."
"We're not asking you what you want to do."
"But, sir, I don't like it," said Moore, beginning to shrink under the cold, boring gaze of Hasbrouck.
"That has nothing to do with it, either."
"Nothing——"
"Certainly not. We don't want you; in fact, we're crying because we've got to take you. You're a flubdub and a quitter. But there's no one else, and so, Piggy, mark you—we're going to make a demon out of you, a regular demon. Mark my words!"
All of which was accomplished easily and naturally within a short two weeks by the discipline and tradition which has put courage into the hearts of generations of natural cowards.
The crisis came in the first game of the series; when for the first time, Piggy beheld the terrifying spectacle of an end run started in his direction. At the sight of the solid front of bone and muscle ready to sweep him off his feet and send him tumbling head over heels, he shut his eyes and funked deliberately and ingloriously.
The next moment Jock had him by the small of the neck; Jock's hand jerked him to his feet and Jock's voice cried:
"You cowardly little pup! You do that again and I'll tear the hide off you!"
Piggy, chilled to the bone, went to his position. The opposing team, with a shout of exultation, sent the same play crashing in his direction. Piggy, desperate with fear, tore through the advancing mass, found the runner and hurled him to the ground. Jock smiled contentedly. Moore was a coward, he knew, but from that time forth, no passing menace before him could compare with the abiding terror that waited behind.
Had Moore been possessed of even moderate courage the task would have been difficult, for then it would have resolved itself into a mere question of natural ability. But being an arrant and utter coward, his very cowardice drove him into feats of desperate recklessness. For always, in lull or storm, in the confusion of the mêlée or the open scramble down the field to cover a punt, Moore felt the ominous presence of Hasbrouck just at his shoulder and heard the sharp and threatening cry:
"Get that man, you, Piggy!"
So blindly and rebelliously he served the tyrant, and unwilling and revolting learned to despise fear, little suspecting how many reckless spirits of other teams had been formed under the same rude discipline.
The earlier contests developed the strength of the two long-time rivals, the Kennedy and the Dickinson, between whom at last lay the question of supremacy. The last week approached with excitement at fierce heat. Every day a fresh rumour was served up: Hickey, the wily Dickinson quarter, had a weak ankle; Turkey, the captain, was behind in his studies; a Princeton 'varsity man was over, coaching the enemy; the signals were discovered and a dozen trick plays were being held in reserve, each good for a touchdown.
Each night on the Kennedy steps, the council of war convened and plans were discussed in utter gravity for temporarily crippling and eliminating from the contest Turkey, Slugger-Jones, Hickey and the Butcher. For, of course, it was conceded that Jock, Tom Walsh and Fire Crackers would probably be maimed for life by the brutal and unscrupulous enemy.
Piggy, whose critical sense of humour had been under early disadvantages, took this as exact truth and beheld the horrible day arrive with an absolute conviction that it would be his last. He did not sleep during the night; he could eat nothing during the day; his fingers trembled and snarled up the lacings as he forced himself into his football clothes. Then he stood a long moment, viewing his white face in the mirror—the last look, perhaps—and went weakly to join the squad below. He heard nothing of the magnificent address of Jock to his followers; one idea only was in his head: to sell his life as dearly as possible.
While the captains conferred and tossed for position, the two teams, face to face at last, paced up and down, eyeing each other with contempt, breathing forth furious threats.
The Egghead assured Fatty Harris that the first scrimmage would be his last. Fatty Harris returned the compliment and suggested that the Egghead leave a memorandum for the hearse. The Coffee Cooler looked Buffalo Brown over and sneered; Keg Smith did as much to the Butcher and laughed. The diminutive Spider at right end, approached his dear friend Legs Brockett, his opponent, and muttered through his teeth:
"I'm going to slug you!"
While these friendly salutations were taking place, Flea Obie and Wash Simmons, the Dickinson halves, approached Piggy, who, sick at heart, was stamping his feet and churning his arms to convey to Red Dog, opposite, the impression that he was thirsting for his blood.
Wash gave Piggy one withering glance and said loudly to the Red Dog:
"This fellow's a quitter. He's got yellow in his eyes. Smash him good and hard, Red Dog. Don't waste any time about it, either."
"He's got a chicken liver," said Red Dog, who looked a reed beside the sturdy Piggy. "He shuts his eyes when he tackles! I'll fix him. Huh!"
"Ah, go on now, go on, go on," said Piggy, with a desperate attempt at lightheartedness.
