Behind the Line: A Story of College Life and Football

"Much you know about it," Paul growled. "If I don't get into the Robinson game I'll–I'll leave college."

"But what good would that do?" asked Neil.

"I'd go somewhere where I'd stand a show. I'd go to Robinson or one of the smaller places."

"I don't think you'd do anything as idiotic as that," answered Neil. "It'll be hard luck if you miss the big game, but you've got three more years yet. What's one? You're certain to stand the best kind of a show next year."

"I don't see how. Gillam doesn't graduate until 1903."

"But you can beat him out for the place next year. All you need is more experience. Gillam's been at it two years here. Besides, it would be silly to leave a good college just because you couldn't play on the football team. Don't be like Cowan and think football's the only thing a chap comes here for."

"They've used him pretty shabbily," said Paul.

"That's what Cowan thinks. I don't see how they could do anything else."

"He's awfully cut up. I'm downright sorry for him. He says he's going to pack up and leave."

"And he's been trying to make you do the same, eh?" asked Neil. "Well, you tell him I'm very well satisfied with Erskine and haven't the least desire to change."

"You?" asked Paul.

"Certainly. We hang together, don't we?"

Paul grinned.

"You're a good chap, chum," he said gratefully. "But–" relapsing again into gloom–"you're not losing your place on the team, and you don't know how it feels. When a fellow's set his heart on it–"

"I think I do know," answered Neil. "I know how I felt when my shoulder went wrong and I thought I was off for good and all. I didn't like it. But cheer up, Paul, and give 'em fits Monday. Slam 'round, let yourself loose; show 'em what you can do. Down with Gillam!"

"Oh, I dare say," muttered Paul dejectedly.

Neil laid awake a long time that night; he was full of sympathy for his room-mate. With him friendship meant more than it does to the average boy of nineteen, and he was ready and eager to do anything in his power that would insure Paul's getting into the Robinson game. The trouble was that he could think of nothing, although he lay staring into the darkness, thinking and thinking, until Paul had been snoring comfortably across the room for more than an hour.

The next afternoon, Sunday, Neil, obeying the trainer's instructions, went for a walk. Paul begged off from accompanying him, and Neil sought Sydney. That youth was delighted to go, and so, Neil alternately pushing the tricycle and walking beside it while Sydney propelled it himself, the two followed the river for several miles into the country. The afternoon was cold but bright, and being outdoors was a pleasure to any healthy person. Neil forgot some of his worries and remembered that, after all, he was still a boy; that football is not the chief thing in college life, and that ten years hence it would matter little to him whether he played for his university against her rival or looked on from the bench. And it was that thought that suggested to him a means of sparing Paul the bitter disappointment that he dreaded.

The plan seemed both simple and feasible, and he wondered why he had not thought of it before. To be sure, it involved the sacrificing of an ambition of his own; but to-day, out here among the pines and beeches, with the clear blue sky overhead and the eager breeze bringing the color to his cheeks, the sacrifice seemed paltry and scarcely a sacrifice at all. He smiled to himself, glad to have found the solution of Paul's trouble, which was also his own; but suddenly it occurred to him that perhaps he had no right to do what he contemplated. The ethics were puzzling, and presently he turned to Sydney, who had been silently and contentedly wheeling himself along across the road, and sought his counsel.

"Look here, Syd, you're a level-headed sort of chump. Give me your valuable opinion on this, will you? Now–it's a supposititious case, you know–here are two fellows, A and B, each trying for the same–er–prize. Now, supposing A has just about reached it and B has fallen behind; and supposing I–"

"Eh?" asked Sydney.

"Yes, I meant A. Supposing A knows that B is just as deserving of the prize as he is, and that–that he'll make equally as good use of it. Do you follow, Syd?"

"Y–yes, I think so," answered the other doubtfully.

"Well, now, the question I want your opinion on is this: Wouldn't it be perfectly fair for A to–well, slip a cog or two, you know–"

"Slip a cog?" queried Sydney, puzzled.

"Yes; that is," explained Neil, "play off a bit, but not enough for any of the fellows to suspect, and so let B get the plum?"

"Well," answered Sydney, after a moment's consideration, "it sounds fair enough–"

"That's what I think," said Neil eagerly.

"But maybe A and B are not the only ones interested. How about the conditions of the contest? Don't they require that each man shall do his best? Isn't it intended that the prize shall go to the one who really is the best?"

"Oh, well, in a manner, maybe," answered Neil. He was silent a moment. The ethics was more puzzling than ever. Then: "Of course, it's only a supposititious case, you understand, Syd," he assured him earnestly.

"Oh, of course," answered the other readily. "Hadn't we better turn here?"

The journey back was rather silent. Neil was struggling with his problem, and Sydney, too, seemed to have something on his mind. When the town came once more into view around a bend in the road Sydney interrupted Neil's thoughts.

"Say, Neil, I've got a–a confession to make." His cheeks were very red and he looked extremely embarrassed. Neil viewed him in surprise.

"A confession? You haven't murdered the Dean, have you?"

"No. It–it's something rather different. I don't believe that it will make any difference in our–our friendship, but–it might."

"It won't," said Neil. "Now, fire ahead."

"Well, you recollect the day you found me on the way from the field and pushed me back to college?"

"Of course. Your old ice-wagon had broken down and I–"

"That's it," interrupted Sydney, with a little embarrassed laugh. "It hadn't."

"What hadn't? Hadn't what?"

"The machine; it hadn't broken down."

"But I saw it," exclaimed Neil. "What do you mean, Syd?"

"I mean that it hadn't really broken down, Neil. I–the truth is I had pried one of the links up with a screw-driver."

Neil stared in a puzzled way.

"But–what for?" he asked.

"Don't you understand?" asked Sydney, shame-faced. "Because I wanted to know you, and I thought if you found me there with my machine busted you'd try to fix it; and I'd make your acquaintance. It–it was awfully dishonest, I know," muttered Sydney at the last.

Neil stared for a moment in surprise. Then he clapped the other on the shoulder and laughed uproariously.

"Oh, to think of guileless little Syd being so foxy!" he cried. "I wouldn't have believed it if any one else had told me, Syd."

"Well," said Sydney, very red in the face, but joining in the laughter, "you don't mind?"

"Mind?" echoed Neil, becoming serious again, "why of course I don't. What is there to mind, Syd? I'm glad you did it, awfully glad." He laid his arm over the shoulders of the lad on the seat. "Here, let me push a while. Queer you should have cared that much about knowing me; but–but I'm glad." Suddenly his laughter returned.