Left End Edwards

"The stuff's too hard," he said in answer to Mr. Daley's inquiries. "Look at the lesson we had to-day, sir; all that and this, over to here; sight reading, too. And two compositions so far this week! I just didn't have time for it last night, and so when he called on me to-day I told him I wasn't prepared. And then he—he ragged me in front of the class and gave me a page and a half to write, beside to-morrow's lesson. I can't do it, and that's all there is to it!"

"Er—yes, yes, I see. I'm sorry, Edwards. Now, let us have a look at this. Yes, there's quite a lot of it. You—ah—you didn't have much Latin before you came here, I take it?"

"Had enough," growled Steve, "but nothing like this. I've had Cæsar and some Cicero. I never had any luck with Latin, anyway." And Steve viewed the open book with distaste.

"It's the quantity, then, you find—ah—difficult," said Mr. Daley. "As far as grammar is concerned, I take it you are—ah—well grounded, Edwards?"

"I suppose so. But look at the length of the lesson we have!"

"Yes. Very true. But, of course, to complete a certain amount of work in the year it is—ah—necessary to do quite a good deal every day. Now maybe you—ah—haven't been really setting your mind on this. I know in my own case that I very often find myself—ah—skimping, so to speak; I mean going over a thing without really getting the—ah—the meat out of it. I'm almost certain that if you really settled your mind on this, Edwards, that you'd get along very well with it. Suppose now that you give twice as much time to it to-night as you usually do. If some other study must suffer, why, let it be your French and I will let you by to-morrow if you aren't well prepared. And—ah—I wish when you've been over this you'd come down and let me—ah—go over it with you lightly. I think—I think that would be an excellent idea, Edwards."

"Oh, I'll try it," grumbled Steve, "but it isn't any use. And look at what I've got to translate for him!"

"Yes, yes, I see. Well—ah—bring your book down after awhile and we'll see what can be done. How are you getting on, Hall?"

"Pretty well, sir. I find it a bit stiff, too, but maybe after awhile I'll get the hang of it."

"That's the way to talk!" exclaimed the instructor approvingly. "That—ah—that is the right attitude, Hall. Make up your mind that it will come and it will come. We all have our—our problems, and the only way to do is to—ah—face them and ride straight at them. So often, when we reach them, we find them—ah—we find them so very much more trivial than we had supposed. They're like—like hills seen from a distance that look terrifically steep. When we—ah—reach them we find them easy grades after all. You see what I mean? Yes, yes. Well, I shall expect you in my study later, Edwards. I want you—both of you, that is—to realise that I am very eager to be of assistance at any time. Possibly I can't help very much,—but—ah—I am most willing, boys."

"Silly chump," growled Steve when the door had closed behind Mr. Daley. "I wish—ah—he'd—ah—mind his own—ah—business!"

But Tom didn't smile. "I think the chap means to be awfully decent, Steve," he said thoughtfully. "The trouble is, I guess, he's scared to death of the fellows. You can see that in class."

"He's a regular granny," replied Steve. "Wish he had this stuff to do. I guess he wouldn't be so light and airy about it!"

"You'll go down and let him help you, though, won't you?" asked Tom anxiously.

"Oh, I suppose so. He can do the whole thing if he wants to. Where is my dictionary?"

With Mr. Daley's help, freely offered and grudgingly accepted, Steve weathered that crisis. And secretly he was grateful to the Hall Master, though he still pretended to believe and possibly did half believe that the latter was a sort of mollycoddle. Tom told him indignantly once that since Mr. Daley had been so awfully decent to him he ought to stop poking fun at him. To which Steve cheerfully made answer that even a mollycoddle could be decent at times!

Brimfield played Canterbury High School on a Wednesday afternoon in early October and had a good deal of a scare. Canterbury romped on to the field like a bunch of young colts, and continued to romp for the best part of three ten-minute periods, long after Brimfield had decided that romping was no longer in good taste! Led by a small, wiry, red-headed quarter-back, who was likewise captain, and directed from the side-line by a coach who looked scarcely older than the big youth who played centre for them, the Canterbury team took the most astounding liberties with football precedents. They didn't transgress the rules, but they put such original interpretations on some of them that Mr. Conklin, who was refereeing, and Mr. Jordan, instructor in mathematics, who was umpiring, had their heads over the rules-book nearly half the time! Now and then they would march to the side-line and consult the Canterbury coach. "Where do you get your authority for that play?" Mr. Conklin would ask a trifle irritably. Thereupon, silently but with a twinkle in his eye, the coach would gravely take the book, flip the pages, lay a finger on a section and return it.