Flea Obie, lovely no longer in mud-stained jacket and pirate band around his forehead, strode up to Piggy and added:
"Old Sport, let me give you a word of advice. When we strike your end, the best thing you can do is to lie down quick and soft. Savez?"
Luckily for Piggy, whose imagination was panic-driven by this perfectly innocuous braggadocio, the torrent of conversation was checked by a cry of exultation.
The Kennedy had won the toss and chose the kickoff. Bat Finney, umpire from the Fourth Form, called the two teams together and said solemnly:
"Now I want it understood by you fellows this is going to be a gentleman's game. No roughing it, no slugging, nothing brutal. Take your sides."
Immediately the air resounded with war cries:
"Get in there, Dickinson."
"Chew 'em up, Kennedy."
"Hit 'em hard, Buffalo."
"Sock 'em, Turkey."
"Knock 'em out, boys!"
Piggy, at left end with his eye on the ball, waited hopelessly for Jock to send the oval spinning into Dickinson territory. He was shivering, in a dead funk. The whistle blew, the run was on. Piggy went perfunctorily, helplessly down the field to where the dreaded Hickey, ball under arm, was dodging toward him. Suddenly the vigorous form of Wash Simmons hove into view, headed directly for him. He wavered and the next moment was knocked off his feet, while Hickey, the way thus cleared for him, went bounding back for a run of forty yards.
Meanwhile Piggy was in the hands of Jock, who administered to him before the eyes of every spectator, a humiliating and well-placed kick.
"You funked, I saw you funk, you miserable shivery little coward!" he cried, shaking his fist in his face. "You jump in there now and cripple a few of those fellows or I'll massacre you!"
He added a few words which shall remain sacred between them and shoved him into place. The old fear awoke triumphant in Piggy. He rushed in like a demon, whirling over the field, upsetting play after play, making tackles that brought Flea Obie and Wash Simmons to their feet rubbing their sides. Nothing could stop him, for at last he was panic-stricken, utterly and horribly afraid.
The two teams, evenly matched, fought each other to a standstill. The first half closed without any perceptible advantage. The second half continued the deadlock, the precious minutes slipping away. Such a struggle had never been known in a House contest. Several eyes were closed, several bandages had appeared. The frenzy of battle had taken possession of the descendants of Goth and Viking. Challenges to future encounters were flung recklessly and recklessly accepted. After each mêlée little clusters of battling boyhood were disentangled with difficulty, while Bat Finney, the umpire, joyfully proclaimed:
"No roughing it, fellows—remember, this is a gentleman's game."
The dusk began to cloud the field and the players, one of those tragic, melancholy mists that come only at the close of a desperate second half. Two minutes only to play and the ball in the Kennedy's possession, exactly at midfield, without a score.
"6-5-8-15-2-3!" shrieked Fire Crackers, grimy and unrecognisable.
The team, converging swiftly for a revolving mass play on tackle, strove wearily to make headway against the reeling Dickinsons, who, too fagged to upset the play, could only hold, surging and twisting. Piggy, scrambling and pushing, head down in the mêlée, whirled and spun with the revolving mass. Then his feet tripped and he went underneath, shielding his head from the vortex of legs that swirled above him. Suddenly, lying free, a scant five yards in front of him, he perceived, to his horror, the precious ball! With a lurch, he freed himself from the mass, scrambled to his feet, picked up the ball and set out, break-a-neck, for the far-away goal. Five yards behind was Hickey, the fleet quarter, bounding after him.
In a twinkling the whole scene had changed into the extraordinary spectacle of a stern chase, two figures well in front, striving for the mastery of the fates, and behind the futile, scrambling, exulting, or desperate mass of players, sweeping helplessly on the tracks of destiny.
Forty yards to the interminable goal! Piggy remembered with dread the stories of Hickey's fleetness. He glanced back. His pursuer had not gained an inch. On the contrary, his freckled face was distorted, his arms were churning, his teeth were horribly displayed, biting at the stinging air, with the agony of the effort to increase his speed. So he was beating out Hickey, the famous Hickey! Then the touchdown was a fact! Above the uproar he heard a strident shriek:
"Piggy, oh, you damned Piggy!"
The terror of that familiar voice gave a new impetus to his chubby legs. Some one else must be gaining on him. Thirty yards still to go!
