Left End Edwards

R >> Ralph Henry Barbour >> Left End Edwards

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17

On Monday there was a fine shake-up, for the Miter Hill game, if it had
not held any thrills, had at least shown up many faults, individual and
otherwise. Several second squad men went to the first as substitutes,
Fowler was shifted from left tackle to left guard on the first and two
members of the third squad were advanced to the second. These latter
were Freer, half-back, and Hall, guard. Tom was both surprised and
delighted, while seriously doubting the coach's wisdom. Later, when he
found that Steve had not secured promotion as well, most of his delight
vanished.

"I don't see why they put me on the second," he said, "and left you on
the third. I don't play half the game you do, Steve."

Steve tried hard to be gracious, but only partly succeeded. "I dare say
they want guards and don't want ends," he replied. "Of course you've
been doing good work, Tom, and deserve promotion and I'm awfully glad
you've got it, but, just the same, I don't think I'm getting a square
deal."

"I don't either! I wish they'd left me alone and taken you on. Peters
says Robey will be disbanding the third squad in a week or so, too. Of
course they'll put you on the second before that, though."

"I don't believe they will," replied Steve morosely. "I dare say I'll be
dropped entirely. I thought I was getting on pretty well, but Marvin
evidently doesn't think so. I'm getting kind of sick of it, anyway, Tom.
I wish I'd stayed at home. I could have if I'd made a good hard kick."

That was a hard week for the 'varsity, for Coach Robey had every man on
the team, with the possible exceptions of Miller and Innes, guessing.
Men came in from the second squad, were tried out and usually let go
again. All sorts of shifts in the line and back-field were tried. On
Wednesday, Eric Sawyer, who had been looked on as a fixture at right
guard, found himself ousted by Gafferty, from the second, and a member
of the "bench brigade." Sawyer didn't like that at all. It was a
terrific blow to his pride and self-esteem, and for many days he was
like a bear with a sore head. As a matter of fact, although Sawyer
didn't suspect it, his deposal was in the nature of a taste of
discipline. Sawyer had been too certain of his place and had grown
careless. At the end of a week he went back again, with the warning that
he would have to show more than he had been showing if he was to stay
there. It was while he was still decorating the bench, however, that
Steve again fell foul of him.

The unseasonably warm weather held well into the middle of October, and
it was one evening a day or two after Sawyer's removal from the regular
line-up that Steve and Tom, rather fagged from an hour's study in a
close room, picked up Roy and Harry and went over to the gymnasium for a
dip in the tank. The swimming tank was a favourite resort of the younger
fellows between eight and ten at night, but, for some reason, the older
boys seldom appeared there in the evenings. To-night, though, when the
quartette, having changed into swimming trunks, reached the tank they
found five upper-class fellows swinging their bare legs from the side of
the pool and amusing themselves by criticising the antics of the
youngsters. There was Eric Sawyer, Jay Fowler and three others whom
neither Steve nor Tom knew save by sight. The tank was well populated,
for the warmth of the evening made the thought of cool water very
agreeable, and there was much noise and splashing going on.

Steve and Harry went in from the spring-board at the deeper end of the
pool, while Tom and Roy dived from the floor. A couple of tennis balls
were flying around in the tank and the newcomers were soon taking their
parts in the fun. Presently the group of older fellows, having grown
tired of guying the "kids," dived into the water. Getting possession of
one of the balls, they tried to keep it to themselves, and soon there
was a merry and good-natured battle on between the five big chaps on one
side and the younger occupants of the tank on the other. The echoing
room rang with laughter and excited cries as the contending sides swam
and floundered for the possession of the tennis ball. The big chaps had
their hands full, for they were outnumbered four to one, but age and
strength counted for them and not infrequently a youngster, rather than
undergo a ducking at ungentle hands, yielded the ball and swam away with
squeaks of terror. But there were others who fought valiantly enough,
taking punishment laughingly when it came and pressing the older
fellows closely. Steve was one of the more daring of the enemy and never
hesitated to dispute the possession of the ball with anyone. Once when
it came skipping along half the length of the tank, he went after it
hand over hand, only to miss it when Eric Sawyer reached it an instant
ahead of him. Sawyer, grinning, drew back the hand holding the tennis
ball.

"Want it, kid?" he asked.

