“I know it, old fellow.”
“It’s queer that the question never came up before about the muckers,” Bert mused.
“We never had Dick & Co. in school athletics, until last year,” replied Bayliss significantly.
“That fellow, Prescott, is about the worst—–“
Bert Dodge stopped right there. Bayliss, too, started and turned. Around the nearest corner some folks were making a big noise. Then around the corner came two autos, while a crowd raced along on the sidewalks.
“Hurrah! Mr. Dodge is found. Dick Prescott and Dave Darrin found him!” shouted a score of urchins in the crowd.
Bert and Bayliss both gasped. Then the autos slowed up at the curb before the gate. The police prisoners were still in the second car.
Bert took a look, recognized his father, despite the strange look in that parent’s face.
“Help them bring my father in, Bayliss!” called young Dodge. “I’ll run to prepare the folks.”
In another moment there was a turmoil of excitement inside the Dodge house. While the excitement was still going on Bert came out to inform the crowd that both his father and mother needed quiet and medical attendance. Bert begged the crowd to go away quietly.
Dick and Dave were standing before the gateway way while Editor Pollock answered some of the queries of the crowd.
“Great luck for you fellows, Prescott and Barren!” called some one in the crowd. “You two will know what to do with a thousand dollars’ reward!”
Bert Dodge wheeled about like a flash, and facing Dave and Dick, shouted:
“If that’s what you two fellows are hanging around here for, you’d better clear out! Take it from me that you fellows will get no thousand dollars, or ten cents, out of our family!”
CHAPTER VII
THE FOOTBALL NOTICE GOES UP
Mr. Pollock, usually a very calm man, wheeled upon young Dodge.
“My lad, when you find out what Prescott and Darrin have done in the way of rescuing your father, you’ll feel wholly ashamed of yourself. I don’t believe either young man has given a second thought to the reward.”
People in a crowd take sides quickly. Bert heard several muttered remarks from the bystanders that made him flush. Then, choking and angry, he turned and darted for the house.
By this time Mr. Pollock, Dick and Dave were speeding for “The Blade” office.
Already a run had started on the Second National Bank. A crowd filled the counting room and extended out onto the sidewalk. Their depositors, largely small business men and people who ran private check accounts, were frightfully nervous about their money.
Up to noon the bank paid all demands, though the accounts were adjusted slowly, while the crowd grew in numbers outside. At noon the Second National availed itself of its privilege of closing its doors promptly at that hour on Saturday.
Dick Prescott wrote with furious speed at “The Blade” office. In another room Mr. Pollock wrote from the facts supplied by Dave Darrin. In half an hour from the time these three entered the office the “Extra” was out on the street—fifteen minutes ahead of “The Mail,” which latter newspaper contained very little beyond the fact that Mr. Dodge had been found, and that he was now under the care of his family. “The Mail” stated that the discovery had been made by “two High School boys” aiding the police, and did not name either Dick or Dave.
On Monday the bank examiner arrived. He made a quick inspection of the bank’s affairs, and pronounced the institution “sound.” The run on the bank stopped, and timid depositors began to bring back their money. The members of the Dodge family could once more hold up their heads.
In the meantime Dr. Bentley had called in a specialist. Together the two medical men decided that Theodore Dodge had suffered only from an extreme amount of overwork; that the strain had momentarily unbalanced his mind, and had made the deranged man contemplate drowning himself.
By means of a modified form of the “third degree” Chief Coy, by this time, had succeeded in making the two vagrants confess that they had found Mr. Dodge, with his coat and hat off standing by the bank of the stream. Guessing the banker’s condition, and learning his identity, the two men, though they did not confess on this point, had evidently coaxed the banker away to their shanty away off in the heart of the woods. Undoubtedly it had been their plan to keep the banker under their own eyes, with a view of extorting a reward from the missing man’s family. The judge of the local court finally decided to send both men away for six months on a charge of vagrancy.
And here the matter seemed to end. Though Lawyer Ripley urged the prompt payment of the offered reward to Prescott and Darrin, Mrs. Dodge, influenced by her son, demurred. At Mr. Pollock’s suggestion Dick and Dave promptly drew up and signed a paper releasing the Dodge family from any claim. This paper was also signed by the fathers of the two boys, and forwarded to Lawyer Ripley. That gentleman man returned the paper to Dick, with a statement that he might have something to communicate at a later date.
Tuesday morning, with many secret misgivings, Coach Morton, who was also one of the submasters of the High School, posted the call for the football squad. The call was for three o’clock Thursday afternoon, at the gym.
“Humph!” was the audible and only comment of Bayliss, as he stood before the school bulletin board at recess and read the announcement.
“I guess the day for football here has gone by,” observed Porter sneeringly.
“Of interest to ragamuffins only,” sneered Paulson, as he turned away to join Fremont of the senior class.
“Listen to the wild enthusiasm over upholding the school’s honor in athletics,” muttered Dave, scowling darkly.
“We knew it was coming,” declared Tom Reade.
Abner Cantwell was still principal at Gridley High School, though that violent-tempered and unpopular pedagogue had been engaged, this year, only as “substitute” principal. There were rumors that Dr. Thornton, the former and much-loved principal, would soon be in sufficiently good health to return. So the Board of Education had left the way clear for dropping Mr. Cantwell at any moment that it might see fit.
Dick & Co. had gathered by themselves on this Tuesday, at recess. They did not discuss the football call, nor its reception by the “soreheads,” for they had known what was coming. Just before recess was over, however, there were sudden sounds of a riot around the bulletin board.
“Tear that down!”
“Throw ’em out!”
“Raus mit!”
“The mean cheats!”
There was a surging rush of High School boys for the bulletin board.
Bayliss and Fremont, both of the senior class, who had just posted a new notice, were now trying to push their way through an angry crowd of youngsters that had collected.
“They’re no good!”
“A disgrace to the school!”
“Send ’em to Coventry!”
“No! Handle ’em right now!”
There was another rush.
“Get back, you hoodlums!” yelled Bayliss, his face violet with rage.
“I’ll crack the head of any fellow that lays hands on me!” stormed Fremont.
“Oh, will he? Come on, then, fellows!”
Fremont was caught up as though by a cyclone. Two or three fellows seized him at a time, passing him down the corridor. The last to receive the hapless Fremont propelled him through the main doorway of the school building. Nor was this done with any gentle force, either.
Bayliss, not attempting to fight, was simply hustled along on his feet.
Out of one of the rooms near by rushed Mr. Cantwell, the principal—or “Prin.” as he was known, his face white with the anger that he felt over what he regarded as a most unseemly disturbance.
“Stop this riot, young gentlemen!” commanded the principal sternly.
“Send in the riot call, like you did last year!” piped up a disguised, thin, falsetto voice from the outskirts of the rapidly growing crowd. Quite a lot of the girls had gathered, too, by this time.
The principal turned around, sharply, as some of the girls began to giggle. But Mr. Cantwell was unable to detect the one who had thus taunted him.
Coach Morton peered over the railing of the floor above.
“Mr. Morton!” called the principal.
“Yes, sir.”
“Sound the assembling gong, if you please.”
Clang! clang! clang!
The din of the gong cut their recess four minutes short, but not one of the excited High School boys regretted it. They had had a chance to express themselves, and now fell in, filing down to the locker rooms, then up the stairs once more to the assembly room. Bayliss and Fremont came in, joining the others. They were white-faced, but strove to carry their heads very high.
The sounding of the gong had stopped the circulating of the paper that had been so angrily torn down from the bulletin board. It was in Dick Prescott’s hands now.
The notice had announced the formation of a “select” party for a straw ride for the young men and young women of the junior and senior classes on Thursday afternoon, starting at two-thirty o’clock. Invitations would be issued by the committee, after requests for tickets had been passed upon by that committee. Bayliss, Fremont and Paulson signed the notice of the straw ride.
This was the means by which the “soreheads” chose to announce that they would ignore the football squad call for Thursday.
Wisely, for once, the principal did not choose to question the young men regarding the excitement attending the close of recess. Studies and recitations went on as usual.
But feeling ran high. The “soreheads” and their sympathizers were known, by this time, to all the other young men of the student body. During the rest of the day’s session many a “sorehead” found himself being regarded with black or sneering looks.
Of course the self-elected “exclusive” set was not numerously represented in the High School. Most of the boys and girls did not come from well-to-do families. Some who did had refused to have anything to do with the “sorehead” crowd.
