Left End Edwards

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"Very well," he said. "I shall mark these this evening. You
will--er--kindly get them to-morrow. Now then, 'Le Siege de Paris'; we
left off where, Upton?"

At a few minutes past twelve Steve knocked at Mr. Daley's door, and,
obeying the invitation, entered. The instructor was seated at his desk,
a litter of blue-books in front of him and a pipe in his mouth. The
latter he laid aside as the boy appeared.

"You said you wanted to see me, sir," said Steve.

"Er--yes, Edwards. Sit down, please." The instructor took up his pipe
again, hurriedly put it aside, seized a pencil and jotted nervously on
the back of a book. Finally,

"I--er--find your composition here," he said. "When did you write it?"

"Between half-past ten last night and two o'clock this morning."

"Hm!" Mr. Daley swung around in his chair, viewed the oblong of
landscape framed by the window for a moment and swung back again. There
was a faint smile about his eyes. "Edwards, you--er--are a bit
disconcerting. I presume you know that the rules require you to be in
bed with lights out at ten-thirty?"

"Yes, sir."

"Hm! And you--er--deliberately transgressed that rule?"

"I didn't see anything else to do, Mr. Daley. You said I must turn that
in by noon and there wouldn't have been time this morning to do it."

"Logically reasoned, my boy, but----" The instructor shook his head.
"You mustn't expect me to compliment you on your performance, Edwards.
To perform one duty by neglecting another is hardly--er--commendable. If
it were not that you had transgressed a rule of the school, Edwards, I
might compliment you quite highly. Your composition--I--er--I've been
glancing through it--is really very good. I don't mean that you have not
made mistakes of grammar, for you have, lots of them, but--er--you have
written a well-constructed and--er--well-expressed narrative. What
I--er--especially like about it is the subject. You have written of
something you know about, something close at home, so to say. I--er--I
am not much of a swimmer myself, but I presume that the instructions you
have laid down here are--er--quite correct. In fact, Edwards, I'll even
go so far as to say that I fancy one might take this composition of
yours and--er--really learn something about swimming. And--er--if you
have ever tried to learn anything of the sort--golf, rowing,
tennis--from a hand-book you will realise that that is high praise."

"Yes, sir. Thank you."

"I had decided to mark your composition with a B, Edwards. Perhaps the
many mistakes in grammar would ordinarily indicate a C, perhaps even a C
minus, but the--er--other merits of the exercise are so pronounced that,
on the whole, I think it deserves a B."

"Thank you, sir."

"Er--just a moment." The instructor held up a hand. "I said that I had
decided to give you a B, Edwards. That, however, was before I had
learned when this was written. I shall now give it a D minus.
You--er--you understand why, Edwards?"

"Yes, sir."

"I'm sorry, but I--er--must take into consideration the facts in the
case. And those facts are that you neglected your work until the last
moment and then disobeyed one of the well-known rules of the school in
order to perform it. There is one other thing I might do. I might credit
you with a B on your exercise and report you to the Office for
disobeying the rules. But--er--I think, on the whole, that the first
method is the more satisfactory. You understand, of course, that
anything under a C in this test is equivalent to failure?"

"Yes, sir."

"Hm; exactly. Therefore, Edwards, you will be required to make up nearly
a month's work in French. I shall have to ask you to prove to me that
you are in line with the rest of the class. But you will have a full
week to do this and I--er--I suspect that you will not find it very
difficult." Mr. Daley took up a blue pencil and marked a large "D-" on
the corner of the blue-book. "You might as well take this now, Edwards.
Bring me another composition not later than a week from to-day, please."
The instructor fluttered the leaves of a memorandum-pad and made a note
opposite a future date. "I have not corrected it, but, as you have it to
do over, that is not necessary."

Mr. Daley leaned back in his chair and gazed for a minute at the table.
Then,

"There is one other thing, Edwards," he said hesitantly. "About last
night, you know; the--er--the misappropriation of Upton's blue-book.
Have you--er--thought that over?"

"I suppose so, sir."

"Hm! I should like to ask you one question and receive an absolutely
truthful reply, Edwards."

"Yes, sir."

"When you took that book to your room did you intend to--er--make a
wrong use of it?"