"Hm," Mr. Conklin would say. "Hm; but that seems to be in direct contradiction of another rule over here!"

"Quite likely," the coach would reply indifferently. "There are quite a few contradictions there. Of course, you may accept either rule you like, gentlemen."

Disarmed in such wise, the officials invariably decided the play to be legal, and Quarter-back Milton, of Brimfield, would protest volubly and get very, very red in the face in his attempt to carry his point and, at the same time, omit none of the respect due a faculty member! It was hard on Milton, that game, and several times he nearly had apoplexy.

Then, too, Canterbury did the most unexpected things at the most inopportune moments. When Brimfield expected her to rush the ball she was just as likely to get off a kick from close formation. When the circumstances indicated an attack on the short side of the field Canterbury's backs swung around the other end. When a close formation was to be looked for she swung her line half across the field, so confusing the opponents that they acted as though hypnotised. The forward pass was to Canterbury a play that afforded her infinite amusement. She used it in the most unheard of locations; in midfield, under the shadow of her own goal, anywhere, everywhere and almost always when least expected. At the end of the second period Brimfield trotted away to the gymnasium dazed and tired of brain, with the score 7 to 0 against her.

The surprising thing about the visitors was that they played as though they were just having an afternoon of good fun. They romped, like boys playing leap-frog or follow-my-leader. They romped up the field and they romped down the field and, incidentally, over and through and around their opponents. And the more care-free and happy Canterbury became, the more anxious and laboured grew Brimfield. The Maroon-and-Grey reminded one of a very staid and serious middle-aged party with a grave duty to perform trying to restrain the spirited antics of a small boy with no sense of decorum!

When the second half began, Canterbury added insult to injury. Instead of booting the pigskin down the field in an honest and earnest endeavour to obtain distance, she deliberately and with malice aforethought, dribbled it on the bias, so to speak, toward the side-line. Benson, right end, should certainly have got it, but he was so perplexed that he never thought of picking it up until a Canterbury forward had performed the task for him and had raced nearly twenty yards down the field! It was an unprecedented thing to do, or, at least, unprecedented at Brimfield, and the audience voiced its disapproval strongly. But as the ball had gone the required ten yards there was nothing to do but smile—a trifle foolishly, perhaps—and accept the situation. And the situation was this: Canterbury had kicked off and gained over thirty yards without losing possession of the ball! But in one way that play was ill-advised. Brimfield had stood all sorts of jokes and pranks from the enemy with fairly good grace, but this enormity was too much. Brimfield was peeved! More than that, she was really angry! And, being angry, she forgot that for twenty minutes she had been outplayed and started in then and there to administer a licking to the obstreperous small boy.

Even then, however, Canterbury continued to romp and enjoy herself. She found hard sledding, but she worked down to Brimfield's eight-yard line before she was finally halted. Then her right half romped back for a try at goal and joyously booted the ball. But, to the enormous relief of the onlookers, the ball went under the bar instead of over, and Canterbury romped back again. That third period was very evenly contested, Brimfield, smarting under a sense of wounded dignity, playing well together and allowing Canterbury no more opportunities to attempt scores. The visitors, still untamed, sprang strange and weird formations and attacks. A favourite trick was to start a play without signals, while one of her men was ostensibly tying a shoe-lace yards away or requesting a new head-guard near a side-line. It invariably happened, though, that the shoe-lace was tied in time to allow the youth to get the ball on a pass and attempt a joyous romp around the opponent's end. There was no scoring in the third period, but the whistle blew with the pigskin down on Canterbury's twenty-five yards and Brimfield with four to go on third down.

