Quarter-Back Bates. Barbour Ralph Henry

Rusty told Dick to call again and held conversation with them over the banister until they had reached the street door, while from a second floor room came howls of “Shut up, Rusty! Shu-u-ut u-u-up!”

      “It’s only Haynes,” called Rusty reassuringly. “Don’t mind the poor fish. Come again, fellows! Good night!”

      In the letter rack in Sohmer was another envelope addressed to Dick and within was a third penny.

      CHAPTER VI

      DICK MAKES AN ENEMY

      That was on Friday. The next afternoon Parkinson played her first game, with Mapleton School. Mapleton had started the Parkinson schedule for several years, invariably providing just the amount of fight desired, and today was no exception to the established rule. Four ten-minute periods were played and Parkinson managed to run up seventeen points. It was a slow and uninteresting game from the spectators’ standpoint, and the afternoon was scorchingly hot for the last of September. “Babe” Upton, who weighed well over a hundred and eighty and played centre, affirmed afterwards that he could feel himself melting away like a candle. Indeed, although none of the team was allowed to remain in the contest for more than two periods, there were many who found it hard medicine. Dick, who as a member of the squad was supposed to look on and learn, watched the game from the Parkinson bench and sweltered uncomplainingly for the better part of an hour and a half. Naturally enough, his interest concentrated itself on Stone and, later, Cardin, the quarter-backs. He secretly thought that Cardin, with sufficient instruction, could be developed into a better quarter than Gus Stone, for Cardin was a quick, gingery youngster who drove his team hard, while Stone, although more experienced and heavier, had a tendency to go to sleep on his feet, and the plays always dragged just when they should have been run off at top speed. A third candidate, a thin ramrod of a youth, was tried out for a few minutes just at the end of the game. A neighbour told Dick that his name was Pryne, adding facetiously that it ought to be Prune. Pryne had scant opportunity to show whether he deserved the latter appellation, however.

      When Mapleton had gone away and the stands had practically emptied, the members of the squad who had taken no part in the game were called out for an hour’s work. Coach Driscoll did not remain, and the job fell to Harry Warden, who because of a weak ankle had been out of his place at left half on the team that afternoon. By some chance the running of one of the three makeshift teams fell to Dick, and, with a few of the candidates who had failed to get placed on the squads following, he started off. The simplest sort of plays were being taught, straight line bucks and runs, outside ends and a rudimentary set of signals was used. At first the men moved hardly faster than a walk. Then, having presumably learned their duties, they were allowed to trot. It seemed to Dick that he was burdened with the stupidest aggregation on the field, and one of the backs, a shock-haired, long-nosed youth named Halden, outdid them all. No matter how many times Halden was walked through a play, the instant speed was called for he forgot all he had learned. Finally, after he had “gummed up” a simple two-man attack on left guard for the third time, Dick’s exasperation found voice.

      “You! Eight half! What good do you think you are? You’re supposed to go in there and clear out that hole, and instead of that you let the runner ahead of you and then walk all over his heels! Can’t you understand that play? Don’t you get the signal, or what’s your trouble?”