"No, sir. I saw the book on your table, Mr. Daley, and--and it did occur
to me that it would be easy to copy it out in my own writing and--and
turn it in as my work, sir. I read a little of it and put it back on the
table. But I don't at all remember seeing it again after that, sir, and
that's the truth. I haven't the slightest recollection of having it in
my hand when I left this room or of putting it on the table upstairs.
And--and I'd like you to believe me, sir."

"I want to, Edwards, I want to," replied Mr. Daley eagerly.
"And--er--to-day your story sounds much more plausible. I can imagine
that, with the thought of your own composition in mind and doubtless
worrying you, you might easily have--er--absentmindedly picked that book
from the table here when you went out and taken it to your room without
being conscious of the act. I believe that to be quite possible,
Edwards, and I am going to think it happened just that way. I have never
observed any signs of--er--dishonesty in you, my boy, and I don't think
you are a liar. We will consider that matter closed and we will both
forget all about it."

"Thank you, sir," replied Steve gratefully.

"But, Edwards, this seems to me a good time to tell you that--er--that
your attitude toward--er--your work and toward those in authority has
not been satisfactory. You have--er--impressed me as a boy with, to use
a vulgar expression, a grouch. Now, get that out of your system,
Edwards. No one is trying to impose on you. Your work is no harder than
the next fellow's. What you lack is, I presume, application. I--er--I
don't deny that possibly you are pressed for time when it comes to
studying, but that is your fault. Your football work is exacting, for
one thing, although there are plenty of fellows--I could name twenty or
thirty with whom I come in contact--who manage to play football and
maintain an excellent class standing at the same time. So, Edwards, the
fault lies somewhere with you, _in_ you, doubtless. Now, what do you
think it is?"

"I don't know, Mr. Daley." Steve shook his head hopelessly. "I want to
do what's right, sir, but--but somehow I can't seem to."

"When you study do you put your mind on it, or do you find yourself
thinking of other things, football, for instance?"

"I guess I think of other things a good deal," replied Steve.

"Football?"

"I guess so; football and--and swimming and--lots of things, sir."

"There's a time for football and a time for study, Edwards. You will
have to first of all--er--leave football behind you when you come off
the field. Swimming, the same way. It won't work. I've seen it tried too
often, Edwards. You--er--you wouldn't want to have to give up football,
I suppose?"

"No, sir!" Steve looked up in alarm.

"But it might come to that, my boy. You're here to learn, you know, and
we would not be treating your parents fairly--or you either--if we
allowed you to waste your time. Football is an excellent sport; one of
the best, I think; but it's only a sport, not a--er--profession, you
know. All the knowledge of football in the world isn't going to help you
when you leave here and try to enter college. By the way, I presume you
intend to go to college, Edwards?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then keep that in mind. Remember that you're getting yourself ready for
it. Perhaps that will make your work seem better worth doing. How are
you getting on with your Latin?"

"Very well, sir, just now."

"Better see that 'just now' becomes 'all the time,' Edwards. Why, look
here! You can do the work set you and play football or baseball or
anything else if you'll make up your mind to it. You're a bright, normal
fellow, with the average amount of brains. Systematise, Edwards! Arrange
your day right. Mark down so many hours for recitations, so many hours
for study, so many hours for play, and stick to your schedule. You'll
find after awhile that it comes easy. You'll find that you--er--you'll
miss studying when anything keeps you from it. When you go out of here I
want you to do that very thing, my boy. I want you to go right up to
your room, take a sheet of paper and make out a daily schedule. And when
you've got it done put it somewhere where you'll see it. And stick to
it! Will you?"

"Yes, sir; that is, I--I'll do my best."

"Good!" Mr. Daley held out a hand, smiling. "Shake hands on it, Edwards.
You may not believe it, but half of--er--doing a thing consists of
making up your mind to it! Well, that's all, I think. Er--you'd better
look me up this evening and we'll settle about that French. Good-bye.
Hope I haven't made you late for dinner."

Steve drew a deep breath outside the door, puckered his lips and
whistled softly, but it was a thoughtful whistle; as thoughtful as it
was tuneless, and it lasted him all the way upstairs and into his room.
Tom had gone, evidently having wearied of waiting for his friend to
accompany him to dinner. Steve's own appetite was calling pretty loudly,
but, having slipped the blue-book out of sight under a pile on the
table, he dropped into his chair, drew a sheet of paper to him and began
on the schedule. It took him almost a half-hour to complete it, and he
spoiled several sheets in the process, but it was finally done, and,
heading it "Daley Schedule," with a brief smile at the pun, he placed it
on his chiffonier and hurried across to Wendell.