He ran and ran, hugging the ball in his arms, his head thrown back, gasping for breath. Twenty yards—fifteen yards! Suddenly swift, glorious visions rose before him, scenes of jubilation and exultation, of cheering comrades, celebrations that would wipe out the long record of humiliation. Hickey was closer now, but Piggy did not dare to turn his head; five yards more and the game would be over and the kingdom of the Kennedy in his grasp. He sped over the last white chalk line and dropped triumphant behind the goal posts. The next moment, Hickey, wily Hickey, screaming with laughter, flung himself on him.
Piggy gazed about wildly with a sudden horrible suspicion. He had run over his own goal line and scored a safety for the Dickinson.
Then Hasbrouck arrived.
"Snorky" Green, at the fourth desk of the middle aisle, gazed dreamily at the forgotten pages of the divine Virgil. The wide windows let in the warm breath of June meadows and the tiny sounds of contented insects roaming in unhuman liberty. Outside were soft banks to loll upon, from which to watch the baseball candidates gambolling over the neat diamond, tennis courts calling to be played upon, and the friendly "jigger" ready to soothe the parched highway to the aching void. And for an hour the tugging souls of forty-two imprisoned little pagans would have to construe, and parse, and decline, secretly cursing the fossils who rediscovered those unnecessary Latin documents.
Eight rows of desks, nine deep, were swept by the Argus eye of the master from his raised pulpit. Around the room, immense vacant blackboards shut them in—dark, hopeless walls over which no convict might clamber, on which a thousand boys had blundered and guessed and writ in water.
Lucius Cassius Hopkins, "The Roman," man of heroic and consular mould, flunker of boys, and deviser of systems against which even the ingenuity of a Hickey hurled itself in vain, sat on the rostrum, pitilessly mowing down the unresisting ranks.
Snorky's tousled hair was more rumpled than ever, a smudge was on one cheek, where his grimy, ball-stained hand had unknowingly left its mark. He was dirty, bored, and unprepared. The dickey at his throat, formed by the junction of a collar and two joined cuffs, saved the proprieties and allowed the body to keep cool. But the spirit of dreams was upon Snorky, and the hard, rectangular room began to recede.
He heard indistinctly the low, mocking rumble of the Roman as his scythe passed down the rows.
"Anything from the Simpson twins to-day? No, no? Anything from the Davis House combination? Too bad! too bad! Nothing from the illuminating Hicks? Yes? No? Too bad! too bad!"
Snorky did not hear him; his eyes were on the firm torsos of Flash Condit and Charley De Soto before him—Condit, wonder of the football field, hero of the touchdown against the Princeton 'varsity, and De Soto the phenomenal shortstop, both Olympian spirits doomed to endure the barbed shafts of Lucius Cassius Hopkins.
He, too,—Snorky,—would go down in the annals of school history. He remembered the beginning of an out-curve he had developed that morning in the lot back of the Woodhull—a genuine out-curve, Ginger Pop Rooker to the contrary, notwithstanding. With a little practice he would master the perplexing in-curve and the drop. And the Woodhull needed a pitcher badly. McCarthy had no courage; the Dickinson would batter him all over the field in the afternoon's game, and then good-bye to the championship. In his mind he began the game, trotting hopelessly out into left field. He saw Hickey, first up for the Dickinson, get a base on balls—four wide ones in succession. Slugger Jones, four balls—heavens, to be beaten like that! Turkey Reiter, third man up, hit a two-bagger; two runs. Doc Macnooder knocked the first ball pitched for a clean single; a two-bagger for the Egghead! Again four balls for Butcher Stevens! The Red Dog, of all people in the world, to hit safely! And still they allowed the slaughter to go on! The Dickinson House was shrieking with joy, dancing war-dances, back of third, and singing derisive songs of triumph. Flea Obie went to first on another base on balls, filling the bases. And five runs over the plate! Hickey and Turkey on the line began to dance a cake-walk. From the uproarious Dickinsonians rose the humiliating wail:
McCarthy had lost his nerves. Five runs, the bases full, and "Wash" Simmons, the Dickinson pitcher, to the bat. The infield, badly rattled, played in to catch the runner at home in approved professional style. Snorky stole in closer and closer until he was almost back of shortstop. Simmons he knew couldn't send it out of the diamond. But Wash knocked what looked to be a clean single, clear over the heads of the near infield. That was what he had been waiting for; on the full run he made a desperate dive, caught the ball one-handed, close to the ground, turned a somersault, scrambled to second base, and shot the ball to first before the runner could even check himself!
