Left Guard Gilbert, Page 3

  CHAPTER III

  AMY HOLDS FORTH

  BRIMFIELD ACADEMY is at Brimfield, and Brimfield is a scant thirty milesout of New York City and some two or three miles from the Sound. It ismore than possible that these facts are already known to you; if youlive in the vicinity of New York they certainly are. But at the risk ofbeing tiresome I must explain a little about the school for the benefitof those readers who are unacquainted with it. Brimfield was this Fallentering on its twenty-fifth year, a fact destined to be appropriatelycelebrated later on. The enrollment was one hundred and eighty studentsand the faculty consisted of twenty members inclusive of the principal,Mr. Joshua L. Fernald, A.M., more familiarly known as "Josh." The coursecovers six years, and boys may enter the First Form at the age oftwelve. Being an endowed institution and well supplied with money underthe terms of the will of its founder, Brimfield boasts of its finebuildings. There are four dormitories, Wendell, Torrence, Hensey andBillings, all modern, and, between Torrence and Hensey, the originalAcademy Building now known as Main Hall and containing the class rooms,school offices, assembly room and library. The dining hall is inWendell, the last building on the right. Behind Wendell is thegymnasium. Occupying almost if not quite as retiring a situation at theother end of the Row, is the Cottage, Mr. Fernald's residence. Eachdormitory is ruled over by a master. In Billings Mr. Daley, theinstructor in modern languages, was in charge at the period of thisstory, and since it was necessary to receive permission before leavingthe school grounds after supper, Don and Tim paused at Mr. Daley's studyon the way out. Don's knock on the portal of Number 8 elicited aninstant invitation to enter and a moment later he was shaking hands withthe hall master, a youngish man with a pleasant countenance and a mannerat once eager and embarrassed. Mr. Daley was usually referred to asHorace, which was his first name, and, as he shook hands, Don verynearly committed the awful mistake of calling him that! After greetingshad been exchanged Don explained somewhat vaguely the reason for histardy arrival and then requested permission to visit Coach Robey in thevillage after supper.

  "Yes, Gilbert, but--er--be back by eight, please. I'm not sure that Mr.Robey isn't about school, however. Have you inquired?"

  "No, sir, but Tim says he isn't eating in hall yet, and so----"

  "Ah, in that case perhaps not. Well, be back for study hour. If you'regoing to supper I'll walk along with you, fellows." Mr. Daley closed hisstudy door and they went out together and, as they trod the flags of thelong walk that passed the fronts of the buildings, Mr. Daley discoursedon football with Tim while Don replied to the greetings of friends. Theyparted from the instructor at the dining hall door and sought theirplaces at table, Don's arrival being greeted with acclaim by the otherhalf-dozen occupants of the board. Once more he was obliged to give anaccount of himself, but this time his narrative was considered to besadly lacking in detail and it was not until Tim had come to hisassistance with a highly coloured if not exactly authentic history ofthe train-wreck that the audience was satisfied. Don told him he was anidiot. Tim, declining to argue the point, revenged himself by stealing aslice of Don's bread when the latter's attention was challenged by HarryWestcott at the farther end of the table.

  Westcott, who was one of the editors of the school monthly, _TheReview_, had developed the journalistic instinct to a high degree oflate and had visions of a thrilling story in the November issue. But Donutterly refused to pose as a hero of any sort. The best Harry could getout of him was the acknowledgment that he had seen several personsremoved from the wreck and had helped carry one to the relief trainlater. That wasn't much to go on, and, subsequently, Harry regretfullyabandoned his plan.

  After supper Don and Tim walked down to the village and Don had a fewminutes of talk with the coach. Mr. Robey was sympathetic but annoyed.Although he didn't say so in so many words he gave Don to understandthat he had failed in his duty to the school and the team in allowinghimself to become concerned in a train-wreck. He didn't explain just howDon could have avoided it, and Don didn't think it worth while toinquire.

  "You have that hand looked after properly and regularly, Gilbert," hesaid, "and watch practice until you can put on togs. Losing a week or sois going to handicap you. No doubt about that. And I'm not making anypromises. But you keep your eyes open and maybe there'll be a place foryou when you're ready to work. It's awfully hard luck, old chap. See youtomorrow."

  Don went back to school through the warm dusk slightly cast down,although he had previously realised that football would be beyond himfor at least a week. It is sometimes one thing to acknowledge a factoneself and another to hear the same fact stated by a second person.There's a certain finality about the latter that is convincing. But ifDon was downcast he didn't show it to his companion. Don had a way ofconcealing his emotions that Tim at once admired and resented. When Timfelt blue--which was mighty seldom--he let it be known to the wholeworld, and when he felt gay he was just as confiding. But Don--well, asTim often said, he was "worse than an Indian!"