CHAPTER XIX

THE SECOND PUTS IT OVER

"What do you know about that?" demanded Tom the next day. "'Horace' gave
me a B on my comp! Of course, I'm not kicking, but I'll bet he made a
mistake. Maybe he got nervous and his pencil slipped!"

"Seems to me," returned Steve coldly, "he knows better than you do what
the thing is worth. He's not exactly an idiot, you know."

Tom stared in some surprise. "I didn't say he was an idiot, did I?
Considering the things you've said about 'Horace' I don't think you need
take that high-and-mighty tone!"

"Well, don't be a chump, then," replied Steve. "If Mr. Daley gave you a
B you deserved a B."

"Thanking you kindly," murmured Tom as he disappeared behind the pages
of the blue-book to digest the corrections and criticisms on the
margins. Steve's manner since the night he had remained up until morning
to write that composition had been puzzling. He had very little to say
to Tom, and when he did speak, spoke in a constrained manner quite
unlike him. And more than once Tom had caught Steve observing him with
an expression that he couldn't fathom. There was something up, that was
certain, but what it was Tom couldn't imagine. It wasn't that Steve was
cross or disagreeable. For that matter, his disposition seemed a good
deal improved. But he was decidedly stand-offish and extraordinarily
quiet. Tom wanted to ask outright what the trouble was, but, for some
reason, he held back. As the days passed, Steve's manner became more
natural and he ceased looking at Tom as though, to quote the latter's
unspoken simile, he was a new sort of an animal in a zoo! But some
constraint still remained, and, after awhile, Tom accepted the situation
and grew accustomed to it. By that time he had grown too proud to ask
for an explanation. The two chums spent less time together as a result,
Steve becoming more dependent on Roy for companionship and Tom on Harry.
When they were all four together, which was very frequently, it was not
so bad, but when Steve and Tom were alone conversation was apt to
languish.

Tom at first was inclined to blame Steve's "Daley Schedule" for the
change, for that schedule had quite altered Steve's existence. He lived
by a strict routine which he followed with a dogged determination quite
foreign to his ways as Tom knew them. He got up on time in the morning,
reached the dining-hall almost as soon as the doors were opened, spent a
scant twenty minutes there and then went directly back to his room to
browse over his recitations for the day. Once Tom found him there
hunched up in a corner of the window-seat while the chambermaid, viewing
his presence distastefully, draped the furniture with bedding and did
her best with broom and duster to discourage him from a repetition of
the outrage. Between ten and eleven on three days a week Steve put in an
hour of study in the room. On other days he managed to snatch two
half-hour periods in the library between recitations. At six he was
almost invariably awaiting the opening of the doors for dinner, and well
before seven he was at his table again. Usually he studied until nine,
although now and then he closed his books at half-past eight and
followed Tom to Number 17 Torrence. Roy called him the Prize Grind and
interestedly inquired what scholarship he was trying for. Steve accepted
the joking with a grim smile.

It wasn't easy. For the first few days he had to drive himself to his
work with bit and spur. His feet lagged and he groaned in
spirit--perhaps audibly, too--as he approached his books. But he did it,
and little by little it became easier, until, as Mr. Daley had
predicted, it had become a habit with him to do certain things at
certain hours and he was uncomfortable if his routine was disarranged. I
don't think Steve ever got where he loved to study, but he did
eventually reach a pride of attainment that answered quite as well. He
found as time went on that it was becoming easier to learn his lessons
and easier to remember them when learned, and by that time he had taught
himself to command over his thoughts, and when he was struggling through
a proposition in geometry he wasn't wondering whether he would beat out
Sherrard for the position of regular right end on the second before the
season was over. In other words, he had learned concentration.

But all this was not yet. That first week, in especial, was hard
sledding, and that French composition almost drove him to distraction
and gave him brain fever before it was done. But done it was and on
time, and, while the best that Mr. Daley would allow it was a C plus,
Steve was distinctly proud of it. And in that week he demonstrated to
the instructor's satisfaction that he was up with the class in French. I
think Mr. Daley was very willing to be convinced and that he met Steve
quite half-way. Latin was still a bugaboo to Steve, but it, too, was
getting easier. On the whole, that schedule, backed by a grim
determination, was making good.

