Behind the Line: A Story of College Life and Football

"About eight this evening, if you can make it, Burr," said Mills. "Good-by." He stood at the door and watched the other as he trundled slowly down the street.

"Poor chap!" he muttered. And then: "Still, I'm not so sure that he's an object of pity. If he hasn't any legs worth mentioning, the Almighty made it up to him by giving him a whole lot of brains. If he can't get about like the rest of us he's a great deal more contented, I believe, and if he can't play football he can show others how to. And," he added, as he returned to his desk, "unless I'm mistaken, he's done it to-day. Now to mail this list and then for the 'antidote'!"

That night in Mills's room the assembled coaches and captain talked over Sydney's play, discussed it from start to finish, objected, explained, argued, tore it to pieces and put it together again, and in the end indorsed it. And Sydney, silent save when called on for an explanation of some feature of his discovery, sat with his crutches beside his chair and listened to many complimentary remarks; and at ten o'clock went back to Walton and bed, only to lie awake until long after the town-clock had struck midnight, excited and happy.

Had you been at Erskine at any time during the following two weeks and had managed to get behind the fence, you would have witnessed a very busy scene. Day after day the varsity and the second fought like the bitterest enemies; day after day the little army of coaches shouted and fumed, pleaded and scolded; and day after day a youth on crutches followed the struggling, panting lines, instructing and criticizing, and happier than he had been at any time in his memory.

For the "antidote," as they had come to call it, had been tried and had vindicated its inventor's faith in it. Every afternoon the second team hammered the varsity line with the tackle-tandem, and almost every time the varsity stopped it and piled it up in confusion. The call for volunteers for the thankless position at the front of the little tandem of two had resulted just as Sydney had predicted. Every candidate for varsity honors had begged for it, and some half dozen or more had been tried. But in the end the choice had narrowed down to Neil, Paul, Gillam, and Mason, and these it was that day after day bore the brunt of the attack, emerging from each pile-up beaten, breathless, scarred, but happy and triumphant. Two weeks is short time in which to teach a new play, but Mills and the others went bravely and confidently to work, and it seemed that success was to justify the attempt; for three days before the Robinson game the varsity had at last attained perfection in the new play, and the coaches dared at last to hope for victory.

But meanwhile other things, pleasant and unpleasant, had happened, and we must return to the day which had witnessed the inception of Sydney Burr's "antidote."

CHAPTER XVI

ROBINSON SENDS A PROTEST

When Sydney left Mills that morning he trundled himself along Elm Street to Neil's lodgings in the hope of finding that youth and telling him of his good fortune. But the windows of the first floor front study were wide open, the curtains were hanging out over the sills, and from within came the sound of the broom and clouds of dust. Sydney turned his tricycle about in disappointment and retraced his path, through Elm Lane, by the court-house with its tall white pillars and green shutters, across Washington Street, the wheels of his vehicle rustling through the drifts of dead leaves that lined the sidewalks, and so back to Walton. He had a recitation at half-past ten, but there was still twenty minutes of leisure according to the dingy-faced clock on the tower of College Hall. So he left the tricycle by the steps, and putting his crutches under his arms, swung himself into the building and down the corridor to his study. The door was ajar and he thrust it open with his foot.

"Please be careful of the paint," expostulated a voice, and Sydney paused in surprise.

"Well," he said; "I've just been over to your room looking for you."

"Have you? Sorry I wasn't–Say, Syd, listen to this." Neil dragged a pillow into a more comfortable place and sat up. He had been stretched at full length on the big window-seat. "Here it is in a nutshell," he continued, waving the paper he was reading.

"'First a signal, then a thud,
And your face is in the mud.
Some one jumps upon your back,
And your ribs begin to crack.
Hear a whistle. "Down!" That's all.
'Tis the way to play football.'"

"Pretty good, eh? Hello, what's up? Your face looks as bright as though you'd polished it. How dare you allow your countenance to express joy when in another quarter of an hour I shall be struggling over my head in the history of Rome during the second Punic War? But there, go ahead; unbosom yourself. I can see you're bubbling over with delightful news. Have they decided to abolish the Latin language? Or has the faculty been kidnaped? Have they changed their minds and decided to take me with 'em to New Haven to-morrow? Come, little Bright Eyes, out with it!"