The instant that school was dismissed that Tuesday afternoon scores of the more boisterous boys rushed from the building, across the yard, and double-lined the sidewalk leading from the gateway.
“Ugh! ugh! ugh!” they groaned, whenever any of the “soreheads” tried to walk this gauntlet in dignified silence.
“Let’s keep out of that, fellows,” advised Dick, to his chums, who grouped themselves about him. “Groans and catcalls won’t smooth or soothe any hard-feelings.”
“I don’t blame any of the fellows for what they’re doing to the snobs,” blazed Dan Dalzell indignantly.
“I don’t say that I do, either,” Dick replied quietly. “But there may be better ways of teaching fellows that they should stand by their school at all times.”
“I’d like to know a better way, then,” flared Tom Reade.
“Let’s have it, instanter, Dick, if you’ve got one,” begged Greg Holmes.
“Yes; out with it, old chap,” begged Harry Hazelton.
But Dick Prescott smiled provokingly.
“Perhaps, with the help of some of the rest of you,” he replied, “I shall be able to find a way of cooling some hot heads. I hope so, anyway.”
“Dick has his plan all fixed, now,” Dan whispered, hopefully, to Tom.
“If he has,” quoth Reade, under his breath, I wish he’d tell us his scheme.”
“Humph!” retorted Dan. “You know Dick Prescott, and you know that he never shoots until he has taken time to aim.”
CHAPTER VIII
DICK FIRES BOTH BARRELS
“Oh—great Scott!” gasped Tom Reade, as he paused at an item in “The Blade” the following morning.
That item had been written by Prescott. There could be no doubt about it in Reade’s mind.
“What’s the matter?” asked Tom’s father.
“Oh, Dick has been paying his respects to a certain clique in the High School, I take it,” Tom replied, with a grin. “I heard, yesterday, that he was going to shoot into that crowd. But—and here’s a short editorial on the same subject, too. Wow! Dick has fired into the enemy with both barrels!”
A moment later Tom passed the paper over to his father. Dick’s article read:
_There is a possibility that Gridley High School will not be in the front ranks in football this year. Those who know state that a “sorehead” combination has been formed by the young male representatives of some of our wealthier families. These young men, having elected themselves, so it is said, the salt of the earth, or the cream of a new Gridley aristocracy, are going to refuse to play in the football eleven this year.
Even young men who belong to “prominent” families may have some gifts in the way of football ability. Three or four out of the dozen or more “soreheads” are really needed if Gridley High School is to maintain its standing this year. The remainder of the “soreheads” may, with advantage to the High School eleven, be excused from offering themselves.
The “soreheads,” it is stated, feel that it would be beneath the dignity of their families for them to play on an eleven which must, in any event, be recruited largely from the sons of the Gridley families less fortunately situated financially.
Strangely enough, though they don’t intend to play football this year, these “soreheads” have been training hard of late, one of their practices being the taking of an early morning cross-country run together.
The average young man at the High School is as eager as ever to uphold the town’s and the school’s honor and dignity on the football gridiron this year. Whether the so-called “soreheads” will reconsider their proposed course of action and throw themselves in with the common lot for the upholding of the Gridley name and the honor of the High School will have been determined within the next few days. It is possible, however, that this little coterie of self-appointed “exclusives” will continue to refuse to cast their lot with the commoner run of High School boys, to whom some of the “soreheads” have referred as “muckers.” A Gridley “mucker,” it may be stated in passing, is a Gridley boy of poor parents who desires to obtain a decent education and better himself in life._
“Is that article true?” demanded Tom Reade’s father.
“Yes, sir,” Tom responded. “Dick wouldn’t have written it, if it hadn’t been. But turn over to the editorial column, and see that other little bit.”
The editorial in question referred to the news printed in another column, and stated that this information, if correct, showed a state of affairs at the High School that needed bettering. The editor continued:
_If there are in the High School any young snobs who display such a mean and un-American spirit, then the thoughtful reader must conclude that these young men are being unjustly educated at the public expense, for such boys are certain to grow into men who will turn nothing of value back into the community. Such young men, if they really need to study, should be educated at the expense of their families. Both the High School and the community can easily dispense with the presence of snobs and snobbery._
“I guess there’ll be some real soreness in some heads this morning,” laughed Tom’s father.
“Won’t there!” ejaculated Tom, and hurried out into the street. It did not take him long to find some of his chums and other High School boys. Those who had not seen “The Blade” read the two marked portions eagerly.
Bert Dodge had “The Blade” placed before him by his sister. Bert read with reddening cheeks.
“That’s what comes of letting a fellow like Dick Prescott write for the papers,” Bert stormed angrily. “That fellow ought to be tarred and feathered!”
“Why don’t you suggest it to the ‘soreheads’?” asked his sister, quizzically. Grace Dodge was an amiable, democratic, capable girl who had gone through college with honors, and yet had not gained a false impression of the importance conferred by a little wealth.
“Grace, I believe you’re laughing at me!” dared the young man exasperatedly.
“No; I’m not laughing. I’m sorry,” sighed the young woman. “But I can imagine that a good many are laughing, this morning, and that the number will grow. Bert, dear, do you think any young man can hope to be very highly esteemed when he sets his own importance above the good name and success of his school?”
Bert did not answer, but quit the house moodily. He encountered some of “his own set,” but they were not a very cheerful-looking lot that morning. Not one of the “soreheads” could escape the conviction that Dick Prescott held the whip hand of public opinion over them. What none of them appreciated, was the moderation with which young Prescott had wielded his weapon.
Dodge, Bayliss, Paulson and Hudson entered the High School grounds together, that morning, ten minutes before opening time. As the quartette passed, several of the little groups of fellow students ceased their talk and turned away from the four “soreheads.” Then, after the quartette had passed, quiet little laughs were heard.
All four mounted the steps of the building with heightening color.
Before the door, talking together, stood Fred Ripley and Purcell, whom the “soreheads” had endeavored to enlist.
“Good morning, Purcell. Morning, Ripley,” greeted Bayliss.
Fred and Purcell wheeled about, turning their backs without answering.
Once inside the building the four young fellows looked at each other uneasily.
“Are the fellows trying to send us to coventry?” demanded Dodge.
“Oh, well,” muttered Bayliss, “there are enough of us. We can stand it!”
Yet, at recess, the “soreheads” found themselves extremely uncomfortable. None of their fellow-students, among the boys, would notice them. Whenever some of the “soreheads” passed a knot of other boys, low-toned laughs followed. Even many of the girls, it proved, had taken up with the Coventry idea.
“Fellows, come to my place after you’ve had your luncheons,” Bayliss whispered around among his cronies, after school was out for the day. “I—I guess there are a—a few things that we want to talk over among ourselves. So come over, and we’ll use the carriage house for a meeting place. Maybe we’ll organize a club among ourselves, or—or—do something that shall shut us out and away from the common herd of this school.”
When the dozen or more met in the Bayliss carriage house that afternoon there were some defiant looks, and some anxious ones.
“I don’t know how you fellows feel about this business,” began Hudson frankly. “But I’ve had a pretty hot grilling at home by Dad. He asked me if I belonged to the ‘sorehead’ gang. I answered as evasively as I could. Then dad brought his list down on the table and told me he prayed that I wouldn’t go through life with any false notions about my personal dimensions. He told me, rather explosively, that I would never be a bit bigger, in anyone’s estimation than I proved myself to be.”
“Hot, was he?” asked Bayliss, with a half sneer.
“He started out that way,” replied Hudson. “But pretty soon Dad became dignified, and asked me where I had ever gotten the notion that I amounted to any more than any other fellow of the same brain caliber.”
“What did you tell him? asked Bert Dodge, frowning.
“I couldn’t tell him much,” retorted Hudson, smiling wearily. “Dad was primed to do most of the talking. When he stopped for breath mother began.”
“It’s all that confounded Dick Prescott’s doings! It’s a shame! It’s a piece of anarchy—that’s what it is!” muttered Paulson. “On my way here I passed three men on the street. They looked at me pretty hard, and laughed after I had gone by. Fellows, are we going to allow that mucker, Dick Prescott, to make us by-words in this town?”
“No siree, no!” roared Fremont.