Meanwhile football pursued its relentless course. Every day the first
and second fought it out for gradually increasing periods and every day
the season grew nearer its close and the Claflin game, the final goal,
loomed more distinct. Phillips School came and went and Brimfield marked
up her fifth victory. Phillips gave the Maroon-and-Grey a hard tussle,
and the score, 12 to 0, didn't indicate the closeness of the playing.
For Brimfield made her first touchdown by the veriest fluke and only
gained her second in the last few minutes of play, when Phillips,
outlasted, weakened on her six-yard line and let Norton through. On the
other hand, Phillips had the ball thrice inside Brimfield's twenty
yards, missed a field-goal by the narrowest of margins and, with the
slightest twist of the luck, might have proved the victor.

"Boots" had hammered the second into what Mr. Robey unhesitatingly
declared to be one of the best scrub teams he had ever seen, and there
was more than one contest between it and the 'varsity that yielded
nothing to an outside game for hard fighting and excitement. Steve and
his rival, Sherrard, were running about even for the right end position.
Steve's tackling had improved vastly under Marvin's tutoring, and it was
his ability in that department that possibly gave him a shade the better
of the argument with Sherrard. So far there had been no decided slump in
the playing of either team, and, since a slump is always looked for at
some time during the season, both Mr. Robey and Danny Moore were getting
anxious. Danny almost begged the fellows to go stale a little. "It ain't
natural," he declared. "It's got to come, so let it and have it over
with." Neither had there been any injuries of moment. On this score
Danny had no regrets, however. He was a good trainer and prided himself
on his ability to condition his charges so that they would escape
injuries.

Of course there had been plenty of bruises--one mild case of
charley-horse, several dislocated or sprained fingers, a wrenched ankle
or two and any number of cuts and scrapes, but none of the injuries had
interfered with work for more than three or four days and not once had
any first-string member of the 'varsity missed an outside game by reason
of them. Steve's share of the injuries was a bruised shoulder sustained
in a flying tackle that was more enthusiastic than scientific, and the
thing bothered him for several days but did not keep him off the field.
Tom, who played opposite Jay Fowler in scrimmage, was forever getting
his countenance disfigured. Not that Fowler meant to leave his mark, but
he was a big, powerful, hard-fighting chap and there were plenty of
times when both parties to the practice games quite forgot that they
were friends. Tom was seldom seen without a strip of court-plaster
pasted to some portion of his face.

It was four days after the Phillips game, to be exact, on the following
Wednesday, that the first and second got together for what turned out to
be the warmest struggle of the season in civil combat. It was a cold,
leaden day, with a stinging breeze out of the northeast, and every
fellow who wore a head-guard felt as full of ginger as a young colt. The
second trotted over from their gridiron at four and found the first on
its toes to get at them. Things started off with a whoop. The second
received the kick-off and Marvin ran the ball back forty yards through a
broken field before he was nailed. Encouraged by that excellent
beginning, the scrub team went at it hammer and tongs. There was a fine
old hole that day between Sawyer and Williams, and the second's backs
ploughed through for gain after gain before the opposing line was
cemented together again there. By that time the ball was down near the
'varsity's ten yards and Captain Miller was frothing at the mouth, while
the opposing coaches were hurling encouragement at their charges and the
pandemonium even extended to the side-lines, where the school at large,
in a frenzy of excitement, shouted and goaded on the teams.

Twice the first held, once forcing Harris back for a loss, and then
Marvin called for kick formation and himself held the ball for Brownell.
What happened then was one of those unforeseen incidents that make
football the hair-raising game it is. There was a weak spot in the
second's line and, with the passing of the ball to Marvin, the 'varsity
forwards came rampaging through. Brownell swung his leg desperately,
trusting to fortune to get the pigskin over the upstretched hands of the
charging enemy, but it swung against empty air. Marvin, seeing what was
bound to happen, fearing the result of a blocked kick, snatched the ball
aside just as Captain Brownell swung at it, rolled over a couple of
times out of the path of the oncoming opponents, scrambled to his feet
and, somehow, scuttled past a half-dozen defenders of the goal and fell
over the line for a touchdown.