Steve, guessing what was coming, dived, but he was not quick enough and
the ball landed with a round smack on his right ear. A wet tennis ball,
thrown from the distance of a few feet, is capable of hurting
considerably, and Steve, dashing the water from his face, felt very much
as though he had been kicked by a mule and had difficulty in keeping the
tears from his eyes.

"Get it?" laughed Sawyer.

"Yes, and so will you," gasped Steve. The ball lay bobbing about a yard
away and he grabbed it. Sawyer turned and struck out across the tank,
only his head above water. Steve, thoroughly angry, aimed at him,
changed his mind and swam after him, to the awed delight of the others.
Sawyer, thinking he had removed himself from danger, turned at the side
of the tank to look back. The next thing he knew the ball struck him
fairly on the nose, and, with a howl of pain and surprise, he
disappeared under the water.

"Swim, Edwards!" shrieked the youngsters. "He'll get you!"

Steve did turn away, but it seemed too much like running and so he
paused, treading water there, while the angry face of Sawyer popped into
view again. The ball had bounded away and been captured by one of the
youngsters, but Sawyer didn't look for it. With a leap he started toward
Steve. The latter realised that Sawyer meant to wreak vengeance, and
that the matter had got past the stage of fun. Here, it seemed, was a
time when discretion was the better part of valour, and Steve dived.

Fortunately, he was a good swimmer. Turning quickly under water, he
raced toward the far end of the tank. Dimly he heard shouts and laughter
above, but he didn't come to the surface until twenty long strokes had
taken him far away from where Sawyer, at a loss, was casting about the
middle of the tank for him. His reappearance was heralded by shouts of
applause from the younger fellows, many of whom, scenting real trouble,
had scrambled out of the water. Sawyer, warned of Steve's whereabouts,
looked down the tank, saw him and started pell-mell after him. Again
Steve went under, swam cautiously toward the side until he could see the
white tiles within reach and then edged back the way he had come. He
tried to reach the shallow end of the tank before taking breath, but the
effort was too great, and when he stuck his head out for an instant he
found that those at the edge of the tank had been following his
under-water progress and were shouting and laughing down at him from
above. More than that, however, their interest had appraised Sawyer of
his whereabouts, and even as Steve, blinking the water from his eyes and
replenishing his lungs, looked about him, his pursuer almost reached
him.

Scorning concealment now, Steve made straight for the shallow end of the
pool. Swimming like his was a revelation to many of those who saw it and
a hearty burst of applause followed him all the way to the ladder, which
he gained several yards in advance of Sawyer. Steve darted up the rungs
and ran to the side of the tank, the fellows scattering out of his path.
Sawyer pulled himself out of the water and followed, puffing with anger
and exertion.

"Oh, let him go, Eric," advised Fowler. "You can't catch him."

"Yes, forget it," advised others.

But Sawyer had no idea of forgetting it. "I'll break his silly head for
him," he growled as he followed Steve around the edge. Then began a
chase that was both exciting and amusing. Egged on by the laughing
spectators the two boys raced around the pool, Steve managing to keep
always one lap ahead, slowing down when Sawyer showed signs of faltering
and sprinting when the older boy, gathering fresh energy, went on again.
It was a stern chase with a vengeance and might have lasted all night or
until one or the other dropped in his tracks had not one of Sawyer's
comrades taken a hand in the game.

Steve, breathing hard but good for many more circuits of the track, came
trotting along one side of the pool where the youth in question stood
with Fowler. There was a clear space of three feet between him and the
edge, but just as Steve drew abreast the older chap stepped forward in
his path, and Steve, trying to dodge around him, slipped on the tiling
and fell sidewise into the water. Sawyer, with a grunt of triumph,
plunged in from the opposite edge and was on Steve in a twinkling.

"Now, you fresh kid," exclaimed Sawyer angrily, seizing Steve's neck in
a big hand as soon as his head came up, "you're going to get what's
coming to you!"

Steve, battling for breath, gasping and gurgling, tried to wrench away,
but the clasp on his neck was too strong for his efforts and down he
went, squirming and struggling, until his head was under water. He
managed to reach around and get a grip of Sawyer's bathing trunks, but
that was small advantage. The big fellow had him at his mercy. Steve's
head was throbbing when at last he was allowed to lift it out of the
water again, gasping for breath. But the grip on his neck didn't relax.
He was conscious that the laughter had died away, conscious of Sawyer's
grinning face beside him, and then down he was plunged again without
warning, just managing to draw a little breath into his aching lungs
before the water closed over him. It seemed that his tormentor held him
down longer this time, and when, at last, he found the lights in his
eyes again and could breathe once more, he was ready to give up the
struggle. He had long since released his hold on Sawyer's trunks, and
now his hands were clasped desperately about the other boy's wrists. And
yet when Sawyer's growling voice said in his ear, "Had enough, kid? Beg
my pardon?" Steve managed to shake his head.