“Good! That’s what I like to hear,” put in Hudson dryly. “And what are we going to do to stop Dick Prescott and turn public opinion our ways”
“Why—–“
“We—–“
“The way to—–“
“We’ll—–“
Several spoke at once, then all came to a full stop. The “soreheads” looked at each other in puzzled silence.
“What are we going to do?” demanded Fremont. “How are we going to hit back at a fellow who has a newspaper that he can use as a club on your head?”
“We might have a piece put in ‘The Evening Mail,'” hinted Porter, after a dazed silence. “That’s the rival paper.”
“Yes!” chimed in Bayliss, eagerly. “We can write a piece and get it put in ‘The Mail.’ Our piece can say that there has been a tendency, this year, or was believed to be one, to get a rowdyish element of the High School into the High School eleven, and that our move was really a move intended to sustain the past reputation of the Gridley High School for gentlemanly playing in all school sports. That will hit Dick & Co., and a lot of others, and will turn the laugh back on the muckers.”
This proposition brought forth several eager cries of approval.
“I see just one flaw in the plan,” observed Hudson slowly.
“What is it?” demanded half a dozen at once.
“Why, ‘The Evening Mail’ is a paper designed to appeal to the more rowdyish element in Gridley politics. ‘The Mail’s’ circulation is about all among the class of people who come nearest to being ‘rowdyish.’ So I’m pretty certain, fellows, that ‘The Mail’ wouldn’t take up our cause, and hammer our enemies with the word ‘rowdy.’ ‘The Blade’ is the paper that circulates among the best people in Gridley.”
“And Dick Prescott writes for ‘The Blade’!”
A gloomy silence followed, broken by Bayliss’s disconsolate query:
“Then, hang it! What can we do?”
And that query stuck hard!
CHAPTER IX
BAYLISS GETS SOME ADVICE
On that fateful Thursday morning every High School boy, and nearly every High School girl saw “The Blade.”
The morning paper, however, contained no allusion whatever to the football remarks of the day before.
Instead, there was an article descriptive of the changes to be made out at the High School athletic field this present year, and there were points and “dope” (as the sporting parlance phrases it) concerning the records and rumored new players of other High School elevens that were anxious to meet Gridley on the gridiron this coming season.
Thursday’s article was just the kind of a one that was calculated to make every football enthusiast eager to see the season open in full swing.
Again the “soreheads” came to school, and once more they had to pass the silent groups of their fellow students, who stood with heads turned away. The reign of Coventry seemed complete. Never before had any of the “soreheads” understood so thoroughly the meaning of loneliness.
At recess all the talk was of football. None of this talk, however, was heard by the “soreheads.” Whenever any of these went near the other groups the talk ceased instantly. There was no comfort in the yard, that morning, for a “sorehead.”
When school let out that afternoon, at one o’clock, Bayliss, Fremont, Dodge and their kind scurried off fast. No one offered to stop them. These “exclusive” young men could not get away from the fact that exclusion was freely accorded them.
Fred Ripley, as had been his wont in other years when he was a freshman, walked homeward with Clara Deane.
“Fred, you haven’t got yourself mixed up at all with that ‘sorehead’ crowd, have you?” Miss Deane asked.
“Not much!” replied Fred, with emphasis. “I want to play football this year.”
“Will all the ‘soreheads’ be kept out of the eleven, even if they come to their senses?” Clara inquired.
“Now, really, you’ll have to ask me an easier one than that,” replied Fred Ripley laughingly.
“I had an idea that all of the fellows whose families are rather comfortably well off might be in the movement—or the strike or whatever you call it,” Clara replied.
“Oh, no; there’s a lot of us who haven’t gone in with the kickers—and glad we are of it,” Fred replied.
“Still, don’t you believe in any importance attaching to the fact that one comes of one of the rather good old families?” asked Clara Deane thoughtfully.
“Why, of course, it’s something to be quietly proud of,” Fred slowly assented. Then added, with a quick laugh:
“But the events of the last two days show that one should keep his pride buttoned in behind his vest.”
As for the “soreheads” themselves, there weren’t any more meetings. As soon as they actually began to realize how much amused contempt many of the Gridley, people felt for them, these young men began to feel rather disgusted with themselves.
Across the street, and not far from the gymnasium building, was an apartment house in which two apartments were vacant. Being well acquainted with the agent, Bayliss borrowed the key to one of the apartments. Before half past two that afternoon, Bayliss and Dodge were in hiding, where they could look out through a movable shutter at the gymnasium building.
“There go Prescott, Darrin and Reade,” Bayliss soon reported.
“Oh, of course; they’ll answer the football call,” sniffed Dodge. “It was over fellows just like them that the whole trouble started.”
“And there’s Dalzell, Hazelton and Hanshew. Griffith is just behind them.”
“Yes; all muckers,” nodded Dodge.
“There’s Coach Morton.”
“Of course; he has to attend,” replied Dodge, coming toward the shuttered window. “But I’ll wager old Morton isn’t feeling over-happy this afternoon.”
“I don’t know,” grumbled Bayliss. “There he is at the gym. door, shaking hands with Dick Prescott and Dave Darrin, and laughing pretty heartily.”
“Laughing to keep his courage up, I reckon,” clicked Bert Dodge dryly. “Morton knows he’s going to miss a lot of faces that he’d like to see there this year.”
Then Dodge took up post at the peephole, while Bayliss stepped back, yawning.
Several more football aspirants neared and entered the gym. The name of each was called off by Bert.
“This is the first year,” chuckled Bayliss, “when Gridley hasn’t had a chance for a star eleven.”
“I’ll miss the game, myself, like fury,” commented Dodge. “All through last season, when I played on the second eleven, I was looking forward to this year.”
“Now, don’t you go to getting that streak, and quit us,” warned Bayliss quickly. “Our set is going to get up its own eleven; don’t forget that! And we’re going to play some famous games.”
“Sure!” admitted Dodge. But there was a choke in his throat.
Just a few moments later Bert Dodge gave a violent start, then cried out, in a voice husky with emotion:
“Oh, I say, Bayliss, look—–“
“What—–“
“_Hudson_!”
“What about him?”
“Quick!”
“Well, you ninny,”
“Hudson is going in the—–“
With a cry partly of doubting, partly of rage, Bayliss leaped forward, crowding out Dodge in order to get a better view.
Hudson was actually ascending the gym. steps, and going up as though he meant business.
“He’s gone over to—to—them!” gasped Bert Dodge.
“The mean _traitor_!” hissed Bayliss.
Hudson did, indeed, brave it out by going straight on into the gym. As he entered some of the fellows already there glared at him dubiously. But Hudson met the look bravely.
“Hullo!” cried Dick. “There’s Hudson!”
Coach Morton heard, from another part of the gym. Turning around, the coach greeted tile reformed ‘sorehead’ with a nod and a smile. Then some of the fellows spoke to Hudson as that young man moved by them. In a few moments more, Hudson began to feel almost at home among his own High School comrades.
Then Drayne, another ‘sorehead,’ showed up. He, too, was treated as though nothing had happened. When Trenholm, still another of the “soreheads,” looked in at the gym., he appeared very close to being afraid. When he saw Hudson and Drayne there he hastened forward. By and by Grayson came in. At the window across the street Bayliss and Dodge had checked off all four of these “deserters” and “traitors.”
“Well, they’ll play, anyway—either on school or on second,” muttered Bert, to himself. “Oh, dear! Just think the way things have turned out.”
These four deserters from the “soreheads” were all out of that very select crowd who did respond to the football call.
Promptly at three o’clock Coach Morton called for order. Then, after a very few remarks, he called for the names of all who intended to enter the football training squad for this season.
“And let every fellow who thinks he’s lazy, or who doesn’t like to train hard and obey promptly, keep his name off the list,” warned the coach dryly. “I’ve come to the conclusion that what we need in this squad is Army discipline. We’re going to have it this year! Now, young gentlemen, come along with your names—those of you who really believe you can stand Spartan training.”
“I think I might draw the line at having the fox—or was it a wolf—gnawing at my entrails, as one Spartan had to take it,” laughed one youngster.
“Guess again, or you’d better stay off the squad this year,” laughed the coach. “This is going to be a genuinely rough season for all weaklings.”
There was a quick making up of the roll.
“Tomorrow afternoon, at three sharp, you’ll all report on the athletic field,” announced Coach Morton, when he had finished writing down the names. “Any man who fails to show up tomorrow afternoon will have his name promptly expunged from the squad rolls. No excuses will be accepted for failure tomorrow.”