Sydney told his good news, not without numerous eager interruptions from Neil, and when he had ended the latter executed what he called a "Punic war-dance." It was rather a striking performance, quite stately and impressive, for when one's left shoulder is made immovable by much bandaging it is difficult, as Neil breathlessly explained, to display abandon--the latter spoken through the nose to give it the correct French pronunciation.

"And, if you're not good to me," laughed Sydney, "I'll get back at you in practise. And I'm to be treated with respect, also, Neil; in fact, I believe you had better remove your cap when you see me."

"All right, old man; cap–sweater–anything! You shall be treated with the utmost deference. But seriously, Syd, I'm awfully glad. Glad all around; glad you've made a hit with the play, and glad you've found something to beat Robinson with. Now tell me again about it; where do I come in on it?"

And so Sydney drew a chair up to the table and drew more diagrams of the new play, and Neil looked on with great interest until the bell struck the half-hour, and they hurried away to recitations.

The next day the varsity and substitutes went to New Haven. Neil wasn't taken along, and so when the result of the game reached the college–Yale 40, Erskine 0–he was enabled to tell Sydney that it was insanity for Mills and Devoe to expect to do anything without his (Neil's) services.

"If they will leave me behind, Syd, what can they hope for save rout and disaster? Of course, I realize that I could not have played, but my presence on the side-line would have inspired them and have been very, very helpful. I'm sure the score would have been quite different, Syd."

"Yes," laughed the other; "say fifty to nothing."

"Your levity and disrespect pains me," mourned Neil.

But despite the overwhelming nature of the defeat, Mills and Devoe and the associate coaches found much to encourage them. No attempt had been made to try the new defensive play, but Erskine had managed to make her distance several times. The line had proved steady and had borne the severe battering of the Yale backs without serious injury. The Purple's back-field had played well; Paul had been in his best form, Gillam had gained ground quite often through Yale's wings, and Mason, at full-back, had fought nobly. The ends had proved themselves quick and speedy in getting down under punts, and several of the Blue's tries around end had been nipped ingloriously in the bud. But, when all was said, the principal honors of the contest had fallen to Ted Foster, Erskine's plucky quarter, whose handling of the team had been wonderful, and whose catching and running back of punts had more than once turned the tide of battle. On the whole, Erskine had put up a good, fast, well-balanced game; had displayed plenty of grit, had shown herself well advanced in team-play, and had emerged practically unscathed from a hard-fought contest.

On Monday Neil went into the line-up for a few minutes, displacing Paul at left-half, but did not form one of the heroic tandem. His shoulder bothered him a good deal for the first minute or two, but after he had warmed up to the work he forgot about it and banged it around so that Simson was obliged to remonstrate and threaten to take him out. On the second's twenty yards Neil was given a chance at a goal from placement, and, in spite of his right shoulder, and to the delight of the coaches, sent the leather over the bar. When he turned and trotted back up the field he almost ran over Sydney, who was hobbling blithely about the gridiron on his crutches.

"Whoa!" cried Neil. "Back up! Hello, Board of Strategy; how do you find yourself?"

"That was fine, Neil," said Sydney.

"What?"

"That goal."

"Glad you liked it. I was beastly nervous," he laughed. "Had no idea I could do it. It's so different trying goals in a game; when you're just off practising it doesn't seem to bother you."

"Oh, you'll do. Gale is growling like a bear because they took him out."

"Is he?" asked Neil. "I'm sorry. Do you know whether he stands a good show for the game? Have you heard Mills or Devoe say anything about it?" Sydney shook his head.

"I'm afraid Gillam's got us both boxed," continued Neil. "As for me, I suppose they'll let me in because I can sometimes kick a goal, but I'm worried about Paul. If he'd only–Farewell, they are lining up again."

"I don't believe Gale will get into the Robinson game," thought Sydney as he took himself toward the side-line. "He seems a good player, but–but you never can tell what he's going to do; half the time he just sort of slops around and looks as though he was doing a favor by playing. I can't see why Neil likes him so well; I suppose it's because he's so different. Maybe he's a better sort when you know him real well."

After practise was ended and the riotous half-hour in the locker-house was over, Neil found himself walking back to the campus with Sydney and Paul. Paul entertained a half-contemptuous liking for Sydney. To Neil he called him "the crip," but when in Sydney's presence was careful never to say anything to wound the boy's feelings–an act of consideration rather remarkable for Paul, who, while really kind at heart, was oftentimes careless about the sensibilities of others. This afternoon Paul was evidently downcast, too downcast to be even cross.

"Well, I guess it's all up with me," he said as they passed through the gate and started down Williams Street toward college. "I'm glad you're back, chum, but I can see my finish."

"Nonsense," said Neil, "you'll be back to-morrow. Gillam is putting up a star game, and that's a fact; but your weight will help you, and if you buckle down for the next few days you'll make it all right."

But Paul refused to be comforted and remained silent and gloomy all the way home. Knowing how Paul had set his heart upon making the varsity for the Robinson game, Neil began to be rather worried himself. He felt, unnecessarily of course, in a measure responsible for the crowning of his friend's ambition. When he had prevailed on Paul to relinquish the idea of going to Robinson, he had derided the possibility of Paul failing to make the Erskine team; and now that possibility was rapidly assuming the appearance of a probability. Certainly the fault was Paul's, and not his; but the thought contained small comfort.

Next day's practise, in preparation for Erskine's last game before the Robinson contest, proved Paul's fears far from groundless. Gillam, Neil, and Mason started work when the line-up was formed, and Paul looked on heart-brokenly from the bench. It was not until Neil had failed twice and succeeded once at field-goals, and Gillam had been well hammered by the second's tandem plays, that Paul secured a chance. Then Neil was taken out and his friend put in.

Neil wrapped a frayed gray blanket about his shoulders and reflected ruefully upon events. He knew that he had played poorly; that he had twice tied up the play by allowing his thoughts to wander; that his end-running had been slow, almost listless, and that his performance at goal-kicking had been miserable. He had missed two tries from placement, one on the twenty yards and another on the twenty-seven, and had only succeeded at a drop-kick by the barest of margins. He couldn't even lay the blame on his injured shoulder, for that was no longer a factor in his playing; the bandages were off and only a leather pad remained to remind him of the incident. No, he had simply worried his stupid head over Paul's troubles, he told himself, and had thereby disappointed the coaches, the captain, and himself. Simson found him presently and sent him trotting about the field, an exercise that worked some of his gloom off and left him in a fairly cheerful frame of mind when he ran up the locker-house steps.

But at dinner he found that his appetite had almost deserted him. Simson observed him gravely, and after the meal was over questioned closely. Neil answered rather irritably, and the trainer's uneasiness increased; but he only said:

"Go to bed early to-night and lay off to-morrow. You'll be better by Monday. And you might take a walk to-morrow afternoon; go off into the country somewhere; see if you can't find some one to go with you. How's the shoulder? No trouble there, is there?"

"No, there's no trouble anywhere; I just wasn't hungry."

"Well, you do what I've told you and you'll get your appetite back, my boy."

Neil turned away frowning and took himself to his lodging, feeling angry with Simson because he was going to keep him off the field, and angry with himself because–oh, just because he was.

But Neil was not the only person concerned with Erskine athletics who was out of sorts that night. A general air of gloom had pervaded the dinner-table. Mills had been even silenter than usual; the three other coaches present had been plainly worried, and Simson, in spite of his attempts to keep the conversation cheerful, had showed that he too was bothered about something. A bomb-shell had landed in the Erskine camp and had exploded in Mills's quarters.

On the front steps Neil met Cowan. The two always nodded to each other, but to-night Neil's curt salutation went unheeded. Cowan, with troubled face, hurried by him and went up the street toward Mills's rooms.

"Every one's grouchy to-night," muttered Neil. "Even Cowan looks as though he was going to be shot."