Nothing like it had ever been seen in Lawrenceville. Even the Dickinsons generously applauded him as he came up happy and flushed.
"Snorky, that's the greatest play I ever saw pulled off. I wish I had made it myself."
He looked up. The speaker was the dashing De Soto. That from Charley, the greatest ball-player who ever came to Lawrenceville! Snorky's throat swelled with emotion. At last they knew his worth.
One run for the Woodhull. Again the Dickinsons to the bat, and again the rout; one single, a base on balls, two bases on balls—oh, if he only would get his chance! One ball, two balls, three balls. Suddenly McCarthy stopped and clutched his arm with an exclamation of pain. The team gathered about him. Snorky sniffed in disdain; he knew that trick, pretending it was all on account of his arm! What a quitter McCarthy was, after all! Still, what was to be done? The team gathered in grave discussion. No one else had ever pitched.
"Give me a chance," he said suddenly to "Rock" Bemis, the captain.
"You!" said Rock, with a laugh; "you, Snorky!"
"Look at me! I can do it," he answered, and met the other's glare with steady look as heroes do. Something of the fire in that look convinced Bemis.
"Why not?" he said. "The game's gone, anyhow. Go into the box, Snorky, and put them over if you can."
The teams lined up. With clenched teeth and a cold streak down his spine he strode into the box. An insulting yelp went up from the enemy.
Three balls, no strikes, and the bases full! Turkey at the plate stepped back scornfully to wait for the fourth ball.
"Strike one!"
Turkey advanced to the utmost limit of the batter's box, turned his back deliberately on Snorky, and called out:
"You hit me, and I'll break your neck!"
"Strike two!"
Turkey turned in surprise, looked at him, and deliberated.
"He can't put it over," yelled the gallery. "Yi, yi, yi!"
Then Turkey seated himself Indian fashion, his back still to Snorky, and gazed up into the face of "Tug" Moffat, the catcher. A furious wrangle ensued, the Woodhull claiming that his position was illegal, the Dickinson insisting that nothing in the rules prohibited it. "Stonewall" Jackson, the umpire, a weak-minded fellow from the Rouse House, allowed the play.
"Strike three!"
Turkey, crestfallen and muttering, arose and dusted himself amid the jeers of the onlookers. Doc Macnooder smote high and low, and then forgot to smite—three strikes and out. The Egghead, despite the entreaties of the Dickinson to bring in his house-mates, could only foul out. The Woodhulls went wild with delight. He heard Tug, the catcher, whispering excitedly to De Soto.
"Charley, just watch him! He's got everything—everything!"
Then the Woodhull tied the score on two bases on balls, and his own two-bagger.
When he walked lightly into the box for the third inning, Stonewall Jackson had been replaced by De Soto with the imperious remark: "Here, get out! I want to watch this."
He gave the great Charley a modest nod.
"When did you ever pitch?" said De Soto, critically.
"Oh, now and then," he answered.
"Well, Snorky, let yourself out."
"Tug can't hold me," he said impudently. "That's the trouble, Charley."
"Try him."
Tug signalled for an in-shoot. He wound himself up and let fly. Butcher Stevens flung himself from the plate, Moffat threw up his mitt in sudden fear. The ball caromed off and went frolicking past the back-stop.
"Strike one!"
Tug, puzzled and apprehensive, came up for a consultation.
"Gee! Snorky, give me warning! What do you think I am—a Statue of Liberty?"
"Charley wants me to let myself out. I'll slow down on the third strike," he said loftily. "Let the others go if you want."
Tug, like a Roman gladiator, with undying resolve, squatted back of the plate and signalled for an out. No use; no mit of his could ever stop the frightful velocity of that shoot.
"Stri-ike two!"
"Now ease up a bit," cautioned De Soto.
He sent a floating out-drop that seemed headed for Butcher Stevens's head, and finally settled gently over the plate at the waist-line.
"Striker out!"
Moffat no longer tried to hold him, admitting himself outclassed by the blinding speed of ins and outs, jump balls, and cross fire that Snorky hurled unerringly across the plate. The Red Dog and Flea Obie, plainly unnerved, died like babes in their tracks. Five strike-outs in two innings!
Then De Soto spoke.
"Here, Snorky, you get out of this!"
A cry of protest came from the Woodhull.
"Yell all you like," said De Soto; "Snorky is going with me where he belongs."
And, to the amazement of the two houses, he drew his arm under Snorky's and marched him right over to the 'varsity diamond.
