CHAPTER XVII
A CHANCE ENCOUNTER
The team left for North Lebron at eleven o'clock the next forenoon. Thetown that had the honour of containing Musket Hill Academy was not sofar away in distance, but those who had arranged the train service hadnot consulted the Parkinson School Football Team, and as a result ofthis oversight there was an hour and a half to be spent at a junctionthat boasted, besides a decrepit station, only a blacksmith's shop, ageneral store and eight assorted dwellings. Myron knew that there wereeight dwellings because he counted them twice. There wasn't much ofanything else to do.
He was not journeying to North Lebron in any official capacity, forhis name had not been amongst those announced yesterday by ManagerFarnsworth. He was going along, with some sixty other "fans," mostlybecause Chas Cummins had insisted on his doing so. Privately, he hadentertained the thought up to an hour after breakfast that, not havingbeen invited to attend the contest as a member of the team, it would bethe part of dignity to remain away. But Chas wasn't greatly concernedwith dignity, and he had a masterful way with him, and the result wasthat at a little before nine o'clock Myron was in possession of theknowledge that he was going to North Lebron at eleven-four.
At twelve he was seated on an edge of the platform at the junction,juggling three pebbles in his hand and boredly wondering what itwould be like to have to live in the fifth dwelling; the one with theblue-green blinds and the sagging porch and the discarded wagon-seatserving as a porch settle. The day was positively hot for October andfew of the travellers had elected to remain inside the coaches. Someof the school fellows were adorning the platform, like Myron, otherswere strolling about the adjacent landscape in search of adventures,and a merry handful were exercising the baggage truck up and downthe planks to the restrained displeasure of the sad-looking stationagent. Coming over, Myron had shared a seat with a stranger, a lad offourteen or so, and had managed to pass the time in conversation onvarious subjects, but now the youngster had disappeared and no one elseappeared to care about taking his place. Joe and Chas were with thefootball crowd in the forward car, and Myron had seen neither of themto speak to since leaving Warne. Andrew Merriman had not been able tocome. In consequence, Myron had no one to talk to and was fast reachingthe decision that he would have had more pleasure had he remained athome. Even the assurance that he was irreproachably arrayed in a suitof cool grey flannel, with a cap to match, a cream-coloured shirt andpatriotic brown tie and stockings didn't mitigate his boredom. Of latehe had been deriving less satisfaction than of yore from his attire.Somehow, whether his tie and stockings matched or whether his trouserswere smoothly pressed seemed of less consequence to him. Several timesof late he had forgotten his scarf-pin!
His discontented musings were interrupted by the arrival beside him ofa youth of perhaps nineteen. Myron had glimpsed him once on the trainand been struck by his good looks and by the good taste of his attire.He wore blue serge, but it was serge of an excellent quality and cut toperfection. And there was a knowing touch to the paler blue scarf withits modest moonstone pin and something pleasantly exceptional in theshape of the soft collar. Myron felt a kindred interest in the tall,good-looking youth, and determined to speak to him. But the strangerforestalled him, for, as soon as he had seated himself nearby on theplatform edge, he turned, glancing at Myron and remarked: "Hot, isn'tit?"
The stranger's tone held just the correct mixture of cordiality andrestraint. Myron, agreeing, felt flattered that the well-dressed youthhad singled him out. The weather, as a subject of conversation, soonfailed, but there were plenty of other things to discuss, and at the endof ten minutes the two were getting on famously. The stranger managedto inform Myron without appearing to do so that he was interested ina sporting goods house in New Haven, that he had been in Hartford onbusiness and that, having nothing better to do today, he had decidedto run over to North Lebron and see the game between Musket Hill andParkinson. "I fancy you're a Parkinson fellow?" he said questioningly.And when Myron acknowledged the fact: "A fine school, I've heard. I'venever been there. Warne's off my territory. I've been thinking, though,that some day I'd run over and see if I could do any business there. Isuppose you chaps buy most of your athletic supplies in New York."
"I think so. There's one store in Warne that carries a pretty fair lineof goods, though."
"I think I'll have to try your town. Parkinson's rather a big place,isn't it?"
"We have over five hundred fellows this year."
"Is that so? Why, there ought to be some business there for my house. Isuppose you chaps go in for most everything: football, baseball, hockey,tennis? How about track athletics?"
"There's a track team," answered Myron, "but this is my first year and Idon't know much about it yet."
"I see." The other looked appraisingly and, Myron thought, evenadmiringly over his new acquaintance. "I say, you look as if you oughtto be playing football yourself, old man. Or is baseball your game?"
"Football, but I'm not on the first. It's hard work breaking in atParkinson."
"Good guess of mine, wasn't it?" laughed the other. "Thought you hadthe build for a good football man. I meet a good many of them, you see.How's this team you've got ahead there? Going to lick Musket Hill thisafternoon?"
"I don't know. I hope so. I have an idea that our coach rather expects ahard game, though. I've heard that Musket Hill is further along than weare."
"Those fellows play good football," said the stranger. "I've seen themin action once or twice. I hope you chaps get away with the game, but myopinion is that you'll have to go some to do it. Got some good men onyour team?"
Myron was quite willing to sing the praises of Parkinson, and duringthe ensuing half-hour the stranger was treated to quite a fund ofinformation regarding the school, the football team and Myron WarrentonFoster. Football, though, seemed to interest the tall youth most ofall, and several times Myron was turned back to that subject by politequestions. When the train from the south pulled in the two were stillconversing and it was but natural that they should share a seat forthe remainder of the journey. The stranger could talk interestinglyhimself and the last part of the trip was occupied with absorbing andeven startling adventures met with by him in his business trips. Morethan once Myron's credulity was severely taxed, but a glance at thenarrator's frank and pleasing countenance dispelled all suspicions ofmendacity. Myron found this chance acquaintance so interesting that herather hoped they might witness the game together, but when North Lebronwas reached the stranger announced that he had one or two errands toattend to before going up to the field.
_The stranger was treated to quite a fund of information_]
"Maybe I'll run across you there--er--What's the name, by the way?"
"Foster."
"Mine's Millard. I haven't a card with me. Wish I had. But, I say,Foster, if you don't mind I'd like to look you up if I get to Warne.Those little towns are dull holes if you don't know any one in them."
"I wish you would!" said Myron. "You'll find me in 17 Sohmer Hall. Canyou remember that?"
"Sohmer, you said? Number 17? I'll remember, Foster. Awfully glad tohave met you. It's jolly nice to run across a chap who's--well, achap who has your own views on things, if you get me." He shook handscordially, evidently regretfully. "I'll try to find you at the game, oldman. If I don't, look for me in your burg before long. I'm going to havea go at that dealer you spoke of."
"I'll try and save a seat for you if you think you're likely to findme," offered Myron.
But the other waved a hand. "Don't bother. I can squeeze in. And I maybe rather late in getting there. Good-bye and good luck. Hope you beat'em!"
That encounter restored both Myron's self-esteem and good humour, andhe enjoyed the sandwich and pie and milk which he ate in companywith half a hundred other youths at the little lunch-room on the wayuptown. Later, wandering by himself through the leaf-strewn streetsabout the school campus, he came across Joe and Paxton Cantrell, thelatter a sturdy, wide-shouldered youth wh
o was playing his second--andlast--season at centre. Cantrell left them a minute or two later tospeak to an acquaintance and Myron and Joe walked on to the schoolgymnasium together.
"They fed us at a hotel down there by the station," said Joe sadly, "andI want to tell you that not one of us over-ate. Everything came to us inbird baths and you needed a microscope to find the contents. Norris losthis roast beef and didn't find it until he was through dinner, and wheredo you suppose it was?"
"In his lap, I guess."
"No, sir, it had slipped under his thumb-nail!"
Myron told of the stranger encountered at the junction and was quitefull of his subject, but Joe didn't seem to find it interesting andsoon interrupted to point out a building. "What do you suppose thatis?" he asked. "Looks like a factory of some sort, don't it? Only itain't--hasn't got any chimneys, as far as I can see."
"Maybe it's a hospital or something," replied Myron. "He says he'scoming to Warne pretty soon and will look me up. I'd like to have youmeet him, Joe."
"Who's this?"
"Why, Millard, the chap I was speaking of," answered Myron disgustedly.
"Oh! Glad to know him. Which street do we take now?"
They parted at the gymnasium and Myron joined the throng pressing towardthe field, a short block away. He looked for Millard, but didn't seehim. Later, during the intermission, he thought he caught sight of himin the throng behind the Musket Hill bench, but others intervened and hewas not able to make certain.
The game started at half-past two, by which time the morning heat hadbeen somewhat abated by a fresh breeze that blew across the oval fieldand fluttered the big maroon banner above the covered stand that heldthe Musket Hill rooters. Parkinson's sixty odd supporters, groupedtogether on the other side of the field, did valiant service with theirvoices, but to Myron it seemed that their contribution to the din thatprevailed as the two teams trotted on together was very slight. He waswedged in between a stout youth named Hollis, whom he instinctivelydisliked because of his high-pitched voice, and a studious-appearing boyin spectacles whose name he didn't know. Hollis had vindicated Myron'sverdict before the teams had finished warming up by showing himselfto be one of those cock-sure, opinionated and loud-talking youths ofwhich every school is possessed. His neighbour at his left elbow provedinoffensive and only once during the game uttered any sound that Myroncould hear. Then, while every one else was on his feet, shouting andgesticulating, the spectacled youth smiled raptly and murmured, "Oh,bully indeed!"