There was a crispness about that which some of the fellows didn’t like.
“Won’t a doctor’s certificate of illness go?” asked one fellow laughingly.
“It will go—not,” retorted coach. “Pill-takers and fellows liable to chills aren’t wanted on this year’s team, anyway. Now, young gentlemen, I’m going to give you a brief talk on the general art of taking care of yourselves, and the art of keeping yourselves in condition.”
The talk that followed seemed to Dick Prescott very much like a repetition of what Coach Luce had said to them the winter before, at the commencement of indoor training for baseball.
As he finished talking on health and condition Mr. Morton drew from one of his pockets a bunch of folded papers.
“I am now,” he continued, “going to present to each one of you a set of rules, principles, guides—call them what you will. On this paper each one of you will find laid down rules that should be burned into the memories of all young men who aspire to play football. Do not lose your copies of these rules. Read the rules over again and again. Memorize them! Above all, put every rule into absolute practice.”
Then, at a sign, the young men passed before the coach to receive their printed instructions.
“Something new you’ve gotten up, Mr. Morton?” inquired one of the fellows.
“No,” the coach admitted promptly. “These rules aren’t original with me. I ran across ’em, and I’ve had them printed, by authority from the Athletics Committee. I wish I had thought up a set of rules as good.”
As fast as they received their copies each member of the squad darted away to read the rules through. This is what each man found on the printed sheet:
_”1. Work hard and be alive.
2. Work hard and learn the rules.
3. Work hard and learn the signals. 4. Work hard and keep on the jump.
5. Work hard and have a nose for the ball. 6. Work hard all the time. Be on speaking terms with the ball every minute.
7. Work hard and control your temper and tongue. 8. Work hard and don’t quit when you’re tackled. Hang onto the ball. 9. Work hard and get your man before he gets started. Get him before the going gets good.
10. Work hard and keep your speed. If you’re falling behind your condition is to blame.
11. Work hard and be on the job all the time, a little faster, a little sandier, a little more rugged than the day before. 12. Work hard and keep your eyes and ears open and your head up. 13. Work hard and pull alone the man with the ball. This isn’t a game of solitaire.
14. Work hard and be on time at practice every day. Train faithfully. Get your lessons. Aim to do your part and to make yourself a perfect part of the machine. Be a gentleman. If the combination is too much for you, turn in your togs and call around during croquet season.”_
“What do you think of that, as expounding the law of football?” smiled coach, looking down over Dave Darrin’s shoulder.
“It doesn’t take long to read, Mr. Morton And it ought not to take long to memorize these fourteen rules. But to live them, through and through, and up and down—that’s going to take a lot of thought and attention.”
To the four ex-“soreheads” not a word had been said about the late unpleasantness, nor was this quartette any longer in Coventry.
Trenholm, Grayson, Drayne and Hudson were the four best football men of the Bayliss-Dodge faction. Now that they were to play with the High School eleven all concerned felt wholly relieved.
As the young men were leaving the gym. that afternoon Coach Morton found a chance to grip Dick’s arm and to whisper lightly in his ear:
“Thank you, Prescott.”
“For what, Mr. Morton.”
“Why, for what you managed to do to hold the school eleven together. That was clever newspaper work, Prescott. And it has helped the school a lot. I’m no longer uneasy about Gridley High School on the gridiron for this season. We’ll have a team now!”
With a confident nod the coach strolled away.
As the gym. doors were thrown open the members of the new football squad rushed out with joyous whoops. Some of the more mischievous or spirited actually tackled unsuspicious comrades, toppling their victims over to the ground. That line of tactics resulted in many a “chase” that brought out some remarkably good sprinting talent. Thus the squad dissipated itself like the mist, and soon the grounds near the school were deserted.
Bayliss and Bert Dodge went away to nurse a grievance that nothing seemed to cure.
For these two, now that their strong line of resistance had been broken, found themselves secretly longing, as had the four deserters, for a place in the football squad.
Bert Dodge sulked along to school, alone that Friday morning. Bayliss, however, after a night of wakefulness, had decided to “eat crow.”
So, as Dick, Dave and Greg Holmes were strolling along schoolward, Bayliss overhauled them.
“Good morning, fellows,” he called, briskly, with an offhand attempt at geniality.
All three of the chums looked up at him, then glanced away again.
“Oh, I say, now, don’t keep it up,” coaxed Bayliss. “We High School fellows all want to be decent enough friends. And how’s the football? I don’t suppose the squad is full yet. I—I half believe I may join and take a little practice.”
“Thinking of it?” asked Dick, looking up coolly.
“Yes—really,” replied Bayliss.
“See the coach, then; he’s running the squad.”
“Yes; I guess I will, thanks. Good morning!”
Bayliss sauntered along, blithely whistling a tune. He knew Coach Morton would give him the glad hand of welcome for the squad and the team.
“Oh, Mr. Morton,” was Bayliss’s greeting, as he encountered the coach near the school building steps.
“Yes?” asked the submaster pleasantly.
“I—I—er—I didn’t make the meeting yesterday afternoon, but I guess you might put my name down for the squad.”
“Isn’t this a bit late, Bayliss?” asked the submaster, eyeing the youth keenly.
“Perhaps, a bit,” assented the confident young man. “However—–“
“At its meeting, last night, Mr. Bayliss, the Athletics Committee of the Alumni Association advised me to consider the squad list closed.”
“Closed?” stammered Bayliss, turning several shades in succession. “Closed? Do—do you mean—–“
“No more additions will be made to the squad this year,” replied the coach quietly, then going inside.
Bayliss stood on the steps, a picture of humiliation and amazement.
“Fellows,” gasped Bayliss, as Prescott and his two chums came along, “did you hear that? Football list closed?”
“Want some advice?” asked Dick, halting for an instant.
“Yes,” begged Bayliss.
“Never kick a sore toe against a stone wall,” quoth Dick Prescott, and passed on into the school building.
CHAPTER X
TWO GIRLS TURN THE LAUGH
By this time training was going on briskly. Four days out of every week the squad had to practice for two hours at the athletic field.
There were tours of work in the gym., too.
Besides, it was “early to bed and early to rise” for all members of the squad.
Even those who hoped only to “make second” were under strict orders to let nothing interfere with their condition.
Three mornings in the week Coach Morton met all squad men for either cross-country work or special work in sprinting. And this was before breakfast, when each man was on honor pledged to take only a pint of hot water—nothing more—before reporting. On the other mornings, football aspirants were pledged to run without the coach.
Yet, with all this, studies had to be kept up to a high average, for no man on the “unset” list could hope to be permitted to play football.
Hard work? Yes. But discipline, above all. And discipline is priceless to the young man who really hopes to get ahead in life!
“You’re not playing fair,” Dave cried reproachfully to his chum one day.
“Why not?” Prescott questioned mildly.
“You’re using hair tonic!” Darrin asserted, with mock seriousness, as he gazed at Dick’s bushy mop of football hair. “You’re growing a regular chrysanthemum for a top piece to your head.”
“Oh, my hair, eh?” smiled Dick. “Why, you can have as fine a lot of hair if you want to take the trouble.”
“Don’t I want it, though?” retorted Darrin. “What kind of tonic do you use?”
“Grease,” smiled Prescott.
“Nothing but grease?”
“Nothing much.”
“What kind of grease?”
“Elbow!”
“Now, stop your joshing,” ordered Dave promptly. “No kind of muscular work is going to bring out a fuzzy rug like that on anyone’s skypiece.”
“But that’s just how I do it,” Dick insisted. “Not a bit hard, either. See here! Just use your finger tips, briskly, like this, and stir your whole scalp up with a brisk massage.”
“How long do you keep it up?” demanded Dave, after following suit for some time.
“Oh, about ninety seconds, I guess,” nodded Prescott. “You want to do it eight times a day, and wash your head weekly, though with bland soap and not too much of it.”
“Is that honestly all you do to get a Siberian fur wig such as you’re wearing?”
“That’s all I do,” replied Dick. “Except—yes; there’s one thing more. Go out of doors all you can without a hat.”
“The active curry-comb and the vanished hat for mine, then,” muttered Dave, with another envious look at Dick’s bushy hair.
Nor did Dave rest until the other chums all had the secret. By the time that the football season opened Dick & Co. were the envy of the school for their heavy heads of hair.