As there was no practice that afternoon, Steve and Tom saw the game from the grand stand, with two cronies named Draper and Westcott. Draper's first name was Leroy and he was called Roy. He was a tow-haired youngster of fifteen with very bright blue eyes and a tip-tilted nose that gave him a humorously impertinent look. He, like Steve and Tom, was a Fourth Former. His home was in Pittsburg, Pennsylvania, and, while Pittsburg was a good hundred miles from Tannersville, the fact that they were citizens of the same glorious commonwealth had drawn he and Steve together. Harry Westcott was a year older and came from a small town in Connecticut. He was Roy's room-mate in Torrence. He had a slim, small-boned body and a good-looking face with an aquiline nose and a pair of very large soft-brown eyes. His dark hair was brushed straight back from his forehead and was always very slick. Harry was what Roy called "a fussy dresser" and affected knickerbockers and golf-stockings, negligée shirts of soft and delicate hues of lavender or green or blue and, to quote his disrespectful room-mate once more, "symphonic ties." Harry was the embodiment of aristocratic ease and always lent a "tone" to any gathering. He maintained an air of what he probably considered well-bred composure and tabooed enthusiasm. Harry never declared that a thing was "bully" or "fine and dandy"; he mildly observed that it was "not half bad." This pose amused him, doubtless, and entertained his friends, and underneath it all he was a very normal, likable chap. It was Roy Draper who broke the strained silence that had endured until the whistle put an end to the third period.

"I wouldn't give a cent for Canterbury's chances in the next period," he said. "Look at Andy's face, fellows. It has the 'blood-lust' on it. When Andy looks that way something has just got to happen!"

"He looks annoyed," assented Harry.

"You'd be annoyed if you had your lip cut the way his is," chuckled Roy.

"Do you think we'll beat them?" asked Tom anxiously.

"Nothing can save them," replied Roy conclusively. "Andy has his dander up."

"It took him long enough to get it up," grumbled Steve. "He let those fellows run rings around us in the first half."

"That's his foxy way. Now he's got them all tired out and we'll go in and rip 'em up. You watch!"

"There's Marvin going in for Milton," announced Tom. "Say, those chaps haven't made a change in their line-up yet."

"One," corrected Harry. "They put in a new right guard last period. They're a funny lot, seems to me. You'd think they were having the time of their lives."

"I like that, though," said Roy. "After all, you know, this thing of playing football is supposed to be amusement."

"It's a heap more like hard work, though," replied Harry. "Not that I ever played it much."

"Did you ever play at all?" asked Roy.

"Once or twice at grammar school. It was too fatiguing, though."

"I'll bet it was," chuckled Roy. "I'd like to see you playing, old thing."

"I did, though; played right half-back. A fellow stuck his elbow into my face and I knocked him flat. Captain said it was part of the game, you know, and I shouldn't have done it. I said that any fellow who bumped my nose would have to look for trouble. Then the umpire put me off and the game lost a real star."

"Here we go," said Steve. "Now let's see if they can carry it over."

They didn't, however, just then. Canterbury held finely in the shadow of her goal and Marvin's forward pass to Captain Miller went out at the twelve-yards. But Canterbury was forced to punt a moment later, and Brimfield took up the march again. On the adversary's thirty-yard line, with six to go on the third down, Norton, full-back, attempted an impossible drop-kick—he was standing over forty yards from the cross-bar—and made it good.

"What did I tell you?" demanded Roy, digging Steve with his elbow.

"That's only three points, though," answered Steve doubtfully. "We couldn't make a touchdown."

"It isn't over yet," said Roy confidently. "We're getting better all the time."

Canterbury gave the ball to Brimfield for the kick-off and Fowler booted it down to the opponent's fifteen yards. Andy Miller was under it all the way and upset an ambitious Canterbury back before he was well started. Canterbury tried two plunges and then punted from her twenty-five-yard line to Brimfield's fifty. Marvin caught and brought the stand to its feet by reeling off twelve yards across the field before he was downed. Then Brimfield found herself and went down the gridiron by steady plunges, plugging the Canterbury line for good gains from tackle to tackle. Norton, at full-back, was the hero of that period. Time after time he took the pigskin and landed it for a gain. Marvin, cool and heady, ran the team beautifully, and when four minutes of playing time remained, Brimfield was again knocking at Canterbury's door, the pigskin on the latter's eighteen yards.

"First down!" proclaimed Roy triumphantly. "Here's where she goes over, old thing!"

"Let her go," replied Harry. "I'm watching."

"I hope they don't try another silly field-goal," muttered Steve.

"Not on first down, they won't. Bully work, Norton! Did you see it? Three yards easily!"