Myron purchased a score-card from a boy with a maroon band about hisarm, exchanging a bright ten cent piece for a flimsy, smoochy slip ofpaper that, so far as the visiting team was concerned, was as untruthfulas it was unlovely. The card declared that "Mullen" would play lefttackle for Parkinson, that "Sawtrell" was her centre and that "Wildram"was the name of her left half-back. Myron corrected these misstatementswhen Captain Mellen had trotted his warriors out on the field, and someothers besides, for Coach Driscoll had sent five substitutes to thefray, four linemen and a back. When Myron had got through making overhis score-card it looked like one of his corrected English compositionsand read as follows: Stearns, l.e.; Mellen, l.t.; Brodhead, l.g.;Cantrell, c.; Dobbins, r.g.; Flay, r.t.; Grove, r.e.; Cater, q.b.;Brounker, l.h.; Brown, r.h.; Kearns, f.b.
Myron was glad that Joe was to have his chance in a real game, and forthe first period watched his room-mate so closely that the generalaspect of the game was quite lost on him and he came to with a startwhen the teams changed fields, realising that however nicely Joe hadplayed--and he had played well: there was no question about that--theeleven as a whole had failed to show anything resembling real football.While neither team had found its gait, Musket Hill had alreadythreatened the visitors' goal and only a sad fumble had held her awayfrom it. And now, with the second ten-minute period beginning, the ballwas again in the Maroon's possession on Parkinson's thirty-three yards.Myron sat up and took notice, deciding to let Joe play his game unaidedby telepathic waves from the grandstand!
Musket Hill was a heavy team, although her players got their weight fromheight rather than breadth. They were, almost without exception, tall,rangey youths with an extremely knowing manner of handling themselves.Myron's brow clouded as he watched that first play after the whistle.Musket Hill used an open formation, with her backs side by side a fullpace further distant than usual. From this formation, with the quarterfrequently joining the line of backs at left or right, Musket Hillworked a variety of plays: straight plunges at centre, delayed passessliding off tackle, quarter-back runs, even punts, the latter, thanks toa steady bunch of forwards, never threatened with disaster. The Maroonplayed a shifty game, changing her plays often, seldom attacking thesame place twice no matter what gains might result. Toward the end thelatter rule did not hold good, but for three full periods she observedit rigorously, even to the impatience and protests of her supporters.Before that second period was three minutes old she had settled downinto her stride and demonstrated the fact that, whatever favours offortune might occur, on the basis of ability alone she was more than amatch for her opponent.
The Maroon secured her first score less than three minutes from thestart of the second quarter as unexpectedly as deftly, and Myronand his companions on the west stand had scarcely recovered fromtheir surprise by the time the goal was kicked! The ball had been onParkinson's forty-two yards, after Musket Hill had punted, caught againand carried the pigskin four yards in two downs. The Maroon's trick ofpunting from that three-man formation, and close to the line, had gotthe enemy worried. The latter was never quite certain when an unexpectedkick would go over a back's head, for Musket Hill punted without ruleor reason, it seemed. To keep two men up the field at all times wasimpossible, and so Parkinson compromised and put Brown midway betweenthe line and Cater. As Musket Hill had netted but four yards in twodowns, it was fair to assume that she was just as likely to kick on thethird down as to rush, and Brown edged further back at Cater's call. ButMusket Hill did the unexpected. There was a quick, dazzling movementbehind her line and then the ball arched away to her left. Somehow anend was under it when it came down and, although Stearns almost foiledhim, caught it and reached the five-yard line before he was seriouslychallenged by Brodhead. He had kept close to the side-line, and Brown,playing well back, was his nearest foe when the twenty-five-yard linewas reached. But Brown never had a chance, for a Musket Hill youthbrought him low, while a second effectively disposed of Cater a momentafter. Brodhead alone stood for an instant between the Brown anddisaster--none ever knew how he had managed to get back to the fiveyards--and for a heart-beat it seemed that the runner was doomed. ButBrodhead's tackle only spun the red-legged runner about and sent himacross the final white line like a top in its last gyrations.
A well-kicked goal added another point to the six, and the teams wentback to the centre of the field once more. To Myron it seemed then thatParkinson realised defeat, for there was that in the attitudes andmovements of the players that had not been there before. It was notdejection, but it might have been called the ghost of it. And yet forthe remainder of the period Parkinson took and held the upper hand andthe half ended with the ball in her possession on her forty-eight yards.
Myron wanted to talk over the game very badly, but the youth withspectacles was doing what appeared to be an intricate problem in algebraon the back of his score-card, while as for the stout boy on his otherside, he had heard enough of his conversation already. Just now he wasknowingly informing his companion that the trouble with Parkinson wasthat she needed a decent coach. His brief glimpse of Millard--if itreally was Millard--distracted him for a moment or two, and after thathe listened to the joyful sounds from the Musket Hill side and feltrather disappointed and lonesome.