With all the hard work of training, Coach Morton did not intend that the young men should be so busy as to have no time for recreation. He understood thoroughly the value of the lighter, happier moments in keeping an athlete’s nervous system up to concert pitch.
Though the baseball training of the preceding spring had been “stiff” enough, Dick & Co. soon found that the football training was altogether more rugged.
In fact, Coach Morton, with the aid of Dr. Bentley as medical director, weeded out a few of the young men after training had been going on for a fortnight. Some failed to show sufficient reserve “wind” after running. A few other defectives proved not to have hearts strong enough for the grilling work of the gridiron.
All the members of Dick & Co., however, managed to keep in the squad. In fact, hints soon began to go around, mysteriously, that Dick & Co. were having the benefit of some outside training. Purcell came to young Prescott and asked him frankly about this report.
“Nothing in it,” Dick replied promptly. “We’re having just the same training as the rest of the boys. But I’ll tell you a secret.”
“Go on!” begged Purcell eagerly.
“You know the training rules—early retiring and all?”
“Yes; of course.”
“Well, we fellows are sticking to orders like leeches. Every night, to the minute, we’re in bed. We make a long night’s sleep of it. Then, besides, we don’t slight a single particle of the training work that we’re told to do by ourselves. We’ve agreed on that, and have promised each other. Now, do you suppose all the fellows are sticking quite as closely to coach’s orders?”
“I—I—well, perhaps they’re not,” agreed Purcell.
“Are you?” insisted Dick.
“In the _main_, I do.”
“Oh,” observed Prescott, with mild sarcasm. “‘In the main’! Now, see here, Purcell, we High School fellows are fortunate in having one of the very best coaches that ever a High School squad did have. Mr. Morton knows what he’s doing. He knows how to bring out condition, and how to teach the game. He lays down the rules that furnish the sole means of success at football. And you—one of our most valuable fellows—are following some of his instructions—when they don’t conflict with your comfort or with your own ideas about training. Now, honestly, what do you know about training that is better than Coach Morton’s information on that very important subjects”
“Oh, come, now; you’re a little bit too hard, Prescott,” argued Purcell. “I do about everything just as I’m told.”
“You admit Mr. Morton’s ability, don’t you?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Then why don’t you stick to every single rule that’s laid down by a man who knows what he is doing? It will be better for your condition, won’t it, Purcell?”
“Yes, without a doubt.”
“And what is better for you is better for the team and for the school, isn’t its”
“By Jove, Prescott, you’re a stickler for duty, aren’t you?” cried Purcell.
He spoke in a louder tone this time. Two girls who were passing the street corner where the young men stood heard the query and glanced over with interest.
Neither young man perceived the girls at that moment.
“Why, yes,” Prescott answered slowly. “Duty is the main thing there is about life, isn’t it?”
“Right again,” laughed Purcell.
One of the girls looked swiftly at the other. They were Laura Bentley and Belle Meade, friends of Dick’s and Dave’s, and also members of the junior class.
“Well, I’m going to take a leaf out of your book,” pursued Purcell. “I’m really as anxious to see Gridley High School always on top as you or any other fellow can be.”
“Of course you are,” nodded Dick. “The way you put our baseball team through last season proves that.”
“I’m going to be a martinet for training, hereafter,” Purcell declared earnestly. “I’m going to be a worse stickler than old coach himself. And I’m going to exercise my right as a senior to watch the other fellows and hold their noses to the training grindstone.”
“Then I’m not worried about Gridley having a winning team this year,” Dick answered.
“By Jove, you had a lot to do with that, too, didn’t you, Prescott?” cried Purcell. “You put it over the ‘soreheads’ so hard that we never heard from them again after we got started.”
“You helped there, also, Purcell. If you and Ripley and a few others had gone over to the ‘soreheads’ it would have stiffened their backbone and nothing could have made it possible, this year, for Gridley High School to have an eleven that would represent all the best football that there is in the grand old school.”
In the first two years of their school life Dick and Dave had spent many pleasant hours in the society of Laura and Belle. So far, during the junior year, the chums had had but little chance to see the girls, for the demands of football were fearfully exacting.
Laura, being almost at the threshold of seventeen years, had grown tall and womanly. Bert Dodge began to notice what a very pretty girl the doctor’s daughter was becoming. So, one afternoon while the football squad was practicing hard over on the athletic field, Bert encountered Laura and Belle as they strolled down the Main Street.
Lifting his hat, Dodge greeted the girls, and stood chatting with them for a few moments. To this neither of the girls could object, for Bert’s manners, with the other sex, were always irreproachable.
But, presently, Laura saw her chance. She did not want to be rude, but Bert’s face had just taken on a half-sneering look at a chance mention of Dick’s name.
“You aren’t playing football this year, Bert?” Laura asked innocently.
Bert quickly flushed.
“No,” he admitted.
“Of course everyone can’t make the eleven,” Belle added, with mild malice.
“I—I don’t believe I’d care to,” Dodge went on. “I—you see—I don’t care about all the fellows in the squad.”
“I don’t suppose every boy who is playing on the squad is a chum of everyone else,” remarked Laura.
“Such fellows as Prescott, for instance, I don’t care much about,” Bert continued, with a swift side glance at Laura Bentley to see how she took that remark. But Laura showed not a sign in her face.
“No?” she asked quietly. “I think him a splendid fellow. By the way, he and Dave Darrin haven’t received the reward for finding your father, have they?”
Bert gasped. His face went white, then red. He fidgeted about for an answer.
“No,” he replied, cuttingly, at last, “and I don’t believe they ever will.”
“Oh, I beg your pardon,” cried Laura in quick contrition. “I didn’t know that it was a tender spot with you, or your family.”
“It isn’t,” Bert rejoined hurriedly. “It simply amounts to this, that the reward will never be paid to a pair of cheeky, brazen-faced—–“
“Won’t you please stop right there, Mr. Dodge?” Laura asked sweetly. “Mr. Prescott and Mr. Darrin are friends of ours. We don’t like to hear remarks that cast disrespect in their direction.”
“Oh, I beg your pardon,” answered Bert, trying not to be stiff. But he was ill at ease, leaving the girls very soon after.
Yet, in his hatred for Dick and Dave, young Dodge resolved upon a daring stroke. He enlisted Bayliss, and the pair sought to “cut out” Prescott and Darrin with Laura and Belle.
Neither Dick nor Dave was in love. Both were too sensible for that. Both knew that love affairs were for men old enough to know their own minds. Yet the friendship between the four young people had been a very proper and wholesome affair, and much pleasure had been derived on all sides.
Nowadays, however, Bert and Bayliss managed to be much out and around Gridley while the football squad was at practice. Almost daily this pair met Laura and Belle, as though by accident, and the two young seniors usually managed, without apparent intrusion, to walk along beside Laura and Belle, often seeing the pair to the home gate of one or the other.
“You two fellows want to look out,” Purcell warned Dick and Dave, good-naturedly, one day. “Other fellows are after your sweet-hearts.”
“I wonder how that happened,” Dick observed good-humoredly. “I didn’t know we had any sweethearts.”
“What about—–” began Purcell, wondering if he had made a mistake.
“Please don’t drag any girls’ names into bantering talk,” interposed Dave, quickly though very quietly.
So Purcell said no more, and he had, indeed, meant no harm whatever. But others were noticing, and also talking. High School young people began to take a very lively interest in the new appearance of Dodge and Bayliss as escorts of Laura and Belle.
Then there came one especially golden day of early autumn, when it seemed as though the warm, glorious day had driven everyone out onto the streets. Dodge and Bayliss met Laura and Belle, quite as though by accident, and manifested a rather evident determination to remain in the company of the girls as long as possible.
Finally Laura halted before one of the department stores.
“Belle, there’s an errand you and I had in mind to do in there, isn’t there?” Laura asked.
“May we have the very great pleasure, then, of your leave to wait until you are through with your shopping?” spoke up Bert Dodge quickly.
Laura flushed slightly. Just then more than a dozen of the football squad, coming back from the field, marching solidly by twos, turned the corner and came upon this quartette. There were many curious looks in the corners of the eyes of members of the squad.
Despite themselves Dick and Dave could feel themselves reddening.
But Laura Bentley was equal to the emergency. “Here come the school’s heroes—the fellows who keep Gridley’s High School banner flying in the breeze,” she laughed pleasantly.
Both Dodge and Bayliss started to answer, then closed their lips.
“Won’t you please excuse us, boys?” begged Laura, in her usual pleasant voice. “Here are Dick and Dave, and Belle and I wish to speak with them.”
From some of the members of the football squad went up a promptly stifled gasp that sounded like a very distant rumble.
Dick and Dave, looking wholly rough and ready in their sweaters, padded trousers and heavy field shoes, stepped out of the marching formation as though obeying an order.
The chums looked almost uncouth, compared with the immaculate, dandyish pair, Dodge and Bayliss. The latter, with so many amused glances turned their way, could only flush deeply, stammer, raise their hats and—fade away!
The lesson was a needed and a remembered one. Laura and Belle took their afternoon walks in peace thereafter.
CHAPTER XI
DIES FOOTBALL TEACH REAL NERVE?
“Get in there, Ripley! Don’t be afraid. It’s only a leather dummy. It can’t hurt you! Now, tackle the dummy around the hips—_hoist_!”
A laugh went up among the crowd as Fred, crouching low, head down, sailed in at that tackling dummy.
Young Ripley’s face was red, but he took the coach’s stern tone in good part, for the young man was determined to make good on the eleven this year.
“Now, Prescott! Show us that you can beat your last performance! Imagine the dummy to be a two hundred and twenty pound center!”
Dick rushed in valiantly, catching the dummy just right.
“Let go!” called the coach, laughingly. “It isn’t a sack of gold!”
Another laugh went up. This was one of the semi-public afternoons, when any known well-wisher of Gridley was allowed on the athletic field to watch the squad at work.
For half an hour the young men had been working hard, mostly at the swinging dummy, for Coach Morton wanted much improvement yet in tackling.
“Now,” continued the coach, in a voice that didn’t sound very loud, yet which had the quality of carrying to every part of the big field, “it’ll be just as well if you fellows don’t get the idea that only swinging leather dummies are to be tackled. The provisional first and second teams will now line up. Second has the ball on its own twenty-yard line, and is trying to save its goal. You fellows on second hustle with all your might to get the ball through the ranks of the first, or School eleven. Fight for all you’re worth to get that ball on the go and keep it going! You fellows of the first, or School eleven, I want to see what you can do with real tackling.”
There was a hasty adjusting of nose-guards by those who wore that protection. The ball was placed, the quarter-back of the second eleven bending low to catch it, at the same time comprehending the signal that sounded briskly.
The whistle blew; the ball was snapped, and quarter-back darted to the right, passing the ball. Second’s right tackle had been chosen to receive and break through the School’s line. On School’s left, Dick and Ripley raced in together, while second’s interference crashed into the pair of former enemies as right tackle tried to go through. But Fred Ripley was as much out for team work this day as any fellow on the field. He made a fast sprint, as though to tackle, yet meaning to do nothing of the sort. Dick, too, understood. He let Ripley get two or three feet in the lead. At Ripley, therefore, the second’s interference hurled itself savagely. It was all done so quickly that the beguiled second had no time to rectify its blunder; for Fred Ripley was in the center of the squirming, interfering bunch and Dick Prescott had made a fair, firm, abrupt tackle. In an instant the ball was “down.” Second had gained less than a yard.
“Good work!” the coach shouted, after sounding the whistle.” Ripley and Prescott, that was the right sort of team work.”
Again second essayed to get away with the ball. This time the forward pass was employed—that is to say, attempted. Hudson and Purcell, by another clever feint, got the ball stopped and down; third time, and second lost the ball on downs.
Now School had the ball. As the quarter-back’s signals rang out there was perceptible activity and alertness at School’s right end. As the ball was snapped, School’s right wing went through the needful movements, but Dick Prescott, over at left end, had the ball. Ripley and Purcell were supporting him.
Straight into the opposing ranks went Ripley and Purcell, the rest of the school team supporting. It was team work again. Dick was halted, for an instant. Then, backed by his supporters, he dashed through the opposition—on and on! Twice Dick was on the point of being tackled, but each time his interference carried him through. He was over second’s line—touch-down, and the whistle sounded shrilly, just a second ahead of cheers from some hundred on-lookers.
As Dick came back he limped just a bit.
“I tell you, it takes nerve, and a lot of it, to play that game,” remarked one citizen admiringly.
“Nerve? pooh!” retorted his companion. “Just a hoodlum footrace, with some bumping, and then the whistle blows while a lot of boys are rolling over one another. The whistle always blows just at the point when there might be some use for nerve.”
The first speaker looked at his doubtful companion quizzically.
“Would it take any nerve for you,” he demanded, “to jump in where you knew there was a good chance of your being killed,”
“Yes; I suppose so,” admitted the kicker.
“Well, every season a score or two of football ball players are killed, or crippled for life.”
“But they’re not looking for it,” objected the kicker, “or they wouldn’t go in so swift and hard. Real nerve? I’d believe in that more if I ever heard of one of these nimble-jack racers taking a big chance with his life off the field, and where there was no crowd of wild galoots to look on and cheer!”
“Of course killing and maiming are not the real objects of the game,” pursued the first speaker. “Coaches and other good friends of the game are always hoping to discover some forms of rules that will make football safer. Yet I can’t help feeling that the present game, despite the occasional loss of life or injury to limb, puts enough of strong, fighting manhood into the players to make the game worth all it costs.”
“I want to see the nerve, and I want to see the game prove its worth,” insisted the kicker.
Second eleven, though made up of bright, husky boys, was having a hard time of it. Thrice coach arbitrarily advanced the ball for second, in order to give that team a better chance with High School eleven.
And now the practice was over for the afternoon. The whistle between coach’s lips sounded three prolonged blasts, and the young players, flushed, perspiring—aching a bit, too—came off the field. Togs were laid aside and some time was spent under the shower baths and in toweling. Only a small part of the late crowd of watchers remained at the athletic field. But the kicker and his companion were among those who stayed.
Coach Morton stood for a time talking with some citizens who had lingered. As most of these men were contributors to the athletic funds they were anxious for information.
“Do you consider the prospects good for the team this year?” asked one man.
“Yes,” replied Mr. Morton promptly.
“Is the School eleven decided upon in detail?” questioned another.
“No; of course not, as yet. Each day some of the young men develop new points—of excellence, or otherwise. The division into School and second teams, that you saw this afternoon, may not be the final division. In fact, not more than five or six of the young men have been definitely picked as sure to make the School team. We shall have it all decided within a few days.”
“But you’re rather certain,” insisted another, “that Gridley is going to have as fine a School team as it has ever had?”
“It would be going too far to say that,” replied Coach Morton slowly. “The truth is, we never know anything for certain until we have seen our boys play through the first game. Our judgment is even more reliable after they’ve been through the second game.”
By this time, some of the football squad were coming out of locker rooms, heading across the field to the gate. Coach Morton and the little group of citizens turned and went along slowly after them. The kicker was still on hand.
Just as the boys neared the gate there were heard sounds of great commotion on the other side of the high board fence. There were several excited yells, the sound of running feet, and then more distinct cries.
“He’s bent on killing the officer! Run!”
“Look out! Here he comes! Scoot!”
“He’s crazy!”
Then came several more yells, a note of terror in them all.
Five youngsters of the football squad were so near the gate that they broke into a run for the open. Coach Morton, too, sped ahead at full steam, though he was some distance behind the members of the squad. The citizens followed, running and puffing.
Once outside, they all came upon a curious sight. One of the smallest members of Gridley’s police force had attempted to stop a big, red-faced, broad-shouldered man who, coatless and hatless had come running down the street.
Two men had gotten in the way of this fellow and had been knocked over. Then the little policeman had darted in, bent on distinguishing himself. But the red-faced man, crazed by drink, had bowled over the policeman and had fallen on top of him. The victor had begun to beat the police officer when the sight of a rapidly-growing crowd angered the fellow.
Leaping up, the red-faced one had glared about him, wondering whom next to attack, while the officer lay on his back, more than half-dazed.
Making up his mind to catch and thrash some one, the red-faced man came along, shouting savagely. It was just at this moment that Dick Prescott and Greg Holmes, sprinting fast, came out through the gateway.
“Look out, boys! He’ll kill you!” shouted one well-meaning citizen in the background.
“Will he?” grunted Dick grimly. “Greg, I’ll tackle the fellow—you be ready to fall on him. Head down, now—charge!”