"Want more, eh?" asked Sawyer. "All right, kid!" The clasp on his neck
tightened again and he felt himself being once more thrust downward. And
then, suddenly, he was free, and when, fighting his way back to the
surface, he looked dazedly, there was Tom clinging to Sawyer's neck,
thrashing and squirming.

"You let him be, you big bully!" Tom was saying. "You let him be!"

"Let go of my neck, you silly little fool!" gasped Sawyer, striving to
break the boy's hold.

"You let him be!" gurgled Tom, half-drowned but clinging like a limpet.
"You let him be, you big bully!"

Then the two went under and Steve, recovering his breath, wrenched them
apart somehow and pulled poor Tom to the side of the tank. Sawyer,
breathing with difficulty after Tom's choking grasp about his neck,
floundered to the edge, got a sustaining grip on the rim of the tank and
glared angrily at the two boys.

"I'll get you for this, you smart Alecks," he declared chokingly.
"You're too fresh, both of you. Don't you know better than to grab a
fellow around the neck in the water, you fool kid?"

But Tom was too far gone to answer. "That's what you did, isn't it?"
Steve demanded. "That's a funny way to talk!"

"It is, is it?" sneered Sawyer. "I'll show you something that is funny
some time, and don't you forget it!"

Still growling, he swam away toward the nearer ladder, while Steve, with
Roy and Harry and others helping, lifted Tom out of the tank and then
followed himself. Tom was very, very sick there for a minute and the
younger fellows were properly sympathetic and indignant. Presently they
half carried Tom back to the locker room and helped him into his
clothes, and then, Roy and Harry in attendance, Steve conveyed him back
to Billings and laid him on his bed, a very weak but now quite cheerful
Tom.

"He nearly drowned me, didn't he?" he asked with a grin. "But I choked
him good, you bet! Bet you his old neck will be sore for a week,
fellows!"

"You want to keep away from him for awhile," said Harry with a direful
shake of his head. "He's a mean chap when he's mad."

"Huh!" grunted Tom. "So'm I!"

CHAPTER XIV

A LESSON IN TACKLING

One direct result of that affair in the tank was that Steve found
himself something of a school celebrity because of his swimming prowess.
Within a few days he had good-naturedly agreed to give instruction to
some half-dozen acquaintances and might have taken on a half-dozen more
had he had the time for it. But there was only an odd hour or two during
the day for swimming and he soon found that, although he got a good deal
of fun out of instructing the others, it was taking too much of his
time. It was Roy's suggestion--Roy being one of the most enthusiastic
pupils--that those who wanted instruction should be on hand at a given
hour each day. The suggestion was adopted, and Edwards's Swimming Class
soon became a recognised institution. Five o'clock was the hour set, at
which time the tank was not much used, and Steve, having returned from
football practice, donned swimming trunks and repaired to the pool where
he usually found from four to a dozen boys awaiting him, since, by
attending to them all at once, he could look after a dozen as easily as
a few. Most of the pupils were boys of from thirteen to seventeen,
although there were two older fellows in the class, Jay Fowler and
Hatherton Williams. Both were Sixth Formers and both were football men.
Mr. Conklin, the physical director, gave enthusiastic endorsement and
encouragement. Brimfield had never supplied instruction in swimming,
something which the director had long regretted, and Mr. Conklin, could
he have had his way, would have made attendance at Steve's swimming
class compulsory for the younger boys and so have instituted a new
feature in the course of physical instruction. But Steve, willing to
teach a few fellows who could already swim the finer points of the
science, balked at teaching the rudiments to a half-hundred water-shy
youths who would have to be coaxed and coddled. Mr. Conklin tried his
best to persuade him, but Steve refused firmly.