  After study they sallied forth again, arm in arm, and went down the Rowto Torrence and climbed the stairs to Number 14. As the door was halfopen knocking was a needless formality--especially as the noise withinwould have prevented its being heard--and so Tim pushed the portalfurther ajar and entered, followed by Don, on a most animated scene.Eight boys were sprawled or seated around the room, while another, athin, tall, unkempt youth with a shock of very black hair which wasalways falling over his eyes and being brushed aside, was standing in asmall clearing between table and windows balancing a baseball bat,surmounted by two books and a glass of water, on his chin. So interestedwas the audience in this startling feat that the presence of the newarrivals passed unnoted until the juggler, suddenly stepping back,allowed the law of gravity to have its way for an instant. Then hisright hand caught the falling bat, the two books crashed unheeded to thefloor and his left hand seized the descending tumbler. Simultaneouslythere was a disgruntled yelp from Jim Morton and a howl of laughter fromthe rest of the audience. For the juggler, while he had miraculouslycaught the tumbler in mid-air, had not been deft enough to keep thecontents intact and about half of it had gone into the footballmanager's face. However, everyone there except Morton applaudedenthusiastically and hilariously, and Larry Jones, sweeping hisoffending locks aside with the careless and impatient grace of a violinvirtuoso, bowed repeatedly.

  "Great stuff," approved Amory Byrd, rescuing his books from the floor."Do it again and stand nearer Jim."

  "If he does it again I'm going into the hall," said Morton disgustedly,wiping his damp countenance on the edge of Clint Thayer's bedspread."You're a punk juggler, Larry."

  "All right, you do it," was the reply. Larry proffered the bat andtumbler, but Morton waved them indignantly aside.

  "I don't do monkey-tricks, thanks. Gee, my collar's sopping wet!"

  "Oh, that's all right," called someone. "You'll be going to bed soon.Say, Larry, do that one with the three tennis balls."

  "Isn't room enough. I know a good trick with coins, though. Any fellowgot two halves?"

  Groans of derision were heard and at that moment someone discovered thepresence of Don and Tim and Larry's audience deserted him. When thenew-comers had found accommodations, such as they were, conversationswitched to the all-absorbing subject of football. Most of the fellowsassembled were members of the first or second teams: Larry Jones was asubstitute half; Clint Thayer was first-choice left tackle; SteveEdwards, sprawled on Clint's bed, was left end and this year's captain;the short, sturdy youth in the Morris chair was Thursby, the centre; TomHall, broad of shoulders, was right guard; Harry Walton, slimmer andrangier, with a rather saturnine countenance, was a substitute for thatposition. Jim Morton was, as we know, manager, and only Amory--or"Amy"--Byrd and Leroy Draper, the tow-headed, tip-nosed youth sharingthe Morris chair with Thursby, were, in a manner of speaking,non-combatants.

  But being a non-combatant didn't prevent Amy Byrd from airing his viewsand opinions on the subject of football, and that he wa
s now doing."Every year," he protested, "I have to hear the same line of talk fromyou chaps. It's wearying, woesomely wearying. Now, as a matter of fact,every one of you knows that we've got the average material and thatwe'll go ahead and turn out an average team and beat Claflin as perusual. The only chance for argument is what the score will be. Youfellows like to grouse and pretend every fall that the team's shot fullof holes and that the world is a dark, dreary, dismal place and thatwinning from Claflin is only a hectic dream. For the love of lemons,fellows, chuck the undertaker stuff and cheer up. Talk about somethinginteresting, or, if you must talk your everlasting football, cut out thesobs!"

  "Oh, dry up, Amy," said Tom Hall. "You oughtn't to be allowed to talk.Someone stuff a pillow in his mouth. No one has said we were shot fullof holes, but you can't get around the fact that we've lost a lot ofgood players and----"

  "Oh, gee, he's at it again!" wailed Amy. "Yes, Thomas darling, you'velost two fellows out of the line and two out of the backfield andthere's nothing to live for and we'd better poison ourselves off beforedefeat and disgrace come upon us. All is lost save honour! Ah, woe isme!"

  "Cut it out, Amy," begged Edwards. "You don't know anything aboutfootball, you idiot."

  "Two in the line and two in the backfield is good," jeered Tim. "We'velost Blaisdell and Innes and Tyler----"

  "Never was any good," interpolated Amy.

  "And Roberts and Marvin----"

  "Carmine's better!"

  "And Kendall and Harris!" concluded Tim triumphantly.

  "Never mind, Timmy, you've still got me!" replied Amy sweetly. "Gee, tohear you rave you'd think the whole team had graduated!"

  "So it has, practically!"

  "Ah, yes, and I heard the same dope this time last year. We'd lostMiller and Sawyer and Williams and--and Milton and a dozen or two moreand there wasn't any hope for us! And all we did was to go ahead anddodder along and beat Claflin seven to nothing! Not so bad for alifeless corpse, what?"

  Steve Edwards laughed. "Well, maybe we do talk trouble a good deal aboutthis time of year. It's natural, I guess. You lose fellows who playedfine ball last year and you can't see just at first how anyone can filltheir places. Someone always does, though. That's the bully part of it.I dare say we'll manage to dodder along, as Amy calls it, and rub itinto old Claflin as we've been doing."

  "First sensible word I've heard tonight," said Amy approvingly. "Iwouldn't kick so much if I only had to hear this sort of stuffoccasionally, but I'm rooming with the original crepe-hanger! Clint sobshimself to sleep at night thinking how terribly the dear old team's shotto pieces. If I remark in my optimistic, gladsome way, 'Clint, list howsweetly the birdies sing, and observe, I prithee, the sunlight gildingyon mountain peak,' Clint turns his mournful countenance on me andchokes out something about a weak backfield! Say, I'm gladder every dayof my life that I stayed sane and----"

  "Stayed _what_?" exclaimed Jim Morton incredulously.

  "And didn't become obsessed with football mania!"

  "Where do you get the words, Amy?" sighed Clint Thayer admiringly.

  "Amy's the original phonograph," commented Tim. "Only he's animprovement on anything Edison ever invented. You don't have to wind Amyup!"

  "No, he's got a self-starting attachment," chuckled Draper.

  "Returning to the--the original contention," continued Amy in superbdisdain of the low jests, "I'll bet any one of you or the whole kit andcaboodle of you that we beat Claflin again this year. Now make a noiselike some money!"

  "Amy, we don't bet," remarked Tom Hall. "At least, not with money.Betting money is very wrong. (Amy sniffed sarcastically.) But I'll wagera good feed for the crowd that we have a harder time beating Claflinthis year than we had last. And I'll----"

  "Oh, piffle! I don't care whether you have to work harder to do it ornot. I say you'll do it! Hard work wouldn't hurt you, anyway. You're alot of loafers. All any of you do is go out to the field and strike anattitude like a hero. Why----"

  Cries of expostulation and threats of physical violence failed todisturb the irrepressible Amy.

  "Tell you what I'll do, you piffling Greeks, I'll blow you all off to atop-hole dinner at the Inn if Claflin beats us. There's a sportingproposition for you, you undertakers' assistants!"

  "Yah! What do we do if she doesn't?" exclaimed Walton.

  Amy surveyed him coldly. He didn't like Harry Walton and never attemptedto disguise the fact. "Why, Harry, old dear, you'll just keep right onsquandering your money as usual, I suppose. But I don't want you towaste any on me. This is a one-man wager."

  "No, it isn't," said Leroy Draper, "I'm in on it, Amy. I'll take half ofit."

  "All right, Roy. But our money's safe as safe! This bunch of grouserswon't get fat off us, old chap!"

  "Say," said Walton, who had been trying to get Amy's attention for aminute, "what's the story about my squandering my money? Anybody seenyou being careless with yours, Amy?"

  "Not that I know of. I'm not careless with it; I'm careful. But beingcareful with money is different from having it glued to your skin so youhave to have a surgical operation before----"

  "Oh, cut it, Amy," said Tim.

  "I spend my money just as freely as you do," returned Walton hotly."You talk so much with your face----"

  "Let it go at that, Harry," advised Tom Hall soothingly. "Amy's justtalking."

  "That's all," agreed Amy sweetly. "Just talking. You're the originallittle spendthrift, Harry. I'm going to write home to your folks sometime and warn 'em. Hold on, you chaps, don't hurry off. The night isstill in its infancy. Wait and watch it grow up. Steve! _Sit down!_"

  "Thanks, I've got to be moseying along," replied Captain Edwards. "It'spretty near ten. I think it would be a rather good idea if we had a rulethat football men were to be in their rooms at a quarter to ten allduring the season."

  "I can see that you're going to be one of these here martinets you readabout," said Tim with a sigh. "Steve, remember you were young onceyourself."

  "He never was!" declared Amy with decision. "Steve was grown-up when hewas quite young and he's never got over it. Thank the Fates _I_ don'thave to be bossed by him! Are you all leaving? Clint, count the spoonsand forks! Come again, everyone. I've got lots more to say. Good-night,Don. Glad to see you back again, old sober-sides. Sorry about that finof yours. Be careful with him, Tim. You know how it is with the dearold team. We need every man we can get. Hold on, Harry! Did you dropthat quarter? Oh, I beg pardon, it's only a button. That's right, Thurs,kick the chair over if it's in your way. We don't care a bit about ourfurniture. For the love of lemons, Larry, don't grin like that! Think ofthe team, man! Remember your sorrows! Good-_night_!"

  Half-way to Billings Don broke the silence.

  "Fellows are funny, aren't they?" he murmured.

  "Funny? How do you mean?" asked Tim.

  "Oh, I don't know," replied Don after a thoughtful moment."They're--they're so different, I guess."

  "Who's different from who?"

  "Everyone," answered Don, smothering a yawn.

  Tim viewed him in the radiance of the light over the doorway withprofound admiration. "Don, you're a brilliant chap! Honest, sometimes Iwonder how you do it! Doesn't it hurt?"

  Don only smiled.