As though they had darted around the right end of the football battle line, and had sighted the enemy’s goal line, Prescott and Holmes charged straight for the infuriated fellow.
“Get outer my way!” roared red-face, turning slightly and running furiously at them.
Dick’s head was down, but that did not prevent his seeing through his long hair.
“Get out of my way, you kid!” gasped the big fellow, halting in his amazement as he saw this youngster coming straight at him.
Greg was off the sidewalk, running a few feet out from the gutter
But Dick sailed straight in. As he came close, red-faced seemed to feel uneasy about this reckless boy, for the big fellow, holding his fists so that he could use them, swerved slightly to one side.
Fifty people were looking on, now, most of them amazed and fearing for young Prescott.
But Dick, running still lower, charged straight for his man. The big fellow, with a bellow, aimed his fists.
Dick wasn’t hit, however. Instead, he grappled with the fellow, just below the thighs, then straightened up somewhat—all quick as a flash.
That big mountain of flesh swayed, then toppled. Red-face went down, not with a crash, but more after the manner of a collapse.
As he fell, Greg darted in from the street and fell upon the big fellow’s chest. In another instant young Prescott was a-top of the fellow.
“Keep him down, boys!” yelled Coach Morton.
Just before the coach sprinted to the spot Dave Darrin, then Tom Reade, and then Tom Purcell, hurled themselves into the fray.
When the coach arrived he could not find a spot on red-face at which to take hold.
The policeman, limping a bit, came up as fast as he could.
“Will you young gentlemen help me to put these handcuffs on?” asked the officer, dangling a pair of steel bracelets.
“Will we?” ejaculated Dave. “Whoop!”
“Roll the fellow over!” called Dick Prescott.
With a gleeful shout the squad members rolled red-face over, dragging his powerful arms behind his back. There was a scuffle, but Coach Morton helped. A minute more and the handcuffs had been snapped in place.
In the eyes of the recent kicker, back on the field, there now appeared a gleam of something very much akin to enthusiasm.
“What do you say, now?” asked that man’s companion. “Though, of course, Prescott and Holmes knew that help wasn’t far off.”
“It doesn’t make any difference,” retorted the recent kicker. “Either boy might have been killed by that big brute before the help could have arrived.”
“Then does football teach nerve?”
“It certainly must!” agreed the recent kicker.
CHAPTER XII
DICK, LILE CAESAR, REFUSES THE CROWN
A few days later the members of the school team, and the substitutes, had been announced. Then the men who had made the team came together at the gymnasium.
Who was to be captain of the eleven?
For once there seemed to be a good deal of hanging back.
If there were any members of the team who believed themselves supremely fitted to lead, at least they were not egotistical enough to announce themselves.
There was a good deal of whispering during the five minutes before Mr. Morton called them to order. Some of the whisperers left one group to go over to another.
“Now, then, gentlemen!” called Coach Morton. “Order, please!”
Almost at once the murmuring stopped.
“Before we can go much further,” continued the coach, “it will be necessary to decide upon a captain. I don’t wish to have the whole voice in the matter. If you are to follow your captain through thick and thin, in a dozen or more pitched football battles, it is well that you should have a leader who will possess the confidence of all. Now, whom do you propose for the post of captain? Let us discuss the merits of those that may be proposed.”
Just for an instant the murmuring broke out afresh.
Then a shout went up:
“Purcell!”
But that young man shook his head.
“Prescott!” shouted another.
Dick, too, shook his head.
“Purcell! Purcell!”
“Now, listen to me a moment, fellows!” called Purcell, standing very straight and waving his arms for silence. “I don’t want to be captain. I had the honor of leading the baseball nine last season.”
“No matter! You’ll make a good football captain!”
“Not the best you can get, by any means,” insisted Purcell. “I decline the honor for that reason, and also because I don’t want the responsibility of leading the eleven.”
“Prescott!” shouted three or four of the squad at once.
Purcell nodded his head encouragingly.
“Yes; Prescott, by all means! You can’t do better.”
“Yes, you can! And you fellows know it!” shouted Dick.
His face glowed with pleasure and pride, but he tried to show, by face, voice and gesture, that he didn’t propose to take the tendered honor.
“Prescott! Prescott!” came the insistent yell.
Above the clamor Coach Morton signaled Dick to come forward to the platform.
“Won’t you take it, Prescott?” inquired the coach.
“I’ve no right to, sir.”
“Then tell the team why you think so.”
As soon as coach had secured silence Dick, with a short laugh, began:
“Fellows, I don’t know whether you mean it all, or whether you’re having a little fun with me. But—–“
“No, no! We mean it! Prescott for captain! No other fellow has done as much for Gridley High School football!”
“Then I’ll tell you some reasons, fellows, why I don’t fit the position,” Dick went on, speaking easily now as his self-confidence came to him. “In the first place, I’m a junior, and this is my first year at football. Now, a captain should be a whole wagon-load in the way of judgment. That means a fellow who has played in a previous season. For that reason, all other things being equal, the captain should be one of the seniors who played the gridiron game last year.”
“You’ll do for us, Prescott!” came the insistent call.
“For another thing,” Dick went on composedly, “the captain should be a man who plays center, or close to it. Now, I’m not heavy enough for anything of that sort. In fact, I understand I’m cast for left tackle or left end—probably the latter. So, you see, I wouldn’t be in the right part of the field. I don’t deny that I’d like to be captain, but I’d a thousand times rather see Gridley win.”
“Then who can lead us to victory” demanded Dave Darrin briskly.
Dick promptly. “He’s believed to be our best man for center. He played last year; he knows more fine points of the game than any of us juniors can. And he has the judgment. Besides, he’s a senior, and it’s his last chance to command the High School eleven.”
“If Wadleigh’ll take it, I’m for him,” spoke Dave Darrin promptly.
Henry Wadleigh, or “Hem,” as he was usually called, was turning all the colors of the rainbow. Yet he looked pleased and anxious.
There was just one thing against Wadleigh, in the minds of Hudson and some of the others. He was a boy of poor family. He belonged to what the late but routed “soreheads” termed “the mockers.” But he was an earnest, honest fellow, a hard player and loyal to the death to his school.
“Any other candidates?” asked Coach Morton.
There was a pause of indecision. There were a few other fellows who wanted to captain the team. Why didn’t some of their friends put them in nomination?
Dick & Co. formed a substantial element in the team. They were for “Hen” Wadleigh, and now Tom Reade spoke:
“I move that Wadleigh be considered our choice for captain.”
“Second the motion,” uttered Dan Dalzell, hastily.
Coach Morton put the proposition, which was carried. Wadleigh was chosen captain, subject to the approval of the Athletics Committee of the alumni, which would talk it over in secret with Coach Morton.
And now the team was quickly made up. Wadleigh was to play center. Dick was to play left end, with Dave for left tackle. Greg Holmes went over to right tackle, with Hazelton right guard. Dan Dalzell was slated as substitute right end, while Tom Reade was a “sub” left tackle.
Fred Ripley was put down as a substitute for left end. As one who kept in such close training as did Prescott he was not likely to miss many of the big games, and Fred’s chances for playing in the big games was not heavy. Yet Ripley was satisfied. Even as a “sub,” he had “made” the High School eleven.
“I think, gentlemen,” declared Mr. Morton, in dismissing the squad, “that we have as good a team to put forward this year as Gridley has ever had. The only disquieting feature of the season is the report, coming to us, that many of the rival schools have, this year, better teams in the field than they have ever had before. So we’ve got to work—well like so many animated furies. Remember, gentlemen, ‘coldfeet’ never won a football season.”
Bayliss and Dodge when they heard the news, were much disgusted. They had hoped that subs. Instead, Dick and three of his cronies had been put in Gridley’s first fighting line, only two of the redoubtable six being on the sub list.
School and second teams, being now sharply defined, fell to playing against each other as hard and as cleverly as they could.
Wadleigh’s choice as captain was confirmed by the Athletics Committee.
“But I’d never have had the chance, Prescott, old fellow, if it hadn’t been for you,” “Hen” protested gratefully. “Dick, I won’t forget your great help!”
“I didn’t do anything for you, Hen,” Prescott retorted, with one of his dry smiles.
“You didn’t?” gasped Wadleigh.
“No, sir! I did it for the school. I wanted to see our team have the best possible captain and the winning eleven!”