They had a whole lot of fun during that swimming hour. Fowler and a
younger chap named Toll were the more accomplished performers in the
class, barring Steve himself, and every session ended with several very
earnest races in which Fowler, allowing Toll a five-yard handicap,
usually nosed out the younger boy in a contest of four times the length
of the tank. Then there was generally a free-for-all, the fellows lining
up on the edge of the pool, diving at the word from Steve and swimming
to the further end, where, after touching the wall, they turned and
hustled back to the start. Sometimes when football practice had been
more than usually gruelling, Steve stayed out of the water and
instructed from the floor, but more often he went in with the others and
followed them in their practice swims. Naturally it was the fancy diving
and the racing strokes that most of the fellows wanted to learn, but
Steve, who had never in his life before tried to teach anyone anything,
displayed a good deal of hard common-sense as an instructor and insisted
that each of his pupils should master one thing thoroughly before taking
up another. The result was that, barring one or two fellows who would
probably in any case have failed to become expert swimmers, the class
made really remarkable progress, and there came a time, although it was
considerably later in the school year, when both Jay Fowler and
Hatherton Williams could equal most of Steve's feats.

Tom started with the class, wisely deciding after his experience with
Eric Sawyer that the ability to keep one's head out of water was a fine
thing to have. But Tom was not cut out for a human fish and soon gave it
up. Roy Draper learned fairly well. He tried to induce Harry to join the
class, but Harry preferred to stay with Tom and look on from the floor.
When winter set in, Steve's class increased in numbers until in January
he was conducting the natatory education of more than two dozen fellows.
It was Mr. Conklin who arranged for an exhibition the latter part of the
winter and Steve was very proud of his pupils' work on that occasion. It
was held one Saturday afternoon and everyone attended, including even
"Josh," more formally known as Mr. Joshua Fernald, the principal. There
was fancy diving and swimming, a short game of water polo and all kinds
of races, beside which Steve showed some six or eight different strokes,
swam the length of the tank under water and performed other quite
startling feats to the delight of his audience. Mr. Fernald shook hands
with him afterwards and said several very nice things. But all this is
far beyond my story, and I am only telling of it because it led the
following autumn to the installation of a swimming instructor at
Brimfield and the addition of swimming to the list of "required studies"
for the boys of the four lower forms. The instructor came to the school
twice a week and put in two very busy hours there. So you see that
fracas between Steve and Eric Sawyer that evening strangely enough
resulted in important consequences and, since a knowledge of swimming is
a most useful one, worked for good.

But there were other consequences of that fracas as well, and I must get
back to those. Larchville Academy followed Miter Hill on Brimfield's
schedule and administered the first defeat of the season to the
Maroon-and-Grey. It wasn't so much that Brimfield played poorly as that
Larchville played unusually well. The visitors presented an aggregation
of big, well-trained youths who, most of them having been on their team
the previous year, were far in advance of Brimfield in the matter of
season development. Larchville's performance was what one might expect
in November, but scarcely looked for in the second week of October. Her
men played together all the time and her team-work stood out in strong
contrast to that of Brimfield, who had scarcely begun as yet to develop
such a thing. The final score was 17 to 3, and the only consolation was
found in the fact that Larchville's end of it might well have been much
larger. Brimfield's three points came as the result of one really
brilliant advance for half the length of the field followed by a neat
place-kick by Williams. The rest of the game was very much Larchville,
and Brimfield was on the defence most of the time.

And, to give credit where it belongs, it was Eric Sawyer who, back in
his position at right guard, held his side of the line firm on two
anxious occasions when Larchville was striving to hammer out touchdowns
under the shadow of her opponent's goal. On the whole, Brimfield played
good football that day and no one justly came in for adverse criticism.
Captain Miller, at left end, was spectacular under punts and played his
usual hard, steady game. Innes at centre was impregnable until the final
period. Williams, if a trifle weaker than his opponent, made up for it
by scoring the three points for his side. Benson, at right end, was less
successful than Captain Miller, but was good on the defence. The
back-field, although inclined to go it "every man for himself," showed
up well, especially when the enemy was in possession of the ball.
Milton, the first-choice quarter-back, ran the team like a general,
while Norton, the big full-back, proved the only consistent gainer
through the line. In spite of the fact that she had met with defeat,
Brimfield found encouragement in that contest, and, after the first few
minutes of regrets, spent the rest of the day unstintedly praising her
warriors.

There was only light practice the following Monday for those who had
taken part in the Saturday game, a fact which once more allowed Coach
Robey to give a good deal of attention to the second and third squads.
Steve was playing right end regularly now on the third, and Tom was
alternating at left guard on the second. The third squad was now down to
only eleven members, and when, after a hard hour of signal work and
fundamentals, the second and third were lined up for a ten-minute
scrimmage, Marvin had to borrow substitutes as needed from the second.
There was no scoring that day, but there was an awful lot of hard work.
Steve made one or two good plays down the field, but, as usual, was weak
on stopping the runner when he reached him. After they were dismissed,
Marvin stopped him as he was trotting off with the others.

"I say, Edwards, are you very tired?" he asked.

"N-no, I guess not," Steve replied.

"Then I wish you'd stay out a few minutes and let me try to show you
about tackling." Steve glanced distastefully at the dummy and doubtfully
at Marvin. But the latter smiled and shook his head. "Never mind the
dummy, Edwards," he said. "We'll have our fun right here. I'm going to
be the dummy and you're to stop me. Did they take all the balls away?
Never mind, we'll imagine the ball. Now, first of all I'm going to show
you how I'd handle you if you were the runner. Stand where you are,
please."

Marvin dropped in front of Steve and threw his arms about his legs just
above the knees. "There's your position, Edwards," he explained. "You
see I have my body in front of you. You've not only got to work against
my grip around your legs but you've got to push against my weight and
resistance. Try it."

Steve did try it, but he could only shuffle an inch or two.

"See?" asked Marvin. "Now, then, having tackled you, it's up to me to
put you down. If I let you come forward of your own impetus you'll fall
toward my goal, and by stretching out your arms you'll put the ball two
yards nearer the goal than where you stand. Of course you wouldn't risk
holding the ball at arms' length unless there was a possibility of
getting it across a goal-line by doing it. But even if you hold the ball
at your stomach you'll gain a yard by falling forward. Now my play is
to throw you the other way--like this!"

With a heave Marvin sent Steve toppling backward, much to that youth's
surprise. Marvin jumped lightly to his feet, held out a hand to the
other and pulled him up.

"See how it's done?" he asked cheerfully. "Now you try it. Never mind
diving; just drop where you are on your hip. That's it! Swing your arms
around tight! Higher up, though. Remember if you're playing end the
rules prohibit you from tackling a runner below the knees. That's
better. Now, then, over with me!"

But it wasn't so easy. Marvin, smuggling an imaginary ball in his arms,
struggled and twisted and it was all Steve could do to keep him from
gaining ground, to say nothing of throwing him back.

[Illustration: "Lift!" instructed the quarter-back. "Lift me up and yank
my feet out from under me! Use your weight and throw me back!"]

"Lift!" instructed the quarter-back. "Lift me up and yank my feet out
from under me! Use your weight and throw me back!"

But in trying to lift the other, Steve allowed Marvin to slip past him
and the quarter fell forward instead of backward.

"Try again," said Marvin. "It's got to be all one motion, so to say,
Edwards. Get your man, wrap your arms around him and heave. Sometimes
you can't do better than stop him. If he's coming hard, you won't be
able to put him back. He's got to be more or less erect to make that go.
But do it whenever you can. Now, then, once more! Down you go! That's
the stuff! Bully work! Don't be afraid of hurting me! _Put me back!_"

Steve actually did it that time and was so pleased that he was grinning
all over his face when Marvin scrambled to his feet again.

"That was a lot better. Once get the idea fixed in your head, Edwards,
and it'll come easy. You'll do it without a thought. Once more now, and
put some ginger into it. Here I come!"

Marvin walked a couple of steps forward, Steve dropped and gripped his
knees, heaved and over went the quarter. A dozen times Marvin made him
practise it, and then,

"All right," he said. "Now I'm going to run toward you, Edwards. I'm
going to get by you if I can, too. You've got to do your best to stop
me. Don't try any flying tackles, and remember that you've got to have
one foot on the ground when you get me. All right now!"

Steve was glad they had the gridiron practically to themselves, for he
cut a poor figure the first three times that he tried to reach the
elusive quarter-back. Once Marvin caught him with a straight arm and
sent him toppling out of his path, once Marvin dodged him completely,
twirling on one heel and darting past him beyond reach, and once the
little quarter-back wrenched himself loose after being tackled. But the
fourth time Steve was more successful, and after that he reached the
runner every time even if he didn't always stop him short. Even when
Steve had his arms gripped tightly about Marvin's knees, the latter was
almost always able to somehow make another yard or two before he was
willing to call "Down!" But Steve learned more in that half-hour than he
had learned all the season, and when, after awhile, the two boys,
panting and perspiring but satisfied with themselves, walked back to the
gymnasium, Steve had the grace to thank Marvin.

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17