How the school buzzed and chattered about the phenomenal rise of the new pitcher! He saw himself pitching wonderful curves to burly "Cap" Kiefer, the veteran back-stop, built like a mastodon, who had all he could do to hold those frightful balls. He saw the crowds of boys, six deep, who stood reverentially between times to watch the amazing curves. He heard pleasurably the chorus of "Ahs!" and "Ohs!" and "Gees!" which followed each delivery. Then suddenly he was in the box on the great, clean diamond, with the eyes of hundreds of boys fastened prayerfully on him, and the orange-and-black stripes of a Princeton 'varsity man facing him at the plate. To beat the Princeton 'varsity—what a goal!
He saw each striped champion come up gracefully and retire crestfallen to the bench, even as the Dickinson batters had done. Inning after inning passed without a score; not a Princeton man reached first. Then in the seventh an accident happened. The first Princeton man up deliberately stepped into the ball, and the umpire allowed him to take his base. It was outrageous, but worse was to follow. On the attempt to steal second, Cap lined a beautiful ball to the base, but no one covered it—a mistake in signals! And the runner kept on to third! Snorky settled down and struck out the next two batters. The Lawrenceville bleachers rose en masse and shrieked his praises. Then suddenly Kiefer, to catch the runner off third, snapped the ball to Waladoo a trifle, just a trifle, wild; but the damage was done. 1 to 0 in favor of Princeton. Even the great Princeton captain, Barrett, said to him:
"Hard luck, Green! Blamed hard luck!"
But Snorky wasn't beaten yet. The eighth and ninth innings passed without another Princeton man reaching first. Nine innings without a hit—wonderful!—and yet to be beaten by a fluke. One out for Lawrenceville; two out. The third man up, Cap Kiefer himself, reached first on an error. "Green to the bat," sung out the scorer.
Snorky looked around, picked up his bat, and calmly strode to the plate. He had no fear; he knew what was going to happen. One ball, one strike, two strikes. He let the drop pass. What he wanted was a swift in-shoot. Two balls—too high. Three balls—wide of the plate. He was not to be tempted by any such. Two strikes and three balls; now he must get what he wanted. He cast one glance at the bleachers, alive with the frantic red-and-black flags; he heard his comrades calling, beseeching, imploring. Then his eye settled on the far green stretch between right and centre field and the brown masses of Memorial, where no ball before had ever reached. A home run would drive in Kiefer and win the game! The chance had come. The Princeton pitcher slowly began to wind up for the delivery. Snorky settled into the box, caught his bat with the grip of desperation, gathered together all his sinews, and—
"Green!" called the sharp, jeering voice of Lucius Cassius Hopkins.
Snorky sprang to his feet in fright, clutching at his book. The great home run died in the air.
"Translate."
Snorky gazed helplessly at the page, seeking the place. He heard the muffled voice of Hickey behind him whisper:
"The advance, the advance, you chump!"
But to find the place under the hawk eyes of the Roman was an impossibility. He stared at the page in a well-simulated attempt, shook his head, and sat down.
"A very creditable attempt, Green," said the master, now with a gentle voice. "De Soto?—Nothing from De Soto? Dear, dear! We'll have to try Macnooder then. What? Studied the wrong lesson? How sad! Mistakes will happen. Don't want to try that, either? No feeling of confidence to-day; no feeling of confidence." He began to call them by rows. "Dark, Davis, Denton, Dibble—nothing in the D's. Farr, Francis, Frey, Frick—nothing from the F's; nothing from the D. F's. Very strange! very strange! Little spring fever—yes? Too bad! too bad! Lesson too long? Yes? Too long to get any of it? Dear! dear! Every one studied the review, I see. Excellent moral idea, conscientious; wouldn't go on until you have mastered yesterday's lesson. Well, well, so we'll have a beautiful recitation in the review."
How absurd it was to be flunking under the Roman! Next year he would show them. He would rise early in the morning and study hours before breakfast; he would master everything, absorb everything—declensions and conjugations, Greek, Roman, and mediæval civilisation; he would frolic in equations and toy with logarithms; his translation would be the wonder of the faculty. He would crush Red Dog and Crazy Opdyke; he would be valedictorian of his class. They would speak of him as a phenomenon, as a prodigy, like Pascal—was it Pascal? What a tribute the head master would pay him at commencement! There on the stage before all the people, the fathers and mothers and sisters, before the Red Dog, and Ginger Pop Rooker, and Hickey, and all the rest, sitting open-mouthed while he, Snorky Green, the crack pitcher and valedictorian of his class, a scholar such as Lawrenceville had never known—
"Green, Gay, and Hammond, go to the board. Take your books."