Bert and Bayliss happened to be passing the gymnasium when they heard of the selection of Wadleigh.
“Bert,” whispered Bayliss, “I believe you’re at least half a man!”
“What are you driving at?” demanded Dodge.
“We owe Dick Prescott a few. If you’re with me we’ll see if his season on the gridiron can’t be made a farce and a fizzle.”
CHAPTER XIII
BERT DODGE “STARTS SOMETHING”
As always happens the schedule of the fall’s games was changed somewhat at the last moment.
In the first change there was a decided advantage. Wrexham withdrawing its challenge almost at the last, Coach Morton took on Welton High School for the first game of the season.
Now, Welton must have played for no other reason than to gratify a weak form of vanity, for there were few High School teams in the state that had cause to dread Welton High School.
For Gridley, however, the game served a useful purpose. It solidified Captain Wadleigh’s team into actual work. The score was 32 to 0, in favor of Gridley. However, as Dick phrased it, the practice against an actual adversary, for the first time in the season, was worth at least three hundred to nothing.
“But don’t you fellows make a mistake,” cautioned Captain Wadleigh. “Don’t get a notion that you’ve nothing bigger than Welton to tackle this year. Next Saturday you’ve got to go up against Tottenville, and there’s an eleven that will make you perspire.”
Coach Morton had Tottenville gauged at its right value. During the few days before the game he kept the Gridley boys steadily at work. The passing and the signal work, in particular, were reviewed most thoroughly.
“Remember, the pass is going to count for a lot,” Mr. Morton warned them. “You can’t make a weight fight against Tottenville, for those fellows weigh a hundred and fifty pounds more, to the team, than you do. They’re savage, swift, clever players, too, those Tottenville youths. What you take away from them you’ll have to win by strategy.”
So the Gridley boys were drilled again and again in all the special points of field strategy that Coach Morton knew or could invent.
Yet one of the best things that Mr. Morton knew, and one that always characterized Gridley, was the matter of confidence.
Captain Wadleigh’s young men were made to feel that they were going to win. They did not underestimate the enemy, but they were going to win. That was well understood by them all.
Now, in the games of sheer strategy much depends upon nimble ends.
Dick Prescott, in particular, was coached much in private, as well as on the actual gridiron.
“Keep yourself in keen good shape, Mr. Prescott,” Mr. Morton insisted. “We need your help in scalping Tottenville next Saturday.”
As the week wore along Mr. Morton and Captain Wadleigh became more and more pleased with themselves and with their associates.
“I don’t see how we can fail tomorrow,” said Mr. Horton, quietly, to “Hen” Wadleigh, just after the School and the second teams had been dismissed.
It was not much after half-past three. Practice had been brief, in order that none of the players might be used up.
“Prescott, in especial, is showing up magnificently,” replied Wadleigh. “He and Darrin are certainly wonders at their end of the line.”
“You must use them all you can tomorrow, and yet don’t make them fight the whole battle,” replied Coach Morton. “Save them for the biggest emergencies.”
“I’ll be careful,” promised Wadleigh.
Dick and Dave walked back into the city, instead of taking a car.
“How are you feeling, Dick?” asked Dave.
“As smooth as silk,” Prescott replied.
“I don’t believe I’ve ever been in such fine condition before,” replied Dave.
“That’s mighty good, for I have an idea that the captain means to use us all he can tomorrow.”
“Oh, Tottenville is as good as beaten, then,” laughed Dave, with all the Gridley confidence.
“I’d like to know just how strong Tottenville is on its right end of the line,” mused Prescott.
“I don’t care how strong they are,” retorted Darrin, with a laugh. “You and I are not going to use strength; we’re going to rely upon brains—Coach Morton’s brains, though, to be sure.”
The two chums separated at the corner of the side street on which stood the Prescott bookstore and home. Dave hurried home to attend to some duties that he knew were awaiting him.
Dick, whistling, strolled briskly on. He saw Dodge and Bayliss on the other side of the street, but did not pay much attention to them until they crossed just before Dick had reached his own door.
“There’s the mucker,” muttered Bayliss, in a tone intentionally loud enough for the young left end to overhear.
“I won’t pay any attention to them,” thought Dick, with an amused smile. “I can easily understand what they’re sore about. I’d feel angry myself if I had been left off the team.”
“Why do fellows like that need an education?” demanded Dodge, in a slightly louder tone, as the pair came closer.
Still Dick Prescott paid no heed. He started up the steps, fumbling for his latch key as he went.
“You faker! You mucker!” hissed Bayliss, now speaking directly to the young left end.
This was so palpable that Dick could not well ignore it. Dropping the key back into his pocket, he turned to stare at the two “sorehead” chums.
“Eh?” he asked, with a quiet laugh.
“Yes; I meant you!” hissed Bayliss.
“Oh, well,” grinned Dick, “your opinions have never counted for much in the community, have they?”
“Shut up, you ignorant hound!” warned Bayliss belligerently.
“Too bad,” retorted Dick tantalizingly. “Of course, I understand what ails you. You were left off the High School team, and I was not. But that is your own fault, Bayliss. You could have made the team if you hadn’t been foolish.”
“Don’t insult me with your opinions fellow!” cried Bayliss, growing angrier every instant. At least, he appeared to be working him self up into a rage.
“Oh, I don’t care anything about your opinions, and I have no anxiety to spring mine on you,” retorted Dick, in an indifferent voice. Once more he fumbled for his latch key.
“You haven’t any business talking with gentlemen, anyway,” sneered Bert Dodge.
Dick flushed slightly, though he replied, coolly:
“As it happens, just at present I am not!”
“What do you mean by that?” flared Bert.
“Oh, you know, you don’t care anything about my opinions,” laughed Dick. “Let us drop the whole subject. I don’t care particularly, anyway, about being seen talking with you two.”
“Oh, you don’t?” cried Bayliss, in a voice hoarse with rage.
In almost the same breath Bert Dodge hurled an insult so pointed and so offensive that Dick’s ruddy cheek went white for an instant.
Back into his pocket he dropped the latch key, then stepped swiftly down before his tormentor.
“Dodge,” he cried warningly, “take back the remark you just made. Then, after that, you can take your offensive presence out of my sight!”
“I’ll take nothing back!” sneered the other boy.
“Then you’ll take this!” retorted Dick, very quietly, in a cold, low voice.
Prescott’s fist flew out. It was not a hard blow, but it landed on the tip of Bert Dodge’s nose.
“You cur!” cried Dodge chokingly. “Wait until I get my coat off.”
“No; keep it on; I’m going to keep mine on,” retorted Prescott. “Guard yourself, man!”
“Jump in, Bayliss! We’ll thump his head off!” gasped Dodge, with almost a sob in his voice, to was so angry.
Bayliss would have been nothing loath to “jump in.” But, just as Dick Prescott, after calling “guard,” aimed his second blow at Bert, Fred Ripley, Purcell and “Hen” Wadleigh all hurried up to the scene.
For Bayliss to be caught fighting two-to-one would have resulted in a quick thrashing for him. So Bayliss stood back.
“Bad blood, is there?” asked Wadleigh, as the new arrivals hurried up.
“Prescott, after insulting Bert, flew at him,” retorted Bayliss, panting some with the effort at lying.
Dodge was now standing well back. He had parried three of Dick’s blows, but had not yet taken the offensive. As Dodge was a heavier man, and not badly schooled in fistics, Dick had the good sense to go at this fight coolly, taking time to exercise his judgment.
“What’s it all about?” demanded Wadleigh.
Just for an instant Bayliss felt himself stumped. Then, all of a sudden, an inspiration in lying came to him.
“Prescott got ugly because the Dodges never paid that thousand-dollar reward,” declared Bayliss.
Dick heard, and with his eye still on Dodge, shouted out: “That’s not true, Bayliss. You know you are not telling the truth!”
Bayliss doubled his fists, and would have struck Prescott down from behind, but Wadleigh, who was a big and powerful fellow, caught Bayliss by his left arm, jerking him back.
“Now, just wait a bit, Bayliss,” advised “Hen,” moderately. “From what I know of Prescott I’m not afraid but that he’ll give you satisfaction presently—if you want it.”
“You bet he’ll have to!” hissed Bayliss.
“If Prescott loses the argument he has on now,” added Purcell, significantly, “I fancy he has friends who will take his place with you, Bayliss.”