The 'varsity afterwards called it "bull-luck" and "fluke" and several
other belittling names, but "Boots" said it was "quick thinking and
football, by jiminy!" At all events the second scored and then leaped
and shouted like a band of Comanche Indians--or any other kind of Indian
if there's a noisier sort!--and generally "rubbed it in."

After that you may believe that the 'varsity played football! But
nevertheless the first ten-minute period ended with the second still six
points to the good and her goal-line intact. The teams were to play
three periods that day and "Boots" ran four substitutes on the field
when the next one began. One of them was Steve.

It is no light task to play opposite the 'varsity captain and not come
off second best, but the consensus of opinion that evening was to the
effect that Steve had done that very thing. The wintery nip had got into
Steve's blood, I think, for he played like a tiger-cat on the defence,
ran like a streak of wind and tackled so hard that Coach Robey had to
caution him. Twice in that period the first came storming down to the
second's twenty yards and twice they were held there. Once Milton was
nailed on a round-the-end run and once Still fumbled a pass and Freer
fell on it.

Steve carried out his part of a forward-pass play with excellent
precision later and seemingly had a clear field and a touchdown in sight
for a moment. But Milton managed to upset him on the thirty yards, and
the gain--Steve had negotiated four white lines before the 'varsity
quarter got him--eventually went for naught, since Marvin fumbled a
minute later and Sawyer squirmed through and captured the ball.

Neither side scored nor came very near it in that period. Steve, who was
having the time of his life, beamed joyously when the whistle, starting
the third period, found him still in the line-up. He had feared that
"Boots" would put Sherrard back. But Steve didn't realise the kind of a
game he had been putting up. If he had he would have credited "Boots"
with more sense. Tom, with two brand-new facial contusions to his
credit, was relegated to the bench for the last round. Perhaps "Boots"
thought it only fair to allow Gafferty some of the decorations that
Fowler and others were handing out!

The first tried a kicking game in order to reach striking distance and,
since she always had the better of the argument there, forced the
second slowly and very surely back past the middle of the field. Then
Marvin, realising the futility of pitting Freer and himself against
Norton and Williams and Milton, either one of whom could outpunt the
second from five to ten yards, started a rushing game on his thirty-five
yards, swinging Harris and Freer around the ends for small gains and
himself taking the pigskin for a delayed plunge through centre that put
the scrubs on their forty-five-yard line and gave them their first down
of the period.

But the next three tries pulled in only six yards, and Freer punted. For
once he had plenty of time and the oval travelled far down into the
enemy's territory and was caught by Kendall, who took it back a scant
five yards before Turner, the second's left end, got past the
hastily-formed interference and upset him. The 'varsity made four
through the left side of the line and got her first down on a fake kick
that caught the second napping. She again secured her distance on three
tries, and the lines faced each other near the middle of the field.

What happened then was never definitely explained. Whether Milton
fumbled the pass from centre or whether Still missed the toss from
Milton, history doesn't record. Not that it matters, however. The fact
is that the ball was suddenly seen to go rolling back up the field as
though animated by a desperate desire to score a touchdown on its own
hook. The 'varsity backs hit the line hard and went tumbling through, to
the frenzied shouts of "Ball! Ball!" from Milton and the opponents. The
latter, trying to get past the 'varsity and gain the bobbing pigskin,
got so inextricably mixed up with the enemy that the ball went on
rolling around, under the pranks of the helpful wind, for a
heart-breaking length of time. Then, as it seemed, every fellow on the
field started for it at once!

Steve had made a wild attempt to get through inside of Andy Miller, but
Miller had sent him sprawling, and when he got to his feet again he was
one of the last in the mad rush. How it happened that Eric Sawyer, not
overly fast on his feet, reached the pigskin first, or, at least,
finally, is a mystery. But it was Eric who at length plunged out of the
confusion, ball in arm, shook off three or four tacklers and started
hot-footed toward the distant goal. By some unusual burst of speed he
not only got a clear start of the rest, but shot past Steve before that
youth could intercept him. Marvin had followed the others toward the
'varsity's goal and now between Eric and the final white lines, some
forty-five yards distant, lay a clear field. And Eric, spurred on by the
knowledge that here was perhaps the one chance of his lifetime to make a
spectacular run for half the length of the gridiron and score a
touchdown, worked his sturdy legs as they had probably never been worked
before!

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