Snorky went hastily and clumsily, waiting as a gambler waits for his chance.
"Gay, decline hic, hæc, hoc; Green, write out the gerundive forms of all the verbs in the first paragraph top of page 163."
Snorky gazed helplessly at the chronicles of Æneas, and then blankly at the inexorable blackboard, where so many gerundives had not been inscribed.
He drew his name in lagging letters exactly midway, at the top, with a symmetrical space above.
R. B. GREEN
Then he searched anxiously for the gerundives that lurked somewhere in the first paragraph, top of page 163. Then returning to the board he rubbed out the name with little reluctant dabs and wrote
ROGER B. GREEN
Abandoning the chase for gerundives, he stood off a few feet and surveyed his labours on the blackboard, frowned, erased it and wrote dashingly,
ROGER BALLINGTON GREEN
Satisfied, he drew a strong line under it, added two short crosses and a dot or two, and returned to his seat.
Once more in the abode of dreams he was transported to college, president of his class, the idol of his mates, the marvel of the faculty. He hesitated on the border-line of a great football victory, where, single-handed, bruised, and suffering, he would win the game for his college;—and then found higher levels. War had been declared swiftly and treacherously by the German Empire. The whole country was rising to the President's call to arms. A great meeting of the University was held, and he spoke with a sudden revelation of a power for oratory he had never before suspected.
That very afternoon a company was formed under his leadership. Twenty-four hours later they marched to the station, and, amid a whirlwind of cheers and godspeeds, embarked for the front. During the night, while others slept, he pored over books of tactics; he studied the campaigns of Cæsar, Napoleon, Grant, and Moltke. In the first disastrous year of the war, when the American army was beaten back at every point and an invading force of Germans was penetrating from the coast in three sections, he rose to the command of his regiment, with the reputation of being the finest disciplinarian in the army. Their corps was always at the front, checking the resistless advance of the enemy, saving their comrades time after time at frightful loss. Then came that dreadful day when it seemed as though the Army of the South was doomed to be surrounded and crushed by the sudden tightening of the enemy's net before the Army of the Centre could effect a junction. In the gloomy council he spoke out. One way of escape there was, but it meant the sacrifice of five thousand men. Clearly and quickly he traced his plan, while general, brigadier-general, and general-in-chief stared in amazement at the new genius that Hashed before their minds.
"That is the plan," he said calmly, with the authority of a master mind; "it means the safety of a hundred thousand, and if a junction can be made with the Army of the Centre, the Germans can be stopped and driven back at so-and-so. But this means the death of five thousand men. There is only one man who has the right to die so—the man who proposes it. Give me five regiments, and I will hold the enemy for thirty-six hours."
He threw his regiments boldly into the enemy's line of march, and by a sudden rush carried the spur that dominated the valley. The German army, surprised and threatened in its most vulnerable spot, forced to abandon the pursuit, turned to crush the handful of heroes.
All day long the desperate battalions flung themselves in vain against the little band. All day long he walked with drawn sword up and down the thinning ranks, stiffening their courage. Red Dog and Ginger Pop called to him, imploring him not to expose himself—Red Dog and Ginger Pop, whose idol he now was; yes, and Hickey's and Condit's, too. But carelessly, defiantly, he stood in full view, his clothes pierced, his head bared. Then came the night—the long, fatiguing night, without an instant's cessation. The carnage was frightful. Half of the force gone, and twelve hours more to hold out! That was his promise. And the sickening dawn, with the shrouded clouds and the expectant vultures, came stealing out of the East. Until night came again they must cling to the spur-top and manage to live in that hurricane of lead. He went down the line, calling each man by name, rousing them, like a prophet inspired. The fury of sacrifice seized them. They fought on, parched and bleeding, while the sun rose above them and slowly fell. A thousand lives; half that, and half that again. Five o'clock, and still two hours to go. He looked about him. Only a few hundred remained to meet the next charge. Red Dog and Ginger Pop were cold in death, Hickey was dying. Of all his school friends, only Flash Condit remained, staggering at his side. And then the great masses of the enemy swept over them like an avalanche, and he fell, unconscious but happy, with the vision of martyrdom shining above him.
Red Dog, on his way back to his seat, knocked against him, saying angrily: